Mortal Mischief

The sides of her back, pressed against the grey slab of the table, were marbled with streaks of maroon and violet. Mathias fussed with the canvas, ensuring that the dead woman's pudenda were properly covered.

'Herr Professor,' said Liebermann. 'Before you begin, may I see the bullet wound?' Mathias flashed a disapproving look in Liebermann's direction. 'Please,' Liebermann added hopefully.

Mathias lifted the upper sheet and dropped it again, offering Liebermann the briefest of glances.

'And you have no explanation?' Liebermann asked.

'None,' replied Mathias. The response was cool and dismissive.

The old man selected a small blade and began to make a series of incisions in Fraulein Lowenstein's abdomen. He peeled back the flesh, creating a large opening though which one could see the rounded, pink surface of the bladder. Behind it was the slightly darker mass of the uterus. Rheinhardt looked away.

'Well, well . . .' said Professor Mathias. He had become a little breathless and was wheezing slightly.

'What is it?' said Rheinhardt.

'The womb is engorged.'

Smoke from Rheinhardt's cigar rolled across Fraulein Lowenstein's body and collected inside the abdominal cavity. Mathias emitted a grunt of disapproval.

'Does that mean—'

'Patience, Inspector. How many times do I have to tell you!'

'Festina lente?'

'Of course. Festina lente.'

The old man wiped the gore from his blade, and then selected a large pair of scissors. He reached into Fraulein Lowenstein's body, made some cuts, and scooped the dead woman's bladder out of her abdomen with both hands. He deposited the limp sack into a jar of formaldehyde and paused to watch it sink. The organ descended, leaving stringy trails of brown viscosity in its wake. Mathias seemed deep in thought.

'Very interesting . . .' he said softly.

'What is?' asked Rheinhardt.

Mathias ignored the question. Instead, he briefly addressed Fraulein Lowenstein's head: 'Excuse me.' He then plunged his hands back into her body and pressed his palms against the straining balloon of her uterus.

'Yes,' he repeated. 'Very interesting indeed.'

After wiping a foul transparent residue from his fingers, Professor Mathias selected another knife and made two swift incisions. Liebermann had seen waiters in The Imperial make similar movements when preparing fruit. Mathias crouched over Fraulein Lowenstein's body and accompanied by the melodic inventions of his tired lungs, turned back the quarters of the segmented uterus with tender care.

When he had finished the operation he remained perfectly still. Neither Rheinhardt nor Liebermann could see what the old man had discovered. Mathias was bent over the corpse, his bloody hands still buried among Fraulein Lowenstein's innards.

Rheinhardt cleared his throat, hoping to attract the pathologist's attention.

There was no response.

'Herr Professor?

Mathias shook his head and whispered something inaudible.

Liebermann looked at Rheinhardt questioningly.

'Professor?' Rheinhardt repeated.

The old man took a step backwards and, gesturing towards Fraulein Lowenstein's exposed abdomen, said: 'Gentlemen . . .'

The Inspector and the doctor moved forwards.

Liebermann had considered himself beyond surprise. He was certain that Fraulein Lowenstein was pregnant and had already formed a mental image of what he was about to see.

But he was mistaken.

Suddenly all of his expectations were invalidated.

'Dear God,' said Rheinhardt.

In the raw and exposed shell of Fraulein Lowenstein's womb were two small bodies, each no bigger than a man's thumb but complete in every human detail. The tiny fingers and toes were fully formed, and the faces – with closed eyes – were a picture of serenity. A tangle of umbilical cord lay between them, like a serpent guardian. They looked snug in their rank puddle of amniotic fluid.

As the initial shock subsided, Liebermann was visited by a terrible sadness. He was moved to say a prayer, but in the absence of any religious instinct was forced to seek solace in the surrogate balm of poetry: 'Sleep is good, death is better; but of course, the best thing would be never to have been born at all.'

'Heinrich Heine,' said Professor Mathias, demonstrating again his peculiar fondness for quotations and their identification.

'Morphine. I commend you on two counts, Herr Doctor: your powers of deduction and your choice of epitaph. We live in a wicked world. They will never be touched by evil or pain. Their innocent slumber will be eternal.'

Saying this, the professor anointed each tiny skull with the tip of his forefinger. Liebermann had never seen such a bizarre or macabre benediction.

Mathias wiped his fingers on his apron, leaving ruddy mucous trails. Looking at Rheinhardt, he added: 'Well, Inspector, it seems you are now investigating a triple murder.'

27

THE ROOM WAS quite small but decorated like a sultan's palace. The curtains were dark blue, almost black, and embellished with a braided motif of gold. A pile of cushions decorated with silver thread and studded with tiny mirrors and pearls had tumbled off the divan and lay scattered across the floor. Three large candles, each as thick as a child's arm, burned in holders that were encrusted with gemstones: sardonyx, opal, sapphire and chrysoprase; and the air was dense with the heavy perfume of frankincense, a small heap of which was smouldering in a massive dish of polished granite.

Seated at a baize-covered card table was a substantial woman whose ample curves had been compressed between the solid arms of a large wooden throne. It possessed the primitive dignity of a medieval artefact – the high back-panel was festooned with crudely carved rosettes and serpentine creepers, among which were an odd company of raging gargoyles and winged seraphim.

Fraulein Lowenstein had been found dead in a locked room.

She had been shot through the heart – yet there was no bullet.

In the Zeitung they had tried to suggest that nothing strange had happened, that Braun might be responsible, that it was all an illusion – an elaborate stage trick. But what did they know?

Cosima von Rath cast her mind back to a strange meeting that had occurred two years earlier. She had travelled to New York with her father. At a society gathering hosted by the Decker family at which she and Ferdinand had been totally ignored by the Rothschilds (the snub still smarted), she had been introduced to a young English magus – Lord Boleskine, a handsome fellow – who had curiously ardent eyes. Boleskine was in New York trying to raise money for his own magical order, The Lamp of the Invisible Light. So persuasive was Boleskine that she had agreed to make a donation there and then, and had subsequently made several more in response to his letters. In return, Boleskine had sent her some volumes of poetry, which he had written himself under the unassuming name of Aleister Crowley. The most recent, The Soul of Osiris, lay on the table in front of her.

On the occasion of their first meeting Boleskine had rested a hand on Cosima von Rath's arm and leaning close – too close, perhaps – had whispered: I know who you are. Forgive these fools.

Sweeping his hand around the room in an extravagant gesture, he had added: They know nothing.

Ushering her on to the balcony, from where they could see the Statue of Liberty in the distance, Boleskine had taken her into his confidence. He explained how he had been experimenting with a ritual that could make the