Mortal Mischief

Rheinhardt pointed discreetly. 'The big chap – with the red carnation in his buttonhole.'

'Ah yes.'

'I didn't know he was one of Lueger's cronies . . .'

'Well, you do now.'

As soon as the orchestra was assembled, the first violin made a brisk entry – accompanied by much appreciative clapping. He sat down, played an 'A' for his colleagues, and a chaos of different pitches gradually coalesced and unified around his lead. Lueger and his companions were still ambling up the aisle when Gustav Mahler appeared.

The audience unleashed a storm of applause.

Mahler leaped on to the podium and made a low bow. Liebermann thought that he saw the conductor's neutral expression shadow with irritation when he caught sight of Lueger's party – who had disturbed a row of settled patrons in order to get to their centrally placed seats.

The applause gradually subsided and the house lights dimmed. Mahler turned on his heels and faced the orchestra. He did not need to consult a score because he had memorised the entire programme. Raising his baton, he paused for a moment before lunging forward, liberating the majesty of Beethoven's genius.

Slender, nervous, and agile, the conductor clutched at the cellos and basses with his right hand. Drawing out a crescendo, his clenched fist rose up and shook at the sky – like a challenge to the gods. Here was the leaping, thrashing, strangling and jerking routinely vilified by critics who abhorred the director's flamboyant style. Here were all the 'ugly excesses' that had been ridiculed by cartoonists and commentators – 'St Vitus' Dance', 'delirium tremens', 'demonic possession'. All true. Yet the Philharmonic had never sounded more powerful, or a Beethoven overture more vital. The music burst out, virile with rage and passion.

Liebermann closed his eyes and plunged into a sound-world of turmoil, torment – and incommunicable bliss.

30

THE LIVER PATE WAS studded with truffles and presented on a tray of ice crystals. Round loaves of brown bread were arranged in a rustic basket, and the pheasant – glazed with honey and fragrant with mixed herbs – sat in a large white dish, accompanied by green and yellow vegetables.

'You remember Cosima von Rath?'

Juno Holderlin squinted at her husband.

How could I forget her,

he thought.

'Herr Bruckmuller's fiancee', Juno continued. 'She came to some of Fraulein Lowenstein's meetings.'

'Yes,' said Holderlin. 'A very striking woman, as I recall.'

Holderlin untied his serviette, flapped it in the air, and placed it carefully on his lap.

'She telephoned today.'

'Really? What did she want?'

'She's arranging a circle.'

'My dear, another one?' Holderlin's expression indicated extreme discomfort. 'Hasn't your appetite for the supernatural been tempered by recent events?'

'She wasn't suggesting we form a new circle to replace Fraulein Lowenstein's. No, Heinrich. She was suggesting an investigative sitting . . . a seance, the purpose of which would be to find out what really happened that night.'

'She means to contact Fraulein Lowenstein?'

Juno Holderlin sliced the pate and scraped a moist wedge onto the side of her plate.

'I imagine so. She also wishes to discover the whereabouts of Herr Braun.'

Juno's rate of blinking accelerated, until finally she squeezed her eyelids together in an effort to rid herself of the tic.

'Who else has she invited?'

'Herr Uberhorst, Fraulein Heck – all of them.'

'And they've agreed to attend?'

'As far as I know. Although Fraulein von Rath had still not been able to contact Count Zaborszky when we spoke.'

'Do you . . . do you want to go?'

Juno looked down at her plate and was momentarily distracted by the beauty of the blue and gold surround. The china had been a wedding gift from Sieglinde.

'If it will help – then of course.'

Holderlin sipped his wine.

'Very well,' he said. 'We shall go.'

31

'IT WASN'T A particularly warm day – quite cold, in fact – but Herr Schelling insisted that we should go. I asked Frau Schelling if she wanted her coat; however, she said that wouldn't be necessary – she wouldn't be joining us.'

Miss Lydgate's eyes shifted rapidly beneath closed lids and her words slurred under the influence of hypnotic sleep.

'Something passed between them,' she continued. 'Herr Schelling and Frau Schelling: a look, an odd look. Then Frau Schelling said: I must go now – enjoy the woods, Miss Lydgate. They are very beautiful at this time of year. And then she left the room. Very quickly, as though . . . as though she was running away.'

'From what?' asked Liebermann.

'I don't know.' Miss Lydgate coughed. 'The carriage took us through the city and out past Unterdobling and Oberdobling. Herr Schelling told me that Beethoven had once lived there – it was where he had written his third symphony. Beethoven had originally dedicated the work to Napoleon, but on receiving news that the First Consul had crowned himself Emperor the great composer became enraged and tore up the dedication. I knew this story already as my father had told me something very similar, but I thought it rude to interrupt. Herr Schelling asked me if I enjoyed music. I said that I did, but confessed to not being very knowledgeable. Herr Schelling then said that I must permit him to take me to a concert. I thanked him, feeling that I did not deserve such kindness. He said that it was his pleasure, and placed a hand on my arm . . .' Miss Lydgate's head rocked from side to side in its nest of flaming hair.

In the distance a church bell started to toll, slow and funereal.

'Herr Schelling did not remove his hand and moved a little closer. I didn't know what to do. It seemed improper. Yet Herr Schelling was not a stranger. He was a relative – my mother's cousin. Perhaps it was permissible for him to rest his hand on my arm. So I did nothing . . . and I fear . . . I fear I was mistaken. I fear that I may have been responsible for a misunderstanding.'

Liebermann studied his supine patient. She looked relatively calm. After a long pause, she spontaneously resumed her narrative.

'Even though the day was somewhat overcast, the woods were no less beautiful. I was fascinated by the flora – but Herr Schelling urged me not to stray from the path.

There are still bears in this wood, he said. But I did not believe him. He was smiling, and showing no concern for his own safety. We climbed up a narrow, steep incline until we reached a viewing point. There we paused to admire the vista. Herr Schelling pointed out some villages on the lower slopes, and a vineyard. He was standing directly behind me. He traced an arc in the air with his forefinger – up and over the mountains.

They're the Alps, he said. I took a step forward – and he followed. I could feel his body pressing up against me – and then – and then . . .'

Miss Lydgate's chest heaved and her breathing accelerated. Yet she continued to tell her story calmly and