Mortal Mischief

fancy seriously, you engage in an act of collusion that legitimises her psychopathology. Only a fool would attempt to interpret hysterical symptoms – as only a fool would attempt to interpret dreams.'

Liebermann resisted the urge to respond to Gruner's pointed dig at Professor Freud.

'Have you taken the trouble, Doctor Liebermann,' Gruner's voice was becoming louder, 'to discover the identity of Miss Lydgate's employer?'

'Yes,' Liebermann replied. 'I have. His name is Schelling.'

'That is correct,' said Gruner. '

Minister Schelling. He is greatly admired by his colleagues and possesses a deserved reputation for upholding the highest standards of moral rectitude. It has been my great privilege to sit with Minister Schelling, in my capacity as a trustee, on several committees for the promotion of charitable causes. To suggest that he would have repeatedly molested a young governess is utterly absurd. The girl is clearly disturbed. I would strongly suggest that when you next see Miss Lydgate, you administer the appropriate treatment immediately. I would recommend the Faradic moxa, an electrical brush passed through the throat cavity that will deal with her cough in one session. You will find the procedure detailed in Erb's Handbook. The paralysis may take a little longer, but will probably remit within seven days. Good afternoon.'

Liebermann remained seated.

'I said 'Good afternoon', Herr Doctor.'

Liebermann swallowed.

'With respect, Herr Professor, I do not think that I am prepared to follow your instructions.'

'Are you refusing to treat the patient?'

'No . . .'

'Then what are you saying?'

'In my opinion, the patient's account of her traumatic experiences is accurate. Therefore I should continue to treat her psychologically.'

Gruner slammed his hand down on the desk. The dull thud was followed by the ethereal thrum of vibrating glassware – the ghostly, high-pitched song of things unspeakable floating in their dusky preservative media.

'Doctor Liebermann,' the professor growled, 'a refusal to administer the appropriate treatment is tantamount to negligence. I regret to say that I will be obliged to request your immediate dismissal.'

Liebermann had known that a confrontation with Professor Gruner was inevitable at some point; however, now that the long-awaited ultimatum had actually been delivered he felt unprepared.

'Well?' asked Gruner.

Liebermann began to compose a reply in his head. His heart was beating wildly.

Professor Gruner, much as I would like to retain my position at this hospital, I cannot act against my conscience . . .

Liebermann took a deep breath and began to speak:

'Professor Gruner, much as I—'

There was a loud knock on the door and Liebermann stopped as Gruner shouted, 'Enter.'

The door opened and Nurse Rupius appeared.

Gruner shook his head violently.

'Not now, Nurse Rupius, not now! I am engaged in discussion with Doctor Liebermann.'

The nurse hesitated and was about to close the door when she seemed to change her mind. Two orderlies ran past in the corridor outside.

'Professor Gruner,' said Nurse Rupius. 'One of your patients – Signora Locatelli – she's dead.'

'Dead!' Gruner rose from his chair. 'What do you mean, dead?'

The nurse stepped into the room.

'It appears that she tied her bed sheets around a water pipe in the washroom and hung herself. We don't know how long she's been there.'

44

HEINRICH HoLDERLIN was walking briskly down a narrow street. He entered a cobbled square at the centre of which stood a large statue of Moses. As he passed the monumental bronze a resonant voice filled the enclosed space: 'Herr Holderlin.'

The banker was startled: it was as though he had just been addressed by the lawgiver.

'Herr Holderlin – over here!' the voice boomed.

Peering around the statue, Heinrich Holderlin caught sight of Hans Bruckmuller, seated by himself at a single table outside a tiny coffee house aptly named the Kleines Cafe. It had no front windows and the entrance was a very modest double door, one half of which had been propped open with an iron doorstop. A bicycle was leaning against the wall next to Bruckmuller's table. Holderlin assumed that it did not belong to the big man. It was impossible to imagine him perched on such a spindly frame.

'Good afternoon, Herr Bruckmuller.'

'Good afternoon, Holderlin. Coffee?'

Holderlin made a show of examining his pocket watch and then, after feigning some mental calculations, replied, 'Yes, why not?'

Bruckmuller leaned back in his chair and bellowed into the gloomy interior of the tiny coffee house.

'Egon!'

Immediately a rangy young man with a downy moustache and sparse side-whiskers appeared. He was little more than a boy.

'Another fiacre for me. And you, Holderlin?'

'A melange.'

The boy bowed and loped into the darkness.

Holderlin sat at the table, removed his hat, and wiped a flat hand over his bald head.

'You are a frequent patron, Bruckmuller?'

'Yes, I am. It's a little haven, a splendid place for quiet contemplation.'

'Then perhaps I have disturbed you?'

'Not at all,' said Bruckmuller, smiling. But the smile was too hasty and lingered for longer than was strictly necessary.

Holderlin placed the volume he was carrying on the table and Bruckmuller lowered his head to read the spine.

'Isis Unveiled.'

'By Madame Blavatsky.'

'Interesting?'

'I don't know. To be honest, I haven't read it – it belongs to my wife. I've just been to collect it from Herr Uberhorst. Juno lent him this book over a month ago.'

'And he didn't return it?' said Bruckmuller, surprised.

'No,' said Holderlin. 'Although such an oversight can be forgiven.'

'Yes,' said Bruckmuller, relenting. 'Under the circumstances . . .'

The waiter returned with a silver tray and slid it onto the table. Bruckmuller's fiacre exuded a strong smell of rum and was topped with a spiral shell of whipped cream. The frothed milk in Holderlin's melange seemed animate and bubbly, like frog's spawn, and was creeping over the lip of his coffee cup. He interrupted its journey with a teaspoon and scooped the foam into his mouth.

'His behaviour – at the seance . . .' Bruckmuller looked across the square at the Renaissance facade of the Franziskankirche. The church's high, involute gable was adorned with saints and Egyptian obelisks. 'What did you make of it?'

'Difficult to say . . .'

'He wanted to know whether he should tell them. You thought he meant the police, didn't you?' The banker looked distinctly uncomfortable. 'And a matter of honour? What on earth did he mean by that?'

Holderlin took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped the beads of perspiration from his crown.