Mortal Mischief

He looked away, embarrassed.

'Don't be shy . . .'

Again he was forced to contemplate the old hag, and was reminded that Vienna was in the grip of another plague. If he allowed himself to be seduced, not only was there the risk of infection to consider but also the indignity of subsequent treatment. Weeks spent lying in a hospital bed, having mercury rubbed into his body, until his teeth fell out – one by one.

'No, thank you, Fraulein,' he said curtly, touching his hat. 'Good evening.'

Uberhorst pulled away and walked off at a brisk pace.

'You'll regret it later,' the prostitute called out.

He lengthened his stride, eventually breaking into a graceless canter.

The shadow-memory of Fraulein Lowenstein's face had played on the whore's lineaments like bright sunlight on murky water. Uberhorst was still obsessed with the dead medium.

He must tell the police.

He must tell them what he knew.

He must tell them what he suspected . . .

Looking up, he caught sight of the cathedral spire tapering off into ghostly invisibility as it climbed beyond the luminescent haze of the street lights.

Uberhorst felt like a haunted man. How could he be sure that Charlotte Lowenstein was not with him even now? Her spectral step shadowing his, her cold ectoplasmic arm linked with his. Would she chastise him from beyond the grave for not keeping her secret?

I'm pregnant, she had said.

Her head had touched his shoulders. Her golden curls had touched his mouth.

What am I to do? she had asked.

He had not known – and they had sat in impotent silence as the minutes of the afternoon had ebbed away.

Now he was prompted to ask himself the same question.

What am I to do?

The door of the cathedral was open, and Uberhorst crept into the cold, redemptive world of St Stephen's. As he did so, he felt something close to relief. He had been yearning for the security and certainty of his former faith: the stolid predictability of stations and ritual, the spiritual epicentre of Rome.

The vastness of the cathedral was suffused with a Stygian gloom. A seemingly boundless obscurity concealed a lofty vaulting that could be sensed – as a continent of stone pressing down from above – but not seen. Uberhorst made a sign of the cross and walked past the flickering remnants of votive candles down the central nave.

The sepulchral silence was disturbed by a curious squeaking, which heralded the appearance of a moving light in the distance: an ignis fatuus, blinking in and out of existence as it floated behind the colossal Gothic columns. It was the sacristan lighting the lamps.

Uberhorst felt trepidation as he approached the high altar where a baroque panel showed St Stephen being stoned to death in front of the walls of Jerusalem. Above him the heavens had been rent apart, revealing Christ at the right hand of God.

Uberhorst genuflected and slipped into a pew. Kneeling, he touched his forehead against hands joined together in prayer.

Somewhere a door opened and closed.

'Father, forgive me,' he whispered.

His sibilant prayer of atonement bounced between columns of black marble, heeded only by the mute statues of clerics, madonnas and angels.

'What shall I do?'

The ensuing silence was not disturbed by divine intervention but by a dull, echoing thud from the back of the nave. It sounded as though a prayer book had been knocked or dropped to the floor.

Uberhorst raised his head and looked back over his shoulder, squinting into the shadowy vastness. There was no longer any squeaking – and no floating light. The sacristan had gone.

Uberhorst placed his hands together again and continued his prayer, only to be disturbed by another sound: a single footstep.

He was not alone.

47

THE DOOR FLEW open and a hatchet-faced man, pursued by a porter, came marching into Professsor Gruner's room.

'I'm sorry, sir,' said the porter. 'I couldn't stop him.'

The man brushed the porter aside and strode up to Gruner's desk.

'What is the meaning of this!' Gruner demanded, rising from his chair.

The man's eyes were hollow and a thin moustache hugged his upper lip. His hair was black and oily, combed back from his forehead and over the crown in a single wave.

'Aah . . .' said Gruner, his voice softening with recognition. 'Signor Locatelli. Please sit down, I am so very sorry—'

'Where is she?' The Italian diplomat's voice was hoarse.

'Please, I understand how distressing this must be for you.'

'Where is she?' the diplomat repeated.

'Sir?' The porter looked towards Gruner.

'Wait outside,' replied Gruner. 'I know this gentleman.' The porter looked at Gruner in disbelief. Gruner nodded once and the porter reluctantly left the room.

The diplomat leaned across Gruner's desk.

'I want to see my wife.' His voice was more resonant, and for the first time Gruner detected an accent.

'If you wish to visit the mortuary,' Gruner replied, 'then of course this can be arranged. However, might I suggest that first you sit and compose yourself.' The Italian turned and looked at the empty chair, a single finger lingering on the desktop as he withdrew. Gruner walked to the window.

'Please accept my condolences. I had hoped to inform you of this tragedy in person. You must have been travelling all night.'

'I left Venice as soon as I received your telegram,' said the diplomat, sitting down. 'The train didn't get into Westbahnhof until seven.'

Gruner placed his hands behind his back and stepped forward a pace.

'Signor Locatelli, I would like you to know that we did everything in our power to help your wife. She received the very best treatment, I can assure you. There are few hospitals in Europe better equipped to treat hysteria.' He paused and gestured towards a tower of battery cases. 'Indeed, some would argue that we occupy the pre-eminent position. Be that as it may, some patients, inevitably, are beyond help. By the time they come to our attention their nervous systems have been so weakened that they cannot benefit from our ministrations. This, sadly, was the fate of your wife. She was suffering from a progressive loss of nerve strength that could be neither arrested nor repaired through the administration of electrotherapy. Although her hysterical paralysis had begun to respond – as I predicted – any such therapeutic gains were nullified by deteriorating levels of mood disturbance. In the end, her melancholia was so severe that her faculty of reason was compromised and she became the architect of her own demise.'

Locatelli had been staring blankly at Gruner. When the professor had finished speaking, Locatelli seemed to become more aware of his surroundings, and his attention was captured by the gruesome contents of Gruner's specimen jars. His face creased in disgust.

Without turning to look at Gruner, he said quietly and clearly: 'You murdered her.'

Gruner cleared his throat.

'I beg your pardon?'

'I said, Professor: you murdered her.'

The Italian fixed Gruner with a cold accusatory stare.