Mortal Mischief

this – it'll be extremely interesting to see them all together.'

They walked past an equestrian statue of the second Emperor Josef, set in the middle of an imposing square of white baroque facades.

'Aren't you even a little curious about Madame de Rougemont?' asked Rheinhardt, a note of desperation creeping into his voice.

'No.'

'She's supposed to be genuine.'

'Oskar, there's no such thing as a genuine medium.'

'She's helped the Surete on many occasions.'

'Who told you that?'

'Inspector Laurent – he sent me a complete record of her accomplishments.'

'Well – the man must be . . .'

'What?'

'Credulous.'

Liebermann examined his friend. He was wearing a hard bowler hat, a fine English suit, and the ends of his moustache had been waxed and precisely tapered. He looked curiously stiff and uncomfortable.

'Max – I admit that my decision to seek Madame de Rougemont's assistance in this matter is indeed irregular. However, on Monday morning I had to face Commissioner Brugel again. Needless to say, the discovery of Herr Uberhorst's corpse has made him no less impatient.'

They entered a long tunnel-like archway that spanned the road.

'But to consult a medium, Oskar?' Liebermann's voice sounded glum.

'Are you familiar with Shakespeare, Max?'

'Reasonably.'

'Then you will recall Hamlet: 'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio— ''

''Than are dreamt of in your philosophy',' Liebermann cut in. 'Well, Oskar, I will endeavour to keep an open mind – but I very much doubt that I shall be converted to spiritualism by this evening's—' He paused before adding, 'Entertainment.'

Exiting the tunnel, they veered off in a north-easterly direction, eventually crossing the Graben and entering a narrower street leading to the Peterskirche. Its large green dome and two towers dominated the view. Outside the church several fiacres were parked, waiting for fares. Beyond the Peterskirche they found Madame de Rougemont's address – a ground-floor apartment in a well-maintained block.

They were received by a male servant who took their coats and led them to a large reception room. Most of Charlotte Lowenstein's circle were already present: Zaborszky, the Holderlins, Heck and, most notably, Braun. Seated next to Zaborszky was a small woman dressed in black satin. She stood and offered her hand.

'Gentlemen,' said the Count. 'Madame Yvette de Rougemont.'

Rheinhardt took Yvette de Rougemont's hand, which was covered in a fingerless glove of black lace, bowed, and raised it to his lips.

'Detective Inspector Rheinhardt,' said the Count to Madame de Rougemont. Zaborszky seemed to have taken it upon himself to chaperone the medium; however, the eager light in his eyes suggested rather more than mere innocent gallantry.

'I am honoured,' said Rheinhardt, straightening up and gesturing towards his friend. 'And may I introduce my colleague, Doctor Max Liebermann.'

The medium turned to face Liebermann, obliging the young doctor to repeat Rheinhardt's formal greeting.

'Inspector,' said Madame de Rougemont, her German softened by a sweet French accent. 'It has been my privilege to place my gift at the disposal of the police on many occasions. I sincerely hope that I will not disappoint you.'

'We would be most grateful for any assistance,' said Rheinhardt.

'Of course,' continued the Frenchwoman, allowing a cautionary tone to enter her voice, 'I can promise nothing. I am merely a servant – a vessel. Perhaps the higher powers will allow us to make some discoveries this evening – or perhaps they will deny us. Who can say? All that I can do is humbly beseech them to be merciful, and pray that they will judge us kindly.'

She spoke with a certain breathless urgency, gesticulating and punctuating her speech with exaggerated facial expressions.

Liebermann was about to deliver a sceptical response when the double doors swung open to reveal Hans Bruckmuller and Cosima von Rath.

'Excuse me, gentlemen,' said Madame de Rougemont. She offered Zaborszky her arm and they glided across the floor to greet the new arrivals. The smaller woman almost disappeared in the larger one's ample embrace.

Liebermann had expected Cosima von Rath's entrance to be a colourful affair, but he was still taken aback by her appearance. She was wearing a hat, the design of which was clearly inspired by the headdress of some Egyptian deity, and a loose, billowy blue gown made from material that shimmered and glittered as she moved. A thick yellow cord followed the equator of her stomach, and a large golden ankh dangled over the precipice of an overwhelming bosom. Cosima von Rath's neck was concealed by several folds of puffy pink flesh that hung from a receding chin and her eyes were like raisins pressed into marzipan. The effect was almost hallucinatory. She looked like a prize pig that had been bedecked for some obscure rustic festival.

For a moment, Cosima von Rath commanded everyone's attention. The other members of Lowenstein's circle, who had been quietly talking amongst themselves, fell silent. Braun, however, seemed less overwhelmed than the others, and even winked at the seamstress – whose fan immediately rose up to hide a collusive smile.

Conversation in the room began again, slowly regaining its former volume.

'Well, Herr Doctor,' whispered Rheinhardt, 'you might consider closing your mouth now.'

54

THE COMPANY ASSEMBLED around a large circular table, their faces lit by a solitary fitful candle. Its uncertain light made shadows leap from wall to wall – a flapping cloak of darkness.

Madame de Rougemont had asked them all to join hands for the duration of a lengthy invocation, which took the form of an appeal to the higher spiritual powers. Her antiquated style of delivery suggested a medieval source – some ancient rite of ceremonial magic.

'I invoke and conjure thee, O Spirit Morax, and fortified with the power of the Supreme Majesty I strongly command thee by Baralamensis, Baldachiensis, Paumachie, Apoloresedes and the most potent princes, Genio, Liachide, Ministers of the Tartarean Seat, chief princes of the seat of Apologia in the ninth region; I exorcise and command thee, O Spirit Morax, by him who spake and it was done, by the most glorious names Adonai, El, Elohim, Elohe, Zebaoth, Elion, Escherce, Jah, Tetragrammaton, Sadai . . .'

While Yvette de Rougemont droned on, Liebermann studied his companions: the languid Count, the ludicrous heiress, and the businessman. He turned to examine the remainder: the stolid bank manager and his wife, the conman, and the seamstress. What a motley collection of people! How strange that their different paths had crossed in Charlotte Lowenstein's apartment. One of them – in all probability – was guilty of murder. But which? Looking at their ill-assorted, perplexed faces, he could detect no obvious clue.

The room had filled with a rich redolence, like the heady fumes of a church censer. But these fragrant emanations had no visible source – no dragging cassock or swinging chain emerged from the room's obscure recesses. Liebermann looked over at Rheinhardt, who returned a puzzled stare.

Although Rheinhardt did not say a word, his expression clearly asked: Where's it coming from?

Liebermann shook his head.

'Do thou forthwith appear and show thyself unto me,' the Frenchwoman continued her invocation, 'here before this circle, in a fair and human shape, without any deformity or horror; do thou come forthwith, from whatever part of the world, and make rational answers to my questions; come presently, come visit, come affably,