Mortal Mischief

'Ha!' said Liebermann, opening the piano lid again. He played a four-octave ascending scale of C sharp minor.

'Perhaps I am mistaken,' said Rheinhardt tentatively. 'But it is my feeling that the happiness you felt on discovering that your old comrade hadn't succumbed to superstition exceeded the irritation you felt at being duped!'

Liebermann smiled: 'Yes – that is true. Insofar as you did not sink so low as to employ the real Madame de Rougemont, you have retained my respect and high esteem . . .' Liebermann's intonation suggested an interrupted train of speech.

'But?'

'I still cannot believe that you didn't tell me!'

Rheinhardt shook his head.

'Come now, Max, shall we see if we can do some justice to this Brahms song?' The Inspector tapped the score like a music master.

Liebermann let his fingers find the mysterious opening notes, but before he had completed the introduction he stopped abruptly.

'Though I have to admit, Oskar – it was a magnificent idea.' Liebermann began to laugh softly and, still chuckling, started Nachtigal for the second time.

Rheinhardt, delighted that his friend had finally forgiven him, rested a companionable hand on the young doctor's shoulder and filled the room with his mellifluous baritone.

58

'THERE WAS A flash of lightning, and the impression of his presence was confirmed. I saw him standing close – very close.'

In her hypnotised sleep, the English governess was reliving her trauma.

'The mattress tilted as he crawled onto the bed. Amelia, Amelia. I was unable to move. I felt the weight of his body on mine, and his lips on my face. I could not breathe – I could not breathe . . . I was choking, and started to—'

As she began to cough, Liebermann cried, 'Stop, don't go on.' Then, more gently, he whispered: 'I want you to hold that moment in your memory.'

Miss Lydgate nodded.

'Tell me, how do you feel?'

'Distressed.'

'Do you not feel any anger?'

Amelia Lydgate's face was expressionless, but the forefinger of her right hand began to twitch – signalling the approach of Katherine.

'I feel distressed,' said Miss Lydgate again – denying the more primitive emotional forces in her psyche.

Liebermann wanted the traumatic narrative to move forward, like frames of film being passed slowly through a cinematic projector.

'Herr Schelling's face is rough,' he said, confining the young woman's awareness to the focal point of a single sensory memory.

'Yes – it hurts.'

'His moustache scratches,' Liebermann continued.

'Yes . . . it does.'

Amelia Lydgate's anger was rising and simultaneously displacing into the surfacing sub-personality. Liebermann imagined it, rising from the unconscious, becoming more powerful, gradually taking control of her right arm – gradually flexing its fingers into the corporeal glove of Miss Lydgate's hand. Taking over.

'Amelia . . .' whispered Liebermann. 'Look into yourself. What do you see?'

'Nothing . . .'

'There is someone coming out of the darkness.'

Miss Lydgate's eyelids tightened.

'What do you see, Amelia?'

'A young girl.'

'What does she look like?'

'She has long red hair – like mine . . . and a white dress – like a nightgown.'

'Do you know who she is?'

'Her name is . . . I think her name is Katherine.'

'How do you know her name?'

'I read about her in a story book – when I was very young. It was a book about a naughty girl with red hair. The picture in the book looked just like me. She did things that I would never do – she was disobedient, and had tantrums.'

'She spoke to you, that night . . . when Herr Schelling came into your room. Do you remember?'

'No – I can't remember hearing anything.'

Liebermann rested his fingers on Amelia Lydgate's temples and began to press.

'Feel the pressure. Feel it increasing – as the pressure increases, your recollection becomes clearer . . .'

'I can't remember.'

'Katherine's voice – in your head. What did she say?'

Suddenly Miss Lydgate gasped, as though experiencing a sharp pain.

'Kill him – that's what she said. She wanted me to kill him. It was a terrible thing to suggest.'

Liebermann released the pressure.

'And what did Katherine do?'

'She picked up the scissors – she picked up the scissors and stabbed him.'

'And if Katherine had not done this, what would Herr Schelling have done to you?'

'He would have – he would have . . .' The young governess's head rocked from side to side. 'I don't know.'

'But you do, Amelia. What would Herr Schelling have done to you?'

Miss Lydgate's breathing began to quicken.

'He would have overpowered me – he would have –' her voice rose '– violated me.'

'An unconscionable, heinous crime.'

'He betrayed me.'

'And the trust of your mother and father. What do you feel towards Herr Schelling – at this moment?'

'Anger.'

'Yes, Amelia – your anger. Not Katherine's anger. Your anger.'

A tear escaped from the corner of her eye and her chest heaved as she began to sob.

'It is wrong – to want to kill someone. Barbaric.'

'But you were being abused. His hands were on your body – you could smell his cologne. Remember the roughness of his face – the grabbing, grabbing, grabbing . . .'

Miss Lydgate's face became contorted and a pulse appeared on the side of her neck.

'I hate him, hate him.'

'The roughness, like pumice stone.'

'Hate him.'

'The grabbing.'

The young woman's right arm suddenly reached for the invisible scissors. Fully aware now of her murderous wishes, she screamed and lunged forward. When the movement was complete, she remained perfectly still. She seemed frozen in time, her arm fully extended. The room was silent but for her rasping breath.

Amelia Lydgate's eyes opened – and blinked.

She turned to look at Liebermann.

'It's all right, Miss Lydgate,' he said softly. 'It's over now.'