Mortal Mischief

Herr Joly placed the photographs back in the box and searched von Bulow's eyes again for a clue. The Inspector said nothing. Disconcerted by the silence, Joly added: 'She paid me in advance but never came back to collect them. My assistant cycled them over to her apartment: a Leopoldstadt address, I think.'

'They are somewhat unusual,' said von Bulow. 'Unlike the portraits in the window.'

'Indeed. I believe the gentleman is Fraulein Lowenstein's fiance. Apparently he hates having his photograph taken. She wanted a portrait – of both of them, together – but insisted that the photograph should be taken without his knowledge. Candid, as it were.'

Von Bulow turned the box and stared at the first image. 'How could you have taken these without his knowledge? Surely he would have seen you erecting the tripod?'

Herr Joly smiled.

'Oh no, I didn't use one of those.' He pointed to one of the large wooden boxes. 'I used one of these.'

He opened a drawer under the counter and produced a small rectangular object covered in black leather.

'What is it?'

'A camera,' said Joly, his voice brightening with amusement.

Von Bulow and Haussmann were obviously not convinced.

'It's called a Pocket Kozy.'

'English?'

'No. American. They're getting remarkably good at making things – the Americans. It opens like a book – see?'

Herr Joly pulled the covers apart and, where von Bulow might have expected to see pages, red leather bellows appeared.

'Here's the meniscus lens, and the single-speed shutter is located here on the spine.' Herr Joly pointed to a small aperture. 'It's very fast, though, more or less instantaneous. This one's a few years old now, but I think they're developing even smaller models. The Kozy can take eighteen exposures on roll film, which produce three- and-a-half-inch photographs. It performs better under conditions where—'

'Yes, yes,' von Bulow interrupted loudly. 'That's all very interesting, Herr Joly. Where were they taken?'

'Outside a small cafe on the Prater,' Joly said, his voice now neutral. 'I forget which one. Fraulein Lowenstein told me when she and her fiance were meeting – and I sat down at the next table after he'd arrived. You see, it looks like I'm simply reading a book . . .'

Herr Joly lifted the camera and looked into the open bellows. Then, raising his eyes, he peered over the leather covers.

'Can you remember how they greeted each other?' asked von Bulow.

Joly closed the camera and placed it on the counter with great care.

'How do you mean?'

'Did they kiss?'

'Umm – no, I don't think they did. But I can't be sure as it was some time ago now. Why is this important? Why are the police involved?'

Von Bulow fixed the birdlike photographer with a contemptuous stare.

'Do you read the papers, Herr Joly?'

'Yes. The Tagblatt, the Zeitung. . . Why?'

'Then perhaps you don't read them very thoroughly.'

The little man shrugged.

'Herr Joly, Fraulein Lowenstein did not collect these photographs in person for the simple reason that she is dead. Murdered, I imagine, by our friend here.'

Von Bulow allowed his finger to drop on the small stack of photographs. Pressing down on the gentleman's image, his lips parted to form a wide, predatory smile.

70

ALTHOUGH AMELIA LYDGATE'S rooms were still rather cheerless, signs of occupation had begun to appear. A modest fire sputtered in the grate, fresh flowers had been placed in an old blue vase, and some mezzotint prints were now hanging on the wall. The first showed the Royal Observatory in Greenwich, the second St Paul's Cathedral in the City of London, and the third cattle grazing by a circle of trees in a place called Hampstead.

Above the fire, a fortress-wall of encyclopaedias dominated the mantelpiece and miscellaneous volumes were piled and scattered across the floor. On the landing, an open trunk showed that Miss Lydgate had still not finished unpacking her library. Clearly, before embarking for Vienna she had already resolved to sacrifice her wardrobe in exchange for the companionship of several Greek and Latin authors.

While inspecting Amelia Lydgate's possessions Liebermann felt distinctly uneasy. There was nothing irregular about his presence, nothing improper. It was customary, expected even, for doctors to visit their patients once treatment had been successfully completed. However, Liebermann had chosen to make his house call not through duty but from curiosity. He wanted to know more about the erstwhile governess and was aware of his suspect motivation. She was, by conventional standards, an extremely unusual woman. Minister Schelling had been correct: Amelia Lydgate was abnormal, but her abnormality aroused in Liebermann fascination rather than repulsion.

Outside, the stairs creaked as she made her ascent, the tea things rattling on the tray. Having made a surreptitious study of the mezzotints, Liebermann guiltily returned to his seat at the table.

Miss Lydgate appeared at the door and Liebermann rose at once, intending to assist. But she demurred. He was her guest, she insisted.

While pouring the tea, Miss Lydgate talked freely about her domestic plans. She asked where she might purchase a sturdy bookcase, and pondered the feasibility of getting a laboratory bench up the stairs without causing damage to the banisters. Finally, she hoped that Frau Rubenstein would not object to her modifying the gas taps in order to fuel a Bunsen burner.

As usual, Amelia Lydgate maintained a certain English reserve. But as the evening progressed Liebermann found her formality, her upright posture, precise speech and impeccable attention to good manners less like coldness and more like the embodiment of a unique charm.

Liebermann's attention was captured by several unmarked volumes on the table. The spines were blank and the yellowing paper marked with brown maculae.

'Are these—?'

Before he could finish the question Miss Lydgate confirmed his suspicion.

'Yes, they are my grandfather's journals. Or at least some of them. Please, you are welcome to examine them.'

Liebermann felt privileged. He gestured towards the tea things.

'I couldn't possibly – I might . . .'

'Doctor Liebermann, my grandfather's journals have survived two fires, the flood waters of the Thames and abandonment in a bat-infested attic for nearly thirty years. I can assure you that they are robust enough to endure a spot of tea – should you accidentally upset your cup.'

Liebermann smiled and picked up the first volume. It was bound in what he presumed had once been pristine black leather but which was now much faded, cracked and scuffed. In spite of Miss Lydgate's confidence in the volume's robust constitution, Liebermann felt obliged to treat the journal with the utmost care. As he opened the first page, he was aware of a subtle fragrance – an odd combination of scent and mould, as through corruption had imbued the paper with a certain sweetness. The first page was blank, but the second was inscribed with the author's name in large Gothic capitals: Buchbinder.

Each subsequent page was dense with script, and occasionally illustrated with very fine pen-and-ink line drawings. Most were illustrations of microscopic slides. The overall effect suggested the operation of a fastidious mind and a close attention to detail.

'That volume,' said Amelia Lydgate, 'contains my grandfather's writings on the transfusion experiments of the Royal Society. It also contains records of his own research into the nature of blood. It is the sixth volume of my grandfather's journal, although I think of it more simply as the 'blood book'.'