Liebermann asked the young governess some questions concerning the purpose of the transfusion experiments: what diseases, for example, were the transfusions supposed to cure?
'The principal interest of the virtuosi,' replied Miss Lydgate, 'was therapy for the mind rather than treatment of the body.'
'How very interesting.'
Miss Lydgate hesitated and seemed unsure whether or not to continue.
'Please, do go on,' said Liebermann, closing the journal.
'They believed that there was a relationship between blood and character – an idea, of course, that dates back to classical times. Thus, they speculated that a change of blood might cure madness.'
'And they tested this hypothesis?'
'Indeed, my grandfather details the circumstances and method of the very first experiment. The subject was a madman called Coga. Employing an apparatus constructed of pipes and quills, the physicians of the Royal Society were able to transfuse some ten ounces of sheep's blood into Coga's body.'
'Sheep's blood?'
Liebermann wanted to laugh but suppressed the urge. Amelia Lydgate's expression was entirely serious.
'Indeed. The sheep is an animal famed for its docile and timid nature. I can only assume that the virtuosi believed this would pacify the deranged Coga.'
'And was the operation successful?'
'Yes. Coga's madness was cured and thereafter he was said to be a more sober and quiet man. He also received an honorarium of one guinea. Would you care for another cup of tea, Herr Doctor?'
'No, thank you,' Liebermann replied. 'That's extraordinary. I wonder why Coga didn't suffer any ill consequences?'
'Perhaps the transfusion was not as successful as the virtuosi believed. Perhaps the quantity of sheep's blood was too small to cause any significant harm.'
'In which case the benefit was probably psychological.'
'Indeed.'
'Did the virtuosi continue these experiments?'
'Yes, with both animal and human subjects. However, my grandfather writes that they eventually stopped because of fatalities.'
'I'm not surprised.'
'Even so, Doctor Liebermann, they succeeded in their efforts as frequently as any contemporary physician. Transfusion is still extremely dangerous and only attempted by the most enterprising – some would say foolhardy – surgeons. The procedure kills as many as it saves. For many years, specialists have speculated about the inconsistency of results, and many theories have been proposed by way of an explanation. But the most convincing of these theories concern differences in blood type and their varying degree of compatibility. In the past, the greatest obstacle to progress has been identification. How does one go about identifying different blood types? The great surgeon Theodore Billroth posed this question right here in Vienna some twenty years ago.' Miss Lydgate paused and sipped her tea. 'My grandfather discovered that blood cells taken from different individuals will either mix freely, or clump together. He concluded that clotting – or its absence – might be the reason why some of the early transfusion experiments failed while others succeeded.' The young woman reached over and picked up the 'blood book', opening it at exactly the right page. 'Here are examples of his microscopy.'
She turned the journal towards Liebermann. It looked at first like a work of astronomy – sketches of a planet at different times in its rotation cycle. But each 'world' was, in fact, a view of blood cells in different states of agglomeration.
'Of course, Doctor Landsteiner has progressed far beyond my grandfather's work,' continued Amelia Lydgate. 'He has found that clumping depends on the presence of two other substances that can be found on the surface of blood cells, the antigens A and B—' She suddenly stopped, blushing a little, and closed the book. 'Forgive me, Doctor Liebermann: you are already familiar with Doctor Landsteiner's publications.'
'No – not at all. Please continue.'
'I fear you are merely being courteous, Doctor Liebermann.'
'No, I'm very interested.'
But in spite of these and subsequent protestations by Liebermann, Miss Lydgate refused to be drawn any further.
Liebermann chose to walk home. He set off in a southerly direction and found himself on Wahringerstrasse. When he reached the Josephinum – the old military college of surgery and medicine – he paused and looked through the high railings at an imposing representation of womanhood: a large cast of Hygieia, the goddess of healing. It was one of the few classical figures in Vienna that he actually recognised.
The goddess towered over Liebermann, her powerful hand gripping the neck of a huge snake which coiled around her arm and dropped over her shoulder in a series of diminishing involutions. She was feeding the great serpent, thus embodying the dual virtues of strength and compassion. As sunlight filtered through some low cloud, her eyes became mirrors of pewter.
71
RHEINHARDT OPENED THE door of Commissioner Brugel's room.
'Ah, Rheinhardt,' said Brugel. 'Do come in.'
Von Bulow was sitting by the Commissioner's desk. He stood and performed a perfunctory bow.
Rheinhardt did not reciprocate. He was too angry.
'Von Bulow. Where were you this morning?'
'Waiting in my office with Haussmann – as arranged,' said von Bulow.
'I arrived at five minutes to eight and you weren't there.'
'That's because we were supposed to be meeting at seven. You were late, Rheinhardt.'
'I was not. We had arranged to meet at eight!'
'Then there must have been some misunderstanding,' said von Bulow, smiling with perfidious confidence.
'Gentlemen!' Brugel said loudly. 'Please sit down.'
Rheinhardt was quite certain that there had been no misunderstanding.
'Well,' said Brugel, looking at Rheinhardt. 'I have some splendid news. It would seem that after only one day on the Lowenstein case, Inspector von Bulow has been able to make an arrest.'
'I'm sorry, sir?' Rheinhardt was flabbergasted. He shot a glance at von Bulow, whose rigid features betrayed no emotion.
'Take a look at these.'
Brugel passed his hand over a small stack of photographs and spread them out across the desktop like a card-sharp. Rheinhardt leaned forward. There was Fraulein Lowenstein, dressed in a turban-style hat and an elegant white dress – her monochrome image reiterated, with minute variations, on every one of Brugel's arc of 'cards', occupying every suit and every value. In almost all the photographs, Fraulein Lowenstein was smiling – a broad, radiant smile that occasionally became laughter. But her eyes, wide with interest and glittering with early spring sunshine, were always fixed on the same object: her companion – Heinrich Holderlin.
Rheinhardt slid one of the photographs out of the splayed stack and examined it closely. The couple were seated in a restaurant. Although the horizon was smudgy and out of focus, it appeared to be parkland. Holderlin was kissing Fraulein Lowenstein's fingers. The expression on his face was eager and lascivious.
'Where did you get these?' said Rheinhardt, stunned and feeling slightly light-headed.
'Perhaps you had better explain, Inspector,' said Brugel to von Bulow.
'Of course, sir,' said von Bulow, tugging at his jacket sleeve to expose a diamond cuff link. 'I found these photographs at Fraulein Lowenstein's apartment this morning. They had been delivered by a photographer's assistant a few days earlier. The photographer's card was in the package. His name is Fritz Joly – he has a shop on Bauermarkt.'
Rheinhardt was still staring at the images of Fraulein Lowenstein and Holderlin.
'I went to the shop immediately,' von Bulow continued, 'and discovered that Fraulein Lowenstein had paid
