forefinger across his Adam's apple. 'And every drop of blood had been drained from her body.'
Cosima's hand swiftly withdrew from the chocolate and clutched her jeweled ankh.
'Oh, how dreadful,' she piped. 'But why did he do it?'
'He needed Christian blood for that bread of theirs.'
'Matzoh,' said Schmidt, with an exaggerated expression of disgust. 'Dreadful stuff.'
'They've been doing it for centuries, apparently,' said Bruckmuller, pouring himself another brandy.
'Ahh yes . . .' said Cosima, suddenly making a connection between the subject of the conversation and her pool of abstruse knowledge. 'I've read of such things. I think it used to be called the blood libel.'
Schmidt shrugged: 'I wouldn't know.'
'But I had no idea that these rituals were still being performed in the modern world,' said Cosima. 'It is quite extraordinary.'
'Indeed,' said Schmidt. 'Hilsner's behind bars now, thank the Lord. But by rights he should have swung.'
'He wasn't sentenced to death?' said Cosima, theatrically placing both hands over her mouth.
'No, my dear,' Schmidt replied. 'Thanks to the vociferous liberal minority – mostly Jews – he was tried again. The business of the ritual murder wasn't even mentioned the second time around! It was all suppressed. Even so, they didn't have it all their own way. Hilsner was found guilty again, of course. He was sentenced to life imprisonment – but he should have swung.'
Cosima tutted and looked from Schmidt to Bruckmuller. Again, her features puckered to form a disgruntled pout.
'What is it, dear?' said Bruckmuller.
'I don't understand.'
'What don't you understand?'
'Why on Earth did you say that we need another Hilsner?'
'Politics, my dear,' said Bruckmuller, tapping the side of his protuberant nose with a thick, big-knuckled finger. 'Politics.'
75
LIEBERMANN HAD COMPLETED the C-major fugue and had begun to pound out the C-minor Prelude. Playing Bach's 'forty-eight' was an exercise he performed with increasing regularity. Somehow, the purity and elegance of Bach's counterpoint helped him to think. He was so familiar with Bach's epic circumnavigation of the tonal world that his fingers arrived on the correct keys without conscious effort. For Liebermann, performing the forty-eight was like a spiritual discipline – a Western equivalent of the transcendental devotions practised in the East.
Liebermann was confident that his interpretation of Holderlin's dream was correct. The banker was not Fraulein Lowenstein's lover – nor had he murdered her. There would be no confession.
Melodic lines chased each other at different intervals, and became entangled in dense episodes of invention.
His left hand began to toll the repeating tonic of the D-minor Prelude – above, the semiquaver triplets fell like lashing rain.
It seemed to Liebermann that the Lowenstein case was like a labyrinth. He and Rheinhardt had been blindly stumbling through its dark corridors, occasionally grasping clues and following them for a short while, only to find themselves rudely deposited beyond the structure's walls. And at the centre of the labyrinth was the personification of an ancient evil, mocking their ineptitude.
Whoever had killed Fraulein Lowenstein – and very probably Uberhorst too – had succeeded in sustaining a prodigious disguise. As long as the mystery remained, the case would not be brought to a satisfactory conclusion. The crime might as well be imputed to Seth.
How did the illusion work?
As Liebermann played on, it occurred to him that Bach's keyboard works were also a species of illusion. They sounded spontaneous, improvisatory and inspired, yet every fugue was driven by a ruthless internal logic. The magic, as such, could be reduced to the diligent application of musical rules and mathematical principles. Be that as it may, although Liebermann could lift the veil of Bach's enchantment he could not penetrate the illusion of Fraulein Lowenstein's murder. The machinery of deception remained invisible – its levers and gears thoroughly concealed.
The investigation had reached a sorry impasse.
Liebermann was forced to confront an unpalatable but self-evident truth. Neither he nor Rheinhardt could determine the solution alone. They needed help. By the time he had reached the fifteenth prelude, Liebermann knew what he had to do. He did not stop playing but remained at the keyboard and completed the whole of Book One. Then, closing the lid of the Bosendorfer, he stood up and walked to the hallway where he collected his coat from the stand. He would tackle Book Two on his return.
Outside it was still quite light, and the evening was pleasantly warm. The air was fragrant with lilac. He set off briskly, crossing Wahringerstrasse and walking downhill towards the Danube. He slowed as he passed Berggasse 19 and was tempted to go in. Professor Freud would be happy to offer him an opinion on Holderlin's dream, and might even comment on the mental state of the murderer. But Liebermann already knew that this would not be enough. The Lowenstein mystery required a different approach. He quickened his step.
When Amelia Lydgate opened the door, her eyes widened slightly with surprise.
'Herr Doctor.'
Liebermann bowed.
'Miss Lydgate. I am so sorry to disturb you – I was passing, and thought I might pay you a visit.'
'How very kind of you, Herr Doctor. Do come in.'
Before ascending the stairs, Liebermann paid his respects to Frau Rubenstein. He discovered her dozing in an armchair, a volume of poetry resting on her lap. The exchange of pleasantries did not detain him long. Liebermann accepted Miss Lydgate's offer of tea, and they were soon seated in her small reception room.
Liebermann began by asking the young woman some questions about her health. She responded in a matter-of-fact way, describing her progress with clinical detachment: her appetite had returned, she was sleeping well, her right arm remained responsive and her fingers had suffered no loss of dexterity. Liebermann felt slightly uncomfortable in assuming this outward show of concern while secretly wishing to move the conversation on to areas closer to his purpose; however, a transition was not difficult to achieve. When he invited her to talk about a recent visit to the Pathological Institute, she was soon detailing the methodology of a possible research project that she had discussed with Landsteiner: a microscopic analysis of haemophiliac blood plasma.
'Miss Lydgate,' Liebermann ventured, with more timidity than was usual, 'I was wondering – could I ask for your opinion? On a technical matter?'
Amelia Lydgate registered the equivocation.
'Technical?'
'Yes. You see, it is my good fortune to be a close friend of Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt of the Viennese security office . . .' He briefly explained his association with Rheinhardt and then attempted to introduce the topic of murder without alarming his companion: 'Forgive me for raising such a distressing matter, but six weeks ago the body of a young woman was found in a Leopoldstadt apartment. The circumstances surrounding her discovery were extraordinary – and the results of her autopsy were unlike anything anyone has ever seen before. You are a woman possessed of remarkable analytic skills, Miss Lydgate, and I would be much interested in your view of the facts. However, if the subject of murder is one that you find distasteful then I fully understand . . .'
As Liebermann's faltering enquiry stalled, the young woman proudly stated: 'Herr Doctor – I intend to study medicine. The fact of human mortality does not disturb me. I have conducted many animal dissections under my father's guidance and I fully expect to repeat these procedures on human corpses, should I gain a place at the university.'
'Of course,' said Liebermann. 'Please accept my apology.'
