Mortal Mischief

'What was Rachel frightened of? What did she think was going to happen?'

'I don't know. Perhaps you should analyse her – although it wouldn't do any good. Rachel wouldn't listen to anything you said.'

Liebermann had explained to Clara that psychoanalysis was more about listening than 'telling', but resisted the urge to correct her. 'True. But neither do you!'

Clara broke away, laughing. She turned and, facing Liebermann, started walking backwards.

'Be careful,' said Liebermann. 'You might stumble.'

'No, I won't. It's better this way – I'm enjoying the view.'

Clara was wearing a long coat with a fur collar and a Cossack-style hat. The ensemble emphasised the delicacy of her features. Her little face, peering out from its bed of sable, appeared curiously feral.

Was this the right moment?

Since meeting with Mendel in The Imperial, Liebermann had thought of nothing else but this walk. He had been looking forward to it with fervid impatience. Every intervening second had passed slowly – particularly those spent at Gruner's demonstration – stretching the minutes into refractory hours. For much of the afternoon the storm had threatened to scupper his plan, but now nothing stood in his way. He cleared his throat, ready to speak.

'Do you know what my father said this morning?' asked Clara.

The opportunity vanished as swiftly as it had appeared.

'No. What did he say?'

'He said that we're going to Meran in the summer.'

'Really? For how long?'

'A month or two . . . He thinks it will help Rachel's asthma.'

'I'm sure it will. The Tyrol air is very good for bronchial problems.'

Clara stopped, turned again, and extended her arm, allowing Liebermann to take it as he advanced.

'Have you ever been there, Max?'

'Yes,' Liebermann replied. 'I worked in Meran when I was a student. Let me offer you a piece of very useful advice. Avoid anything that's supposed to have medicinal properties – particularly the whey cure.'

'What's that?'

'A local remedy, much favoured by the good people of Meran. It consists of coagulated milk with white wine, strained from the curd and sweetened with sugar.'

Clara screwed up her face.

'Oh, that sounds utterly disgusting.'

'It is – but the locals swear by it. However, if you're going in the summer you might be all right. I think it's a seasonal delight, served mostly in the spring.'

A cold gust of wind blew in from the east, and they instinctively drew closer together.

'Will I get bored, do you think?'

'A little, perhaps. But there are fairs and market days. And there are so many Viennese there – you're bound to bump into someone you know . . .'

Ahead of them the detail of the baroque palace was becoming clearer. It was an enormous building of white stucco that extended between two octagonal domed pavilions; however, it looked as though a garrison of Turks had pitched a line of green tents on the roof. This was, of course, an architectural conceit, intended to remind onlookers of the great siege.

Clara squeezed Liebermann's arm in the crook of her elbow.

Again, Liebermann wondered whether the moment had arrived. Whether he should stop walking, take Clara in his arms, and ask her to be his wife.

'Herr Donner came today.'

The sound of her voice brought him out of his reverie.

'I'm sorry?'

'Herr Donner, my piano teacher.'

'Of course . . . and what did he teach you?'

'We played a duet by Brahms. A waltz.'

'Which one?'

'I don't know. I've forgotten.'

'Then how does it go?'

Clara attempted to sing the melody, but quickly lost her way in a succession of chaotic key changes. 'No,' she said. 'It didn't go like that at all.' She tried again, this time managing to hum a lilting tune that sounded more like a lullaby.

'I know that. It's one of the Opus 39 waltzes. Number fifteen, I think. Perhaps we should try it when we get back?'

'Oh good heavens, no. It's too difficult . . . I need more practice.'

Clara continued describing her day: a trip to Blomberg's with her mother; the purchase of curtains for the sitting room; the shortcomings of the new maid. Liebermann had little interest in the Weisses' domestic arrangements, yet he derived enormous pleasure from listening to the familiar cadences of Clara's speech and her musical laughter. And most of all he enjoyed being close to her, feeling the warmth of her body and inhaling the subtle fragrance of her perfume.

There was something hypnotic about their slow ascent, the pleasing regularity of their step, accompanied by the satisfying scrunch of damp gravel underfoot. Indeed, it seemed that this gentle rhythm had assisted their transition between worlds. They had passed into a kind of waking sleep and had entered the landscape of a dream.

Liebermann looked over his shoulder. They were totally alone in the gardens, having no other company except for the sphinxes. The inclement weather had obviously deterred other visitors. After ascending the final incline, they paused to enjoy the view.

At the foot of the slope, beyond the sunken hedge gardens, fountains and statuary, was the relatively modest lower palace. Further out, the spires, domes and mansions of the city dispersed and dissolved into an elevated horizon of blue hills. A subtle mist softened the panorama and intensified an opaque silence. The proud capital looked spectral – even oddly transparent.

'It's beautiful, isn't it?' said Clara.

'Yes,' said Liebermann. 'Very beautiful.'

He knew, at last, that the moment had arrived. He had been rehearsing lines in his head all day: poetic set pieces of increasing power that culminated in dramatic declarations of love. But suddenly all these words seemed redundant. Forged endearments. Corpulent language, bloated with insincere affectation.

'Clara.' He spoke the words quietly and clearly: 'I love you very much. Will you marry me?'

Taking her small gloved hand in his, he raised it to his lips.

'Please say yes.'

Clara's expression trembled with uncertainty, oscillating between emotions. Then, finally, she produced a hushed and breathless response – a mere whisper: 'Yes, Maxim. I'll marry you.'

Liebermann gently raised her chin and tested her lips with the briefest of kisses. She closed her eyes and he embraced her, pulling her suddenly limp body close to his.

When they drew apart, she was smiling. But her eyes had become glassy. She sniffed, and the first of many tears spilled down her glowing face.

Liebermann had never seen her cry before, and his eyes narrowed with concern.

'It's all right,' said Clara. 'Really. I'm just so happy.'

5

KARL UBERHORST LOOKED up at the Inspector through the oval lenses of his silver pince-nez. He was a small man with short brown hair and a thick moustache combed down to cover his upper lip. Rheinhardt had noticed that it was the habit of most small men to counter their diminutive stature by standing erect. This was not the case with Uberhorst, who allowed his shoulders to slope, his spine to curve, and his head to project forward. There was