Mortal Mischief

'I am perfectly happy to hear more of this remarkable case. Indeed, you have already aroused my curiosity. I fear, however, that you have overestimated my knowledge and deductive powers.'

Amelia Lydgate's pewter eyes glowed in the dying light.

Liebermann graciously accepted that he might be mistaken and then set about describing the crime scene: Fraulein Lowenstein, reclining on the chaise longue, her heart ruined by an impossible bullet. The note on the table, and the Japanese box with its demonic occupant. He did not describe any of the suspects, nor how the investigation had proceeded to date.

When he had finished, Miss Lydgate remained silent. Then, noticing the failing light, she rose from her chair and lit the nearest gas lamp. She performed these actions without speaking to or so much as glancing at Liebermann. She seemed wholly absorbed, her forehead lined by a customary frown.

'I could take you to the apartment,' said Liebermann, 'if it would help.'

She sat down and poured herself another cup of tea.

'What kind of lock was it?'

'On the sitting-room door?'

'Yes.'

'I don't really know.'

'A warded lock? A lever tumbler? A detector?'

'I'm sorry. . .' Liebermann raised his hands helplessly, indicating that he had no further knowledge to declare.

'Never mind,' said Amelia Lydgate. 'You noticed nothing remarkable about its design? There was nothing odd about it?'

'No. It was just an ordinary lock.'

'Good.'

'Inspector Rheinhardt would not object to our visiting the apartment, I'm sure we could—'

'No, Doctor Liebermann,' the young woman said firmly. 'That won't be necessary. But I'd be most grateful if you would bring me both keys – the key to the sitting-room door and the key to the Japanese box. I would like to examine them.'

Her face was impassive and, in a way that resisted analysis, tempered by a subtle beauty.

76

BEATRICE SCHELLING TIPTOED up the stairs, past the hissing gas lamps, ascending into the upper region of the house where light gave way to shadow. She fumbled in her dressing gown for a candle and, having lit it with a match, continued her journey. The sound came again – indistinct but undoubtedly real. Beatrice held her breath so that she could hear better, but found that her heart was thumping in her ears.

Creeping across the landing, she came to the last flight of stairs. They were uncarpeted and she had to negotiate them with even greater care. Stepping out of her slippers, she grasped the banister and pulled herself upward. The wood protested, groaning under her weight. Beatrice froze, paused, and gingerly placed the ball of her foot on the next step.

On reaching the attic area she heard the susurration again. It sounded like sobbing. Beatrice approached the door ahead and pressed her ear against one of its panels. She imagined the girl on the other side, sitting on her bed, her knees pulled up against her chest, abundant tears soaking her cheap nightdress. The new maid had recently arrived in Vienna from the country. She was slight, with curly brown hair – little more than a child.

The whimpering increased in volume.

Beatrice's instinct was to turn the door handle and enter the room – to place her arm around the poor girl's shoulder and console her.

You miss your mother and father, of course you do. But you will see them again in the autumn. Don't fret, my dear.

She had done the same when the previous maid had been tearful, and the maid before her – a beautiful creature from Croatia with jet-black hair and bright blue eyes. But Beatrice could no longer play her part. She was weary of the role, and knew that her lines would be delivered without conviction. Moreover, she was perfectly well aware that the ponderous step that had descended the attic stairs some thirty minutes earlier had belonged to her husband. Far below, in the entrance hall, a clock struck the second hour of the morning.

The whimpering subsided, to be replaced by a pathetic sniffling.

A drop of hot candle wax fell on to Beatrice's foot. She did not flinch but remained still, allowing the burning sensation to increase briefly in intensity. She found it perversely satisfying. The pain was in some obscure way redeeming. It seemed to purify her soul.

Behind the door the girl seemed to be drifting into a fitful sleep. All that Beatrice could hear now was a continuous sotto voce grizzling.

Beatrice straightened her back and walked – perhaps less cautiously now – to the edge of the landing. She paused for a moment, sighed, and blew out the candle.

When she reached her husband's study, she switched on the lamp. From his desk she took a sheet of creamy paper. Staring at its blankness, she began composing a letter. It began: Dear Amelia . . .

77

NURSE RUPIUS AND Stefan Kanner approached each other from opposite directions. Both were wearing their outdoor coats.

'Good evening, Sabina.'

'Herr Doctor . . .'

They turned along the main corridor and continued walking side by side.

'Please call me Stefan.' He made a show of looking at his pocket watch. 'We are no longer at work.'

Nurse Rupius's cheeks coloured a little at his familiarity.

'Do you have far to go?'

'Josefstadt.'

'Not very far, then.'

'No.'

Kanner was desperate to keep the conversation going, but could not think of anything else to say. Sabina Rupius came to his assistance.

'And you, Herr Doc—' she broke off. 'Stefan?'

'Oh, Mariahilf.'

'Have you lived there long?'

'No. I moved from Dobling in January.'

'I have fond memories of Mariahilf. My father used to take me to see

The Magic Flute

there – every Christmas, or so it seemed.'

'The Am der Wien?'

'Yes.'

'A lovely old theatre. It's just been done up, you know.'

'Has it?'

'I go quite often. Do you still go to the theatre?'

'Not as much as I should, or would like to.'

She turned her head. Her eyes glistened.

Is she expecting me to ask?

It certainly looks that way.

Kanner swallowed nervously; however, as he prepared to speak, the opportunity that had presented itself was suddenly lost. Ahead, he noticed the approach of Brunnhilde Grutzner – the surliest of hospital matrons. He watched as Nurse Rupius's expression changed from anticipation through dismay to disappointment.