'If you would care to look at this key first.'
Liebermann looked into the eyepiece and saw a slightly flecked metal surface.
'It is the key to my bedroom. And now, the key from Fraulein Lowenstein's apartment. What do you see?'
Liebermann adjusted his glasses and squinted.
'It looks like . . . it looks like the metal is marked. With a pattern?'
'Indeed.'
The key was ridged with minute parallel lines.
'The pattern appears on both sides,' continued Miss Lydgate.
She was standing very close and her proximity was somewhat distracting. Her dress material rustled loudly when she moved.
'And now – the small key from the Japanese box.'
Amelia Lydgate placed the smaller key under the objective.
'Another pattern,' said Liebermann.
'No,' said the young woman, rather petulantly. 'The same pattern, Herr Doctor. Only smaller. It does not appear on any of the other keys – and I suspect that we should not find anything similar even if we had a much larger assortment to examine.'
Liebermann stood up straight and looked into Miss Lydgate's eyes. Her expression was still calm and unemotional. She did not appear self-satisfied and there was nothing in her bearing that suggested she was in need of a compliment.
'What does this mean?' asked Liebermann.
'I think,' replied Amelia Lydgate, 'that it means we can confidently reject a supernatural explanation.'
79
THE LETTER FROM England had been placed among his other correspondence. She had wanted to ask about it – and had even dropped some hints – but her husband had not been forthcoming. He dismissed her enquiries and assumed a somewhat patronizing air.
'My dear, how tired you look. Perhaps you should leave the children with Marie again. Go out and buy yourself something – a new pair of gloves, perhaps.'
Before leaving, he had said, almost in passing, that he was interviewing another governess: a fine, virtuous young woman – recommended to him by Schmidt, one of the Mayor's colleagues. Nothing like poor Amelia. A hardy German. Healthy, stolid, someone who would set a good example for the children.
The door closed and Beatrice Schelling was left standing in the hallway, feeling dizzy and confused. It was as though she had become lost in her own home, and did not know where to go or which way to turn. A clock struck the hour. The day would proceed, with her or without her.
The children were delighted to see their aunt again. They threw their arms around Marie's neck and kissed her plump, pink face.
'Children, children! How lovely to see you again.'
Beatrice felt something unpleasant stirring in her belly. The swelling of a dark emotion – a corrosive mixture of envy and hurt. When the bile had drained from her stomach, she felt dry and empty.
As she and Marie chatted, Beatrice felt entirely dissociated. She listened to her own voice as though it belonged to someone else. It was like eavesdropping.
'I need to go to the lingerie shop on Dingelstedstrasse and, if I have time, to Taubenrauch's. We have to attend a function in a few weeks and I can't wear the same dress again. The navy-blue taffeta – you've seen it, I'm sure. Frau Forster never wears the same dress twice.'
Beatrice piped on like a church organist improvising around an inauspicious theme. When she felt that the performance had lasted long enough, she simply stopped and excused herself. It had been her custom to raise the contentious subject of Demel's just before her departure, but on this occasion, she said nothing. Today, Edward and Adele could eat as much chocolate as they liked.
'Say goodbye to your mother!' Marie called out to the children, who were already playing noisily on the stairs.
'No, it's all right – let them play,' Beatrice said distractedly, affecting a tepid smile.
She did not go to Dingelstedstrasse or to the ladies' outfitters. Instead, she wandered the streets, drifting, by degrees, in a southerly direction. Eventually she found herself standing by one of the new station entrances on Karlsplatz. Her husband had said that they were a disgrace and that the architect should be shot. Beatrice had agreed, but looking at them now she could not understand why some people found them so offensive. The green wrought-iron framework of the two pavilions reminded her of a conservatory.
Beyond the pavilions was the massive Karlskirche. Its huge Italianate dome was flanked by giant columns. Scenes from the life of St Borromeo, in relief, spiralled to the top of each, where gilded Habsburg eagles had made their eyries.
A tram bell sounded and a gentleman grabbed her arm, pulling her back on to the pavement.
A flash of red and white.
'I beg your pardon, madam – but the tram . . .'
'Yes, of course, how silly of me.'
'You must be more careful.'
'Indeed. Thank you.'
Stepping backwards, Beatrice hurried off into the crowd.
At the tram stop passengers were climbing aboard. She joined the queue and, without thinking, mounted the vehicle's platform and found herself a seat. She was oblivious to the journey, and eventually found herself delivered outside the mock Renaissance edifice of the Sud-bahnhoff.
The booking hall was like a palace. A glorious stone staircase ascended and diverged, leading to two high arches: the banisters were festooned with artificial candelabra, as tall as apple trees, and an austere white light streamed through high windows.
Beatrice stood under the clear glass globes of the cast-iron lampposts, and watched the people coming and going, the busy throng of the concourse. After composing herself, she visited the post office and deposited the letter she had written in the early hours of Tuesday morning. She then returned to the booking hall, where she examined the destination board.
There were so many places.
Baden, Wiener-Neustadt, Semmering . . .
Bruck an der Mur (Klangfurt, Meran, Udine, Venice).
Graz (Marburg, Agram Trieste).
Beatrice glided towards one of the ticket booths where she purchased a single to Trieste.
The clerk looked at her.
'Single, madam?'
'Yes, single.'
Clutching her ticket, she walked to the platform area.
Two servant girls passed, giggling into their hands; a soldier in a long coat stood with a large pack on his back; three middle-aged men, looking remarkably similar, with turned-up moustaches and bowler hats, were discussing business. Beatrice continued her journey, and was no longer sure whether the Sud-bahnhoff was real or a dream.
A stationmaster caught her attention.
'No need to go any further, madam.'
She paused. But when the man had gone she continued placing one foot in front of the other.
The platform began to tremble. In the distance, she saw the approaching engine. A whistle sounded.
She stared at the sleepers, which were covered in sand and coal dust.
Shame pressed down on her.
