life, transforming her circumstances. Fear and shame had been replaced by hope and quiet optimism. Amelia suspected that she would never be able to repay Doctor Liebermann for his kind ministrations; however, she had resolved to show her gratitude by assisting him with his police work.
She pressed her palm against the heavy door of iron and glass.
The foyer was shrouded in perpetual twilight, an amber gloaming never relieved by sunlight or the sulphurous inadequacy of the artificial lighting. A forest of columns, like prehistoric tree trunks, ascended to a vaulted ceiling of bas-relief concavities. Although it was early evening the university was still buzzing with activity and conversation (lectures began before dawn and continued until eight o'clock in the evening). Knots of students gathered in the shadows, while others trailed behind frock-coated sages. One of the professors sported a long white beard that dropped well below his waistband. Amelia was amused by his retinue, all of whom had followed his example and had grown beards of similar length.
Among these masculine crowds Amelia caught sight of only one other woman, marching briskly through the sea of waistcoats, wing collars and pinstriped trousers. As the lone female passed they acknowledged each other, as two countrymen might in a foreign land. There was a flash of recognition, the registration of surprise, followed by a smile of solidarity. Encouraged by this encounter, Amelia approached the porter.
'Good evening, sir.'
The man looked up and examined her with a look on his face that could only be described as sceptical.
'I have an appointment to see Professor Holz,' Amelia continued. 'Could you please direct me to the department of physical sciences?'
The porter issued some peremptory directions but seemed disinclined to be anything more than minimally helpful.
The corridor that intersected the foyer led to a grand double staircase, the stone balustrades of which supported cast-iron gas-lamps. At the summit of each post a trio of opaque globes emitted a weak light. The walls of the enormous stairwell were high and, although decorated in baroque relief, had a pleasing simplicity. Black marble columns supported what looked like a gallery, and the remote curved ceiling captured the last remnants of the day's afterglow through high arched windows.
Amelia reached the top of the stairs, after which the porter's miserly directions became impossible to follow. Excusing herself, she asked a young man in a short cape for directions. He laughed and said that he had only just finished attending Professor's Holz's interminable class. He insisted on escorting Amelia to a small lecture theatre where the professor was still examining some equations on the blackboard.
'Herr Professor,' called the young man. The professor did not turn, merely pushing his hand back as if repelling an assailant. The young man grinned inanely. He tried again: 'Herr Professor, a young lady to see you.'
This time the professor pulled himself away from his work and looked up the aisle.
'You will excuse me,' whispered the young man to Amelia. 'The pleasure is now undoubtedly all yours.' He winked impertinently and scurried off.
'Yes!' demanded Professor Holz.
'My name is Miss Amelia Lydgate. You kindly agreed to see me this evening.'
'Ahh . . .' said the professor. 'Did I? Very well, come in, and sit there for a moment, will you?' He motioned towards a seat and added: 'I won't be long.' Amelia lifted her skirts slightly, and made her way down the precipitous wooden stairs. The professor returned his attention to the blackboard, which he attacked – violently – with a stub of chalk. A stream of Greek letters and relational symbols appeared, spreading across the dusty surface like a skin disease. Amelia sat on a bench in the front row and immediately applied herself to the professor's problem; however, she found it almost impossible to understand his purpose. Eventually the professor stopped, groaned and tossed the chalk on to the lectern. Amelia wanted to say something consoling but thought it better to remain silent.
'So, Miss Lydgate,' said the professor – still with his back to her and gazing at his fluxions – 'what can I do for you?'
'I have a question pertaining to your area of study.'
'You have a question concerning ballistics?'
'Yes, Herr Professor. I recently discovered your monograph on trajectory calculus, which I found most stimulating.'
The professor paused and, turning slowly, looked at Amelia properly for the first time. He peered through a pair of tortoiseshell pince-nez that balanced precariously at the end of his nose. His nostrils flared, like a wild animal testing the air for predators.
'Stimulating, you say?'
'Very much so, and I have a question – to do with projectiles and their integrity.' The professor continued to stare at her. 'I understand that you are a very busy man, Herr Professor, and I do not wish to waste your valuable time. For that reason, I have taken the liberty of expressing the problem in a formula – which I hope you will be kind enough to examine.'
Standing, Amelia took a sheet of foolscap from her bag and offered it to the professor. Holz condescended to look at her mathematics and almost immediately uttered a dismissive 'Pfha!'
Amelia paused respectfully before saying: 'There is an error?'
'My good woman,' said Holz, 'surely you do not mean to ascribe theta with these value parameters? An elementary mistake!'
Holz tossed the paper back at Amelia, who caught it before it fluttered to the floor.
'With the greatest respect,' said Amelia, 'it is not an elementary mistake. I have given theta these values for a very specific reason – because I am interested in answering a very specific question.'
The professor looked at Amelia again with renewed interest. He blinked, sniffed the air, and demanded: 'What sort of question?'
82
THE GIRL HAD fallen asleep. Before leaving, Braun paused to look at her. She was young, probably not much older than seventeen, and a Slav. Madam Matejka had said that she was originally from Galicia. Wherever Felka came from, her German was terrible and Braun had had to mime his requirements. The girl had watched him with intelligent, serious eyes before carrying out his instructions with unexpected industry and imagination.
Felka uttered a few unintelligible words in her sleep, made some mewling sounds, and then rolled over. The blanket fell from her body, revealing a pleasing landscape of fleshy contours that swept towards a patch of tight black curls. She was still wearing her cotton stockings and garters.
Experiencing an odd and uncharacteristic combination of pity and gratitude, Braun found some loose change in his pocket – a pitiful clutch of ten-heller silver coins – which he left on the table. (The girl would see very little of the money he had given to Madam Matejka.) In the cold grate, he noticed a stick and a sponge lying in a bowl of cloudy liquid. Felka had forgotten to douche – but that wasn't his problem. Braun shrugged and crept to the door.
The floorboards creaked as he walked along the upstairs landing. A gust of wind rattled the casement and his candle flickered in his grip. With his other hand touching the mildewed wall, he made his way cautiously to the rickety stairs. Before he reached the bottom he peered over the banister. The room was, as usual, poorly lit, and a woolly haze of thick smoke hung in the air. Two gentlemen were occupying the deep sofas. The first was unconscious, scrunched up, looking like a pile of discarded rags. The other was sitting straighter, drawing on a bubbling hookah. The second man was Count Zaborszky.
Braun felt a surge of anxiety, but his depleted body was too weak to sustain the emotion. His heart, after the briefest of accelerations, slowed to a more pedestrian beat and his breathing became regular.
He clumped down the stairs, walked to the low Turkish table and, placing the candle next to the hookah, slumped down next to the unconscious patron, whose form was no more discernibly human at close quarters. Braun squeezed the candle's flame out with his fingers, and watched the ascending thread of grey smoke wind upwards like the soul departing from a dead body.
Braun looked into Zaborszky's eyes, which were dull and lifeless. The Count showed no sign of recognition – until he removed the hookah's mouthpiece and whispered: 'How is your hand, Braun?'
