Fatal Lies

hand.

Dear Friend,

The letter had been written the previous summer, and the correspondent was a boy called Isidor Perger. He was, evidently, another pupil at Saint Florian's, who—at the time of writing—was holidaying on the Traunsee with his family.

Thank you for your assistance with the Latin.

I don't know what I would have done without you.…

Rheinhardt skipped over a paragraph in which the author lamented his poor mathematics results, and then another in which he described walking along the esplanade at Gmunden.

Suddenly a sentence seemed to resolve itself more sharply against the yellow background.

Needless to say, I do not want to go back.

Rheinhardt peered at the jagged script, trying to decipher its violent oscillations.

I swear, I would run away if you said you would come with me. We could travel the world—go to South, America, India, or China. However, I know that you think such talk is foolish. Sometimes I wonder whether I should tell my father what is happening. But what good would that do? He would say I am being unmanly. He doesn't care—no one does.

Rheinhardt stood up.

I care, he thought. I care very much.

10

LIEBERMANN HAD DECIDED TO BUY himself a new fountain pen. He drifted through Alsergrund, inspecting the displays in stationery shop windows, until a distinctive line of town houses came into view. He found himself standing on a corner, looking up a very familiar road—the road where Miss Lyd gate lived.

At that moment it occurred to him that, perhaps, he had never really intended to a buy a new pen. Indeed, it seemed just as likely that his need to make such a purchase had been a convenient fiction, permitting him to draw ever closer to a woman for whom his complex feelings were becoming increasingly troublesome.

Liebermann's impromptu self-analysis was confirmed when the justification for knocking on the Englishwoman's door presented itself with minimal effort. Miss Lyd gate had asked him to recommend a dancing teacher, and he had replied: Herr Janowsky. It would be perfectly reasonable for him to call on Miss Lyd gate, in order to give her Herr Janowsky s address.

“Dr. Liebermann,” said Amelia. Her greeting was accompanied by a transient smile that reminded Liebermann of wind on water—a sudden perturbation, followed by stillness.

“Miss Lyd gate, I was just passing… and I wondered if you still wanted Herr Janowsky s details?”

“Herr Janowsky?”

“My sister's dancing master? I have his address.”

Amelia's face registered mild surprise.

“It is very kind of you to have remembered, Dr. Liebermann. Please, do come in.”

While Amelia prepared tea, Liebermann was obliged to pay his respects to Frau Rubenstein—a sweet-natured widow and friend of his father. Liebermann had brought Amelia and Frau Rubenstein together, knowing that both women were in need of what the other possessed: the old woman, companionship, and the younger one, a place to live. After a few polite exchanges, Liebermann ascended several flights of stairs leading to Amelia's rooms on the top floor. He was invited to sit and was subsequently plied with Earl Grey and wiener vanillekiipferl—sweet crescent biscuits made with ground almonds and vanilla sugar.

Liebermann gave Herr Janowsky's address to Amelia, which prompted her to thank him, once again, for inviting her to the detectives’ ball. She then asked how Inspector Rheinhardt had fared after his departure. Liebermann explained that the inspector was investigating the death of a young man at a military school—but he did not elaborate.

On the table was a volume bound in scuffed leather and with a blank spine. Others like it were stacked in a neat pile by the hearth. These were the private journals of Amelia's German grandfather, Dr. Ludwig Buchbinder: confidant of Prince Albert, Physician-in-Ordinary to the queen of England, and scientific visionary.

Liebermann picked up the book and allowed the covers to fall open. The pages released a distinctive, ripe odor—an evocative quintessence of time, scholarship, and decay.

“Do you still intend to edit these journals for publication?” he asked.

“Indeed,” said Amelia. “I was only recently considering that very volume—which contains a remarkable section on the history of automata.”

“It is not a subject I know very much about,” said Liebermann, hoping that she would rectify his ignorance.

“The creation of automata has always been associated with medicine… and particularly with doctors who have an interest in blood.”

“Really?”

“Yes—my grandfather has written that the first working model of the circulatory system was devised by a German physician, who announced his success in the Journal des Savants in 1677.”

Amelia halted—suddenly self-conscious.

“Please, do go on…”

“Many more doctors embarked on similar projects—and the eighteenth century witnessed the creation of numerous ‘blood machines’ of increasing sophistication. These ‘philosophical toys’ caused much consternation among religious thinkers, who were concerned that, by making manikins that actually bled, doctors were engaged in a Promethean labor—and that their real intention was to create artificial life.” Amelia's hair caught the light and, for a brief moment, became incandescent—a shimmering haze of red and gold. “Eventually,” she continued, “even the most adventurous members of the scientific community were frightened by the implications of their work, and in due course artificial men became an increasing rarity in medical schools. In time, of course, they vanished altogether.”

“How very interesting,” said Liebermann, still distracted by a residual image of her sudden ignition—a vague, haunting impression of flame and the colors of autumn. “One is reminded of your countrywoman, Mary Shelley—her cautionary tale of Frankenstein, or the modern Prometheus.”

“She was—I believe—aware of the work of several German physiologists, which she mentions in her preface.”

Amelia's talk of artificial men reminded Liebermann of something he had once heard, about a chess-playing automaton that had been built in Vienna for the amusement of the empress Maria Theresa.

“It might have been the brainchild of Maelzel,” he added.

“The inventor of the metronome?”

“Yes.… But I can't be sure. I have only the dimmest recollection of what is supposed to have transpired.”

Miss Lyd gate was extremely interested in this historical vignette; however, she concluded that, even if the story were true, the automaton itself must have been nothing more than a clever deception.

Liebermann always enjoyed such conversations with Miss Lyd gate. She was an unconventional woman, yet her peculiarities possessed a certain charm: her pedantic speech, her stiff deportment, and the quite extraordinary intensity of her facial expressions.

He was a psychiatrist, and something inside him—some nameless but essential part of his being—was irresistibly drawn to the unusual.

They continued their conversation until the sky darkened and it was no longer permissible for Liebermann to stay. He rose from his chair, exchanged a few pleasantries, and kissed Amelia's hand. On the landing he insisted