“Sometimes.”
“I still get the hunting dream.”
“I know. You had it again the night before last. You were making noises in your sleep.”
Gabriel’s expression became intense.
“We were lion cubs this time, running across a frozen waste.”
“Did we get caught?”
“I could hear the Cossack behind us. The drumming of hooves. The swish of his blade. Then I woke up.”
“We escaped, then.” Asher passed the book back to his brother. “Go to bed. I want to finish this act tonight.”
35
Councillor Schmidt offered Bishop Waldheim more tea and a plate of steirische schneeballen-strips of dough molded into “snowballs,” fried until golden brown, and generously dusted with powdered sugar. The bishop accepted, and after biting through the crisp exterior of the pastry emitted a low growl to express his satisfaction. They had just finished interviewing Nurse Heuber.
“Not as forthcoming as we had hoped,” said the bishop.
“No,” said Schmidt.
“She was obviously quite anxious.”
“That’s it, you see… I think these people need to know that they have nothing to fear, that they have our full support.”
“Well, that goes without saying, doesn’t it?”
“Perhaps not, Bishop. Perhaps not.” Schmidt sampled a snowball and was impressed by his cook’s achievement. The brittle surface offered just enough resistance, and the soft interior was redolent of vanilla and rum. “I may be a little more direct with the next witness,” Schmidt added. He looked toward the bishop for approval, his eyebrows raised slightly, expectant.
“Do whatever you think best,” said the bishop, collecting up the snowball remnants on his plate and pressing them between his unusually rosy lips.
When they had finished their tea, Schmidt summoned his butler and asked for Edlinger to be shown in. When the young man appeared, the councillor came around the table and shook his hand.
“Edlinger, dear boy, delighted you could come. We are most grateful.”
Schmidt introduced Bishop Waldheim, and the young man-impressed by his office-bowed ostentatiously low. The bishop, however, responded only by raising his hand and tracing a vague cruciform benediction in the air. Schmidt offered Edlinger a seat and then returned to his place beside the bishop.
“So, Edlinger,” said Schmidt. “I understand that you are a friend of my nephew Fabian.”
“Yes, we are well acquainted.”
“Indeed, he speaks very highly of you.”
Edlinger looked a little embarrassed, painfully aware that Fabian’s esteem had not been earned by acts of Christian charity.
“Well…,” said the young man, shrugging and hoping that his inarticulacy would pass for modesty.
Schmidt produced a benign, indulgent smile.
“You are an aspirant?”
“Yes.”
“And where do you want to practice, once you are qualified?”
“At the General Hospital.”
“And why not? It is, after all, the finest medical institution in the world. Do you have a special interest?”
“Liver disease.”
“Liver disease, eh? Well, I suppose Professor Hollar is your man. If you could get a position working under a specialist with his reputation, well, that would be a tremendous advantage, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Edlinger, somewhat confused. “It would.”
“A man like him has more private referrals than he can possibly see. He’s always passing wealthy patients on to his juniors. Yes, you couldn’t hope for a better start to a career in medicine.”
Again, Schmidt smiled.
Edlinger glanced nervously at the bishop.
“Well,” Schmidt continued, “I must apologize for involving you in a disciplinary matter, but you were present on the evening when the young Baron von Kortig died. You are, therefore, a key witness, and we would very much value your assistance. There are certain details that need to be-as it were-clarified.”
“Clarified?”
Schmidt picked up a piece of yellow paper. “I have here a letter, written by Father Benedikt to the old Baron von Kortig. In it he describes what transpired when he arrived to administer the last rites to the young baron.” Schmidt summarized the priest’s account. “Clearly, this is a very serious incident. The young baron was heinously denied the consolation of his faith, on his deathbed.” The bishop rumbled like distant thunder. “Incidents like this have the potential to destroy public trust in the medical profession, and bring the great institution of the General Hospital into disrepute.”
“Quite so,” said the bishop.
Edlinger bit his lower lip and stroked his dueling scar.
“Would you say,” Schmidt continued, “that Herr Dr. Liebermann’s manner-on that evening-could be described as aggressive?”
“Aggressive…,” Edlinger pondered. “I can remember feeling that Herr Dr. Liebermann should have shown Father Benedikt more respect. And I can remember appealing to him… I said something like, ‘What right do we as medical men have to interfere with a priest’s obligation to administer a sacrament?’”
“But would you say he was aggressive?”
“I’m not sure. Disrespectful, dismissive, perhaps.”
“He did obstruct Father Benedikt. Physically…”
“Yes, he did.”
“What would have happened, one wonders, if Father Benedikt had been more insistent? What if Father Benedikt had tried to get past him? Do you think Dr. Liebermann would have resisted, exercising even greater force?”
“He was quite adamant that Father Benedikt should not pass.”
“Disgraceful,” muttered the bishop.
“Was Father Benedikt at any point threatened?” Schmidt continued.
“He was not threatened with violence, no.”
“Though I suspect he must have felt threatened. Dr. Liebermann barred his entrance to the ward. Obstruction is a kind of violence. This was surely threatening behavior?”
Edlinger looked to the bishop, who was nodding sagely, and back to Schmidt.
“Well, I suppose it is possible that Father Benedikt felt threatened. He didn’t look very comfortable or happy with the situation.”
“Indeed. So if you were asked-let us say during the course of a hospital committee inquiry-if Dr. Liebermann’s manner was threatening, you would have to answer yes.”
Edlinger’s brow furrowed. “I…” He hesitated and scratched his head.
“Edlinger, I cannot help noticing that you have a dueling scar. What is your fraternity?”
“Alemania.”
“Ah yes,” said Schmidt, as if he were enjoying the aromatic waft of a fine coffee. “Alemania,” he repeated. “Did you know that I am very well acquainted with Professor Hollar? Did Fabian mention that? We sometimes share a box at the opera. A young man like you needs to consider his prospects, his future. Medicine is a very competitive profession. And there’s a lot you could do-right now-to expedite your advancement at the hospital.”
Edlinger’s eyes widened. “I would say that Dr. Liebermann’s attitude was disrespectful…” Schmidt and Bishop
