Liebermann and Amelia Lydgate had already heard the first and second suites, and were now listening to an energetic account of the third in G minor. The prelude and preliminary dances were vigorous and exciting; however, the mood established by the fourth movement — a saraband — was quite different: sad, reflective, and searching. The melody was ornamented and resembled a vocal improvisation over a strummed accompaniment. Occasionally, a chord change would affect Liebermann deeply. It felt like something inside him was being unlocked or undone. Bach — for all his ruthless proficiency — still had the power to move the young doctor. And yet, the music was never mawkish or sentimental. The venerable composer had dispensed with manipulative cliches, replacing them with something far more potent: ravishing ingenuity.
Liebermann stole a quick glance at his companion, curious to see if she had been affected by the music.
Her expression was typically intense and her brow was lined with concentration.
Amelia Lydgate confused him.
There had been moments when he had felt so close to declaring his love for her that he could barely resist the urge. And other times when her intellectualism and cool manner made him grateful that he had never succumbed to such impulses. Their relationship was complicated; Amelia Lydgate had once been Liebermann’s patient and if this sobering consideration wasn’t enough to make him question the propriety of making an amorous overture, he could always reflect on what he had discovered to be the cause of her hysterical paralysis: a repressed memory of a sexual assault. Liebermann had treated Amelia Lydgate and over time they had become friends. At first he had justified his continued presence in her life on medical grounds; then he persuaded himself that he was being altruistic, providing assistance and advice to a stranger who was alone in a foreign country; then he had recognised how her remarkable intellectual gifts and scientific skills (she was an expert on human blood and a talented microscopist) might be utilised by the security office. Rheinhardt had consulted her on several occasions. And so the justifications had accumulated, each one binding them closer together.
Earlier in the year Liebermann had stood on the Charles Bridge in Prague with his uncle Alexander and had confessed his attachment. Alexander had suggested that — apart from his mother — there were three women in every man’s life: his wife, his mistress, and an unattainable object of desire. Clearly — Uncle Alexander maintained — Amelia Lydgate was Liebermann’s unattainable object: a fantasy innamorata, best enjoyed not in the flesh but in the imagination — an ageless reminder of the youthful propensity for infatuation and desire. Actual consummation would be a great disappointment.
Liebermann studied Amelia’s hands, folded together on the green velvet of her skirt. His uncle might well be right, but he still wanted to reach out and cover her slim fingers with his own.
The subsequent dances of the G minor suite jolted Liebermann out of his reverie, and the final movement — a lively gigue — brought the concert to a close. Insistent applause persuaded the pianist to give an encore — a delightful arrangement of ‘Sheep May Safely Graze’. At its conclusion the pianist signalled his fatigue by shutting the piano lid, and the house lights came up as he was leaving the stage.
‘Well,’ said Liebermann to his companion. ‘Did you enjoy it?’
‘Yes,’ said Amelia. ‘Very much.’
They collected their coats from the cloakroom and walked to Cafe Central where Liebermann suggested that they should stop for coffee and cake. At an earlier point in their acquaintance he would have considered such an invitation impertinent, but their friendship was sufficiently established to render such scruples redundant. They entered the coffee house and found a table in the Arkadenhof, a courtyard decorated with small trees and covered by a glass roof. A curved balcony hung out over three arches and the seating area was enclosed between high fenestrated walls. Spherical gas lights seemed to hover in the shadows; however, closer inspection revealed the secret of their suspension — wrought-iron stands, painted black. A waiter emerged from the arches and escorted the couple to a circular table discreetly positioned behind a miniature orange tree. Liebermann ordered a schwarzer for himself and an Earl Grey tea for Amelia.
‘And would you like a pastry?’ Liebermann asked Amelia.
The waiter interrupted: ‘Could I recommend the
‘Well,’ said Amelia. ‘I defer to your expert opinion.
Her German was perfect, with the merest trace of an English accent.
And for you, sir?’
Liebermann shrugged and smiled.
‘The same …’
‘A very wise decision, sir.’
They spoke a little about the concert, and Amelia remarked that music — being the most abstract of the arts — presented the uninitiated with a unique conversational challenge.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Liebermann. ‘Music can befelt as well as understood. It is always possible to discuss its effects, even if one has little or no technical knowledge.’
‘Indeed,’ said Amelia. ‘But I find conversations of that kind rather unsatisfying. A discussion of subjective impressions cannot progress very far: there can be no meaningful argument or resolution because the
Amelia’s eyes caught the lamplight and transformed it into something vital and mysterious. Her companion was momentarily arrested by the flecks of electric blue that appeared in her irises.
‘Then perhaps you had better take up an instrument?’
‘Oh … I couldn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘I am far too absorbed by my medical and scientific studies. And without adequate time to practise I would play very badly.’
They talked a little about Amelia’s courses, her continuing interest in diseases of the blood, and her growing enthusiasm for pathology. The latter was not so very surprising, as the medical faculty was famously obsessed with obtaining accurate post-mortem diagnoses.
‘Yes,’ said Liebermann.’ Pathology is a fascinating area of study; however, when I was a student I could not help feeling that some of the professors believed that the job of healing patients was quite incidental to the practice of medicine, and that only autopsies mattered. A different generation, of course, but it is a sobering thought that in
Amelia Lydgate tilted her head.
‘That might be so, yet I cannot help but admire their singularity of purpose. The advances we enjoy today would not have been possible without their work. I believe that Carl von Rokitansky performed more than eighty-five thousand autopsies.’
The waiter returned with their coffee, tea and
‘I have heard,’ Amelia continued, ‘that there is a rather interesting pathologist favoured by the police. Professor Mathias?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Does Inspector Rheinhardt consult him?’
‘Yes, although Professor Mathias is a rather unorthodox and intuitive pathologist. His critics describe him as eccentric. His enemies say he is mad.’
‘I would very much like to see him at work.’
‘Inspector Rheinhardt would not object to your presence at a police autopsy; however, I have no idea what the professor will say. He is somewhat unpredictable. Do you want me to ask Rheinhardt?’ I can do that for you at least.’
‘If it isn’t too much trouble,’ said Amelia. ‘Thank you.’
Liebermann tasted the
