Deadly Communion

dresses in it!’

‘Indeed. And we must also suppose that sometimes you are so impressed by the cut of a new dress out of Paris that you see only the inventive lines and nothing else — not even the fabric. Naturally, some things are attended to at the expense of others. But the issue here is what things and why?’

‘With respect, Herr doctor, I am finding it exceedingly difficult to grasp your meaning.’

‘Then let me speak more plainly. You did not fully appreciate that the story of Ashputtel features dresses, because there is another dimension to the Ashputtel narrative that — in your mind — is afforded priority of interest.’

‘Is there?’

‘Ashputtel tells the story of a girl who is despised by her stepsisters but who struggles against poverty and adversity and is finally rewarded with the hand of a prince.’

Kristina’s features hardened. She did not respond to the young doctor, but turned instead to Rheinhardt and held out the postcards: ‘Please — take these back. I am sorry I cannot help you.’

‘But you haven’t looked at all of them,’ said Rheinhardt.

‘I cannot help you,’ Kristina insisted.

‘Then perhaps you would be willing to consider another image?’ Rheinhardt removed Rainmayr’s sketch from his holdall. Pointing at the reclining figure of Erika Hofler, he added: ‘This girl … does she not seem familiar to you? Notice, she has a birthmark, just here.’ Rheinhardt touched his own stomach. ‘It would be very easy to identify her — even if she has now grown to adulthood.’

The room became very still.

Kristina stared at Rainmayr’s sketch. She did so for an inordinate amount of time and then, quite suddenly, jerked away as if wrenching her head out from between the plates of a vice. Rheinhardt was about to speak but Liebermann stopped him with an admonitory frown. Tears were imminent. He could feel them coming. As a consequence of sitting — year after year — with lachrymose patients, he had developed an uncanny sense of when people were about to cry.

The couturiere’s shoulders began to shake and when she looked up the tears were streaming down her cheeks.

‘It’s me,’ she said. ‘The girl. It’s me — but you know that already …’ Rheinhardt found a handkerchief in his pocket, a crisp square of linen, which he handed to the sobbing woman.

‘And the other girl is …’ He invited Kristina to complete the sentence.

‘Selma.’ Kristina blew her nose and dabbed the handkerchief against her skin. ‘There it is, then! You have discovered my secret. I am a fraud!’

‘You are not a fraud, Frau Vogl,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘You are a lady possessed of a very considerable talent.’

‘Talent!’ she repeated, spitting out the word as if it tasted of bile. ‘Yes, I may have talent but I am not, as you say, a lady. I am this girl.’ She flicked the sketch with her hand and the violence of her abrupt movement created a tear in the paper.

‘Erika Hofler,’ said Rheinhardt.

The sound of her real name made Kristina start.

‘How do you know?’ Her gaze fell on the cursive scrawl that occupied the bottom right-hand corner of the sketch. ‘Rainmayr. You’ve spoken to Rainmayr?’

‘Yes, we have.’

‘He gave his word! He promised never to betray me.’

‘Herr Rainmayr only revealed your true identity under duress,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘He would not have done so otherwise.’

Kristina raised her chin and, recovering her composure, asked: ‘What do you intend to do now that you have found me out? Tell the newspapers? My husband?’

Rheinhardt shook his head.

‘No. We intend to do neither of those things.’

The couturiere looked puzzled.

‘Frau Vogl,’ said Liebermann, ‘when we were here yesterday, you said that Herr Shevchenko — the landlord’s agent — made Fraulein Wirth an indecent proposal. That wasn’t quite true, was it?’

‘I told you what I could remember.’

‘Well, none of us have a perfect memory — although your powers of recollection in this instance are not really relevant. You see, I believe that what you told us yesterday was a wilful distortion of something that Fraulein Wirth told you.’

‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Fraulein Wirth confessed to you that her financial situation was so dire she was contemplating offering herself to Shevchenko.’

‘That is an absurd thing to say, Herr doctor. She despised Shevchenko.’

‘One must suppose she hoped to make you feel guilty.’

‘To what end?’

‘To increase the likelihood of you giving her money.’

‘Selma did not need to make me feel guilty, Herr doctor. I was happy to give her financial assistance. The problem was getting her to accept it.’

‘On the contrary. You resented giving her anything.’

‘How dare you say that!’

‘You thought it wise to offer Selma inducements to ensure that she would be discreet concerning your common history and she accepted your pecuniary gifts without scruple. Indeed, her ready acceptance was tinged with an air of entitlement. She expected you to give her money. On those occasions when you did not give her money she became manipulative, demanding. Even so, you were able to cope with this situation. She could be pacified with medical consultations and therapies of modest expense and the strained fiction of your friendship was yet sustainable. But when the opening of this fine fashion house was reported widely in the press and your name appeared in the columns of the society pages — alongside those of counts and countesses — the disparity of your circumstances became too much for poor Selma to bear. You were Rainmayr’s favourite when this sketch was made, and now you had become a favourite of the great and good of Vienna. Bad feelings boiled up inside her: envy, resentment — intensified by her infirmity. What did she say to you? How did she justify her excessive requests? You can afford it, you are wealthy? And are we not old friends? And when you finally said no, that was when things became deeply unpleasant. It was then that Selma Wirth informed you of these items — the sketch, the postcards — items that might easily fall into the wrong hands.

‘Something had to be done. You had read about the murders of Fraulein Zeiler and Fraulein Babel in the newspapers. Everyone in the city was talking about the Volksgarten fiend — his heinous crimes — and the fact that the police were sure he would strike again.’

‘What exactly, Herr doctor, are you accusing me of?’

‘Your old comrade had become a liability — one you could ill afford to tolerate.’

The tears began to flow again, but on this occasion Liebermann suspected artifice. Kristina stole a glance at Rheinhardt to gauge his mood.

‘Of course I wanted her out of my life,’ said the couturiere, unfolding the neat square of linen and shaking it in the air. She buried her face in the handkerchief. ‘She had the means — and the will — to destroy everything that I had worked for.’ Liebermann noted with satisfaction that the couturiere had already rejected the idea of challenging the accuracy of his version of events. ‘You have no appreciation, Herr doctor, of what difficulties I have had to overcome. No understanding of what I have had to go through in order to escape a wretched and degrading existence. How could you understand? You who have enjoyed — no doubt — every advantage available to a man of your class. Of course I wanted to be rid of her — this poisonous, covetous creature. But I did not kill her, if that is what you are insinuating. How could it have been me? Dear God, the woman was used by a man! It said so in the Tagblatt, the Zeitung, the Neue Freie Presse. She was taken by a man!’