The photograph had been taken in a studio. The boy was wearing a low shako with a leather peak, a tunic with stiff high collars, trousers, and boots. His right hand rested on the hilt of his sabre. He was standing in front of a painted backdrop of giant fern leaves and exotic creepers. Unfortunately, the photographer's tropical tableau was spoiled somewhat by a strip of patterned carpet in the foreground.
“May I take this?” asked Rheinhardt. Metas expression became anxious—almost fearful. “I promise to return it later today. I would like to make a copy for submission with my report.”
Metas eyes softened.
“Yes… you can take it.”
“Thank you,” said Rheinhardt. “Thomas appears so… so very healthy. Had he suffered from any illnesses in the preceding year?”
“No,” said Fanousek. “And he was as strong as an ox. He used to help me down at the warehouse, lifting heavy crates. The men used to comment on it.”
Rheinhardt remembered what Nurse Funke had said about Thomas always having colds: he slipped the photograph into his notebook.
“Where did Thomas sleep?”
Fanousek jerked his head back toward a closed door.
“Would you object to me taking a look?”
“No,” said Meta. “But we cannot come with you. It is too distressing. We have left things… as they were.”
“Of course,” said Rheinhardt.
The boy's room was very small, with most of the floor space taken up by a low bed, a washstand, and a chest. On the windowsill was an orderly row of books, arranged according to size. Rheinhardt examined some of the titles: Homer's Odyssey, Ranke's History of the Popes, a Latin primer, and a well-thumbed edition of Les Tentations de Saint Antoine. Above the bed was a garish print of Christ on the cross—a close-up portrait, showing the Messiah's anguish in dreadful detail, blood streaming from his wounds.
Rheinhardt knelt down and opened the chest. It contained some old clothes, which he carefully removed and laid out on the bed. Beneath these he discovered a penknife, some old exercise books, a bottle of ink, a pack of playing cards, and two letters. Both were addressed to Thomas Zelenka and were written in the same scrawly 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
