Fatal Lies (40 page)

The young doctor shrugged and recovered his cigar. He then held up the cheroot and smiled, as if to say: ‘
There will even be a reason why I put this down only to pick it up again!
'

‘Had Herr Sommer not written his article,' Liebermann continued, ‘things might have turned out very differently. After all, it was Herr Sommer's article that resulted in your reassignment to the St Florian case.'

‘Indeed,' Rheinhardt replied. ‘Zelenka's death would have been attributed to natural causes and the investigation would have ended quite prematurely.'

Rheinhardt twirled his moustache and emitted a pensive growl.

‘What?' Liebermann asked.

‘I was just thinking. It's odd, isn't it, that my reluctance to abandon this case was due – at least initially – to Zelenka's youth? I found it difficult to accept the death of a . . .' He hesitated before saying
‘child.' Then, pronouncing the words with bitter irony, he added: ‘The death of an innocent! And yet . . . This same angelic-looking boy . . .' His sentence trailed off into an exasperated silence.

‘Professor Freud,' said Liebermann softly, ‘does not believe that we humans ever enjoy a state of grace – a period of infantile purity. He is of the opinion that we can observe presentiments of adulthood even in the nursery. The toddler's tantrum prefigures murderous rage . . . and even the contented sucking of a thumb may provide the infant with something alarmingly close to sensual comfort and pleasure.'

‘I find that hard to accept,' said Rheinhardt.

‘Well – you are not alone,' said Liebermann, grinning.

When Liebermann entered his apartment he discovered that his serving man – Ernst – had left an envelope for him, conspicuously placed on the hallstand. Liebermann opened it, and discovered a note inside. He recognised the small, precise handwriting immediately. It was from Miss Amelia Lydgate: an apology – and an invitation.

GEROLD SOMMER SAT
at his table next to a pile of exercise books. He had already finished marking most of them, but there were a few that he hadn't yet looked at. Given his predicament, he had been surprised to find that his thoughts had kept returning to this unfinished task. The sense of incompletion had been so persistent, so troubling, that in due course he had dragged himself from his reading chair where he had sat brooding and repositioned himself at the table where he was now working.

The work he had set concerned triangles. In his most recent class, he had shown the boys how to calculate the area of a triangle using the method attributed to Heron of Alexandria. Sommer remembered standing by the blackboard, chalk in hand, looking at their bored faces, and saying in a conversational manner: ‘
This attribution is probably incorrect, as Archimedes almost certainly knew the formula, and it may have been employed by many anonymous mathematicians before him . . .
'

This nugget of information had not made the subject any more interesting for the boys. Indeed, one of them – a scrawny fellow with greasy hair – had covered his mouth to disguise a yawn.

It was extraordinary, Sommer pondered, how so many people – boys and men alike – found mathematics tedious. It was such an elegant subject.
In any right-angled triangle, the square of the hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the areas of the squares of the other two sides.
Where else could you find such universal certainty, such indisputable truth, such perfection?

Sommer opened the first exercise book, which belonged to Stojakovic. He was gratified to find that the Serbian boy was deserving of a good mark. He liked Stojakovic. The other exercise books contained work of varying quality, but Sommer was a conscientious teacher. He made an effort to write something helpful or encouraging whenever he could – even if he knew the boy concerned to be innumerate and uninterested.

Triangles . . .

Herr Lang, Frau Becker, Zelenka . . .

Doctor Becker, Zelenka, Frau Becker . . .

Frau Becker, Zelenka . . . myself.

Sommer dismissed these intrusive triangulations from his mind. He did not want to think about such things.

When he had finished marking the exercise books, the math ematics master unwrapped some bread and cheese (which he had collected from the kitchen earlier) and opened a bottle of Côte de Brouilly. The wine had been a gift from his uncle Alfred and Sommer had been saving it for a special occasion. It was dark, full-bodied, and left a fruity aftertaste. After drinking only two glasses, the mathematics master collected his personal papers together and examined them to make sure that his affairs were in order. He then wrote a brief note addressed to his mother, apologising for his conduct, and another addressed to a friend in Salzburg, which made reference to an outstanding financial debt that he wished to be settled. He then pressed the muzzle of a pistol against his temple and pulled the trigger.

His eyes remained open.

AS LIEBERMANNN MARCHED
through the streets of Alsergrund, his thoughts took the form of questions and doubts: moreover, his general disquietude was exacerbated by an unpleasant fluttering sensation in his chest. It made him feel light-headed and breathless. He put his hand in his pocket and touched Miss Lydgate's note.

He wondered why he had accepted her invitation, when he might just as well have replied with a polite refusal. Even though it had been his intention to decline, Liebermann had found himself writing courteous phrases that moved – inexorably – towards a bald statement that she should expect him at the appointed time.

What was Miss Lydgate's purpose? Would she give him some indication, however small, of her changed circumstance, or would she eschew mention of her romantic involvement altogether, choosing instead to pour tea, offer biscuits, and share with him her latest philosophical enthusiasm. He was not sure he could tolerate such a conversation. The temptation to press her for some revelation – or even a complete confession – might be too powerful to resist.

Liebermann was surprised by the strength of his feelings – and shamefully aware of their proprietorial nature. He thought of Professor Freud, the most rational of men, driven to the very brink of demanding satisfaction – because of jealousy. He thought of Doctor Becker, motivated to kill another human being – because of jealousy. And he
thought of himself, reeling away from the Café Segal, delirious with disappointment and rage – because of jealousy.

It was an ugly, destructive emotion, and as a civilised man he felt obliged to overcome his primitive urges. Yet the desire to possess a woman exclusively was an indelible feature of the male psyche, and to repress such feelings would simply promote – according to Professor Freud – the development of hysterical and neurotic symptoms. Modern man must either wallow in the mire of his animal instincts, or deny them and become mentally ill.

A fragment of conversation:

– That man . . . The one who stopped you outside Demel's.

– What?

– The man who called you Amélie – Franz . . .

– Oh yes . . . strange, wasn't it?

– You knew him . . . really. Didn't you?

– Are you jealous?

Liebermann didn't want to be jealous. But there was one thing he didn't want to be even more and that was mentally ill.

In due course, Liebermann arrived outside Frau Rubenstein's house. He rapped the knocker three times and waited. A few moments later, the door opened and Amelia Lydgate was standing in front of him. She was wearing a simple white dress and her hair fell in blazing tresses to her shoulders. Her eyes – which never failed to astonish him – seemed to be reflecting a bright blue light: the harsh blue of an Alpine lake or glacier. Unusually, she smiled – a broad, uninhibited smile. Its radiance imbued her face with beatific qualities. Indeed, there was something about her appearance that reminded Liebermann of religious iconography: she might easily have replaced the angel in a Renaissance annunciation.

‘Doctor Liebermann,' her voice floated over the traffic. ‘I am delighted you could come. Please, do come in.'

As was his custom, Liebermann spent a few minutes with Frau Rubenstein before following Amelia up the stairs to her apartment. Although Frau Rubenstein's conversation had been unremarkable, he thought he had detected a certain wry amusement in her tone – a certain knowingness. He might even have commented on this had he not had other things on his mind.

‘It must be nearly a month since you last visited us,' said Amelia, ‘I believe it was shortly after the detectives' ball.'

‘Yes,' Liebermann replied. ‘Mid-January, I think.'

She glanced over her shoulder at him: ‘How time flies . . . Unfortunately, I have not had sufficient opportunity to organise dancing lessons with Herr Janowsky . . . but I still intend to do so.'

‘You have been busy . . . at the university?'

‘Yes,' she replied. ‘And there have been other matters . . .'

Again she looked over her shoulder and smiled.

When they reached the top landing, Amelia Lydgate ushered Liebermann into her small parlour. As soon as he crossed the threshold, he came to an abrupt halt. There, sitting at the gate-leg table, on the chair that
he
had so frequently occupied, sat the gentleman in whose arms Miss Lydgate had swooned outside the Café Segal. The man looked relaxed. His legs were crossed, revealing one of his boots, which was stitched with an ornate and somewhat garish pattern. His wide-brimmed hat was hanging off the back of his chair, and he sported a curious necktie that seemed to be no wider than a shoelace.

The gentleman stood up and extended his hand.

‘You will forgive me for addressing you in my native language, Herr Doctor Liebermann, but I have a strong suspicion that your English will be very much superior to my German – which is lamentably poor. It is a great honour to meet a man of whom I have heard such good report.' He grasped Liebermann's hand, and squeezed it hard. The man's English was peculiarly inflected. Indeed, it was very
different to the English that Liebermann remembered from the time he'd spent in London. Nor was the man's clothing particularly British-looking.

‘Permit me to introduce myself,' the man continued. ‘Randall Pelletier-Lydgate – at your service, sir.'

‘You are Miss Lydgate's . . . cousin?'

Amelia came forward.

‘No. Randall is my brother.'

‘But . . .' Liebermann looked at the woman standing beside him. She was glowing with pride. ‘It was my understanding that you do not have—'

‘A brother . . . Indeed.' Amelia interrupted him. ‘That was my understanding too . . . but apparently I was mistaken.'

Liebermann was thrown into a state of confusion. He experienced a sense of intense relief – almost joy – but was then immediately alarmed by his reaction. He was in love with Trezska – wasn't he?

‘I think,' said Liebermann, ‘I think . . . you had better explain.'

‘With great pleasure,' Amelia replied. ‘However, before we proceed, you will no doubt require refreshment – so I must first make some tea.'

‘Many years before making the acquaintance of Greta Buchbinder, that is to say Amelia's mother, our father – Samuel Lydgate – had enjoyed a brief but intimate dalliance with an actress: Constance Vaughn.' Randall's voice was mellow and his narrative flowed like the song of a lyric tenor. ‘Their acquaintance was prematurely ended when the English Shakespeare Company – with whom Constance played as a principal – boarded the White Star vessel
Oceanic,
bound for New York. The Company was embarked upon a tour of America that would take them through the southern states. Although Constance had promised to write to Samuel Lydgate he never heard
from her again – and so he never learned that she had departed from Liverpool pregnant, carrying his child. Constance – my mother – was an unconventional woman. She was impulsive, prone to violent passions, and – I fear – in her youth might reasonably have been described as a little . . . cranky.'

‘I'm sorry?' Liebermann said.

‘Mentally unstable,' Amelia interjected in German.

‘Ah, of course . . . please continue.'

Randall took a sip of Earl Grey.

‘In New Orleans, the English Shakespeare Company performed two tragedies and a comedy. One of these tragedies was
Romeo and Juliet
– and my mother played the lead. In the audience was a local businessman called George Pelletier. So impressed was he by the young actress that he sent her flowers and showered her with gifts. A single dinner engagement sufficed to convince him that she was the love of his life and he proposed that they should be married. My mother, being an indefatigable romantic – her senses assailed by the exotic sights and sounds of New Orleans, drunk with the prospect of adventure and excitement – agreed to the proposal immediately, and one week later, when the English Shakespeare Company left town, they did so with one less actress in their troupe.

‘I do not know whether my mother and her new husband discussed my paternity – but what I do know is that I was raised in the belief that George Pelletier was my father, and he accordingly treated me like a son. Indeed, a boy could not have wished for a more devoted parent . . . He died five years ago and if grief is a measure of affection then the depth of my sorrow confirmed the strength of our bond. He was a kind, generous man, and I continue to miss his counsel and laughter. Alas, this great loss was soon to be compounded by another. Last year my mother succumbed to a tubercular infection, and on her deathbed – for reasons which I still can only guess at – she decided
that the time had come to reveal the truth concerning my provenance. I discovered the name, occupation, and nationality of my real father: a revelation the effect of which – I trust you will appreciate – cannot be overestimated . . .