by Frank Tallis
It wasn't his mother.
The woman's stocking tops were heavily embroidered with a complicated floral pattern, and were supported by green garters that bit into thighs of luminous white flesh.
In order to continue his examination Záborszky had to raise his head – a task that seemed to require an extraordinary amount of effort.
Struts of whalebone fanned out from a tiny waist, supporting sails of shiny red silk. Záborszky became engrossed by every detail – the dangling ribbons, the threads of green and gold, the hook-and-eye arrangement that kept the corset tightly closed. The woman's statuesque breasts were pressed together, and were powdered. For the first time Záborszky became aware of her perfume – which reminded him of night-scented stock.
With one final Herculean effort, Záborszky tilted his head back and looked up at her face.
'Well.' Her lips were moving, but there seemed to be no correspondence between the motions of her mouth and the sounds that she produced. 'Do you want some kätzchen?'
She opened her legs and sat on his lap – straddling him as though he was a horse. She pulled his face on to her breasts, and without thought he began to kiss them. The flesh was firm and remarkably cool.
Her hands were in Záborszky's hair. She pulled her fingers together and jerked his head back.
There was something about her face that made him feel uneasy. She was curiously familiar.
'What's the matter?' Her words had a shifting, liquid quality. 'You look scared.'
Those green eyes . . . those spirals of blonde hair.
'You mustn't be scared.'
How could this be?
'I've got something for you.'
'Lotte,' he whispered. 'Lotte?'
Szépasszony. Fair one. Demonic seductresss.
His hands slid up the woman's bare arms, over her smooth shoulders and settled in the hollows beneath her lower jaw.
The witch had said: She will get you.
'What are you doing?'
Záborszky's fingers closed around the woman's neck.
Those green eyes. Storms and showers of hail.
The woman tried to move but discovered that the Count's grip was resolute. His expression betrayed the kindling of a strange passion.
'Please . . . let me go,' she said.
Squeezed through the passage of a constricted windpipe, her voice was suddenly very thin.
51
COSIMA VON RATH seemed entirely out of place in Rheinhardt's office: too large and too colourful for such a functional space. She shifted her weight on the hard wooden chair, her capacious haunches spreading and bulging over its edges. Rheinhardt would have found her presence less disconcerting had she been held aloft in a palanquin, supported on the shoulders of eight Nubian slaves.
Waving a fan in front of her round face, she continued her account: 'Herr Uberhorst did behave strangely. He wanted to ask the spirit a question, and he was quite adamant that he should receive a definitive answer – a yes or a no: I recall that quite clearly.'
Rheinhardt twisted the tip of his moustache between thumb and forefinger: 'And the question he wanted to ask was?'
'Should I tell . . . them.'
' "Them" being who?'
'I have no idea, Inspector – he wouldn't say. We assured him that he was among friends and had nothing to fear, but nothing would induce Herr Uberhorst to provide us with an explanation. He said that it was a private matter.'
'Did he say anything else?'
'No.'
'Please, Fräulein, think harder – it might be important.'
Cosima stopped fanning herself and paused. Rheinhardt could see that his request had been taken seriously. Her brow became corrugated with deep lines as her lips puckered.
'Well,' she said finally. 'He said it was a private matter . . . but he also mentioned honour. Yes, that's right – he couldn't explain himself because it was a matter of honour.'
'And what do you make of that?'
Cosima closed her fan and tapped it against her protrusive lips.
'I imagine he supposed that if we learned who he intended to communicate with then it would reflect badly on Fräulein Löwenstein. I suppose he was trying to protect her reputation. Which suggests that he was in some way implicated in her scheme.'
'Scheme?'
'To subjugate a higher power. Given Herr Uberhorst's fate, I am now even more convinced that this was the case.'
'So, you think that Herr Uberhorst too was killed by a supernatural entity?'
Cosima dropped her fan and clutched the ankh that hung around her neck.
'Yes, I do.'
'Would that be Seth – again?'
Cosima's eyes widened and her knuckles paled as she clutched the talisman.
'He is a great god, and a mischievous god . . . Yes, it is possible.'
Rheinhardt made some notes. As his pen scratched across the paper he said: 'I owe you an apology, Fräulein von Rath. I am sorry I did not respond more promptly to your letter. Unfortunately, I have been rather busy.'
'I feared that you would dismiss my discovery,' said Cosima.
'No, not at all,' said Rheinhardt. 'In actual fact, I was in the process of planning a similar investigation myself.'
Cosima opened her fan again and fluttered it close to her neck.
'A seance?'
Rheinhardt placed his pen on the table.
'Fräulein, have you heard of Madame de Rougemont?'
'No,' said Cosima, her voice dropping in pitch. 'I don't think I have.'
'She is a French medium employed by the Sûreté in Paris. She is reputed to possess an extraordinary gift. It is my understanding that she has solved numerous crimes and mysteries.'
'Really?' Cosima's eyes glinted with interest. 'I've never heard of her.'
'Few people know of Madame de Rougemont's existence,' said Rheinhardt. 'The Sûreté guard her jealously.'
'Fascinating,' said Cosima, shifting her bulk forward.
'I had already telegraphed Inspector Laurent in Paris, requesting Madame de Rougemont's assistance, when I received your letter.'
'And?'
'The request was granted.'
'She has agreed to visit Vienna?'
'Madame de Rougemont will be here on Wednesday.'
Cosima seemed agitated with excitement, her wide mealy face becoming speckled with little red blotches.
'It may be that Madame de Rougemont will confirm your findings,' continued Rheinhardt. 'She may also help us to solve the mystery of Herr Uberhorst's tragic demise. To this end, she has proposed that we arrange another seance – to be attended by all the members of Fräulein Löwenstein's circle. I was wondering, would you be willing to assist with the arrangements?'
'Of course . . .' Cosima looked flushed and breathless.
Rheinhardt scribbled something in his notebook.
'Madame de Rougemont will be staying at this address,' he tore the sheet out. 'It's near the Peterskirche. I would like everyone to be there at eight o'clock on Thursday.'
Cosima took the sheet of paper. Her hand was shaking with excitement.
'I will send invitations immediately – to everyone – except for Herr Braun, of course.'
'No, include Herr Braun too.'
'You've found him?'
'He returned to Vienna last week. He had been called to the bedside of an ailing aunt in Salzburg – apparently.'
Rheinhardt's delivery was as dry as tinder.
52
'WHEN SIGNOR Locatelli was taken to the mortuary he was horrified to discover that his wife's legs had been badly burned. This of course confirmed what she had already written – that Professor Gruner had been subjecting her to an over-zealous regimen of electrotherapy. Locatelli spoke to some of his friends in the parliament building and a few days later a government inspector arrived. There's obviously some sort of inquiry under way – we're all going to be interviewed.'
'And what of Gruner?' asked Professor Freud.
'I don't kn
ow,' said Liebermann. 'I haven't seen him since he threatened to dismiss me.'
'It would seem, then, that you have been favoured by the god of healing.' Freud tapped the head of a small bronze figure seated on a primitive square throne. 'You will be able to continue your work with the English governess after all.'
'Well, for a few more weeks, perhaps. Until Gruner returns.'
'If he returns,' said Freud, exhaling a voluminous cloud of cigar smoke and smiling wickedly.
'I'm sure Professor Gruner has some very influential friends too,' said Liebermann.
Freud shrugged his shoulders and continued to toy with the bronze figure on his desk. It was a new acquisition and, typically, he seemed unable to leave it alone.
'Imhotep,' said Freud, suddenly aware of Liebermann observing him.
Liebermann's blank expression invited an explanation.
'He was identified during classical times with the Greek god of healing – Asklepios.'
'Ahh,' said Liebermann.
Freud pushed the bronze figure back into its space among the ancient statuettes and suddenly picked up the thread of their original conversation.
'The case you describe is extremely interesting, Max. But I have some reservations concerning your technique and interpretation.'
Liebermann raised his eyebrows.
'As you know,' continued Freud, 'I have abandoned hypnosis in favour of free association – encouraging the patient to say whatever comes to mind, without censorship. The analyst listens, and learns not only from what is said but also from its character and form: the silences, the hesitations, the changes of volume and direction. Hypnosis is fraught with problems . . . for example, not all patients are susceptible to the trance state. I remember, when I visited Nancy a few years ago, that Liébeault was perfectly happy to acknowledge this. Bernheim had greater success but, from my experience, true somnambulism is achievable in far fewer cases than Bernheim's reports would lead us to expect. Be that as it may, in my estimation the most significant problem associated with hypnosis is that one can never be entirely sure whether or not the phenomena under observation are genuine. The hypnotic trance renders the patient uniquely suggestible . . . I think it no coincidence that conditions such as multiple personality emerge more frequently in those clinics where hypnosis is practised.' Liebermann's disappointment was clearly evident, and the older man was moved to soften the blow of his critique with a modest qualification. 'Naturally, I cannot comment on the clinical authenticity of your governess – but it is something to bear in mind, Max.'
'Of course,' said Liebermann respectfully. Then, steeling himself for more disapprobation, he added tentatively, 'And you also had some reservations about my . . . interpretation?'
Freud stubbed out his cigar and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk and linking his hands.
'You assume that your governess's symptoms are the direct result of traumata – the ostensibly offensive sexual overtures of her relative. But what if . . . what if your governess is ambivalent? What if she is attracted, albeit unconsciously, to this man? Perhaps her symptoms are not a defence as such against him, but a defence against her own powerful desire to reciprocate.'
Liebermann's brow was creased by a pronounced frown line.
'Ahh . . .' said Freud. 'I can see that you do not find such an explanation plausible – but you should not underestimate the significance of erotic life in the etiology of hysterical symptoms. I had a similar case a few years ago – an eighteen-year-old woman with tussis nervosa and aphonia. She too had been importuned by a family friend; however, it transpired that her symptoms were the result not of his transgressions but rather of the repression of her own libido. The entire case history is somewhat complicated and the conclusion unsatisfactory. But I wrote up my notes last year and the article was accepted for publication in the Monatsschrift für Psychiatrie und Neurologie by one of the editors – a chap called Ziehen.'
'Well, I look forward to reading it,' said Liebermann. Nonetheless, he was a little troubled by the professor's customary insistence on the importance of repressed sexual desire. Freud had a reputation for being dogmatic in this respect, and Liebermann could not believe that Amelia Lydgate harboured a secret wish to be intimate with a man like Herr Schelling.
Freud offered Liebermann another cigar.
Liebermann hesitated.
'Go on,' said Freud. 'These are far too good to pass over.'
As Liebermann took a cigar from the box, Freud asked: 'Do you know Stekel?'
'Wilhelm Stekel?'
'Yes.'
'Not personally.'
'He's a general practitioner, but he's extremely interested in my work. He wrote a very enthusiastic review of my dream book for the Neues Wiener Tagblatt.'
'Yes, I remember reading it.'
'Well, we met in The Imperial a few days ago, and he made a splendid suggestion. He proposed that we should hold a meeting – about once a week – to discuss cases and ideas. Perhaps we could start in the autumn. There are a few other people interested: Kahane, Reitler, and you must know Adler. How would Wednesday evenings suit you?'
'Wednesday . . .' Although Liebermann greatly respected Freud, the younger man was not sure whether he was ready to become a fully fledged disciple.
'Is there a problem?'
'I currently have a fencing lesson on Wednesdays – with Signor Barbasetti – but . . .' Liebermann decided that it would be ungraceful not to accept Freud's invitation. 'I'm sure I can change that.'
'Good,' said Freud. 'I'll keep you informed.'
The two men lit their cigars, and wreaths of blue smoke thickened the already dense atmosphere.
'How is your book on jokes progressing, Herr Professor?' asked Liebermann – struggling to get an even burn on his cigar's tip.
Freud sat back in his chair, taking Liebermann's enquiry as an opportunity to perform: 'The matchmaker goes to discuss the bride, and he's brought his assistant to support his suit. She's built like a fir tree, says the matchmaker. Like a fir tree, the assistant repeats. And what eyes she has – you've got to see them! Oh and what eyes, says the assistant. Beautiful. And as for education, there's no one like her. No one like her! comes the echo. But there is one thing, the matchmaker concedes: she does have a hump. But such a hump!'
Against his better judgement, Liebermann found himself laughing.
Part Four
The Last Seance
53
'SO, WHAT DO YOU think Uberhorst meant?' asked Rheinhardt.
A street-cleaning wagon with a man on top swinging a hose indiscriminately came towards the two men. They both had to step back to avoid the splashes.
'He meant to inform the police that Fräulein Löwenstein was pregnant,' Liebermann replied.
'Yes – that's what I thought, too. Fräulein von Rath had a very different opinion, of course.'
'Oh?'
'She believed that Uberhorst was aiding Fräulein Löwenstein in her ambition to enslave a demonic power – and that he had wanted to know whether he should seek guidance from a cabal of black magicians.'
Liebermann shook his head: 'You are still quite certain that Uberhorst could not have been Charlotte Löwenstein's lover?'
'Absolutely.'
'In which case Fräulein Löwenstein simply confided in him – I wonder why?'
'Well, given her predicament, she could hardly expect sympathy from Braun.'
A lacquered black carriage, its curtains drawn, sped past.
'The pregnancy has still not been reported in the newspapers.'
'No – and as far as we know Braun hasn't spoken to any journalists.'
'So, none of the others are aware that she was pregnant.'
'That's correct. Only Braun.'
Two Ursuline nuns, with heads bowed, crossed their path.
'Did you notice the odd collection of equipment in Uberhorst's workshop?' said Liebermann. 'The syringe, the magnets . . . I strongly suspect that he was trying to work out how the illusio
n of the locked door was accomplished. He was an obsessional and I imagine that he would have succeeded, given time. Who else, apart from Záborszky, had visited Uberhorst's shop?'
'Herr Hölderlin had been there to collect a book on Friday afternoon.'
'What kind of book?'
'Something by Madame Blavatsky. Fräu Hölderlin had lent it to the locksmith a month or so earlier.'
'So both Hölderlin and Záborszky might have reached a similar conclusion. What about Braun?'
'He says that he's never been to Uberhorst's shop.'
'Where was he on Friday night?'
'He says he was alone in his room – having drunk too much.'
Three cavalry officers turned along the road ahead of them. Their spurs jangled like the strumming of a distant guitar.
'How can you be sure that Braun will be there this evening?' asked Liebermann.
'Haussmann has been with him all day,' said Rheinhardt, 'and will escort Herr Braun to Madame de Rougemont's should he demur.'
'That was a very sensible precaution, Oskar.'
'Indeed. He didn't want to come tonight. He didn't want to see any of them again. Not because he was feeling any remorse but because he thought we might have told them about his trickery – he was worried about them confronting him and asking him for their money back.'
'Did you tell Cosima von Rath that they'd all been duped?' asked Liebermann.
'No.'
'What does she know about Braun's suspicious disappearance?'
'I told Fräulein von Rath that he had been called to Salzburg in order to attend an ailing aunt. Braun knows what to say, should anyone ask any difficult questions. I dare say they'll learn the truth in due course.'
The two men followed the fenestrated cliff face of the Hoffburg Palace towards Josefplatz. As the light failed, a lamplighter went about his business on the other side of the road.
'You know, Max, I was quite surprised that you agreed to accompany me this evening.'
'Why?'
'Because you think seances are ridiculous.'
'They are.'
'Then why were you so eager to attend this one?'