Mortal Mischief (24 page)

The planchette flinched, darting an inch or so from its central position.

Natalie Heck gasped and threw a sidelong glance in the direction of Count Záborszky.

'There, you see!' cried Cosima reproachfully. 'They are here . . . the spirits have arrived.'

The Count seemed indifferent.

'Who are you?' continued Cosima. 'Who are you, oh Spirit, who has answered our call?'

The planchette moved in small circles before flying towards the first arc of letters. The narrow end of the wooden heart, which served as a pointer, stopped abruptly below the letter F. After a brief pause, the planchette visited the letters L-O-R-E-S-T-A and finally N.

'Florestan,' said Cosima, beaming with satisfaction. 'Greetings, Florestan, you who are now in possession of the Treasure of the Light. What was your profession, Florestan, when you were incarnate?'

The planchette spelt out: KAPELLMEISTER.

'Where?'

SALZBURG.

'And when did you leave the realm of material things?'

1791.

'Will you help us, Florestan?'

YES.

'Blessed Spirit – it has been two weeks since our dear sister Charlotte Löwenstein left this world. Does she wish to communicate with us?'

The planchette did not move.

'Does she have a message for us?'

Nothing.

'Can we speak to her?'

Still there was no movement.

Záborszky sniffed and said quietly: 'This Florestan is too feeble. We must summon a more potent spirit.'

'Dearest Count,' said Cosima, forcing a smile, 'we must show respect to all emissaries from the world of light.'

Frau Hölderlin, who was sitting next to Cosima, turned and whispered sharply: 'Ask again.'

'Florestan,' Cosima called, her voice still quivering, 'does Charlotte Löwenstein wish to communicate with us?'

Silence.

'Ask him what happened,' hissed Frau Hölderlin. 'Ask him what happened to her?'

'Was Charlotte Löwenstein taken by –' Cosima ventured tentatively '– a higher power?'

The planchette rolled around the table and halted close to where it had begun.

YES.

'Of the first altitude?'

NO.

'The second?'

NO.

'The third?' Incredulity had transformed Cosima von Rath's soprano into an unfeasibly high squeal.

The planchette rolled across the table to the adjacent tile.

YES.

The company began to whisper among themselves.

'But why?' Cosima wailed.

The whispering subsided and the planchette rolled towards the letters where it spelt out: SIN.

'Which sin?'

VANITY.

Cosima, her plump neck vibrating with excitement, asked: 'Did she attempt to make a higher power do her bidding?'

YES.

'For what purpose?'

The planchette failed to respond and a tidal silence washed back into the room.

'What was her purpose?' Cosima repeated.

The planchette remained resolutely still.

'Where is she?' Cosima continued. 'Where was she taken?'

Nothing.

'What about Otto?' said Natalie Heck. 'Ask what happened to Otto.'

Cosima acknowledged the request by inclining her head.

'Florestan – where is Herr Braun?'

Again, nothing.

'Was Herr Braun taken too?'

The planchette stirred and rolled gently towards an answer: NO.

'Is he still alive?'

The wooden heart rolled in several wide circles and ground to a halt on an empty patch of table, giving no discernible answer.

Uberhorst coughed to attract attention and said hesitantly: 'Please . . . I would like to ask a question.'

'Of course,' Cosima replied.

'I want to know if . . . if I should tell them?'

'Tell them? Tell who?'

'It is . . .' Uberhorst paused and then added: 'A private matter.'

'My dear fellow.' It was Bruckmüller, and his resonant voice seemed to shake the table. 'You are among friends!'

The little locksmith's pince-nez caught the light. His eyes were two ovals of flickering flame.

'It is a private matter, Herr Bruckmüller.'

The Count – who was seated next to Uberhorst – addressed him as though no one else was present. His tone was casual.

'She told you something? Fräulein Löwenstein?'

The locksmith searched the ring of faces for a sympathetic expression but was unable to find one.

'Herr Uberhorst,' said Cosima, 'if you want an answer to your question you must cooperate with the circle. We must assist the spirit Florestan with one will. This cannot be accomplished if you are guarding some secret.'

'Do you mean the police, Uberhorst?' said Hölderlin. 'Is that who you mean by
them
?'

Uberhorst took his hand off the planchette and began biting his nails.

'Please, all I want is . . .' The words were indistinct. 'All I want is a simple answer.' His panic was barely controlled. 'A
Yes
– or a
No
.'

The planchette moved, spiralling outwards and moving faster until it stopped abruptly among the letters.

TELL WHO?

'See,' said Bruckmüller, 'the spirit needs clarification, Uberhorst.'

'It is a matter of honour' Herr Bruckmüller, I cannot say any more.'

WHO? the planchette demanded.

'Herr Uberhorst,' said Cosima, 'Please do not deny the spirit emissary.'

Uberhorst shook his head.

'Very well, Herr Uberhorst,' Cosima continued. 'I will try on your behalf, but I do not believe that we shall meet with much success. Florestan, spirit, possessor of the Treasure of the Light: should Herr Uberhorst tell—' she paused, and raised her eyebrows. '
Them?'

Uberhorst placed his finger back on the planchette.

The device remained perfectly still.

'There you are,' said Cosima. 'I thought as much.'

The company looked towards Uberhorst. He was staring at the planchette – his gaze transfixed on the wooden heart.

'This is not right,' he said softly.

'What do you mean?' asked Cosima. 'Not right?'

'I cannot believe . . .' Uberhorst's voice was torpid, as though he was talking through a dream. 'I cannot believe that Fräulein Löwenstein was taken – removed – by some demon. She was too good a person. Too kind.'

'To you, perhaps,' said Natalie under her breath. Uberhorst looked up. He could not see the seamstress's face very well, only the large glass earring dangling from her ear.

'Herr Uberhorst,' said Frau Hölderlin, 'the spirit says that Fräulein Löwenstein was guilty of the sin of vanity. And much as I admired her, much as I was impressed by her gift—'

'She was a very vain woman,' said Natalie, helping Frau Hölderlin's sentence to its inevitable conclusion.

'But undeniably very beautiful,' said Záborszky.

'Indeed,' said Hölderlin. 'However, we must remember that possession of physical beauty can easily weaken the moral faculty. Is it not generally the case that those whom we call beautiful are also peculiarly vulnerable to the sins of pride and vanity?'

'I'm surprised to hear you say that, Hölderlin,' said Záborszky.

'Why?' Hölderlin snapped back at him.

'You seemed to appreciate her beauty as much as the next man.'

'What on Earth do you mean by tha—'

'Gentlemen!' Cosima von Rath's voice was shrill and angry.

'Here, here,' barked Bruckmüller.

'Gentlemen, please!' Cosima blew out her cheeks and her retroussé nose, squeezed between bulging flesh, looked alarmingly like a snout. 'We must proceed.'

Frau Hölderlin squinted at her husband whose pate glittered with tiny beads of perspiration.

'Florestan,' Cosima cried. 'Florestan, is there anything we can do to help our departed sister Charlotte?'

The planchette rolled around the table top and stopped abruptly.

NO.

'Shall we pray for her salvation?'

The planchette traced another circle.

NO.

'Then what shall we do?'

Rolling from side to side, the planchette hovered in the noncommittal spaces of the table top before finally dropping and colliding with the largest of the tiles: GOODBYE.

'He has gone,' Cosima said, a note of melancholy lowering the volume of her voice.

Herr Uberhorst was the first to remove his finger from the planchette. His movement was swift and sudden, as though he had accidentally touched the hot plate of a stove. Frau Hölderlin, blinking frantically, was still staring at her husband.

Part Three
The Beethoven Frieze

36

T
HE CAB RATTLED
off and was quickly absorbed into the steady flow of traffic: omnibuses, trams, and a veritable fleet of horse-drawn carts. The stalls of the Naschmarkt had spilled right up to the Secession building and the air was filled with noise: fishmongers, butchers and bakers – costermongers, barrow boys, and pedlars – all of their voices combining to create a disharmonious commercial chorus. Down the Linke Wienzeile, the most conspicuous building was the Theatre an der Wien, the venue where Beethoven's
Fidelio
had first been performed a hundred years earlier. It seemed fitting to Liebermann that the Secessionists should celebrate the great composer's genius only yards away from a site of almost spiritual significance.

'Well, then,' said Liebermann, straightening his necktie and adjusting his collar. 'Here we are.'

Clara and Hannah looked up towards the House of the Secession. Their gaze was naturally attracted to its most significant feature – a golden dome constructed from a delicate patchwork of gilded bronze leaves.

'You can see why they call it the golden cabbage,' said Hannah.

'Really, my dear, how can you say that? It's exquisite,' Liebermann retorted.

He offered his arms to Clara and Hannah and they walked in a line towards the building.

'To the Age its Art, to Art its Freedom,' said Hannah, reading the legend set in raised lettering beneath the dome.

'A sentiment that I hope you share.'

'And
Ver Sacrum
. What does that mean?'

'Sacred Stream – it's the title of their magazine.'

'But why? Why Sacred Stream?'

'It was a Roman ritual of consecration that was carried out in times of danger. The young were pledged to save the capital. The Secession, you see, have pledged to save Vienna from the forces of conservatism.'

'Do we really need to be saved?' asked Clara pointedly.

'Saved is probably too strong a word – relieved, I feel, would be more appropriate.'

Hurrying to avoid a convoy of timber-laden carts, they marched briskly across the street and ascended the stairs, watched from above by a trio of gorgons – their fossilised faces framed by more gilded foliage.

Once inside, Liebermann paid the entrance fee – one
krone
each – and took a catalogue. The cover showed a stylised angel holding a disc of light.

Excited, Clara and Hannah had rushed ahead.

'Wait a minute,' said Liebermann, opening the catalogue and flicking through the pages.

'Why?' asked Clara.

'I want to look at the orientation map.'

'Orientation map? Surely you don't think we're going to get lost, Max.'

Hannah giggled.

'No,' Liebermann replied, 'I don't think we're going to get lost, Clara, but I
do
want to know what I'm looking at.'

'The Klinger, surely,' said Clara. 'And the Klimt.'

'Indeed, but there are many more artists represented here.' He pointed to some names on the floor plan. 'See: Andri, Auchentaller, Moser – I don't know where to start. Let me see . . .' He read for a few moments and added: 'They suggest the left aisle.'

Clara looked at Hannah and, assuming a mischievous expression, repeated, 'Left aisle.'