Frank Tallis - Fatal Lies

Liebermann paused, and allowed the fingers of both hands to touch, each digit finding its twin in a serial sequence.

“Unfortunately, perfectionism-when taken to its extreme-is always self-defeating. You may recall that just before Zelenka s death, your husband asked you to buy him an almond tart.”

Frau Becker looked puzzled.

“Which you purchased,” Liebermann continued undeterred, “from Demel's.”

The young woman's eyes suddenly opened wide.

“How did you…,” she whispered.

“The smell of almonds in the laboratory,” Liebermann went on, “might have aroused suspicion; however, your husband reasoned that if there was an obvious source of such a smell, it would seem less conspicuous. He kept the almond tart concealed in his desk, and, while he was removing the cyanide, he deposited the pastry next to Zelenka's body.”

“But, Max,” said Rheinhardt, “Professor Eichmann didn't smell anything.”

“Not everyone can, Oskar,” said Liebermann, turning to his friend and adopting a more confidential tone. “An inherited factor determines whether an individual can detect the residual odor of hydrocyanic gas. If that constitutional factor is absent, the individual cannot smell it.”

The young doctor crossed his legs and returned his attention to Frau Becker.

“Your husband was aware that Zelenka intended to leave Saint Florian's in the summer. Dr. Becker did not want to lose you.”

The woman's expression suddenly changed. Her features hardened and the blood drained from her face. She was no longer crying. Indeed, she seemed to have been overcome by a strange, almost sinister calm. When she finally spoke, her words shattered the silence like stones falling through panes of glass.

“ I killed Zelenka.”

“What?” Rheinhardt cried.

Liebermann gestured to his friend to remain silent. The young doctor put on his spectacles, leaned forward, and observed Frau Becker very closely.

“ I killed Zelenka,” she said again.

Psychoanalysis had taught Liebermann to respect silences. They were never merely the absence of speech. They could be many things: a tool, a consequence, a protest. Liebermann allowed the silence to consolidate. Undisturbed, Frau Becker's thoughts would clarify. When she was ready to speak, she would.

Outside, in the hallway, a grandfather clock was ticking loudly.

Frau Becker twisted a coil of blond hair around her finger. Her stare remained fixed on the floor.

“I have done a terrible thing… or should I say we-yes, we have done a terrible thing… but you must understand, we never meant this to happen. If I… if we had known…”

She stopped, released her hair, and lowered her hand. Its descent was slow, and mannered, like an object sinking in water. Her breast heaved-but no more tears came.

“ We?” said Liebermann softly.

Frau Becker looked up, and her gaze met Liebermann's.

“Myself and Herr Lang.”

“The art master,” interjected Rheinhardt, discreetly reminding his friend of Herr Lang's identity.

“Since September last year, Herr Lang and I, we have…” Frau Becker's resolve faltered. “We have been…”

“Lovers?”

She nodded.

Liebermann was unable to maintain his clinical reserve. He craned forward, his eyebrows ascending above the rim of his spectacles.

“My husband was not the man that I believed him to be… and this is an awful place, Herr Doctor. A place where someone like me can never fit in. The masters’ wives are narrow-minded, and thought bad things about me from the start. I knew what they were thinking, of course. They regarded me as a stupid girl from the country, a gold digger… and a lot worse. I tried to get to know them, but it was useless. They didn't want to know me-they didn't accept me. And when I talked to them about the plight of some of the boys-the bullying, the persecution-they weren't interested. It made things worse. They thought I was being ridiculous. One of them called me… hys-hystorical?”

“Hysterical,” said Liebermann, quite unable to resist making this particular correction.

The pale skin around Frau Becker's eyes had reddened. The flesh looked sore, grazed-flecked with tiny raised welts. Liebermann noticed the unusual length and brightness of her lashes, which glinted in the lamplight.

“I did love Bernhard,” she said, her voice rising in pitch as if she were responding to an accusation of falsehood. “I did. I had never met anyone like him before-an educated man-a distinguished man-a generous man. But he changed. He started to complain about how much money I was spending. He was always in a foul temper. He became angry with me if I didn't understand what he was talking about. I felt neglected, lonely-and Herr Lang… Herr Lang was kind to me. He's an artist. He appreciated me, accepted me… and he cared about all the bad things happening up at the school.”

The young woman suddenly stopped, and tugged at her blouse, her expression suggesting utter contempt.

“I have a large wardrobe full of beautiful clothes, but I have never been interested in fashion. I used to tell Bernhard that I needed a new dress every time I wanted to get away. I used shopping as an excuse, so that I could go to Vienna. Sometimes it was possible for me to meet Herr Lang there. He knew places where…” Her cheeks flushed like a beacon. Modesty prevented her from disclosing the intimate details of their assignation, but Liebermann and Rheinhardt knew exactly where Lang would have taken Frau Becker. The city was full of private dining rooms-in Leopoldstadt, Neubau, and Mariahilf-where couples could conduct their illicit liaisons without fear of discovery.

“We made our arrangements,” Frau Becker continued, “through Zelenka. He delivered our notes to each other-he was our go-between, our messenger. I was very fond of him… very fond. But our relationship was innocent. I knew that my husband suspected that something was going on; however, God forgive me, I did nothing to make him think otherwise. In fact, I encouraged his mistrust. On the days that Zelenka came, I always wore something special. And all the time, I knew that whatever inquiries Bernhard made would ultimately come to nothing. The more my husband worried about Zelenka, the better-it put him off, helped to conceal the truth, misdirected his attention. Herr Lang thought I was being very clever- and said that he would do something too. He knew that Herr Sommer was a dreadful gossip, and told him things… made suggestions about Zelenka and me, knowing full well that Sommer would be indiscreet. It worked. Soon the whole school was talking-but about the wrong affair! An affair that wasn't happening! You look shocked, Herr Doctor. And I know what you are thinking: ‘What sort of woman would do such a thing? What sort of woman would knowingly destroy her own reputation?’ But you see, I had no reputation to protect. People said horrible things about me whatever I did, and at least this way the slander was serving some purpose. Besides, I would only have to endure it for a short time. Herr Lang is leaving Saint Florian's soon. He intends to join a commune of artists living in the Tenth District. I was going to join him, and may still do so. I've been told that such people do not make a habit of judging others.”

Frau Becker paused and looked from Liebermann to Rheinhardt, then to Haussmann and back again. Her chin was raised and there was something defiant in the set of her jaw; but the challenge was short-lived. She brought her hands together, nestling the closed fist of her right hand in the palm of her left-and bowed her head.

“If I had known…,” Frau Becker continued. “If we had known that Bernhard was capable of such insane jealousy, we would never have done this… but we did. And because of that, we must now share his guilt.”