Fatal Lies by Frank Tallis (novels in english txt) 📗

book and allowed the covers to fall open. The pages released a distinctive, ripe odor—an evocative quintessence of time, scholarship, and decay.

“Do you still intend to edit these journals for publication?” he asked.

“Indeed,” said Amelia. “I was only recently considering that very volume—which contains a remarkable section on the history of automata.”

“It is not a subject I know very much about,” said Liebermann, hoping that she would rectify his ignorance.

“The creation of automata has always been associated with medicine… and particularly with doctors who have an interest in blood.”

“Really?”

“Yes—my grandfather has written that the first working model of the circulatory system was devised by a German physician, who announced his success in the Journal des Savants in 1677.”

Amelia halted—suddenly self-conscious.

“Please, do go on…”

“Many more doctors embarked on similar projects—and the eighteenth century witnessed the creation of numerous ‘blood machines’ of increasing sophistication. These ‘philosophical toys’ caused much consternation among religious thinkers, who were concerned that, by making manikins that actually bled, doctors were engaged in a Promethean labor—and that their real intention was to create artificial life.” Amelia's hair caught the light and, for a brief moment, became incandescent—a shimmering haze of red and gold. “Eventually,” she continued, “even the most adventurous members of the scientific community were frightened by the implications of their work, and in due course artificial men became an increasing rarity in medical schools. In time, of course, they vanished altogether.”

“How very interesting,” said Liebermann, still distracted by a residual image of her sudden ignition—a vague, haunting impression of flame and the colors of autumn. “One is reminded of your countrywoman, Mary Shelley—her cautionary tale of Frankenstein, or the modern Prometheus.”

“She was—I believe—aware of the work of several German physiologists, which she mentions in her preface.”

Amelia's talk of artificial men reminded Liebermann of something he had once heard, about a chess-playing automaton that had been built in Vienna for the amusement of the empress Maria Theresa.

“It might have been the brainchild of Maelzel,” he added.

“The inventor of the metronome?”

“Yes.… But I can't be sure. I have only the dimmest recollection of what is supposed to have transpired.”

Miss Lyd gate was extremely interested in this historical vignette; however, she concluded that, even if the story were true, the automaton itself must have been nothing more than a clever deception.

Liebermann always enjoyed such conversations with Miss Lyd gate. She was an unconventional woman, yet her peculiarities possessed a certain charm: her pedantic speech, her stiff deportment, and the quite extraordinary intensity of her facial expressions.

He was a psychiatrist, and something inside him—some nameless but essential part of his being—was irresistibly drawn to the unusual.

They continued their conversation until the sky darkened and it was no longer permissible for Liebermann to stay. He rose from his chair, exchanged a few pleasantries, and kissed Amelia's hand. On the landing he insisted that she stay upstairs—he did not expect her to show him out.

As he made his descent, Liebermann became acutely aware of the physical and mechanical properties of his body: locomotion—the movement of joints—his lungs expanding and contracting, his spine resisting gravity. Propriety and apprehension had turned him into an automaton—an artificial man, in every sense. Contrived, inauthentic, affected: a blood machine.

11

IT WAS MIDMORNING when Rheinhardt's carriage drew up alongside the wind-scoured statue of Saint Florian. The Gothic façade of the military academy looked much larger than Rheinhardt remembered, and where there had previously been nothing but darkness he now saw wide, flat exercise areas. Ranks of uniformed boys were practicing their rifle drill, responding to the abrupt commands of a burly Tyrolean infantryman.

Rheinhardt passed under the central arch, where he spied Albert—the old soldier—dozing in the cloisters. He shook the veteran's shoulder, gently.

“Permission to report,” mumbled Albert before his bloodshot eyes opened. He pulled himself up and croaked: “Ah, Inspector… Permission to report: I was asleep.”

“And I trust you are now refreshed,” said Rheinhardt. “I believe the deputy headmaster is expecting me.”

“He is, sir. This way, sir, this way.”

The deputy headmaster ushered Rheinhardt into his office and immediately apologized on behalf of Professor Eichmann. The headmaster had been called to an emergency meeting of the board of school governors; Becker hoped, however, that he would be equal to the task of assisting the inspector with his investigation.

Rheinhardt asked Becker to recapitulate the events surrounding the discovery of Zelenka's body. The deputy headmaster's account was entirely consistent—and delivered with calm authority. When pressed for more information about Zelenka's character, he simply repeated what he had said the previous Friday: he had known Zelenka quite well; the boy frequently asked for extra assignments; he was an enthusiastic student. Rheinhardt made a note, more out of politeness than necessity.

“Who else taught Zelenka?”

Becker went through the papers on his desk and consulted a timetable.

“Lieutenant Osterhagen, gymnastics. Herr Lang, drawing and calligraphy. Dr. Kloester, geography. Herr Sommer, mathematics…”

There were ten names in total.

A soft knock heralded the arrival of a maid who was carrying a silver tray.

“Your medicine, sir.”

She deposited the tray on Becker's desk and made a diffident departure. The deputy headmaster picked up a piece of folded paper and, holding it over a small glass of clear liquid, tapped the side gently. A line of white powder fell out, the tiny grains dissolving as they sank in the liquid. Becker finally stirred the concoction with a spoon.

“Excuse me,” he said to Rheinhardt, touching his temple. “I suffer from headaches.” He threw his head back and swallowed the liquid as if it were schnapps.

“Are all of these masters here today?” asked Rheinhardt, looking down into his open notebook.

“All of them except Sommer,” Becker replied. “He fell down the stairs yesterday and injured his leg.” The tone of Becker's voice was unsympathetic, almost dismissive. “He's gone off somewhere to convalesce.”

“Do you know where?”

“I'm afraid not. But the headmaster will know.”

“I would like to conduct some interviews.”

Becker looked at the timetable again and pulled at his forked beard. “You wish to interview all of Zelenka's masters?”

“As many as I can, and