Fatal Lies by Frank Tallis (english love story books txt) 📕

Lang. “Very self-possessed for his age. A little shy, perhaps, but he was growing out of it. I was very fond of him.”

The young master blinked rapidly, and Rheinhardt wondered if he was about to cry.

“Was he happy here, do you think?”

Lang changed position and made a plosive sound that managed to combine incredulity with indignation. His features hardened.

“He was a scholarship boy.”

“What of it?”

“I don't think anybody from his background could possibly be happy in a place like Saint Florian's!”

Rheinhardt allowed the subsequent silence to build until Lang felt compelled to justify his expostulation. “Historically, Saint Florian's has always welcomed boys from a particular kind of family. The headmaster doesn't agree with the new egalitarianism that the emperor is trying to promote in our schools and universities.”

“Are you suggesting that boys like Zelenka, boys from poor backgrounds, are treated badly?”

Lang got up from his chair and walked to the door. He opened it a fraction and looked through the crack. The sound of Albert's stertorous breathing could be heard outside. Satisfied that there were no eavesdroppers, he closed the door quietly and returned to the table. He did not sit down.

“Look, Inspector.” He appeared slightly agitated. “I know that for boys like Zelenka this school is purgatory. I talk to them while they're drawing. I can see it in their eyes—the sadness, the fear. And sometimes they say things.”

“What do you mean, ‘say things?’ “

“I've been to see the headmaster, but, between you and me, Professor Eichmann is only interested in the welfare of boys from good families. As for the rest…”

“Have you considered discussing your concerns with the board of governors?”

“I have… but I won't now. It's too late.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm leaving. I intend to hand in my resignation at the end of term.”

“Do you have another position to go to?”

“No. I intend to join the Secessionists. You will, I trust, treat what I have said—all that I have said—as strictly confidential?”

“Yes, of course.”

It was evident from their further discussion that Lang was, and had always been, unhappy at Saint Florian's. He did not enjoy the company of his colleagues, and he found the general atmosphere intolerably oppressive.

“Do you know Isidor Perger?” asked Rheinhardt.

“Yes, he's another scholarship boy.”

“I was hoping to interview him this afternoon.”

Lang's mouth twisted into a sardonic smile.

“You won't get much out of him.” Lang glanced at his watch and edged toward the door. “If you'll excuse me, Inspector, I have a class.”

Rheinhardt thanked Lang for his assistance, made a few notes, and walked over to the windows. Peering out of the central lancet, he saw some terraced brick houses (perhaps the “lodges” that Eichmann and Lang had referred to), a stable, and an equestrian enclosure—the outer edge of which was being circumambulated by a troop of boys on horseback. His gaze was drawn upward, toward the fir-covered hills that rolled out into the milky distance.

Rheinhardt felt a curious sense of satisfaction. He was glad that he had come back to the school.

There's something wrong here.

His intuition had been correct.

12

LIEBERMANN HAD LEFT THE HOSPITAL early in order to visit his older sister, Leah. He also expected to see Hannah—their younger sister. Only rarely did the three siblings meet in this way and such meetings were always planned well in advance, and under a shroud of secrecy. This was necessary in order to stop their parents, Mendel and Rebecca, from taking control of arrangements and turning what would otherwise be a relaxed, informal gathering into a major family event.

Hannah was seated on a sofa, reading a book to Daniel, Leah's son. The little boy was dressed in red lederhosen, a white shirt, long socks, and soft leather shoes. He was also wearing an Alpine hat—which served no real purpose other than to amuse the adults. Occasionally Daniel would laugh, which, in Hannah's company, was a perilous activity. The sound of happy gurgling invariably prompted the youthful aunt to tickle his stomach until his face went red and he was begging for mercy.

Ordinarily, Leah would intervene. But on this occasion, she allowed the mêlée to continue in order to have an intimate word with her brother. She poured him some tea, leaned closer, and said:

“Have you seen Father?”

“Yes, last week. We went for coffee at the Imperial.”

“And how was he?”

“Still very angry. Even so, we managed a civil—if rather uncomfortable—conversation.”

Relations between Liebermann and his father had become particularly strained since Liebermann had broken his engagement with Clara Weiss—the daughter of one of Mendel's oldest and closest friends.

“Did he mention… ?”

“Clara? No.”

Leah offered Max a slice of guglhwpf, which he declined.

“I hear that she's met someone. A cavalry lieutenant.”

“Good. I hope they are happy together.”

“And you?”

“What about me?”

“Have you met anyone special yet?”

Liebermann paused long enough for his sister to raise her eyebrows.

“Who?”

Liebermann smiled and shook his head. “No one… not really.”

Leah drew her head back and looked at him askance. It made her appear just like their mother.

Daniel's shrieking became louder. His head was thrown back, only the whites of his eyes were showing, and his cheeks were turning puce.

“That's enough,” Leah called. “Really!”

Hannah withdrew her hand and looked up guiltily. “We're only playing.”

“You're supposed to be reading!”

Liebermann stood up and walked across the room. He sat down next to Hannah and took Daniel, bouncing him a few times on his knee.

“He's getting so heavy!”

“I know,” said Leah, sighing wearily.

“What have you got there?” Liebermann asked Hannah.

“Daniel's klecksography book,” Hannah replied.

“Klecksography?”

Hannah opened the book and held it in front of Daniel. The child leaned forward, stretching his hand out toward a striking image—a large symmetrical pattern: as if ink had been spilled on a page, and then the page had been folded along a central vertical crease. It was accompanied by a fanciful verse about a troll, which Hannah read out in a theatrical contralto. The later pages were filled with similar images—symmetrical inkblots, all vaguely resembling the spread wings of a butterfly.

“Are the patterns supposed to represent the characters in the verses?” Liebermann