Vienna Blood by Frank Tallis

certainly been exposed to more than one body. The exact number is difficult to ascertain, but I think … two. I am very confident that these bodies were, first, female, second, young, and third, that these young women met with deaths remarkable for their violence.”
    Rheinhardt sipped his brandy and said, “Not bad, Max. Not bad at all.”
    “I was wrong in some detail?”
    “The number of bodies.”
    “I see. There were more than two, then?”
    “Indeed. There were four.”
    “Four?” Liebermann cried out in disbelief.
    “Yes—and although you were correct in deducing that most were young, the first was, in fact, middle-aged.”
    Liebermann exhaled a cloud of cigar smoke. He looked mildly disappointed.
    “Come now,” said Rheinhardt. “You were right in all respects bar a few particulars. I have visited the scene of a vicious multiple murder, and the victims were— as you determined—all women. How did you do it?”
    “Well …,” Liebermann replied. “It was the sudden improvement in your singing that attracted my interest. You claimed to be experiencing some problems with pitch in the upper register, but— with the greatest respect—every aspect of your performance this evening was deficient or strained.”
    “I couldn't agree more,” said Rheinhardt, shaking his head contritely.
    “It was as though your throat were too tight,” continued Liebermann. “I had attributed this loss of tone to the cold weather, but your rendition of Schubert's Litany for the Feast of All Souls was so wonderful, so magnificent, so perfect, that I was forced to question my previous thinking. If your voice had really been impaired by the cold, it would not have recovered so dramatically. I subsequently wondered whether this tightness might be due to some psychological factor? Now, you must have noticed how when people become anxious or are placed under duress their voices become thin? Well, I surmised that something very similar was happening to you. By paying close attention to the music, you were able to keep a memory—an upsetting memory—out of your conscious mind. But it was still exerting aninfluence, still creating levels of tension sufficient to affect the quality of your voice.
    “To end our little concert you chose to sing Schubert's Litany for the Feast of All Souls, the subject of which is, of course, souls—plural—leaving the world behind to be granted eternal rest. From this I inferred that you had recently seen more than just one body, and that these unfortunate individuals had been the victims of some great violence. Why else would you be so anxious that they should be granted eternal rest ?
    “The combination of Schubert's music and Jacobi's words allowed you to give expression to feelings that were hitherto repressed, and as a result, the song was cathartic and your voice was immediately restored to its former glory.”
    Rheinhardt looked perplexed. “But you seem to have based your deductions on an erroneous supposition: that I am able to remember all of Jacobi's words, and the fact is that I can't. Rest in peace, all souls who, a fearful torment past … and— No, you see? I can't do it. Now, I accept that the song itself is uncannily appropriate, given my recent experiences … but when I made the choice, there was nothing on my mind save the apparent technical limitations of my voice.”
    “How many times must I remind you, Oskar?” said Liebermann. “The unconscious never forgets. Just because you can't remember the words right now does not mean that they are not in there”—he jabbed his cigar at Rheinhardt's head—”somewhere!”
    Rheinhardt squeezed one of the tips of his mustache. “What made you think there were two bodies?”
    Liebermann took a sip of brandy and leaned closer to his friend. His expression was solicitous. “I could not help but notice how deeply moved you were by the song. …”
    “I was,” said Rheinhardt. “My chest was swollen with emotion.”
    “Which