Death And The Maiden lp-6 Read online

‘A hysterical phenomenon: typically, the patient reports the presence of a lump in the throat which produces difficulty when swallowing. Physical investigations reveal no obvious obstruction and the lump, or rather the perceived lump, is subsequently ascribed to psychological causes. Globus hystericus is not a diagnosis that we doctors commonly associate with suicide. And to the best of my knowledge Professor Saminsky’s treatment was effective.’

  Rheinhardt walked over to the bedside table, picked up one of the bottles and sniffed the pungent residue.

  ‘Did you prescribe these tinctures?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then who did?’

  ‘Professor Saminsky, I believe.’

  ‘Didn’t you say that Saminsky’s treatment was successful?’

  ‘That is correct. Nevertheless, he continued to see Fraulein Rosenkrantz for monthly appointments.’ Engelberg raked his hand through his hair. ‘No doctor can be absolutely certain of a patient’s state of mind. If Fraulein Rosenkrantz was suffering from suicidal melancholia it not only escaped my notice, it also escaped Professor Saminsky’s.’

  Rheinhardt replaced the bottle.

  ‘Herr Doctor, you say that Fraulein Rosenkrantz was fully recovered. Why, then, was she taking laudanum?’

  ‘To hasten the onset of sleep. Difficulty sleeping was another of her problems. She has taken paraldehyde, sulphonal, potassium bromide and a host of herbal remedies. The laudanum has nothing to do with her globus hystericus.’ Engelberg patted his pocket and removed a cigar. ‘May I smoke, inspector?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Rheinhardt, taking a box of matches from his pocket and courteously providing a light. ‘Herr Doctor, looking at Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s body, does anything strike you as odd?’

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean, inspector.’

  ‘Her position,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘In the centre of the rug.’

  Engelberg shrugged and surrounded himself with a yellow nimbus of smoke. ‘Inspector, imagine, if you will, the following: Fraulein Rosenkrantz retires to her bedroom. She cannot sleep. She takes some laudanum but it has little effect. Those of a nervous character, as she undoubtedly was, are often less susceptible to soporifics.’ He sucked at his cigar and flicked some ash into an onyx dish. ‘She waits, but remains incorrigibly awake. Becoming impatient, she drinks another phial. Although she feels the laudanum isn’t working, it most certainly is. She is no longer fully compos mentis. She cannot remember how much she has taken and she is confused. In this disoriented state she takes yet more laudanum, and the dose is now fatal. She sits on the side of the bed and removes her shoes and stockings. As she bends down she becomes dizzy. She slides off the bed and onto the floor. She rolls over, onto the rug, and closes her eyes.’ Engelberg shrugged again. ‘It might well have happened like that, inspector: an accident, a cruel tragedy of mischance.’

  Rheinhardt lifted the counterpane and looked under the bed, where he saw a pair of brown leather ladies’ shoes. He then examined the coverlet more closely, searching for small indications consistent with Engelberg’s scenario. It was all very plausible, but when Rheinhardt looked again at Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s body, positioned so neatly within the rectangular limits of the Persian rug, he could not quash a nagging doubt.

  ‘Thank you, Herr Doctor,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘You have been most helpful.’

  ‘May I leave now?’

  ‘I must ask you to give Haussmann your details first.’ The inspector glanced at his assistant. ‘Then you are free to go. Once again, please accept my apologies.’

  Rheinhardt bowed and left the room. He made his way downstairs to the kitchen, where he found Constable Drasche sitting next to a middle-aged woman whose eyelids were raw and swollen. Rheinhardt pulled a chair from under the large wooden table and noted with some satisfaction the presence of an empty teacup.

  ‘My name is Rheinhardt,’ he said softly. ‘I am the detective inspector.’ He sat down. ‘It must have been a great shock.’

  A prolonged silence followed, during which the housekeeper twisted a damp handkerchief.

  ‘Terrible.’

  ‘Frau Marcus,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘when did you discover Fraulein Rosenkrantz?’

  ‘Seven-thirty.’

  ‘I know that this is difficult but I must ask you to tell me what happened, precisely.’

  Frau Marcus nodded and took a deep breath.

  ‘I arrived here at seven o’clock and set about preparing mistress’s breakfast: a boiled egg and some pumpernickel. When the egg was ready I took it upstairs on a tray, along with some butter. I knocked on the door — but there was no reply. Fraulein Rosenkrantz had told me yesterday that she wanted to rise early because she had a new role to learn, so I went in. I thought she’d fainted … and I knelt down on the floor beside her.’

  ‘Did you touch her?’ Rheinhardt interjected.

  ‘Yes,’ said Frau Marcus. ‘I touched her face. It was cold. Horribly cold.’

  The housekeeper shivered.

  ‘Did you attempt to move her?’

  ‘No. I was scared and thought it best to call Doctor Engelberg.’

  ‘And you were right to do so. But are you quite certain that you did not move Fraulein Rosenkrantz? Please think carefully, Frau Marcus — it may be important.’

  ‘I touched her face with this hand.’ She raised her arm as if swearing an oath. ‘Then I ran downstairs to telephone Doctor Engelberg.’

  ‘What did you do while you were waiting for him to arrive?’

  ‘I telephoned the police station.’

  ‘And did you go back upstairs again?’

  ‘No. By the time I had finished talking to the police, Doctor Engelberg was knocking at the front door.’ Frau Marcus gave the handkerchief another twist. ‘I took him up to the mistress’s bedroom. He held a mirror under the mistress’s nose — and then he said, “She’s dead.” I already knew … no one is ever that cold. But it was still terrible to hear those words. He touched the back of her neck and told me that he thought she’d been dead for hours.’

  Rheinhardt produced his notebook and scribbled a few lines. ‘Where do you live, Frau Marcus?’

  ‘The twelfth district.’

  ‘And how long have you been working for Fraulein Rosenkrantz?’

  ‘Two years.’

  ‘Who else works here?’

  ‘Only the gardener.’

  ‘Fraulein Rosenkrantz has no cook? No laundry maid?’

  ‘She had no need for a cook. She dines at the Imperial or the Bristol. I take care … I took care of everything.’

  ‘Yet you do not sleep here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There is plenty of room.’

  ‘I stayed here when mistress was ill. In the summer she had a lump in her throat — and some other,’ she blushed, ‘ladies’ problems. She was confined to her bed for weeks.’

  Rheinhardt looked into the housekeeper’s bloodshot eyes and felt a stab of pity.

  ‘When was the last time you saw Fraulein Rosenkrantz?’

  ‘Yesterday afternoon. She said that I could go home early. She wanted to work on the new role.’

  ‘What sort of mood was she in?’

  Frau Marcus hesitated. ‘Quite irritable — but no more than usual. Not really.’

  ‘Was that how she was?’

  ‘Irritable? Yes, but her moods didn’t mean very much. She could be irritable one minute and brimming with good humour the next. I suppose it must have been something to do with her gift. They say that, don’t they, that artists are temperamental?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Rheinhardt wrote the word irritable in his notebook and tapped his pencil on the page. ‘Did you observe any changes in Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s behaviour that, on reflection, you feel might have been tokens of inner torment?’

  The housekeeper shook her head.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about over the last week or month? Did you see her crying, for example?’

  ‘No more than usual.’ Rheinhardt moti
oned for her to continue. ‘She was easily moved to tears. It didn’t matter whether she was happy or sad. I can’t say that I noticed a difference.’

  ‘Did she ever speak to you about what was upsetting her?’

  ‘She wasn’t very happy at the opera house. She used to talk about going to Munich. There was bad feeling between the singers. And she said that the director was very demanding. She used to call him the tyrant.’

  ‘Bad feeling? What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I can’t say exactly. But my mistress would say something about so-and-so being jealous or so-and-so having spread a malicious rumour. And she would become upset.’

  ‘Did she mention anyone in particular?’

  ‘I can’t remember names, but it was usually a woman. One of the other singers.’

  Rheinhardt continued tapping his pencil on the notebook.

  ‘Do you know whether Fraulein Rosenkrantz intended to receive any guests after your departure yesterday?’

  ‘I don’t think she did. She wanted to work on her new role.’

  Rheinhardt smiled: ‘What was it, incidentally? This role that she was so keen to start working on?’

  ‘I don’t know very much about opera. But I think it was an Italian name. Was it Lucca or Lucia?’

  ‘Lucia di Lammermoor.’

  ‘Yes, that was it.’

  Rheinhardt recalled the principal elements of Donizetti’s epic romance.

  A beautiful young woman: madness, tragedy.

  He closed his eyes and the photographic image of Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s body came into his mind. Once more, he was made uneasy by the way she occupied such a central position within the borders of the Persian rug.

  When he opened his eyes again, Frau Marcus was looking at him expectantly.

  ‘You are quite sure,’ Rheinhardt said softly, ‘that you did not attempt to move your mistress before Doctor Engelberg’s arrival?’

  ‘Quite sure,’ said Frau Marcus.

  2

  The pianist of the Cafe Imperial began playing Chopin’s Waltz in B minor. Liebermann recognised it immediately, a curious, wistful melody which trickled down the keyboard over a brisk left-hand part, executed on this occasion with staccato lightness. At the point where the ear expected repose, the melody suddenly began again, creating a peculiar impression of autonomy, as if the music possessed a will of its own and was determined to continue. This rallying quality produced in Liebermann’s mind a corresponding image of a dancing couple who — in spite of being exhausted — revolved, just one more time, only to find themselves caught up in a waltz without end.

  ‘Maxim, did you hear what I said?’

  Mendel Liebermann was looking at his son with an expression of censorious displeasure.

  ‘No, father … I didn’t.’

  Mendel sighed.

  ‘I said, isn’t it time you thought about getting married?’ Liebermann was stunned and blinked at his father in mute disbelief. The subject of marriage had been assiduously avoided after Liebermann had broken off his engagement with Clara Weiss, the daughter of one of Mendel’s oldest associates. ‘You know how I feel about what you did.’ The old man touched his chest and grimaced as if he was suffering from indigestion. ‘Even so.’

  They had never really discussed the broken engagement and, in a sense, there was nothing to discuss. Mendel’s sense of duty and rigid principles precluded any possibility of sympathetic understanding. When his wife had pleaded their son’s case, Mendel had been perfectly capable of grasping her argument: Maxim and Clara were fundamentally incompatible and the marriage would be unhappy. But such considerations were wholly irrelevant once a man had given his word. A man must always keep his word.

  ‘No, father,’ said Liebermann. ‘I haven’t thought about getting married again. Not since …’ He paused, and summoned the courage to say her name. ‘Not since Clara.’

  Mendel took a mouthful of guglhupf — a sponge slice, sprinkled with icing sugar. ‘Do you want to get married?’

  Liebermann held his father’s gaze and his reply, when it came, was indignant. ‘To the right person, yes.’

  ‘And is there anyone …?’ The sentence trailed off as Mendel’s confidence ebbed away. He was not used to speaking intimately with his son and making such an inquiry felt awkward.

  ‘No,’ said Liebermann, doubly discomfited by his father’s frankness and his own duplicity. There was someone for whom he had very deep feelings, but he was not inclined at that moment to reveal her identity. He was as confused as he had ever been concerning Amelia Lydgate and he knew that he would be incapable of giving a coherent account of his troubled fixation. Besides, she wasn’t Jewish.

  ‘You’re a young man, Maxim,’ said Mendel, ‘but not that young. When I was your age-’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Liebermann interjected. ‘You were married and had already started a family.’

  ‘Well, you don’t want to end up like your Uncle Alexander, now, do you? An ageing roue?’

  ‘Father, many years must pass before I can be reasonably described as ageing and I can assure you, whatever you may think, my general conduct is far from dissolute.’

  ‘I was just voicing a concern, that’s all.’ Mendel took a sip of Pharisaer coffee and, picking up a starched napkin, wiped a residue of whipped cream from his moustache. ‘What happened … with Clara. I don’t think what you did was honourable.’ He waved his hand in the air, as if simply recalling his son’s misconduct had fouled the atmosphere. ‘Nevertheless, you are my flesh and blood and the thought of you being unfulfilled gives me no joy.’

  Why was the old man talking to him like this? Had he finally found it within himself to forgive?

  ‘But I am happy,’ said Liebermann. ‘I have my work, my friends.’

  ‘Yes, these things are associated with a kind of happiness,’ said Mendel. ‘But not true happiness, not the kind of happiness that comes from marriage and children. These experiences are essential. They are sacred.’ Liebermann flinched at this last word. The movement was so pronounced that his father noticed. ‘It isn’t so foolish, Maxim, to believe that we have been put on this Earth for a purpose.’

  There were many subjects that Liebermann preferred to avoid when conversing with his father and religion ranked highly among them. He was greatly relieved when Mendel’s train of thought was interrupted by the arrival of Bruno, the waiter.

  ‘Herr Liebermann, another pharisaer?’

  ‘Yes, Bruno, and another schwarzer for my son.’

  ‘Herr Doctor Liebermann, you have hardly touched your Mohnstrudel. I trust it is to your satisfaction?’

  ‘Yes, Bruno,’ said Liebermann. ‘It’s very good.’

  The waiter bowed and dashed off, vanishing behind the open lid of the piano.

  ‘You remember Blomberg?’ said Mendel. ‘You met him at my lodge.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘He has a daughter. Twenty years old. Very pretty.’

  Ah, thought Liebermann. So this is what it’s all about!

  Liebermann shook his head. ‘Not yet, father. It really is too soon.’ Mendel acknowledged his son’s request with a brusque nod, and finished his guglhupf in silence. The B minor waltz came to a close, and the pianist, responding to a smattering of applause, began a second Chopin waltz: the languid E flat major. Their conversation continued in a desultory fashion until Liebermann, observing the time, announced that he was expected at the hospital.

  ‘You’d better hurry along, then,’ said Mendel. Liebermann had the distinct impression that his father was relieved to see the back of him. Bruno arrived with Liebermann’s coat and soon the young doctor was standing on the Ringstrasse waiting for a cab. The hazy fog had still not lifted and the air smelled damp and autumnal. A woman wearing a feathered hat passed by and he found himself staring at her retreating figure. The slimness of her waist and the curve of her hips held his attention; interest slowly transmuted into desire.

  Marriage, thought Liebermann. Maybe the
old man has a point.

  A cab drew up and he stepped towards it, but another gentleman had hailed the vehicle while Liebermann had been distracted by the woman in the feathered hat. Liebermann watched as the carriage pulled away and set off towards the looming mass of the opera house, his brain teeming with thoughts and the nervous melody of Chopin’s B minor waltz.

  3

  Rheinhardt and his assistant were smoking cigars in the corridor outside the morgue. A sawing sound emanated from within, above which Professor Mathias’s fragile tenor was drifting aimlessly. Somewhere in the pathological institute a chiming clock announced that it was six o’ clock. The day had been long and Rheinhardt had eaten nothing since breakfast.

  ‘I think it would be permissible for us to stop for some refreshment on our way back to Schottenring, don’t you?’

  ‘There’s a new beer cellar that’s just opened on Turkenstrasse,’ Haussmann replied. ‘They serve some very spicy Weizenbock. Knauss, a friend of mine, went there last week. He said it was good.’

  ‘I was really thinking of something more substantial, Haussmann, something requiring the use of implements, such as a knife and fork.’

  ‘Oh, I see, sir.’

  ‘Boiled beef, fried onions, and dumplings, followed by a thick slice of topfenstrudel.’ As Rheinhardt envisaged the meal his stomach produced a plangent wail that evoked images of eternal torment. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he added, positioning a placatory hand on the corrugated distensions of his waistcoat.

  ‘This place also serves food, sir,’ said Haussmann. ‘Simple but wholesome. That’s what my friend said. I’m sure you’d be able to get some boiled beef and dumplings.’

  ‘Very well, Haussmann,’ said Rheinhardt, suddenly feeling weak and seeing no purpose in prolonging the debate. ‘That is where we shall eat. Turkenstrasse.’

  ‘Rheinhardt!’ It was Professor Mathias. ‘Rheinhardt, come in, will you? I’ve got something to show you.’

  The two men re-entered the morgue, where they discovered Professor Mathias standing by a bench next to the autopsy table. He was looking down at something that glistened beneath the beam of an electric lamp. As Rheinhardt passed Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s corpse he saw that she had undergone a hideous transformation. All the skin had been peeled away from her chest and it now hung down from either side of her body like the loose flaps of an unbuttoned coat. Her breasts were still attached to these flaps and they drooped, piteously, over the lip of the table. Rheinhardt’s gaze lingered on the neatly packed organs of Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s thoracic cavity and he found himself swaying a little, unbalanced by the macabre spectacle.