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  ‘Was she a religious person?’ Liebermann asked.

  ‘Did she go to church? No. But she believed in God and the life everlasting. And she was very superstitious. Although, to be superstitious signifies little in the theatre — all performers are superstitious — but I think it would be fair to say that she was more prone than most. She used to consult a psychic every month. Regular appointments.’

  ‘Do you know the psychic’s name?’ asked Rheinhardt. ‘Or where we could find her?’

  ‘Fraulein Rosenkrantz referred to the woman only as Orsola. I’m afraid I have no idea where she lives. Somewhere near the Prater, I imagine.’

  ‘Who do you think made her pregnant?’ asked Rheinhardt. ‘Did you suspect anyone? You said that she once had an affair with Winkelmann.’

  ‘Winkelmann was last year, and that particular liaison didn’t last very long. But as for the spring …’ Schneider stroked his chin as he cast his mind back. ‘I can remember her mentioning the names of several men with whom I thought there was some involvement. Count Wilczek and a wealthy banker, I think his name was Bader. But as to the extent of their intimacy, whether or not these gentlemen …’ Schneider was evidently embarrassed. ‘I really couldn’t say.’ His arms wheeled in the air. ‘She was always mentioning suitors. Besides, what does it matter? How does such information advance your investigation, inspector? Surely, knowing whether it was this man or that man who made Fraulein Rosenkrantz pregnant is of little consequence now?’

  Rheinhardt nodded.

  Outside, an organ-grinder began to play, a skipping folk melody that floated up above the sound of the busy traffic. The atmosphere in the room had become intense, and the music, rustic and simple, came as something of a relief. Its naivety was refreshing, like a gust of clean air dissipating the stench rising from a stagnant pool.

  ‘Fraulein Amsel,’ said Rheinhardt, bluntly. ‘What can you tell us about her?’

  Schneider’s expression soured. ‘One must always respect the achievement of anyone appointed to sing at the court opera, but she is someone for whom I harbour very little esteem or affection.’

  ‘We have been told,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘that there was much bad feeling between Frauleins Amsel and Rosenkrantz.’

  ‘There was, indeed,’ Schneider replied. ‘But Fraulein Rosenkrantz was blameless, believe me. She did nothing wrong.’

  Schneider recounted the history of Amsel and Rosenkrantz’s feud, beginning, as Director Mahler had, with Rosenkrantz’s eleventh-hour substitution as Senta in The Flying Dutchman. He tried to contain his bile, but in the end he was unable to maintain even a semblance of civility, and vented his true feelings in a colourful tirade.

  ‘She — Amsel — is puffed-up and arrogant — and how she overestimates her voice. In spite of her size, it lacks strength. You can hardly hear her over an orchestral tutti — it’s quite insufficient. Whereas Rosenkrantz …’ Again his hands conjured hoops in the air. ‘Even with the brass section playing fortissimo, and the timpani rolling like thunder, you could hear her, floating above — sublime — angelic — clear as a bell.’ Schneider’s mouth twisted. ‘Amsel despised Ida. She could not accept that she had been bettered and in the very role which had made her famous. She was eaten up with jealousy, and she couldn’t disguise it. You saw it on her face.’ Schneider drew on his cigarette, expelling the smoke as he continued to speak. ‘I remember … shortly after Ida’s triumph in The Flying Dutchman she was invited to sing for the mayor at his birthday celebrations. A few days later we were in the Imperial, and who should come in but Lueger himself with his entire entourage. They were all in their uniforms and wearing white carnations. The mayor caught sight of Ida and, brushing the head waiter aside, came straight to our table. He kissed her hand and thanked her for agreeing to sing. A real gentleman — the mayor — so well-mannered. Amsel was seated at a table close by. My God! Her eyes. Let me tell you, if she had picked up her pastry fork and stabbed Ida in the back I would not have been surprised!’

  13

  As the tram came to a halt outside the town hall, Liebermann looked out of the window and saw a crowd of men standing on the pavement. There were red flags being waved and a banner, drooping between two poles, showed the masthead of a daily socialist newspaper, the Arbeiter Zeitung. On a makeshift platform made from wooden crates stood a speaker, angrily jabbing his finger at the seat of municipal power. Every jab was accompanied by a cheer from his supporters. Another group of men, all of whom were wearing white carnations, had gathered close by and were jeering. This second group were smartly dressed, but there was something about them that made Liebermann uneasy. They looked quite menacing.

  Two socialists separated from the crowd and marched over to the hecklers. Insults were exchanged and some pushing and shoving followed. It was obviously going to become ugly. The tram pulled away as one of the mayor’s supporters landed the first punch.

  Liebermann repositioned himself against the curve of the wooden seat and raised the collar of his coat. There could be little doubt that in recent months the atmosphere of the city had changed. It was not an ill-defined change but as tangible as the transition from one season to another. Debate in the coffee houses had become more heated and serious than usual. Words like overthrow and revolution surfaced from the general melee with alarming frequency, and tensions sought release too easily in violence.

  It must be the forthcoming election, Liebermann thought.

  The prospect of yet another victory for Mayor Lueger seemed to have polarised and intensified opinions. It occurred to Liebermann that the uneasy but dependable compromises so typical of Austrian political life might prove unsustainable. If so, what would happen then? He had always ignored his father’s gloomy forecasts. Mendel’s pessimism belonged to a different generation, another age, or so Liebermann had hitherto believed. Now he wasn’t so sure. Perhaps bad things could still happen in this beautiful, cultured city.

  Liebermann jumped off the tram and headed north towards Schotts. When he arrived at the music shop he was greeted by the salesman, Herr Shusetka, who presented him with the scores he had ordered on a prior visit, a volume of Dussek piano sonatas and the Mephisto Waltzes by Liszt.

  ‘I don’t suppose you have anything by a composer called Brosius?’ Liebermann asked.

  Shusetka’s brow wrinkled. ‘Brosius?’

  ‘Johann Christian Brosius.’

  ‘The name is vaguely familiar.’

  ‘I heard his serenade for wind instruments played earlier this week. He’s rarely performed these days, but I understand he was once quite popular.’

  ‘Are you in a rush?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll look in the basement. I presume you’re only interested in piano pieces?’ Liebermann nodded. ‘If anyone needs service, ring the bell.’

  Shusetka vanished through a door behind the counter. Liebermann heard a dull knocking sound as the salesman made his descent down a wooden staircase. Another customer entered and looked through the lieder collections, but departed without making a purchase. A considerable period of time elapsed before Herr Shusetka reappeared. When he did, he looked a little dishevelled.

  ‘You’re in luck,’ said Shusetka, offering Liebermann a slim volume of piano music. ‘I found this.’

  Liebermann smiled and read: ‘Three Fantasy Pieces opus eighty-six.’

  The pages were yellowing and exuded a dank fragrance. One of them was mottled with green-black mould.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Shusetka, brushing some dust from the sleeve of his jacket. ‘The basement gets damp this time of year.’

  Another page was torn slightly.

  Liebermann searched for the publication date and found it on the frontispiece: Vienna, eighteen sixty-two. The score was forty-one years old.

  ‘I’ll take it,’ said Liebermann decisively.

  Liebermann walked home through the backstreets. He had not gone very far when he noticed that the stucco wall of one of the buildings had been deface
d with black paint. He drew closer and the smudges became crudely executed letters. The slogan read, The money-Jews have taken our money, don’t let them take everything else. Removing a handkerchief from his pocket, Liebermann tried to clean the surface — but the paint had already dried. It occurred to him that many others must have passed this slogan, but no one — so it seemed — had attempted to remove it. He placed the handkerchief back in his pocket and continued his journey, disturbed and apprehensive.

  On returning to his apartment, Liebermann hung up his coat and went straight to the music room. He sat at the Bosendorfer and sight-read through some of the easier sections of the Brosius. There were frequent tempo changes, some interesting modulations, and a fondness for canonic devices. The overall effect reminded Liebermann of Robert Schumann.

  Liebermann was satisfied with his purchase. He picked up the volume, held it close to his nose, and breathed in the ripe scent. The pages fell open again, and he noticed a dedication: To my beloved, Angelika. He remembered Frau Zollinger mentioning Brosius’s wife. What had she said? A great beauty, but superficial. Frau Zollinger hadn’t liked her. Presumably Angelika Brosius, like her husband, was now dead. That was how Frau Zollinger had spoken about her. Liebermann felt a subtle melancholy seeping into his soul. It was sad, how people passed into oblivion. Physical death was only the beginning. Thereafter began a process of slow attrition, the gradual dissolution of biographical evidence. Angelika Brosius — the talk of salon society — beauty and muse — was almost gone: a dedication at the front of an old score and a few fading recollections in the head of an old woman. What else of her remained in the world?

  ‘Still,’ said Liebermann out loud. ‘The music has survived.’

  He placed the volume back on the stand and began to work on the first piece, this time concentrating hard to make sure he was getting the fingering right.

  14

  The Lord Marshal and the Emperor were seated at a large table in the conference room, on chairs upholstered with green and gold silk. A rug, decorated with a circular motif, covered most of the parquet floor. The electric chandelier had not been switched on. Instead, illumination was supplied by two candelabras which stood beneath a large oil painting. The scene depicted within the ornate frame was a famous battle that had taken place during the Hungarian revolution.

  After some initial business, requiring the signing of certain documents, the two men lowered their voices and leaned towards each other like conspirators. The conversation that followed was elliptical and imprecise. An eavesdropper might have concluded that they were speaking in code.

  ‘And what did the priest say?’

  ‘Everything is in order, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Will he fulfil his obligation?’

  ‘There is no reason to doubt his loyalty.’

  ‘Good.’

  The emperor was looking more tired than usual. He sat back in his chair and pulled at his mutton-chop whiskers. The lord marshal noticed that the old man was gazing at a white marble bust of Field Marshal Radetzky — a pale visage, hovering in the shadows like a ghostly revenant. Franz-Josef’s hand stopped moving.

  It was not for the lord marshal to disturb the monarch’s private thoughts. Being a fastidious observer of court protocol, he never spoke unless spoken to. Minutes passed before the emperor finally stirred. ‘Do dreams have meaning?’

  ‘I believe, Your Majesty,’ answered the lord marshal, ‘that there are some doctors who interpret dreams. It is a new practice among psychiatrists.’

  The emperor sighed.

  ‘I’ve been having a lot of dreams lately, unpleasant dreams. They always begin here, in the Hofburg, and involve some kind of civil disturbance outside.’ He described his unsettling vision: agitators in Michaelerplatz, the cobbles awash with fire. As he spoke, he kept his gaze fixed on the likeness of Radetzky. The field marshal’s sabre was mounted on the plinth which supported the bust, and the soft lambency of the candles played along its curved edge. When the emperor finished his description, he turned to face the lord marshal and asked, ‘Is there any hope, concerning the election?’

  The lord marshal shook his head.

  When Lueger had first been elected the emperor had vetoed his appointment. In fact, he had done this not once but three times. The city council had been dissolved and Franz-Josef had ruled Vienna through a board of special commissioners. He had hoped that the people would eventually recognise the folly of installing a demagogue in the town hall. But it wasn’t to be. During the Corpus Christi procession of 1896 Lueger had received more applause than the emperor himself. Reluctantly, Franz-Josef conceded defeat and sanctioned Lueger’s fourth victory. It was a concession that had cost him dearly, a compromise too far.

  The lord marshal registered the emperor’s glum expression and felt obliged to lift his spirits.

  ‘There is some good news, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Concerning the mayor?’

  ‘Intelligence that, if managed correctly, has considerable potential for …’ the lord marshal chose his word carefully, ‘advantage.’

  More talk followed, indirect and euphemistic.

  The emperor stood and crossed the floor to inspect a clock, suspended on a chain within a lyre-shaped case with windows. He touched the gilt shell mounted on its summit.

  ‘I will leave the matter in your capable hands, Lord Marshal,’ said the emperor. ‘But remember, time marches on.’

  He tapped the glass and indicated the clock face to underscore his exhortation.

  The interview was now over.

  Gathering the signed documents together, the lord marshal placed them in a leather briefcase. He rose, bowed, and said: ‘Very good, Your Majesty.’

  15

  ‘I would like to know more of Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s medical history,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘and I am particularly interested in those illnesses that she might have suffered from during the spring and summer months.’

  ‘We have already discussed all that could possibly be relevant,’ said Doctor Engelberg testily.

  ‘Even so,’ said Rheinhardt.

  Engelberg pulled open the drawer of his cabinet and selected a green folder. Returning to his seat, he said, ‘What was it you wanted, illnesses in the spring and summer months?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  The doctor scrutinised his notes.

  ‘She had a stomach complaint. But nothing else in March and April, other than the problems you already know about. She complained of difficulty swallowing for the first time on the third of February, and I referred her to Professor Saminsky four weeks later.’

  ‘Stomach complaint?’

  ‘A little indigestion, that’s all.’

  Engelberg’s index finger dropped down the margin. He hummed contemplatively.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Rheinhardt.

  ‘My entry dated April the twenty-seventh: fever, lower abdominaltenderness, and vaginal discharge. A gynaecological problem — an infection of some kind — I advised Fraulein Rosenkrantz to rest.’

  ‘Frau Marcus mentioned that Fraulein Rosenkrantz was confined to her bed because of what she called a ladies’ problem.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Did you identify the illness?’

  ‘Not specifically. There was no need. I knew it would clear up soon enough.’

  ‘But you must have examined your patient?’

  The doctor appeared outraged by Rheinhardt’s suggestion. ‘Not invasively, no.’

  ‘But surely it would have been appropriate for you to do so.’

  Engelberg shook his head. ‘A doctor must have good cause to compromise a woman’s dignity.’

  Rheinhardt hesitated before continuing: ‘Is it possible that Fraulein Rosenkrantz had contracted a venereal disease?

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re quite sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then could the infection have developed subsequent to a termination?’

  Engelberg started. ‘Wha
t are you implying, Inspector?’ Rheinhardt did not respond. Engelberg tutted and said, ‘Yes, I suppose the infection might have been caused by a termination, but Fraulein Rosenkrantz gave me no reason to believe that this was a cause I should be considering. What have you found out, Inspector? Perhaps you would be so kind as to speak frankly.’

  ‘Fraulein Rosenkrantz fell pregnant in the spring.’

  ‘Who told you that?’ said Engelberg, evidently unconvinced.

  ‘An associate of hers.’

  Engelberg tapped his notes. ‘She didn’t complain of these symptoms until late April.’

  ‘Perhaps she felt ashamed, embarrassed? Perhaps she tolerated her discomfort and only came to see you after procrastinating.’

  Engelberg shrugged. ‘That is possible.’ He closed the folder. ‘Inspector, I think you should talk to Professor Saminsky.’

  ‘I intend to. He is away at present, but I understand he will be returning shortly.’

  ‘A psychiatrist necessarily touches upon personal matters during treatment. But why must you delve into Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s private affairs? I really don’t see how it serves the public interest. What if she did terminate a pregnancy? I dare say she has already been judged by her maker. There is no need for a further judgement to be made in the newspapers.’