Death And The Maiden lp-6 Read online

  Rheinhardt stood up and put on his hat. Catching sight of his reflection in a mirror, he straightened the brim and squeezed the upturned ends of his moustache.

  ‘Thank you for your assistance, Herr Doctor. Please don’t trouble your servants. I can see myself out.’

  16

  As Liebermann approached the opera house he inserted his hand into his coat pocket and checked that the letter was still there. The young doctor needed to reassure himself of its existence, to dismiss nagging doubts that he had only imagined its appearance or perhaps misread the signature of the correspondent. Director Mahler had referred to ‘a confidential matter’ which he wished to discuss ‘in person’. Liebermann wondered if the director had developed a psychological problem that he did not wish to disclose to the opera house physician. The director’s mannerisms had certainly suggested a restless, neurotic temperament.

  Przistaupinsky met Liebermann at the stage door and escorted him to the director’s office.

  ‘Herr Doctor Liebermann,’ said Mahler, rising from his chair. ‘I am so glad you could come.’ He glanced at his secretary. ‘Przistaupinsky — tea. Please sit, Herr Doctor.’

  The surface of the director’s desk was obscured by a chaotic jumble of scores and books. Liebermann recognised two titles: a novel by Dostoyevsky, Crime and Punishment, and a book of philosophy by Gustav Fechner, Zend-Avesta, or Concerning All Things in Heaven and the Beyond.

  Director Mahler made no small talk. He produced a newspaper from beneath a battered copy of Mozart’s Jupiter Symphony and showed Liebermann the masthead. It was the Deutsche Zeitung.

  ‘Yesterday’s edition,’ said the director. He opened it and presented Liebermann with a lengthy article, the heading of which was stark and unpleasant: The Jewish Regime at the Vienna Opera. ‘Did you see this?’

  ‘I do not read the Deutsche Zeitung,’ said Liebermann.

  ‘It is an anonymous article that appears to have escaped the censor’s notice, a scurrilous piece of low journalism. Unfortunately, I must ask you to read it.’

  Liebermann took the newspaper.

  The initial paragraphs concerned Mahler’s style of conducting.

  What Herr Mahler sometimes does cannot be called conducting. It is more like the gesticulations of a dervish and, when the Kapellmeister has St Vitus’s dance, it’s really very difficult to keep time. His left hand often doesn’t know what the right one is doing …

  The author then went on to attack Mahler’s habit of reinforcing sections of the orchestra with additional instruments.

  If Herr Mahler wants to make corrections he should tackle the works of Mendelssohn and Rubinstein … But let him leave our Beethoven in peace …

  The final paragraph claimed that certain members of the orchestra had given Mahler a nickname, the Duty Sergeant, due to his peremptory manner, and had promised rebellion.

  Resistance is smouldering, even the most cowardly and submissive musicians will finally join the majority, and one of these days Mahler will find himself without an orchestra … it is conceivable to have the Opera without Mahler, but not without the orchestra.

  Liebermann was reminded of the civil disturbance he had seen outside the town hall and the hateful graffito. The general atmosphere of volatility had spread even to the philharmonic orchestra. He gave the newspaper back to the director and shook his head.

  ‘Disgraceful.’

  ‘It has obviously been written by an orchestral player and there are some whom I suspect; however, I cannot make an accusation without being absolutely confident that I have the right man.’

  ‘And you want my help?’

  ‘Precisely. I want you to identify the author of this article.’

  Mahler tossed the paper disdainfully across his desk.

  ‘Other than the fact that he is an orchestral player and an anti-Semite — which you no doubt already know — there is nothing more I can say.’

  The director frowned. ‘I thought …’ He chewed the nail of his index finger. ‘I thought a man with your understanding of human behaviour would …’ He produced a long, disappointed sigh.

  ‘A printed newspaper article is somewhat impersonal,’ said Liebermann. ‘All the small details which I might find revealing have been removed. It is a sanitised version of the handwritten original. Now, if you had that in your possession …’

  ‘The editor of the Deutsche Zeitung isn’t going to give me the original,’ said Mahler flatly.

  ‘Perhaps not, but you are the director of the court opera. A man in your position could appeal to the lord chamberlain.’

  ‘Prince Liechtenstein won’t want to get involved. Palace aides are always weary of being accused of meddling, and now even more so as the election approaches.’

  ‘Then I am afraid …’

  The director nodded. ‘I understand. Forgive me, Herr Doctor, I have wasted your time. Please submit an invoice and you will be remunerated.’

  ‘That really won’t be necessary,’ said Liebermann, a little embarrassed.

  ‘Then I hope you will accept some tickets to the opera with my compliments.’

  ‘I will indeed,’ Liebermann replied. Gesturing at the discarded newspaper he added: ‘And I would be happy to assist you in due course, should you obtain the original of this offensive article.’

  ‘That is very unlikely,’ said Mahler. ‘But I will try.’ He shrugged. ‘One never knows.’

  Przistaupinsky arrived with a tray laden with china. He cleared a space on the director’s desk, poured two cups of tea and indicated the sugar bowl.

  ‘How did you get on the other day?’ asked Mahler. ‘Did you and the inspector learn anything?’

  ‘The interviews proved very useful.’

  ‘I’m still rather confused as to the purpose of your visit.’

  ‘Procedures must be observed,’ said Liebermann disingenuously.

  The director wasn’t fooled. He looked at Liebermann sceptically before his features softened. ‘Did you read the reviews of Rienzi?’

  ‘They were outstanding. I noticed Herr Schmedes was singled out.’

  Deep laughter lines appeared on Mahler’s face. ‘That was a remarkable thing you did, Herr Doctor.’ The director raised his teacup as if proposing a toast.

  Liebermann inclined his head, hoping very much that he would be afforded another opportunity to impress the director.

  17

  Amelia Lydgate lived among a people for whom music was not so much a pleasure as a way of life. In this respect, the difference between the German and English character was most pronounced. Not wishing to appear deficient, Amelia had asked Liebermann to recommend some concerts. He had immediately assumed the role of musical mentor and had taken her to a recital of Bach’s English Suites. A second concert followed, then a third, then a fourth. In the space of only a few months, attending piano recitals together had become a regular event. Liebermann recognised his own duplicity. These musical outings provided him with a perfect pretext for seeing Amelia. He had previously been obliged to fabricate all kinds of justifications, but now they had found a suitably innocuous reason for meeting and neither party expressed any wish to alter the arrangement.

  Pretexts were necessary because Liebermann had once been Amelia Lydgate’s doctor. He had treated her at the general hospital for a hysterical illness that had arisen because of a trauma: she had been importuned by a man who was supposed to be acting in loco parentis. Needless to say, this unfortunate history complicated Liebermann’s relationship with Amelia — a relationship that had continued beyond the termination of treatment.

  After attending concerts at the Bosendorfersaal, it had become their custom to stroll down Herrengasse to Cafe Central, where a candlelit table awaited them in the glass-covered courtyard. First they would discuss the recital, then Amelia’s medical studies — anatomy, physiology, diseases of the blood — and finally they would discuss books, philosophy and, very occasionally, psychoanalysis.

  Amelia was wearing a pla
in blouse, grey jacket and matching skirt. She had tied her hair back with a silver ribbon, revealing the luminous red stones of her pendant earrings. The taut whiteness of her neck was completely exposed and her skin gleamed like polished marble. Liebermann made an effort to concentrate more carefully on what his companion was saying. She was praising a book by Goethe called Elective Affinities, a work that Liebermann had not read.

  ‘It is a most interesting piece of writing,’ said Amelia. ‘A romantic novel, but unlike any other I have ever before encountered. In a sense, it is as much about natural philosophy as it is about the lives of the protagonists. In an early chapter the author draws attention to the similarities that exist between chemical reactions and human behaviour, and by doing so raises profound questions relevant to psychology.’ She picked up her cup and took a minute sip of Earl Grey tea. When she resumed speaking, her lips were glistening. ‘Some substances meet as friends, hastening together, like the mixture of wine and water. Other substances are obdurate strangers and refuse to unite. Oil and water will separate immediately even after they have been shaken together. It is as if preferences are being expressed.’ Amelia leaned forward. ‘In its day, Elective Affinities was the subject of considerable controversy and was regarded as being immoral.’

  Liebermann looked perplexed.

  ‘Why was that?’ he said. ‘Goethe’s observation appears harmless enough.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Amelia replied, shaking her head. ‘Quite the opposite.’ The pendant earrings swung and the stones flashed. ‘Astute members of the clergy identified in Elective Affinities a challenge to Church doctrine. By drawing these analogies Goethe was showing that inanimate matter sometimes appears to exhibit attributes — free will, for example — associated with higher explanations. Thus he gives us cause to question their legitimacy.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Liebermann. ‘I see what you mean. Choices are made by the brain, not the soul.’

  ‘Indeed,’ replied Amelia. ‘However, the principal objection to Elective Affinities concerned the nature of …’ Amelia hesitated for a moment before saying, ‘… love.’ Liebermann tilted his head to one side, adopting the attitude of one eager to hear more. ‘Love is the most elevated state,’ Amelia continued. ‘It was considered almost sacrilegious to suggest that love has a material origin, that lovers are drawn together not by destiny but by the irresistible power of some chemical attraction.’

  They gazed into each other’s eyes and the moment became uncomfortably intense. A waiter dashed past and the candle between them flickered.

  Liebermann looked away. ‘Yes,’ he said, embarrassed. ‘I can see that.’

  When he had recovered his composure he turned to face Amelia. She was still staring at him. A vertical line had appeared on her forehead.

  ‘Would you like to read it?’ Amelia reached into her reticule and pulled out a slim volume bound in black cloth. She passed the book across the table.

  ‘Yes,’ said Liebermann. ‘I would.’

  They spoke a little more about literature and the conversation became lighter in tone. Amelia mentioned that Frau Rubenstein, the widow in whose house she lived, was about to embark on a trip to Germany.

  ‘Really?’ said Liebermann. ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘She’s going to visit some relatives in Berlin.’

  ‘I didn’t know she had relatives.’

  ‘Neither did I,’ said Amelia, tracing a circle with her finger on the table top.

  That night, lying in her bed, Amelia Lydgate was reading a journal published by The Socialist Education Alliance. She discovered that she could not concentrate. Consequently she got up, crossed the room to her bookcase and scanned the spines. She found a volume of English poetry. The well-thumbed pages fell open at ‘To His Coy Mistress’ by the seventeenth-century poet Andrew Marvell.

  Had we but World enough, and Time,

  This coyness Lady were no crime.

  The poem took the form of an entreaty: a young man, begging the object of his love to consummate. The arguments employed were persuasive.

  But at my back I always hear

  Time’s winged Chariot hurrying near.

  Time, thought Amelia. How the silent hours steal by. Days, months and years …

  The Grave’s a fine and private place,

  But none I think do there embrace.

  Amelia returned to her bed and held the book against her chest. She remembered Frau Eberhardt talking about the research undertaken in America and the answers given by the respondents: ecstatic, delightful, would have hated to have omitted the experience. She closed her eyes, but knew she would not sleep.

  18

  Listening to constable Drasche on the telephone, Rheinhardt had been overcome by a sense of unreality. The familiar things around him, his desk, pen and bowler hat, had appeared alien, as if they belonged to someone else. The extent of his dissociation had only became apparent when a lengthy, crackling silence was broken by Drasche’s anxious inquiry: ‘Are you still there, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ he had replied. ‘I think I’d better come and interview him myself.’

  Rheinhardt had not seen Drasche since the morning when Ida Rosenkrantz’s body was discovered. He was waiting with the duty officer at the front desk of the Dommayergasse police station and looked younger than Rheinhardt remembered. After the exchange of some preliminary civilities, Rheinhardt asked, ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In our interview room.’

  ‘How long has he been here?’

  ‘About two hours.’

  The inspector turned one of the horns of his moustache.

  ‘Tell me Drasche, why did he wish to speak to you?’

  ‘He knows me. I’m always running into him on my beat. I used to think he was a thief — out on the streets, late at night, looking at the villas. But I was mistaken.’

  ‘And you consider him trustworthy?’

  Drasche’s expression was artless. ‘I don’t see why he would have made it up, sir.’

  Rheinhardt nodded, hoping that the constable wasn’t as naive as he appeared. Drasche led Rheinhardt to a small, simply furnished room, where a thin, hungry-looking man was nursing a cup of tea.

  The inspector took out his notebook. ‘Thank you for waiting, Herr …’

  ‘Geisler. Achim Geisler.’

  He was probably in his early middle years, but looked much older. His hair was prematurely streaked with grey and his face was deeply lined. The coat he wore had been patched at the elbows and a tangle of black thread marked the location of a missing button.

  ‘Where do you live, Herr Geisler?’

  ‘I rent a sleeping berth at the men’s hostel.’

  ‘And how much does that cost you?’ asked Rheinhardt.

  ‘One krone for the week.’

  ‘Have you found work?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘What is your occupation?’

  ‘I’m a gardener. I thought it’d be easy to get a job up here. You know, what with all the big houses …’

  ‘But no one has been willing to employ you.’

  Geisler’s mouth curved downwards. ‘No.’

  Rheinhardt made some notes. Before he had finished writing he spoke again. ‘Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s death was reported almost a week ago.’ The inspector looked up. ‘Why did you wait so long before coming forward?’

  ‘I didn’t know she was dead until today,’ said Geisler, his voice rising slightly. ‘Last Thursday I picked up a newspaper and stuffed it into the lining of my coat. It helps with the cold. This afternoon my coat got wet and I took the paper out. The headline caught my attention.’

  ‘Are you a devotee of the opera?’ said Rheinhardt, narrowing his eyes.

  ‘No. I’ve never been to the opera. But I knew who Ida Rosenkrantz was and I knew where she lived.’

  ‘How did you come by this information?’

  ‘Timo, her gardener. I used to see him weeding. One day I was passing and asked him if he needed an assistant. He didn�
�t, but we got talking. Decent man, Timo. He said that if he heard about any positions becoming available he’d let me know.’

  Rheinhardt nodded. ‘Why were you walking the streets on such a night? It was freezing. The fog was impenetrable.’

  ‘Have you ever slept in a men’s hostel, Inspector? Each cubicle has just enough room for a bed, a small table, a clothes rack and a mirror. A bath costs fifteen hellers, so most of the men don’t wash. The walls are thin and there are arguments. Austrians, Czechs, Hungarians, Poles. They don’t get on. This election — you’d think they were all running for office … so many opinions.’ Geisler placed his hands over his ears and rocked his head from side to side. ‘It drives you mad.’

  ‘Why not sit in a coffee house?’

  ‘You can’t sit in a coffee house without buying a coffee. It’s not a lot, I know, but it all adds up.’

  Rheinhardt studied the impecunious gardener. He seemed genuine.

  ‘You’re quite sure it was on Monday the seventh. That night?’

  ‘How could I be mistaken? You said it yourself, the fog was impenetrable. I wouldn’t forget weather like that.’

  ‘What time was it?’

  ‘I can’t say exactly. When I’m walking around out there I lose track of time. But it might have been nine or ten o’ clock, no later than eleven — I’m always back at the hostel by eleven.’

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘A carriage. It was parked right outside. As I approached, the door opened and I saw a gentleman get out. He turned around and I recognised him immediately.’

  ‘You’re quite sure?’

  ‘Well, if it wasn’t him he must have a double.’

  ‘Did he see you?’

  ‘Yes, he did.’

  ‘Did he react?’

  ‘No. He just hurried through the garden gate and went to the door. The article I read didn’t mention him paying a visit. I thought it was something the police might want to know about — and I hoped that,’ Geisler grimaced, ‘given my circumstances …’