Death and the Maiden (11 page)

‘Doctor Engelberg, her general practitioner, told me that he saw Fräulein Rosenkrantz a few weeks ago and she was in excellent spirits.’

‘Doctors …’ said Schneider, shaking his head and demonstrating his low opinion of the profession with a grimace. Then, remembering that he was in the presence of a medical man, he glanced at
Liebermann and added, ‘My apologies, Herr Doctor, I am upset, you understand.’

Liebermann excused him with a magnanimous gesture.

‘What did you mean by that?’ Rheinhardt imitated Schneider’s tone: ‘
Doctors
…’

‘She was unhappy about lots of things. I don’t think
they
were able to help her very much. ‘

Schneider had been voluble, talking with natural ease, but now, quite suddenly, he became reticent. He looked across the room at a circular table covered with a purple cloth. A candle flame flickered above three picture frames. The first contained a print of the Virgin Mary, the second a sepia image of an old woman, presumably Schneider’s deceased mother, and the third a photograph of Ida Rosenkrantz. The singer was dressed in a medieval costume and had been captured in a melodramatic pose.

‘Herr Schneider,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘You were saying …’

The dresser came out of his reverie.

‘She was never
right
– in her mind. Well, at least not since this spring.’

‘We know that she saw a psychiatrist, a man called Professor Saminsky.’

‘She was a consummate actress. It was easy for her to convince her doctor and friends that she was in excellent spirits. But she wasn’t.’

‘Why? What happened?’ asked Liebermann.

Schneider sighed and stubbed out his cigarette.

‘Love did not make her happy. This was not necessarily the fault of the gentlemen. She could have made different choices.’

‘Forgive me, Herr Schneider,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘but I am finding it rather difficult to understand your meaning. Would you be kind enough to speak more directly?’

Schneider nodded, and lit another cigarette before resuming. ‘What I mean to say is, Fräulein Rosenkrantz was in the habit of becoming romantically attached to unsuitable men, more often than not older men … like Winkelmann.’

‘Hermann Winkelmann?’ asked Rheinhardt.

Schneider did not respond to the question and just carried on. ‘It was plain to me that such relationships would never amount to much. The gentlemen were usually married with families. They were never very serious about her. She, however, was always serious about
them
. She would have found happiness more readily in the arms of someone like Schmedes, or a young officer, someone looking for romance rather than a brief amorous adventure.’

‘Was she rejected then, in the spring? asked Liebermann.

Schneider turned towards Rheinhardt. ‘This is rather difficult for me, inspector. I feel as though I am betraying her.’

‘It is extremely important,’ Rheinhardt replied, ‘that we determine Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s state of mind at the time of her death. If you know anything at all that clarifies the issue, then you must say.’

Schneider shrugged. ‘I suppose whatever I disclose now cannot harm her.’ He sucked on his cigarette and blew the smoke out through his nostrils. ‘She got herself pregnant … and sought assistance to resolve the predicament.’

‘The pregnancy was terminated?’ asked Liebermann.

‘Yes.’

‘Who was the father?’ asked Rheinhardt.

‘She never told me. But from that time onwards, as far as I’m concerned, she was never herself again. She became sad, preoccupied. She had some kind of throat problem, which got worse. Fortunately, it only became very bad when the opera house closed for the summer. I think she started seeing the psychiatrist about then, too. One must suppose he helped her a little, because she was ready to sing again
before the new season started. Be that as it may, she wasn’t the same person. I don’t know how to describe it.’

‘When did she tell you about the termination of her pregnancy?’ asked Rheinhardt.

‘About three weeks ago, after a performance of
Fidelio
. She burst into the dressing room and started crying as soon as she was through the door. She was beside herself and said all kinds of things about how she was going to hell, and that it was only right given the severity of her sin. I had to give her some slivovitz to bring her back to her senses and then I had to cancel her table at the Imperial.’ Schneider flicked a smut of ash from his trousers. ‘It was going to be impossible to get her out of the building without being seen and I was worried about what might happen if we encountered anyone important as we tried to leave. But I needn’t have worried. She acted her way out. No one would have suspected that only minutes earlier she had been weeping uncontrollably, digging her fingernails into her own flesh … horrible.’ Schneider shuddered. ‘You would never have guessed it. She smiled, accepted compliments, and even stopped to sign a few autographs before getting into her carriage. Remarkable.’

‘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?’

‘Fräulein 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 Fräulein 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.

‘Fräulein 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 Fräuleins Amsel and Rosenkrantz.’

‘There was, indeed,’ Schneider replied. ‘But Fräulein 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!’

A
S 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 mêlée 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 defaced 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.