Death and the Maiden (2 page)

‘Well, they could only depend on our support up to a point.’

‘Quite so.’

‘Thereafter …’

‘Indeed. But you have the authority and means to deal with any complications should they arise. Isn’t that so?’

Mayor Lueger was smiling – but the emperor did not reciprocate. The two men greeted each other somewhat stiffly, and the mayor began to present his party, a group of six gentlemen all in their middle years.

‘The Anti-Semitic German-Austrian Writers’ Association,’ murmured the prince.

‘How very embarrassing,’ said the lord marshal. They watched as each of the men spoke a few words to the emperor before moving on. Finally, the mayor himself bowed and followed the band of writers to the less densely populated margin.

Unexpectedly, the emperor looked up in the general direction of his two courtiers. The lord marshal and Prince Liechtenstein both corrected their posture, but it was obvious that the emperor was seeking the notice of the lord marshal rather than that of the lord chamberlain. His Majesty was clearly unhappy. The lord marshal began to walk down the stairs but the emperor shook his head. Then, turning towards Count Paar, the emperor composed himself for the next presentation.

‘This isn’t good,’ said the lord marshal.

The prince responded sympathetically. ‘Yes, but at this precise moment there is nothing you can do. Come now. Where did that singer go? Let me introduce you to her. She’s adorable.’

D
ETECTIVE
I
NSPECTOR
O
SKAR
R
HEINHARDT
– a portly gentleman with a turned-up moustache and world-weary expression – was standing on the pavement of a wide tree-lined road. The fog of the previous evening had persisted and the buildings on both sides were only faintly visible as shadowy cubes, spaced apart at regular intervals. It had been a slow and perilous journey by horse-drawn cab, visibility deteriorating as they gained altitude. Indeed, they had only narrowly escaped involvement in a serious collision next to the Kaiser Pavilion.

Rheinhardt turned to address his assistant.

‘Search the grounds, Haussmann. See if you can find anything.’

‘But, sir …’

‘Yes, I know that conditions are far from ideal,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘Nevertheless …’ The inspector removed a flashlight from his pocket and handed it to his disgruntled junior. Haussmann aimed the weak yellow beam at the cobblestones, revealing nothing but a slowly undulating blanket of fog. ‘Oh, very well,’ said Rheinhardt, persuaded to reconsider the wisdom of his order: ‘You can accompany me. Perhaps it’ll lift later.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Haussmann, much relieved.

A figure emerged from the mist. ‘Who’s there?’

‘Detective Inspector Rheinhardt and my assistant, Haussmann.’

‘Good morning, sir. Constable Drasche.’

The young man clicked his heels. He was wearing a long blue coat, a spiked hat, and a sabre hung from his waist.

‘How long have you been here, Drasche?’ asked Rheinhardt.

‘Three hours or thereabouts.’

‘I’m sorry for the delay. The driver could barely see the road ahead of him. Who’s inside?’

‘Frau Marcus, the housekeeper, and Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s doctor – Engelberg. Frau Marcus called him as soon as she found the body. He was here before I arrived. He’s not in a very good mood, sir.’

‘Oh? Why’s that?’

‘He didn’t want to be detained: said he had patients to see.’

The horse was restive and the driver jumped down from his box to give it some sugar.

‘The dead woman,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Fräulein Rosenkrantz …’

Drasche anticipated the inspector’s question.

‘Yes, it’s
her
, sir. The singer.’

Haussmann’s sharp features showed perplexity.

‘Have you not heard of Ida Rosenkrantz, Haussmann?’

‘No, sir. She’s never sung at Ronacher’s.’

Rheinhardt shook his head. ‘Haussmann, she’s not
that
kind of singer! She’s an opera singer, a celebrated soprano. You’ll recognise her when you see her. Her image is in every shop window along Kärntnerstrasse.’

‘Even my tailor has a signed photograph of Fräulein Rosenkrantz,’ said Drasche. ‘He saw her in
The Flying Dutchman
and was smitten. I can remember teasing him about it.’

The restive horse – still nervous and unsettled – whinnied and stamped on the cobbles.

Rheinhardt pulled at his chin and emitted a low, pensive growl.

‘Court opera singers are only appointed after they have been
approved by the palace. I strongly suspect that protocol demands that the emperor – or at least the lord chamberlain, Prince Liechtenstein – must now be informed of Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s demise.’

‘You intend to go the palace, sir?’ asked Haussmann, his eyes widening with alarm.

‘No, of course not, Haussmann,’ said Rheinhardt, a trace of testiness disturbing the otherwise pleasing fluidity of his baritone. ‘We must contact Commissioner Brügel and it is
he
who will inform the lord chamberlain’s office. Come, Drasche, you had better show us the way.’

They passed along a perimeter fence of railings (each of which was topped by a fleur-de-lis) and entered a small garden, where a paved pathway led between two beech trees to the double doors of a white stucco villa. Some of the windows were separated by gilded panels and a stylised statue of an eagle with angular outstretched wings perched above the entrance. All the ground-floor windows were illuminated.

Drasche opened one of the double doors and ushered Rheinhardt and Haussmann into the hallway. It was a bright space, with yellow wallpaper and floor tiles the colour of eggshell. Directly ahead, a carpeted staircase rose up before dividing into two smaller staircases, each reaching the second floor on opposite sides of the building. The air was fragrant with a smell similar to that of blooming hyacinths.

‘Ah, there you are, constable,’ said a man as he stepped over the threshold of an adjacent room. He was in his late fifties and wore a frock coat. ‘I really must protest.’

Before he could continue, Drasche indicated his companions and said: ‘Herr Doctor Engelberg, this is Detective Inspector Rheinhardt, from the security office.’

‘Ah,’ said the doctor, frowning. ‘You’ve finally arrived.’

‘Progress was slow on account of the weather.’

‘You will forgive me for neglecting to observe the customary civilities, inspector, but I am obliged to make an immediate request. I have been here all morning and many of my patients are expecting domiciliary visits. If I am delayed for very much longer it will be impossible for me to see them all. Would you please take their needs into consideration?’

‘You wish to leave as soon as possible,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Of course, that is perfectly understandable. I will endeavour to conduct our business swiftly. Where is Frau Marcus?’

‘In the kitchen. I was just attending to her. She is very distressed.’

‘Should she be left alone?’

‘Perhaps not.’

‘Drasche,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Would you be so kind as to sit with Frau Marcus?’

The constable took off his helmet and scratched his head.

‘I’m not very good at that sort of thing, sir: comforting women in distress.’

Rheinhardt sighed.

‘You don’t have to
do
anything, Drasche. Just sit with her. Allow her to communicate her feelings if she wishes. But if she is silent respect that silence and do not speak merely for the sake of it.’ Rheinhardt paused before adding: ‘And be sure to make her a cup of tea.’

‘But what if she doesn’t want a cup of tea, sir?’

‘Make her one, anyway. I can assure you that she will drink it.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Drasche replaced his helmet, bowed, and departed with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

When Rheinhardt turned to address Engelberg, the doctor’s hostility had been replaced by surprise and mild-mannered amusement.

‘Excellent advice, Inspector.’

Rheinhardt acknowledged the compliment with a slight tilt of his head.

‘And the body, Herr Doctor?’

‘Upstairs.’

They began their ascent.

‘What time was it when you received Frau Marcus’s telephone call, Herr Doctor?’

‘Around seven-thirty.’

‘And what time did you get here?’

‘No later than quarter to eight.’ Rheinhardt’s expression was sceptical. ‘I rise very early, you see. I was already dressed and I live only a short distance away.’

When they reached the landing Engelberg opened the first of several doors. ‘She’s in here.’

They entered a richly appointed bedroom where gas jets flickered within globes of smoked glass. A four-poster bed occupied a commanding central position, its heavy curtains tied back with gold cords so as to reveal a counterpane embroidered with a medieval scene: against a backdrop of peacocks and roses stood a noblewoman who was holding a standard displaying three crescent moons. At her feet sat a docile unicorn and a good-humoured lion that seemed content to entertain a small white rabbit in the gap between its paws. Two purple stockings had been discarded on the pillows. The wallpaper was striped, burgundy columns alternating with green, with a repeated violin and laurel-wreath motif in raised silver.

Next to the window was a dressing table with a hinged oval mirror on which several bottles, an amber-coloured decanter and numerous small mother-of-pearl boxes had been casually laid out. Scattered among these items was a tortoisehell comb, several brooches, and a curious totemic object made of hair and beads. Rheinhardt inhaled.
The smell of hyacinths had intensified. He looked around and identified its source as a large egg-shaped pomander of fretted ivory; however, the inspector was also conscious of an acrid undertow. In the far corner he saw a wardrobe and beside it a washstand. Instead of the usual porcelain, the bowl and jug were made from a semi-transparent turquoise glass, encrusted with jasper.

The overall effect of the room suggested luxury and abundance. Yet there was something distinctly dissolute about the decor. The gemstones and sumptuous colours tested the limits of aesthetic tolerance and awakened prejudices. Rheinhardt found himself thinking that he had entered not the bedroom of an operatic diva but a seraglio.

Engelberg crossed to the other side of the room and made a sweeping gesture. Rheinhardt and Haussmann followed and as they rounded the bed Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s lifeless form came into view. The dead woman was lying on her back, positioned within the rectangle of a Persian rug. It was a pleasing effect, possessing the compositional virtues of a painting. She was wearing a pink silk dress overlaid with a lacy décolleté trim. Her complexion was pale and her plenteous auburn curls complemented a youthful face of exceptional delicacy. Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s eyes were closed and the almost perfect ovals of her fingernails were tinged with a bluish hue. She was not wearing any shoes and her bare feet projected out from a sufficiency of petticoats. On the floor, next to the rug, was a phial. Its stopper had rolled beneath a bedside table on which more empty bottles stood.

‘Herr Doctor?’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Did you move Fräulein Rosenkrantz when you examined her?’

‘No. She remains exactly as found.’

‘What about Frau Marcus? Did she move Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s body?’

‘I don’t think so. As far as I know she made no attempt to revive or resuscitate her.’

Rheinhardt stepped closer.

‘How did Fräulein Rosenkrantz die?’

‘It would appear that she imbibed an excessive quantity of laudanum.’

‘Intentionally?’

‘That is certainly a possibility …’

‘However?’

‘I can think of no reason why she should have chosen to end her life. I take it you are aware of Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s reputation? She was at the height of her powers. There are few who can claim to have conquered the hearts of the music-loving public so decisively. We have been robbed of a singular talent, make no mistake.’