Death and the Maiden (3 page)

‘When was the last time Fräulein Rosenkrantz had cause to request a consultation?’

‘Only two weeks ago.’

‘With respect to …?’

‘A touch of neuralgia but otherwise she was in excellent spirits. I can remember her talking excitedly about roles she expected to take next season.’

‘So what are we to conclude, Herr Doctor? That her death was accidental?’

‘That
would
be my opinion …’ Engelberg’s sentence trailed off into silence. He sighed and began again: ‘That would be my opinion were it not for the fact that Fräulein Rosenkrantz once needed the services of a psychiatrist. In the spring I arranged for her to see Professor Daniel Saminsky.’ Engelberg paused before adding: ‘A colleague of some distinction. He once had the honour of attending the late empress, and has since been awarded the Order of Elizabeth.’

Rheinhardt twisted the horns of his moustache.

‘What was the reason for the referral?’

‘Globus hystericus,’
Engelberg replied.

‘Would you care to explain?’

‘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 Fräulein 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 Fräulein 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 Fräulein 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 Fräulein 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: Fräulein 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 Fräulein 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 Fräulein 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. Fräulein 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 Fräulein 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 Fräulein Rosenkrantz?’

‘Two years.’

‘Who else works here?’

‘Only the gardener.’

‘Fräulein 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 Fräulein 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 Fräulein 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 motioned 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 Fräulein 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 Fräulein 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.

T
HE PIANIST OF THE
Café 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?’