Death and the Maiden (42 page)

‘When we first interviewed Saminsky, he misdirected us concerning his whereabouts on the night of the murder – claiming to have recently returned from Salzburg – and led us to believe that the mayor was responsible for Rosenkrantz’s pregnancy. He must have felt quite pleased with himself; however, when we reappeared, challenging the accuracy of his testimony and accusing him of unprofessional
conduct, the experience understandably unnerved him. Saminsky was an opportunist, not a hardened criminal. He panicked and immediately went to the lord marshal for assistance. Unfortunately, Saminsky’s discomposure did not impress the lord marshal, who began to doubt whether the psychiatrist had the stomach to carry through the undertaking he had embarked upon. What would happen, he wondered, if Saminsky went to pieces during questioning? The consequences, so soon after the Crown Prince’s demise at Mayerling, were unthinkable. The lord marshal’s agents were dispatched, and the following day Saminsky was no longer a problem. The same, however, could not be said of Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt. Even though your superior gave you a clear indication that the Saminsky case was best left alone – you continued to investigate. You were put under surveillance, and the resulting intelligence was not good. Had you not dealt with the lord marshal’s agent so deftly, I very much doubt you would be sitting here now, drinking brandy and enjoying my excellent cigars.’

Liebermann crossed the floor and returned to his seat.

‘The commissioner was, of course, quick to endorse the most expedient account of Saminsky’s death.’ Liebermann’s voice became laboured: ‘Rosenkrantz had insisted that Saminsky leave his wife. She had started to issue threats. To avoid a scandal Saminsky killed her, taking care to make it look as if she had committed suicide. Unfortunately, he accidentally broke one of her ribs, thus drawing attention to his crime. When Saminsky realised we were catching up with him, he took his own life.’ Liebermann returned to his professorial mode of address. ‘Commissioner Brügel made sure that Saminsky’s file was in order, removing and presumably destroying the supplementary autopsy report by Professor Mathais. Within a few weeks, the palace had discovered
evidence
,’ Liebermann raised his eyebrows, ‘that Saminsky was an embezzler, giving the public reason
to contemplate the effect that the prospect of imminent exposure might have had on a man who already had a murder on his conscience. The commissioner was rewarded for his cooperation with the Order of the Iron Cross, and you, my friend, have been offered promotion and future honours as a reward for demonstrating
good judgement and discretion
.’

Rheinhardt poured himself a brandy, threw his head back, and drank it down like a shot of schnapps.

‘God in heaven,’ he sighed. ‘What will become of us!’

Liebermann produced a sardonic smile. ‘I dare say we’ll carry on. There will be the usual festivities at Christmas, dances, and then more balls in the new year. We will give each other bunches of violets next March, and then there will be concerts and operas and the Corpus Christi Day procession.’

‘But it can’t go on for ever,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Not with so much corruption.
Protektion
is one thing, but this …’

‘I have always been sanguine about the future,’ said Liebermann. ‘But I am not so sure now.’

‘The mayor, the palace!’ Rheinhardt shook his head violently. ‘And if that wasn’t enough, now there’s Serbia to worry about.’

‘Serbia?’

‘The assassinations! My colleague Hohenwart thinks there will be a war.’

‘Oh, that’s impossible. Serbia isn’t important enough. A few skirmishes, perhaps.’

Rheinhardt shrugged his shoulders. ‘One might start over again, I suppose, but I can’t think where. Vienna is our home.’

Liebermann sipped his brandy and his expression lightened.

‘How about London?’

‘London? Why London?’

‘There’s a place to the north of the city called Highgate, which
I understand is a little like Grinzing. The pastries, music and weather could be better, but still, the people are of a similar type. I always think of the English as polite Germans. Yes, London wouldn’t be
so
bad.’

T
HE TOWN HALL ROSE
up above the Christmas market in all its Gothic splendour and its soaring spires, patinated with early evening frost, sparkled beneath a crescent moon. Liebermann pulled Amelia closer to him, and when she turned her head he kissed her quickly on the lips. She was wearing a long green coat, embroidered with elevated black curlicues, and a hat, artfully worn so as to display waves of luxurious red hair.

They laughed at their own audacity.

There had been a Christmas market held in Vienna for over six hundred years, and the Viennese were old hands at transforming seasonal commerce into a fine art. The little park in front of the town hall was filled with people, the crowd constantly fed by an endless stream of humanity pouring in off the Ringstrasse. Above the stalls and traders, paper lanterns swung beneath the branches of tall trees, and the air was suffused with fragrances: roasted chestnuts, mulled wine, exotic spices, frankincense, chocolate, Arabian teas, sugared fruit, almonds, pumpernickel, scented soaps, cologne, mustard, and scorched sausages. The olfactory mêlée was overwhelming.

The couple passed by a vendor selling spirits from a miniature alpine cabin, its interior crammed with multicoloured bottles. Liebermann’s gaze travelled across the alcoholic spectrum, slowing for a moment as it passed over the eldritch glow of the absinthes.

In a tiny enclosure, small children were riding ponies around a circular track.

Squeezing through the throng, they came upon a group of musicians playing
Schrammelmusik
. The small band, consisting of a zither player, accordionist and two violins, were giving a lively account of a popular drinking song. A group of noisy revellers had gathered around the musicians and were attempting the yodelling chorus, which required a dropped beat to be supplied by the collision of steins – a requirement that was causing much spillage and merriment.

‘Come,’ said Liebermann. ‘Let’s move on.’

Eventually they arrived at the arched entrance of the town hall, where an enormous Christmas tree had been erected. It was bedecked with ribbons and candles and exuded a fresh resiny smell. A small choir of six gentlemen – wrapped up in woollen scarves, red-cheeked, and with bright, fervid eyes – were standing next to the tree, fully exploiting a portamento which climbed to the very highest note of
Stille Nacht
.

‘Liebermann?’

The young doctor turned and almost reeled back when he discovered who had spoken his name.

‘Director Mahler.’

‘My dear fellow,’ said the director, smiling warmly and shaking Liebermann’s hand. ‘How are you?’

‘Very well, thank you.’

Before Liebermann could reciprocate, the director was gesturing at the woman standing next to him. ‘Allow me to introduce my wife.’

Alma Mahler was reputed to be one of the most beautiful women in Vienna. Liebermann was rather surpised by her appearance. Although very pretty, she was not as striking as he had supposed. She had rather soft rounded features, and a winning if rather cautious
smile. Groomed eyebrows traced delicate arcs above her large inquiring eyes, and, like Amelia, she too wore her hat at a precipitous angle to show off her hair to best advantage.

Alma raised her arm, allowing her gloved hand to fall at an angle from the wrist.

Liebermann bowed and brushed the fawn leather with his lips.

‘Frau Director.’ Then urging his companion to come forward, he said: ‘My fiancée, Miss Amelia Lydgate.’

Amelia inclined her head.

‘You are English?’ asked the director.

‘Yes.’

‘And where are you from, exactly?’

‘London.’

‘Ah, London,’ said the director. ‘I travelled there once to conduct a German season at Covent Garden. I learned a little of your language – not a great deal, I’m afraid – and gave your countrymen a second opportunity to hear Wagner’s
Der Ring des Nibelungen.’

‘Was it well received?’ asked Amelia.

‘Yes, the audiences were very enthusiastic. I left exhausted, but also convinced of a deep affinity between the English and German peoples.’ The director addressed his wife. ‘This is Herr Doctor Liebermann, my dear. Do you remember me mentioning him back in the autumn? The fellow who managed to get Schmedes back on stage when there was that awful business going on with the Hermann-Bündler: the one who helped to weed out Treffen.’

Alma’s face brightened with recognition.

‘Ah yes, the psychiatrist, of course. You are a man possessed of remarkable talents, Herr Doctor.’

Liebermann was embarrassed by the compliment and made a humorous self-deprecatory remark.

‘So,’ said the director. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Nowhere in particular,’ Liebermann replied. ‘We just came to see the market.’

‘Well, why don’t you join us? We were on our way to meet some friends at Café Landtmann.’

‘Yes,
do
join us,’ said the director’s wife, stepping forward and clutching Liebermann’s arm.

Liebermann looked to Amelia to see what she thought. She was nodding her head.

Extricating himself from Alma’s eager grip, he reached out and took Amelia’s hand.

‘Thank you, Herr Director. We would be delighted to join you.’

The two couples made their way down the wide boulevard that led to the Ringstrasse. As was often the case, Liebermann thought that he might be dreaming. He was going to the Café Landtmann, with Amelia Lydgate on his arm, in the company of Director Mahler and his wife.

Sometimes the city in which he lived seemed to be a place of boundless possibilities.

He glanced back at the town hall, and wondered if the newly re-elected demagogue was ensconced in the clock tower, gazing down from behind one of those many black windows on his domain.

There might be difficult times ahead …

But he wasn’t prepared to ruin the evening thinking about them now.

I
WOULD LIKE TO
thank: Kate Elton, Clare Alexander, Steve Matthews and Nicola Fox for their valuable comments on the first and subsequent drafts of
Death and the Maiden
, Nick Austin for a thorough copy-edit, Simon Dalgleish for identifying German errors in the text, Luitgard Hammerer for translating my research questions into German and making contact with various institutions in Vienna, Harald Seyrl at the criminal museum in Vienna for answering questions on the mayor’s immunity to prosecution and early twentieth-century abortion law, and Dr Yves Steppler, consultant pathologist, for advice on compressive asphyxia.

The opening scene in which Karl Lueger presents officers of the anti-Semitic German-Austrian Writers’ Association to the emperor is based on an image which can be found in the Austrian National Library Photograph collection. Descriptions of Karl Lueger – including small details like his offset eye – can be found in
Karl Lueger: Mayor of Fin de Siècle Vienna
by Richard S. Geehr. ‘I decide who is a Jew’ is a direct and now quite infamous quote. Descriptions of Franz-Josef were informed by passages found in
The Emperor and the Actress
by Joan Haslip. The emperor’s routine and living quarters are detailed in the Hofburg Palace Guidebook,
Imperial Apartments, Sisi Museum, and Imperial Silver Collection
, by Ingrid Haslinger and Katrin Unterreiner. There is a long tradition, going all the way back to Bach, of composers
representing themselves in their own music with themes constructed from the letters of their names. Later composers have dramatised their personal relationships using the same principle. The
Lyric Suite
by the Second Viennese School composer Alban Berg is a notable example. In 1976 George Perle discovered that Berg had worked his own initials, and those of a woman with whom he was having an affair, into the central motif. My descriptions of Gustav Mahler are based on many sources: however, the first and second volumes of Henry-Louis de la Grange’s four-volume biography,
Gustav Mahler
, were invaluable. The tenor Erik Schmedes refused to sing at the premiere of
Rienzi
because of threats made by the fans of Hermann Winkelmann – although in January 1901, not 1903. The red room at the court opera is mentioned by de la Grange and was used for auditions. My red room, however, is entirely imagined. An anonymous article criticising Mahler was published in the
Deutsche Zeitung
in 1898, early in his career at the court opera. I have quoted directly from the original, making no changes. Critical letters were also circulated at the time, one of which Mahler obtained. In order to establish the identity of the author, Mahler persuaded the opera house to pay a graphologist, Professor Skallipitzky, to analyse the handwriting. He also paid a second unknown expert out of his own pocket. Mahler’s response to Plappart’s request for more judicious expenditure of opera house funds is a direct quotation. The incident of the timpanist leaving the opera house early to catch the last train took place in 1897. Mahler’s views on Brahms as a composer of variations are authentic.
Marillenknödel
(apricot dumplings) was indeed Mahler’s favourite dessert. I have been unable to trace his sister Justi’s much-loved recipe but an acceptable substitute can be found on page 95 of
Viennese Cuisine: Cook and Enjoy
by Martina Hohenlohe (Pichler Verlag). Mahler’s strong views on
Marillenknoödel
were originally expressed to Karpath. Although Mahler hired private detectives in an effort to rid the court opera of the
claque, he was never entirely successful in achieving this aim. They were still there when he left the court opera in 1907. The content of Frau Eberhardt’s speech on marriage and female sexuality was based on information found in
Schnitzler’s Century
by Peter Gay. The statistics on female orgasm are from a study conducted by Dr Clelia Duel Mosher in the USA in 1892. The Kleines Café in Franziskanerplatz (which also appears in
Mortal Mischief
) did not exist in 1903. In fact, it didn’t appear until the 1970s – but its location and ambience suited the purpose of my plot. Translation of
Death and the Maiden
was taken from Richard Stokes’s
The Book of Lieder
; the
Cosìfan Tutte
excerpt was translated by Jonathan Burton;
An die Musik
by William Mann, Goethe’s
Totentanz
by Edgar Alfred Bowring, and Goethe’s
Nearness of the Beloved
was taken from a booklet accompanying a CD of Schubert songs and attributed to
Deutsche Grammophon GmbH, Hamburg
. The story of how Freud obtained his professorship is taken from Ernest Jones’s biography of Freud. The account of Oedipal processes is a bowdlerisation of my own précis in a non-fiction book called
Changing Minds: the History of Psychotherapy as an Answer to Human Suffering
. Strictly speaking, these ideas weren’t expressed in this way by Freud until the 1920s. Even so, many of the elements were current so it isn’t inconceivable that a conversation like the one described could have taken place. Brahms’s way of looking at women was originally observed and noted by the composer Ethel Smyth, and Brahms really did make a recording of Hungarian Dance No. 1 on an Edison phonograph. The symbolism of the town hall in Vienna, as described in
Death and the Maiden
, reflects views expressed by Professor Joseph Koerner of Harvard University in
Vienna: City of Dreams
, a television documentary shown on BBC4. The electrical-hand method of administering electrotherapy is described in
Freud, Dora, and Vienna 1900
by Hannah S. Decker. A reproduction of an illustration showing a physician applying current to the spine with an ‘electrical
hand’ can be found in
Healing the Mind: A History of Psychiatry from Antiquity to the Present
by Michael H. Stone. The lord marshal is an entirely fictional character, although the lord marshal’s office (
Obersthofmarschallamt
) is not. The lord marshal’s office and its agents executed the legal business of the House of Habsburg and some historians believe that this bureau played an active role in covering up the ‘truth’ behind Mayerling (see
A Nervous Splendour
by Frederic Morton).
The Gypsy Fiddlers
is an authentic Transylvanian folk tale. I have made a condensed version of the original, which can be found in
Ghosts, Vampires, and Werewolves: Eerie Tales from Transylvania
by Mihai I. Spariosu and Desz Benedek. Freud’s anecdote about Chrobak’s prescription for female maladies can be found in
The History of the Psychoanalytic Movement
by Sigmund Freud. Needless to say, I do not subscribe to Chrobak’s view that female psychiatric ailments would swiftly evaporate using this ‘panacea’.