Death and the Maiden (6 page)

‘Rothenstein,’ said Steiner. ‘As if he couldn’t damn well afford it!’

The company fell silent until the mayor spoke again – more softly this time, and more serious in tone. ‘The emperor has the empire. But Vienna is mine. When will the palace realise this?’

‘D
EATH AND THE
M
AIDEN
?’ said Rheinhardt.

Liebermann flicked through the pages of the songbook until he found Schubert’s early masterpiece, which occupied only a single page and looked easy to play. He saw octaves, minims and quavers, nothing that a beginner couldn’t tackle. Yet he knew that this simplicity was deceptive. He understood that this sparse notation had much in common with the exposed beams and empty sashes of a derelict house. There was enough space and silence here to permit the uncanny to make its presence felt. He glanced at the two beat rests and felt a thrill of anticipatory dread. The little black rectangles were like coffins: the bar lines like shelves in a vault.

The young doctor depressed both the
sostenuto
and soft pedals of the Bösendorfer and placed his fingers over the keys. He relaxed and allowed the force of gravity to draw his hands down. Solemn harmonies became something like a funeral march, composed with such subtle genius that its measured tread also sounded a little like a
berceuse
, a fateful lullaby.

Rheinhardt began the maiden’s plea on an anacrusis, and the piano accompaniment immediately became agitated.

Rheinhardt leaned against the piano, as if weakened by the approach of the grim reaper.

His voice trailed off and the four chords that followed invited the listener to step into the damp hollow of an open grave. The subsequent fermata was chilling.

When Rheinhardt sang again, he did so in the person of Death.

It was barely a melody – a chant on a single note.

The final bars were peaceful, the funeral march, transposed into a major key, progressing inexorably to the second fermata and eternal rest.

After a respectful hiatus, Liebermann said, ‘I have heard it a thousand times but it still never fails to touch me. The maiden, begging for her life, and Death, like a lover, taking her in his cold embrace.’

‘Yes,’ Rheinhardt agreed. ‘And it is peculiarly epic, don’t you think, for a song of such brevity?’

‘Indeed,’ Liebermann replied. ‘A metaphysical opera condensed into forty-three bars.’

He closed the piano lid and the two men retired to the smoking room, where they took their customary places in front of the fire. Liebermann poured the brandy and they lit cigars. In due course, Rheinhardt produced an envelope and passed it across the cube-shaped table that separated the two armchairs. Liebermann opened the seal and withdrew a set of photographs.

‘Good God!’ he exclaimed, ‘That’s—’

‘Ida Rosenkrantz,’ Rheinhardt interjected.

‘She’s dead?’

‘Yes. It’ll be in the newspapers tomorrow. Because she’s a singer at the court opera we were obliged to inform His Majesty before notifying the press. Unfortunately, the lord chamberlain experienced considerable difficulty locating him. Our emperor had gone hunting.’ Rheinhardt paused before adding, ‘In Hungary.’

‘What a tragedy,’ said Liebermann, shaking his head. ‘She had such a fine voice.’ He looked again at the first image and his expression communicated both bewilderment and horror.

Rheinhardt described his arrival in Hietzing, the discovery of the dead singer, and summarised the particulars of his interviews with Doctor Engelberg and the housekeeper, Frau Marcus.

‘Engelberg was confident that Rosenkrantz’s death was accidental.
He expressed a modest qualification with respect to suicide, on account of the singer having seen a psychiatrist last year for a throat condition called
globus hystericus;
however, she did not suffer from suicidal melancholia and the laudanum was only prescribed to help her sleep. Be that as it may, I found myself disinclined to accept his opinion. There was something about the position of the body that wasn’t quite right. You see?’ Rheinhardt gestured at the photograph Liebermann was studying. ‘The way she’s lying there, in the middle of the rug and with her arms by her sides. Engelberg insisted that there was nothing irregular about it, but I wasn’t so sure.’ Rheinhardt paused to draw on his cigar. ‘Professor Mathias conducted the autopsy and his findings confirmed that I had good reason to feel uneasy. Rosenkrantz had imbibed a significant quantity of laudanum, but not enough to cause her death. She also had a broken rib.’

‘Which one was it?’

‘The eighth, on the left side of the ribcage.’ Rheinhardt exhaled and watched the smoke from his cigar ascend and disperse. ‘There was no evidence to suggest that a struggle had taken place: no marks on her body, no rips in her garments, and no smashed items on the floor of her bedroom.’

‘Fräulein Rosenkrantz wouldn’t have retired for the evening with a broken rib. She would have called a doctor.’

Rheinhardt nodded. ‘I asked Professor Mathias if the injury could have been caused by a fall, but he didn’t think so. You see, the rib was completely broken, snapped in two.’

‘And apart from this broken rib?’

‘Nothing.’

‘No other symptoms of pathology?’

‘None at all.’

Rheinhardt waited to see if Liebermann would reach the same conclusion as Professor Mathias. The young doctor lit a second cigar,
played a five-finger exercise on his knee, and after a lengthy pause said: ‘Then the cause of death was compressive asphyxia and the rib was broken unintentionally.’

‘Bravo, Max,’ said Rheinhardt, raising his glass.

‘The perpetrator,’ Liebermann continued, ‘discovered Fräulein Rosenkrantz either unconscious or very close to the point of losing consciousness. He or she then applied pressure to her chest to ensure that her lungs would not expand.’

‘And how do you think that was achieved?’

‘Fräulein Rosenkrantz was a small woman. A strong man might simply have pushed down on her chest.’ Leibermann stretched out his fingers to demonstrate. ‘However, compressive asphyxia would probably have been achieved more effectively – and with greater efficiency – if the perpetrator had simply sat on her.’ Liebermann paused, his flow halted by an intrusive image of the opera singer, drugged and laid out on the floor, defenceless. He hoped that she had lost consciousness completely when death finally arrived to take her. ‘Unlike strangulation,’ Liebermann continued, ‘suffocation leaves no tissue damage detectable at autopsy. The perpetrator’s expectation was that attention would focus exclusively on the empty bottles of laudanum and that, eventually, a verdict of accidental death or suicide would be delivered. In the absence of any alternative explanation for Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s death, this would indeed have been the most probable outcome. Most pathologists would reasonably presume that respiratory failure was in some way connected with the laudanum, even if the common signs associated with an overdose were absent.’

The two men stared into the flickering fire. Liebermann found that he could still hear the introductory bars of
Death and the Maiden
. He was listening to a vivid auditory hallucination and the sombre chords provided a fitting accompaniment to his thoughts. This inner music fell suddenly silent when Rheinhardt asked, ‘Can we deduce anything
of the perpetrator’s appearance from Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s injury? His weight and size, for example?’

‘I’m afraid not. The eighth rib is not particularly strong. It would be as likely to break under the weight of a small woman as a large man.’

‘The method itself is of some significance, surely.’

‘One must suppose that the perpetrator had made a thorough survey of the options available to a would-be murderer. Compressive asphyxia would not be the first choice of an uninformed party.’

‘Then the murder might not have been opportunistic, as you at first suggested, but planned.’

‘Indeed, that is also possible. He or she could have forced the singer to drink laudanum at gunpoint, prior to suffocation.’

Liebermann worked his way through the photographs and returned to the initial image, a full-length view of the opera singer lying within the fringed rectangle of a Persian rug.

‘What manner of individual,’ Rheinhardt said, ‘would leave a room in which they had just committed murder, neglecting to address such an obvious cause for suspicion?’

‘Someone in a hurry. Or an obsessive,’ Liebermann replied. ‘Someone whose fastidious character might find expression in the habitual lining-up of objects: a person – most likely male – who favours well-cut clothes and is prone to pedantic speech; an orderly man of above average intelligence who is careful with money and may own a collection of some kind – a numismatist or philatelist.’ Rheinhardt raised an eyebrow at the specificity of his friend’s description. ‘I am simply listing the features of a certain neurotic
type
,’ said Liebermann testily. ‘You did invite me to speculate!’

Rheinhardt inclined his head, acknowledging his friend’s rebuke.

‘Quite so,’ he said.

Liebermann extracted a head-and-shoulders portrait of Fräulein
Rosenkrantz from the pile of photographs. The camera had exposed a wealth of detail – the curvature of her long eyelashes and the dimples on her cheeks. Her mouth, pouting even in death, suggested a fragile sensuality, the awkward, self-conscious charm of an ingénue.

‘I spent much of today,’ Rheinhardt continued, ‘perusing Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s address book. It contains many names: musicians, bankers, actors, even a Hungarian prince. Some of them might be able to help us with our inquiries. But tomorrow I intend to begin at the opera house. I have an appointment with the director.’

Liebermann sat up in his chair.

‘What? You are seeing Director Mahler tomorrow?’

‘I am indeed.’ Rheinhardt was aware of how much the young doctor venerated the director of the court opera. Such was his devotion to the director’s music that he had travelled to Munich for the premiere of Mahler’s Fourth Symphony. ‘You are welcome to come along with me, if you want, but I had supposed you would be working.’

‘Mahler.’ Liebermann repeated the name with soft reverence. He stubbed out his cigar and asked, ‘What time are you expected?’

‘Eleven o’ clock.’

‘I’ll be there.’

‘But what about your patients?’

‘They …’ Liebermann’s expression became pained. ‘They are just as likely to benefit from a consultation later in the day.’

‘You won’t get into trouble?’

‘No,’ said Liebermann, extending the syllable expansively but failing to sound very convincing.

‘Very well, then,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Let’s meet at Café Schwarzenburg. Ten-thirty.’

F
RANZ
-J
OSEF
—E
MPEROR OF
Austria, Apostolic King of Hungary, King of Jerusalem, King of Bohemia, King of Dalmatia, King of Transylvania, King of Croatia and Slovenia, King of Galicia and Illyria, Grand Duke of Tuscany and Cracow, Margrave of Moravia, Duke of Salzburg, Duke of Bukovina, Duke of Modena, Parma and Piacenza and Guastalla, Princely Count of Habsburg and Tyrol, Prince of Trient and Brixen, Count of Hohenembs, Grand Voyvoce of Serbia and Duke of Auschwitz – woke from a nightmare. It had taken the form of a hellish vision: mobs in the street, gunfire, and improvised incendiary weapons spilling fire across the cobblestones outside the palace. Field Marshal Radetzky, in reality dead for over half a century, had burst into the chancellery wing.
All is lost
, he had cried.
It is over. Undone
. These lamentations had been appropriated from a play that the emperor had attended at the court theatre only the previous evening. In the strange permissive world of dreams there was nothing contradictory about Radetzky quoting a line from a tragedy written decades after his own death. Similarly, the emperor had not troubled to question why a large orchestra had been playing a Strauss waltz while Vienna burned.