Death And The Maiden

3

Rheinhardt and his assistant were smoking cigars in the corridor outside the morgue. A sawing sound emanated from within, above which Professor Mathias’s fragile tenor was drifting aimlessly. Somewhere in the pathological institute a chiming clock announced that it was six o’ clock. The day had been long and Rheinhardt had eaten nothing since breakfast.

‘I think it would be permissible for us to stop for some refreshment on our way back to Schottenring, don’t you?’

‘There’s a new beer cellar that’s just opened on Turkenstrasse,’ Haussmann replied. ‘They serve some very spicy Weizenbock. Knauss, a friend of mine, went there last week. He said it was good.’

‘I was really thinking of something more substantial, Haussmann, something requiring the use of implements, such as a knife and fork.’

‘Oh, I see, sir.’

‘Boiled beef, fried onions, and dumplings, followed by a thick slice of topfenstrudel.’ As Rheinhardt envisaged the meal his stomach produced a plangent wail that evoked images of eternal torment. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he added, positioning a placatory hand on the corrugated distensions of his waistcoat.

‘This place also serves food, sir,’ said Haussmann. ‘Simple but wholesome. That’s what my friend said. I’m sure you’d be able to get some boiled beef and dumplings.’

‘Very well, Haussmann,’ said Rheinhardt, suddenly feeling weak and seeing no purpose in prolonging the debate. ‘That is where we shall eat. Turkenstrasse.’

‘Rheinhardt!’ It was Professor Mathias. ‘Rheinhardt, come in, will you? I’ve got something to show you.’

The two men re-entered the morgue, where they discovered Professor Mathias standing by a bench next to the autopsy table. He was looking down at something that glistened beneath the beam of an electric lamp. As Rheinhardt passed Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s corpse he saw that she had undergone a hideous transformation. All the skin had been peeled away from her chest and it now hung down from either side of her body like the loose flaps of an unbuttoned coat. Her breasts were still attached to these flaps and they drooped, piteously, over the lip of the table. Rheinhardt’s gaze lingered on the neatly packed organs of Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s thoracic cavity and he found himself swaying a little, unbalanced by the macabre spectacle.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Professor Mathias.

‘Yes, quite all right, thank you,’ Rheinhardt replied, drawing on his cigar for comfort.

‘It’s just, I can’t help noticing,’ continued Mathias, ‘that you’ve gone green. Hasn’t he, young man?’ Mathias turned to address Hausmann. ‘Oh, I see that you have too, dear fellow. Would you like some schnapps? It’s good for queasiness.’ The old man produced a bottle from a shelf beneath the bench.

‘A very kind gesture, Professor,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘But we are on duty and must decline your offer.’

‘You have no objection if I-’

‘Do as you please, professor.’

Mathias filled a shot glass, threw his head back, and downed the contents in one gulp.

‘Ah, that’s better!’ said Mathias. ‘I’m feeling the cold more than I used to. The schnapps helps. Now, where were we?’ He put the glass down and indicated the object beneath the lamp. It was the forepart of Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s ribcage. Rheinhardt noticed that the sternum and all the projecting struts of bone were coated with a fibrous silvery material. Mathias’s eyes bulged behind his thick spectacles. ‘You said that you weren’t convinced Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s death was accidental. What made you say that, Rheinhardt?’

‘There was something about the way she was lying on the floor that looked rather odd to me. It was as if she’d been’ — Rheinhardt searched for an accurate expression — ‘tidied up.’

‘How so?’

‘She was positioned in the middle of a Persian rug and her arms were exactly parallel to its edges.’

‘Interesting,’ said Mathias. The old pathologist reached out and, taking one of the ribs between his thumb and forefinger, demonstrated that a section of bone, distal to the costal cartilage, could be moved freely in all directions within its fibrous sheath.

‘It’s broken?’ said Rheinhardt.

‘It most certainly is,’ said Mathias, turning to face the autopsy table. ‘Now, take a look at these lungs. Enormous, aren’t they? The secret of her success, I expect. I saw her in The Flying Dutchman last year: extraordinary power. You wouldn’t have believed that a small woman could produce such a noise. Her voice soared above the orchestra.’ The professor, inspired by this reminiscence, attempted to recreate the effect by singing in a wavering falsetto that cracked almost immediately and became a hacking cough. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Mathias, resting his hands on the side of the autopsy table. ‘My asthma. It gets bad at this time of year.’

‘You were about to show me something, Professor?’

‘Fraulein Rosenkrantz is supposed to have ingested a deadly quantity of laudanum — is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yet there is no inflammation of the lungs and her pupils are only slightly contracted.’ Mathias lifted one of the woman’s eyelids, revealing a striking emerald iris with a distinct circle of darkness at its centre. ‘She most certainly drank laudanum, but I’m not altogether sure that she imbibed enough to kill her.’

‘There were many empty phials by her bed.’

‘Which signifies nothing, Rheinhardt,’ said the professor, dismissively Then he placed a finger on the spongy exterior of the dead woman’s left lung. ‘What do you see here?’

‘It’s a different colour from the rest.’

‘The distinctive cherry-purple of a contusion, corresponding with the break I showed you on the eighth rib. If Fraulein Rosenkrantz had had an accident before retiring, she would have experienced considerable discomfort. Of course, it’s always possible that she sustained the injury, went to bed, and decided to treat herself with laudanum — although that would be most irregular. The pain and respiratory difficulties associated with a broken rib would almost certainly have caused Fraulein Rosenkrantz to call her physician with all possible haste.’

‘But if Fraulein Rosenkrantz was disorientated she might have injured herself before losing consciousness.’

‘In my opinion, it is quite difficult to break a rib by merely stumbling around a lady’s bedroom.’

Rheinhardt stubbed his cigar out in a glass dish and exhaled a final cloud of smoke.

‘In which case, how do you think the rib came to be broken?’

‘It’s only a theory, of course …’

‘Nevertheless, I would like to hear it.’

‘I strongly suspect that the rib was broken when someone applied pressure to her chest.’

‘I beg your pardon, Professor?’

‘Her lungs wouldn’t have been able to expand and she would have suffocated. She might still have been conscious when it happened — or at least partially conscious. She wouldn’t even have been able to scream. No air, you see.’ Mathias stroked the dead woman’s face and adopted a tender expression. ‘She would have been helpless.’

‘Forgive me, Professor, but are you suggesting that Fraulein Rosenkrantz was crushed?’

‘In a manner of speaking — yes.’

4

‘Young man — you are occupying my seat.’

Liebermann looked up and discovered that he was being addressed by a frail old woman with rheumy, colourless eyes. Her face was deeply lined and her thinning hair had been lacquered and curled into a cobwebby mass through which the glass facets of the chandelier behind her were visible. She was leaning on a walking stick with a carved ivory handle, though her principal means of support was the arm of a pretty woman in a blue dress, whose flushing cheeks proclaimed her profound embarrassment.

‘Great-aunt!’ said the woman, the tone of her voice combining admonishment with desperation.

The dowager turned the whole of her body in order to look at her anguished relative. ‘Whatever is the matter with you, Anna?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said the woman in the blue dress, smiling at Liebermann.

‘What are you apologising for?’ asked the old woman.

‘This gentleman is in the correct seat, I am sure,’ her great-niece replied. ‘Besides, it hardly matters — we’ll be able to see the stage wherever we sit.’

Liebermann stood up.

‘May I see your tickets?’

The young doctor inspected the numbers and said, ‘You are seated next to me — these two here — but I am perfectly happy to move along.’

‘That is very kind, but-’

‘No, I insist,’ said Liebermann. Before the old woman sat down she stared up at him and squinted. She had very distinctive features. A thin mouth, hooked nose, and pointed chin. It was unlikely that she had ever been beautiful, quite the contrary, but once she must have been very arresting. She exuded a dry floral fragrance, like scented talcum powder. ‘Allow me,’ said Liebermann, taking her walking stick and offering her his arm. The dowager took it and he performed the necessary actions to get her comfortably seated in her preferred chair.

‘Thank you,’ said the woman in the blue dress.

Liebermann bowed. ‘Doctor Max Liebermann.’

‘Anna Probst — and this is my great-aunt Frau Baerbel Zollinger.’

Liebermann bowed again. ‘Frau Zollinger.’

The old woman’s expression did not soften. Anna rolled her eyes, and Liebermann, recognising that he could do no more to win Frau Zollinger’s good opinion, returned his attention to the programme notes.

In due course the auditorium filled with patrons, the house lights dimmed, and the musicians appeared on stage. After some preliminary tuning, the conductor, who was wearing a white carnation in his lapel, entered through a door to the right of the stage and mounted the platform. When the applause had subsided he raised a very large baton and the air resonated with sublime harmonies.

The first piece was Mozart’s B flat major Serenade for twelve wind instruments and double bass. Liebermann was particularly fond of the Adagio, the immaculate melodies of which floated smoothly above a pulsing accompaniment. It was music of supreme elegance. The second piece was also a Serenade, scored for a smaller wind band, by Johann Christian Brosius, a composer with whom Liebermann was completely unacquainted. The two pieces had evidently been programmed together because Brosius had incorporated several themes from Mozart’s B flat major Serenade into his own composition. When the final movement, a charming presto assai, came to its end, Liebermann clapped loudly. In due course the conductor signalled his intention to leave the stage, the applause subsided and the audience began to disperse for the interval.

‘So, Herr doctor, it seems that you enjoyed the Brosius.’

Frau Zollinger was looking at Liebermann intently.

‘Great-aunt …’ said Anna, eager to prevent further embarrassment.

‘Yes,’ said Liebermann. ‘I enjoyed it very much.’

‘Over forty years,’ said Frau Zollinger. ‘Over forty years since I last heard that piece …’

‘I must confess that prior to this evening I knew nothing of Brosius. Not a single note.’

‘Oh, he had quite a reputation in his day. Brahms held him in very high regard.’

‘Did he?’

‘Well, that’s what he said. But I was never convinced of his sincerity. He was a difficult man, Brosius: sullen, brooding, and prone to angry outbursts.’

Liebermann looked more closely at the old woman.

‘You were acquainted with Brahms?’

‘Yes. I couldn’t stand the smell of his cigars.’

‘Great-aunt,’ said Anna, ‘it is the interval. Doctor Liebermann does not want to hear about Brahms’s cigars.’

Liebermann indicated with a gesture that he did not object to being delayed and invited Frau Zollinger to continue.

‘He used to come to my soirees,’ she declared.

‘Brahms?’

‘Yes. And Brosius. Once they came together. Of course, the real talent was his pupil …’ Liebermann wasn’t sure whether Frau Zollinger was referring to a pupil of Brahms or a pupil of Brosius.He waited patiently. ‘Brosius was technically accomplished, but young Freimark …’ The old woman sighed. ‘His songs … so clever, such careful attention to the meaning of the words. None of them were published, except “Hope”. You must know “Hope”? His setting of Schiller’s “Hope”?’

Liebermann was aware of a well-known song of that name and even thought he might have it at home in a volume titled Klassiker des deutschen Liedes.

‘Yes,’ said Liebermann. ‘I believe I do know it.’

‘A tragedy that he should have died so young. And even more of a tragedy that he should be remembered now for just one song.’

‘Tuberculosis?’

‘No. A fall — from a mountain — the Schneeberg: while staying with Brosius and Brosius’s wife, Angelika.’ Frau Zollinger shook her head. ‘I never really liked her.’

Anna placed a restraining hand on her great-aunt’s arm and asked, ‘Where do you practise, Herr doctor?’

‘The general hospital.’

She was about to say something else but Frau Zollinger carried on: ‘The youngest daughter of a well-known portrait painter. She was a celebrated beauty. Brosius worshipped her. But I thought her vain and superficial. My husband used to reprimand me for being uncharitable.’

The old woman gabbled on a little more until her recollections lost coherence and eventually petered out. Seizing his moment, Liebermann excused himself and went to the foyer to smoke a Trabuco cigar. When he returned, Frau Zollinger was less talkative and he spoke instead to Fraulein Anna. It was not a very deep conversation, merely an exchange of pleasantries and some polite enquiries.

The second half of the concert was a delight: Beethoven’s E flat major Octet and a Mozart Divertimento.

After the encore, an arrangement of a Brahms waltz, Liebermann helped Frau Zollinger to stand and offered to escort her from the building. Progress was slow and by the time they reached the cloakroom there was no queue, most of the audience having already gone. In the foyer Liebermann said, ‘It will be cold outside. Perhaps too cold for Frau Zollinger? Wait here and I’ll hail a cab for you.’

‘You are most kind,’ said Anna.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Liebermann.

‘The ninth district, Bergasse 21,’ Anna replied.

‘Bergasse 21 — really?’ He looked to Frau Zolliger. ‘Do you know your neighbour Professor Freud?’

‘Professor who?’ asked Frau Zollinger.

‘Freud: an esteemed colleague.’

The old woman’s head wobbled a little on her scrawny neck to express the negative.

Liebermann crossed the foyer and went out through the double doors.

One of Mozart’s melodies entered his mind, the exquisite opening theme from the Adagio, but not in its original form. Instead, he was hearing Brosius’s arrangement. The melody was being carried by a flute instead of an oboe and the continuous pulsing accompaniment had been replaced by dissolving harmonies. It was actually quite haunting and as the fragment repeated itself Liebermann realised that Brosius’s music had become lodged in his brain. He would probably still be hearing it in his head as he tried to get to sleep later.

A cab came rattling over the cobbles. Liebermann raised his hand and the driver pulled up.

As Liebermann was helping Frau Zollinger down some stairs, she muttered: ‘He said to me — “She’s my muse”’

‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Liebermann.

‘Angelika. He said that without her the music would end.’

‘Brosius? Well, he must have loved her very much.’

Frau Zollinger produced a dismissive grunt. It was obvious to Liebermann that she was not really talking to him but simply voicing her thoughts, recalling conversations that had taken place in the distant past. The music had revived old memories.

Liebermann opened one of the cab’s doors and the old woman shivered as the chill air insinuated itself into her brittle bones.

‘Your transport, Frau Zollinger.’

The old woman did not thank him and once again her great-niece was forced to apologise on her behalf.