Death And The Maiden

63

Liebermann fancied that he could still detect a hint of lavender coming off the manuscript paper. He took a deep breath, which had the effect of intensifying the fragrance, and leaned into a resonant chord. After depressing the sustaining pedal, he then played a glittering figure in which triplets in the right hand were set against pairs of quavers in the left.

Rheinhardt began to sing:

Ich denke dein, wenn mir der Sonne Schimmer

Vom Meere strahlt ….

I think of you when the sun’s shimmer

Gleams from the sea;

I think of you when the moon’s glimmer

Is mirrored in streams.

I see you when dust rises

On the distant road;

At dead of night, when the traveller

Trembles on the narrow footbridge …

The music modulated continuously, never finding repose, its unpredictable progressions creating a sense of nervous agitation. After an exquisite third verse the harmonies dissolved into silence, leaving the vocal line to proceed without accompaniment.

I am with you; however far away you are,

You are near me!

The chord with which the song began was repeated and the glittering figure hovered, once again, above the final couplet.

The sun sets, soon the stars will shine on me.

O that you were here.

Liebermann’s hands travelled down the keyboard until all sense of tonality was lost in the soft thunder of the piano’s lowest octave.

It was the fifth time they had performed ‘Nearness of the Beloved.’

‘Wonderful,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘The more we play it, the better it gets. Freimark surpassed himself. Yes, I would go as far as to say that ‘Nearness of the Beloved’ is better than ‘Hope’. It is more daring and atmospheric. Those discords are so characteristic of his art, and how easily they find the heart.’ He rested the palm of his hand on his chest. ‘I wonder who decided that Freimark’s last great accomplishment should go with him to the grave? Imagine, consigning a song of this merit to oblivion. No music lover could have performed such a heinous act without a troubled conscience. One can only suppose that Freimark specified that it should be done prior to his death, and that someone close to him felt compelled to make good a promise.’

Liebermann indicated the date: ‘The first of September 1863.’

‘The year he died. What of it?’

‘Freimark was murdered on the twenty-eighth of August.’

Rheinhardt bit his lower lip. ‘Perhaps he had some reason for dating the work prospectively.’

‘Such as?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. He might have originally intended to present the work as a gift … a birthday present.’

‘Dates on manuscripts almost always show when a work was completed.’

‘But Freimark was dead on the first of September.’

‘Indeed.’

Rheinhardt puffed out his cheeks, scratched his head, and said: ‘No. This song was undoubtedly written by Freimark. His style is unmistakable. What are you suggesting, that Brosius wrote “Nearness of the Beloved”?’

‘Yes,’ said Liebermann. The young doctor paused before adding: ‘Not Johann Christian Brosius, of course, but his wife, Angelika Brosius.’

‘Max, that’s ridiculous — she wasn’t a composer!’

‘Wasn’t she?’

‘You have never, until this moment, given me any reason to think that she was anything other than a muse.’ Rheinhardt stroked the manuscript with his finger. ‘Besides, even if Angelika Brosius was a very competent musician, she still couldn’t have written “Nearness of the Beloved”. It isn’t just a clever piece of mimicry — a pastiche of Freimark’s “Hope”. “Nearness of the Beloved” employs the musical language of “Hope”, but then takes it so much further. One can see development, novel use of signature discords, progress! Given that the authorship of “Hope” has never been called into question, I cannot see how you can possibly make such an assertion.’

Liebermann sighed.

‘Look at the words of “Nearness of the Beloved”. So full of yearning: O that you were here … This song is a love letter, written by Angelika Brosius to David Freimark while she was in the throes of grief. The recently departed are laid out as part of Jewish ritual. Angelika Brosius wrote “Nearness of the Beloved” and then concealed it in his coffin. It is a private communication, which she meant for Freimark, and Freimark alone.’ Liebermann reached out and played a part of the vocal line. ‘Yesterday I visited the conservatory archive. Nothing of Freimark’s work survives but I was able to inspect several of Brosius’s original scores. Angelika sometimes made fair copies of her husband’s compositions. The handwriting is identical.’

Rheinhardt drummed his fingers on the side of the Bosendorfer.

‘She might have extended the same service to Freimark.’

Liebermann shook his head. ‘Brosius’s early work is completely inconsequential; however, in his middle years — after marrying Angelika — we see a marked qualitative improvement. The music he composed at this time was not unlike Freimark’s “Hope”. There are, I have been informed, certain similarities.’

‘You think Angelika was responsible for Brosius’s music as well?’

‘I don’t think she sat at the piano, writing fantasies which she then handed to Brosius for him to endorse as his own. I suspect the process was rather more subtle. She probably discussed his music and expressed opinions, encouraging some features while discouraging others — perhaps she made explicit suggestions — she may have even introduced a few accidentals while copying. And when she fell in love with Freimark, she did the same for him. Angelika Brosius was a very practical muse; however, I am convinced that she could not work her magic unless she was in love. That is why, after she met Freimark, the quality of Brosius’s music deteriorated. His Rustic Symphony is execrable, apparently.’

‘If she was such a great talent, why did she not write more?’

‘Perhaps she did.’

‘Then where are her scores?’

‘Hidden, destroyed? Or perhaps “Nearness of the Beloved” is her single conventionally executed composition. Not all artists are prolific.It is possible that she was one of those who only write when moved to do so by deep feelings, and that after Freimark’s death she was never deeply affected again.’

‘Individuals endowed with such talent usually seek public recognition.’

‘Men do, certainly, but I’m not so sure about women. Can it really be the case that only men have been able to compose great music through the ages? Yet I would wager that, excepting Clara Schumann, you cannot name a single female composer. Women are not as motivated as men to pursue standing in the world. It is even possible that Angelika Brosius was unaware of the magnitude of her gift.’

Rheinhardt twisted one of the horns of his moustache and made a grumbling noise. Eventually the grumbling became inflected and comprehensible. ‘Very interesting: very interesting, indeed. When you take “Nearness of the Beloved” to the conservatory, will you inform them of this theory of yours?’

‘Yes, but I don’t suppose they’ll take any notice. The professors will register the stylistic similarities between “Hope” and “Nearness of the Beloved” and attribute the work to Freimark. Like you, they will seek an alternative and more conservative explanation for the post-mortem date. And when the song is published, the name of Freimark will appear next to the title in all the catalogues.’ Liebermann allowed his hands to find the dissolving chords after the third verse. ‘I don’t know …’

‘What?’

‘She didn’t want anyone to hear it. I wonder … shouldn’t her wishes be respected?’

Rheinhardt’s expression had become minatory: ‘I hope you’re not thinking of-’

‘No,’ said Liebermann curtly. ‘No. You’re quite right. “Nearness of the Beloved” is a wonderful song, whoever wrote it, and wonderful songs must be heard.’ Liebermann rolled up the manuscript paper and placed it in its box. ‘I’ll take it to the conservatory tomorrow.’

The two men retired to the smoking room and sat in their customary places. Liebermann poured the brandy and cigars were lit. They did not speak for several minutes, choosing instead to gaze into the fire. Liebermann found that the melody of “Nearness of the Beloved” was still sounding in his mind. Its deeply expressive harmonies were suggestive of the eternal. A chivalrous urge to respect Angelika’s wishes still lingered. The song was as private as pillow talk, as confidential as an intimate letter. Yet he knew that in the morning he would rise and deliver the manuscript to the conservatory archive. The grave was no place for great art.

In due course, Rheinhardt stirred and said, ‘Commisioner Brugel called me into his office today.’

The sinuous melody began to fade and Liebermann emerged from his reverie.

‘Did he want to know what the mayor had to say?’

‘Yes, but that wasn’t his principal concern.’ Rheinhardt exhaled a cloud of smoke. ‘We had a rather strange conversation, somewhat allusive and punctuated by artful looks, the kind that superiors are inclined to employ when they say one thing but mean another. It took me a while to grasp the purpose of the interview. The commissioner said that he was very pleased with how the Rosenkrantz investigation had been prosecuted and, if I continued to heed his good counsel, I might reasonably expect a promotion next year.’ The tone of Rheinhardt’s voice was matter-of-fact. ‘He then disclosed that he is shortly to be honoured by the palace.’

‘What are they going to give him?’

‘The Order of the Iron Crown, third class. Brugel then proceeded to deliver a rather long speech, which I couldn’t help thinking was a kind of rehearsal: privilege of public service, the friendship of colleagues, allegiance to the crown, and so on. When he reached the end of this interminable oration he declared that, if I continued to demonstrate valued qualities such as good judgement and discretion, eventually I too might receive some official recognition for loyal service.’

Liebermann played a five-finger exercise on his chair arm. When the drumming ceased, he said: ‘I would offer you my congratulations, if I thought this news gave you a true sense of achievement.’

‘How could it?’ said Rheinhardt.

They looked at each other with grim expressions.

‘Well,’ said Liebermann, ‘I was right.’

‘In the end,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Yes.’ Liebermann frowned but Rheinhardt took no notice. ‘Although it is a pity that we were denied bringing the perpetrators of such heinous crimes to justice.’

‘Indeed,’ Liebermann replied. ‘But life is not like a piece of music, structured, logical, and concluded with the precise finality of a perfect cadence. No, life is more like the unconscious — murky, strange and unpredictable.’ The young doctor stood and walked to the fireplace. He took a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles from his top pocket, hooked the arms behind his ears, and adopted a professorial attitude. ‘When Ida Rosenkrantz’s association with the mayor ended, her dreams of escaping the opera house and becoming the first lady of Vienna were shattered. She developed a hysterical throat condition, a telling symptom arising as it did in an unhappy singer, and transferred her libido — a libido that became attached all too easily to father figures — from Lueger to her psychiatrist, Saminsky. When she became pregnant with Saminsky’s unborn child, she accepted his paternal authority and obediently went to see an angel maker. Afterwards, when Saminsky declared, with considerable regret, that he had come to realise that it was not in their interests (for her as a patient and for him as a married man) to continue seeing each other as lovers, she acquiesced once again. Time passed. The infection she contracted due to the termination flared up and she was confined to her bed. Isolated, with only her maid for company, she became resentful and angry. Although she recovered from her physical problems, her psychological state was not good: she brooded on her sorry personal circumstances, becoming depressed and eventually desperate. On Monday the seventh of September she telephoned Lueger and demanded that he come to her villa in Hietzing. For reasons which are still unknown to us, he agreed. He did not try to conceal himself when he was seen by your witness Geisler, because the mayor was not contemplating murder.’

Liebermann flicked some ash into the fire. ‘Obviously, when the mayor entered Rosenkrantz’s villa there were emotional scenes. But he used his famous powers of persuasion to calm her. Soon he was satisfied that the situation was under control and felt confident enough to leave. But Rosenkrantz was still deeply distressed. She felt alone, abandoned. She burned the mayor’s love letters and telephoned Saminsky. When Saminsky arrived she was probably beside herself. She told him that the mayor had recently departed and complained about her lot: she was sick of being the pretty plaything of older men. All she had ever wanted was their love, but all she had ever received were empty promises and shabby treatment. Her condition worried Saminsky. She was out of control. The last thing he wanted was a scandal.’

A burning piece of wood cracked and a shower of sparks illuminated the hearth. ‘Saminsky was doubly motivated,’ Liebermann continued. ‘He realised that in one fell swoop he might rid himself of Rosenkrantz and perform a great service to the crown. If the mayor was implicated as a suspect in a murder investigation, just before an election, it might bring about his downfall. The man responsible for accomplishing such a coup could expect the shadowy powers that operate in the Hofburg to show their gratitude with a generous dispersal of honours and rewards: a carriage with a coat of arms on the door, a Schloss overlooking the Danube.’ Liebermann threw his cigar stub into the flames. ‘Saminsky must have delivered a performance the likes of which we rarely see outside the court theatre. Yes, he had been weak. Yes, he had been a fool, an insensitive coward, and if only dearest Ida could find it in her heart to forgive him he would make amends. He would leave his wife — whom he had never really loved — and take Rosenkrantz away to a better place. The vulnerable singer succumbed to his kisses and caresses, his gentle ministrations, and finally complied when he suggested that she should take a little laudanum to calm her nerves and help her sleep. Only minutes later he encouraged her to take a few drops more … and then a few drops more.’

Liebermann rested his elbow on the mantelpiece and continued: ‘When Rosenkrantz lost consciousness, Saminsky set her down on the floor and sat on her chest. Her lungs could not expand and she quickly suffocated. Saminsky then bounced on her chest until he heard one of her ribs snap. I am not sure whether he placed Rosenkrantz’s body in the middle of the rug to arouse suspicion, or whether that was merely the result of his obsessiveness. He was fastidious in dress and was a collector. Individuals of this personality type have a distinct tendency to line up objects, often automatically and without thought. Whatever the case, he informed the lord marshal’s office of his actions and was probably praised for showing initiative. Rewards would follow.

‘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 Brugel 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.’