Death and the Maiden (29 page)

‘Why so much?’

‘Largesse, I imagine.’

Rheinhardt’s pencil hovered above his notebook, but he was too stunned to write anything down.

L
IEBERMANN WAS FAMILIAR WITH
most of the songs in
Klassiker des deutschen Liedes
but he was making a number of small and irritating mistakes, such as bad fingering and forgetting the prior introduction of accidentals. Rheinhardt didn’t seem to mind (indeed, he didn’t even seem to notice): he was clearly enjoying himself, belting out one popular song after another – Schubert’s
Ständchen
, Weber’s
Reigen
, Franz’s
Für Musik
– his voice spirited and booming.

The cause of Liebermann’s poor performance was a stream of vivid and intrusive recollections. He could not stop thinking about Amelia Lydgate: her mouth yielding to his ingress, enfolding her in his arms and drawing her close, the coolness of her white neck, and the sweetness of her perfume. The whole experience had left him in a state of ecstatic remove, light-headed and slightly delirious. Something of their coming together had remained with him – in one form or another – since their parting on Thursday night. These memories were constantly vying for attention, interrupting his thoughts or waiting for an opportunity to inhabit every part of his conscious mind. They seemed to achieve this by ingenious associative pathways. Even an innocuous lyric could serve as a starting point.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Liebermann after a mechanical rendition of Beethoven’s
Adelaide
. ‘I am not playing very well this evening.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘A little lacking in energy, perhaps, but otherwise perfectly acceptable.’

‘No. This really won’t do. One more song and then we will have to bring our music-making to an end.’

Rheinhardt stood behind his friend and gripped his shoulder.

‘Sometimes you take it all too seriously, Max.’

‘You sound like the emperor.’

‘Do I?’

‘That’s what he said about Mahler.’

Rheinhardt smiled, leaned forward, and turned the page. The next song in the collection was Freimark’s ‘Hope’. Liebermann placed his hands on the keyboard and played the introduction, emphasising the sharp discords scattered like treacherous barbs among the dense harmonies. It was an apposite choice, and the sentiment expressed in Schiller’s poetry found his susceptible heart with the swift and direct certainty of a well-balanced arrow. Liebermann hoped that Amelia Lydgate would not regret their moment of abandon and decide against further intimacy, he hoped that their first kiss would lead to others, he hoped that he would see her again soon …

Liebermann had written Amelia a letter as soon as he had returned to his apartment. Among the gentlemanly obligations of the age was a requirement that he should compose a pre-emptive request for forgiveness. It was always possible that a woman might, on reflection, conclude that she had been treated disrespectfully or, even worse, exploited. However, even as he was composing his propitiatory sentences, he was acutely aware that it had been Amelia who had stepped towards him and not he towards her. When Amelia’s reply arrived he was relieved to find, among the cautious, allusive, discreetly worded paragraphs, the desired gentle assurances.

The intensity of his feeling found an easy outlet in the pliant keys. As ‘Hope’ approached its emotional climax he felt a charge of energy coursing down his arms, animating his fingers. As the final chord
faded into silence he was satisfied that he had done justice to the composer’s genius.

‘Well,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘There was nothing wrong with that.’

‘Even so, I am not inclined to continue. Now that I have, at last, delivered an acceptable accompaniment, that is where we should finish.’

‘As you wish,’ said Rheinhardt.

They entered the smoking room and took their customary seats. Brandy was poured and cigars distributed. Rheinhardt made some introductory remarks and proceeded to describe his encounter with Orsola Salak – although he neglected to mention his undignified escape. The memory of the sudden drop in temperature and the moving shadows still unnerved him. He then recounted his interview with the angel maker, Frau Gardosh.

‘Fräulein Rosenkrantz went to see Frau Gardosh in late March or early April. She couldn’t remember exactly when. One must suppose that Frau Gardosh gets a lot of custom. I asked her if she had any idea who had made Fräulein Rosenkrantz pregnant, and to my great surprise, she said yes.’ Rheinhardt sipped his brandy. ‘According to Gardosh, Fräulein Rosenkrantz was in a distressed state. A very distressed state, even when measured against the standards of misery that Frau Gardosh is accustomed to. The gentleman in question had given Fräulein Rosenkrantz the money to pay for the procedure and had urged her – perhaps against her will – to terminate the pregnancy. Gardosh said that this gentleman, a family man, was her doctor.’

Liebermann whistled through his teeth.

‘Engelberg or Saminsky?’

‘Frau Gardosh didn’t know. Names weren’t mentioned. But she must have been referring to the latter.’

‘Why not Engelberg?’

‘Engelberg isn’t a family man. He’s a widower. Further, when I met
with Engelberg we discussed Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s gynaecological symptoms. I asked him if he had examined her, and he hadn’t. Indeed, he seemed horrified by the thought of doing such a thing! He said that a doctor must have good cause to compromise a woman’s dignity. His tone and manner were sincere. I do not believe that Engelberg would seduce a patient.’

Liebermann lit his second cigar and adopted an attitude of one deep in thought. Turning to his friend he said, ‘Professor Freud has suggested that women are predisposed to find older men attractive because they harbour unresolved sexual feelings for their fathers.’ Rheinhardt grumbled into his brandy. ‘This
natural
inclination,’ Liebermann continued, ‘was obviously amplified in Fräulein Rosenkrantz, and one must suppose that this amplification was due to her history. You will recall that her father died when she was young, she was rejected by her female cousins – and even her mother eventually abandoned her to begin a new life in Italy. Her talent was discovered and nurtured by older men. Her schoolteacher and the choirmaster, Peter Helbing. What, we must ask ourselves, might older men have come to represent for such a person?’

‘Kindness, protection, security?’

‘Exactly, and, at a deeper level, the recovery of that precious relationship, lost so tragically early. As a sexually mature woman, when she fell into the arms of an older man she did so as much in the role of a daughter as that of a lover. Her needs were complicated.’

‘I find that thought rather … distasteful.’

‘The unconscious, the seedbed of our desires, has scant regard for conventional morality. It finds satisfaction however it can.’

‘All of which suggests that she would have been easy prey for Saminsky.’

‘Indeed. The relationship between doctor and patient has much in common with the relationship between parent and child. Saminsky
would have made a powerful appeal to Rosenkrantz’s need for a surrogate father.’ Liebermann flicked his brandy glass, producing a soft chime. ‘And there is another factor which should be taken into consideration when assessing the plausibility of Gardosh’s allegation.’ Liebermann paused before adding: ‘The nature of Saminsky’s treatment. It was one which provided him with ample opportunity to err, necessitating – as it does – prolonged physical contact.’

‘Electrotherapy? I thought it was administered with a machine.’

‘During general faradisation the patient is nude or partially clothed. The current can be delivered through electrodes or passed through the doctor’s hand. The
electrical hand method
is recommended for sensitive persons, and given what we know of Rosenkrantz – her artistic temperament, her
globus hystericus
– I think it safe to assume that Saminsky would have identified her as a member of that group. Which means that he would have spent a great deal of time stroking her throat,’ the young doctor paused before adding on a knowing cadence, ‘and chest.’

Liebermann suddenly thought of Amelia Lydgate as he had first seen her, as a patient in the general hospital. This memory, which trespassed onto the hitherto uncluttered terrain of his deductions, took the form of a mental picture. He remembered her white cotton gown, the subtle curve of her small breasts beneath the thin material, and the sight of her exposed feet on the tiled floor. This image aroused in him a discomfiting mixture of concupiscence and guilt.

Rheinhardt stood up and walked over to the mantelpiece. He flicked some ash into the fire and said, ‘Saminsky told us that the mayor was to blame for Rosenkrantz’s pregnancy.’

‘He was trying to divert attention away from himself.’

‘Yes, but to implicate the mayor …’

‘Lueger and Rosenkrantz
were
lovers.’

‘I know, but such a strategy is fraught with dangers.’ Rheinhardt raised his hands in disbelief.

‘Indeed, but the boldest lies are often the most effective. We are obliged to believe them on account of their magnitude.
No one
– we reason – would dare make up such a thing.’

‘The man must be some kind of fool.’

‘That was my impression also.’

Rheinhardt began to pace in front of the fire.

‘What are we to make of this new intelligence? If the mayor did not make Rosenkrantz pregnant, then your previous speculations must be wrong. You imagined Rosenkrantz threatening the mayor with a scandal, the most significant element of which was his prior insistence that she terminate her pregnancy.’

‘She could have led him to believe that he was responsible for her condition, even if the guilty party was in fact Saminsky.’

The inspector looked doubtful.

‘When we informed Lueger of Rosenkrantz’s pregnancy he was shocked. I am convinced that he wasn’t feigning surprise. He really didn’t know about her pregnancy until that precise moment. I am also inclined to believe that the mayor, as he suggested, would have been diligent in his efforts to avoid such an unfortunate eventuality.’

‘Oskar, the only prophylactic known to be completely effective is celibacy!’ Liebermann sat up in his chair. ‘Even so, let us – for the sake of argument – accept that Lueger was completely ignorant of Rosenkrantz’s condition. Does this really change how we should view the material facts? The mayor visited Fräulein Rosenkrantz, letters were destroyed, and the following morning she was found dead.’

Rheinhardt resumed his pacing. ‘What if Rosenkrantz had threatened to expose Saminsky? He is a rich man and has much to lose . . .’

‘Not as much as our illustrious demagogue.’

‘Men have killed for less.’

Liebermann puffed on his cigar and after a few moments said,
‘Didn’t Saminsky say he was away when Rosenkrantz’s body was discovered – something about a religious maniac in Salzburg?’

‘Yes, he did. Be that as it may, I’d like to pay Professor Saminsky another visit. There are clearly some issues here that need to be clarified. Are you available on Monday?’ Liebermann nodded. ‘Good.’

O
N ARRIVING AT
S
AMINSKY’S
H
IETZING
mansion, Liebermann and Rheinhardt had been received by a gaunt serving man who did not – as they had expected he would – show them into the drawing room. Instead, he had escorted them down a corridor and deposited them in a small but comfortable waiting area.

They sat on leather armchairs, listening to the muffled sounds of voices that came through the double doors. A pile of men’s and women’s journals had been left on an oriental table. Liebermann picked up a fashion magazine and looked at the illustrations. A clock struck the quarter hour – twice.

Like most physicians, Professor Saminsky saw a number of his patients at home. Before entering the mansion, Liebermann had registered an emblazoned coach parked on the road outside. He had supposed that the professor must be occupied with the care of an important person. Another fifteen minutes passed before the double doors opened, confirming Liebermann’s surmise. Standing next to Saminsky was an elderly woman whose sombre dress was countered by the glitter and flash of diamonds. She looked frail and her head drooped beneath a dowager’s hump, yet when she spoke her voice was loud and clear, each syllable precisely articulated. ‘Thank you, Professor. You have performed a miracle. I am feeling stronger already.’

Saminsky’s palm was hovering close to her lower back. He was
making small circular movements, impatiently willing her to move forward.

‘I am delighted to hear that, Countess.’

‘The same time tomorrow?’

‘Indeed, Countess, the same time tomorrow.’ Saminsky’s serving man was approaching from the opposite end of the corridor, his emaciated face a frozen mask of impassivity. ‘Ah, there you are, Hans-Peter.’

The aristocrat offered Saminsky her hand. As he bowed to deliver his kiss, she looked away, as if favouring him with a private moment in which to appreciate the honour.

‘Good evening, Herr Professor.’

‘Good evening, Countess.’