by Frank Tallis
‘Madam,’ said Rheinhardt, offering her a starched white handkerchief.
‘Thank you, Inspector. I’m sorry.’ She dabbed at her eyes and spoke between mighty heaves of her chest. ‘We were not friends — quite the contrary — even so — it is a terrible thing … a terrible, terrible thing … One would … one wouldn’t wish such a thing to happen to anyone.’
Liebermann glanced at Rheinhardt to make sure that he had registered the slip.
The inspector leaned forward and asked softly, ‘Where were you on Monday evening, Fraulein Amsel?’
‘Monday evening?’
‘It was very foggy.’
‘Oh, yes, Monday evening. I was at home, entertaining some friends.’
‘Who?’
‘Herr Eder and his wife, Herr Brunn … old friends. I sang for them after supper.’
‘And what time did they leave?’
‘Oh, I can’t remember exactly.’
‘Early? Late?’
‘About ten o’clock.’
Rheinhardt nodded.
Amsel mopped up the last of her tears and held the handkerchief out, still neatly compressed, for Rheinhardt to take.
‘You can keep it,’ he said.
It was early afternoon when Rheinhardt and Liebermann finally left the opera house. In addition to interviewing Arianne Amsel, they had interviewed the soprano Bertha Forster-Lauterer, the tenor Leo Slezak, and Rosenkrantz’s Czech voice coach Herr Janda. All confirmed that Rosenkrantz had demonstrated no signs of significant mental anguish in the months preceding her death. There was also unanimity concerning Amsel, whose resentment of Rosenkrantz’s success was judged to run deep, even by opera house standards.
Rheinhardt and Liebermann retired to the Cafe Mozart where they discussed all that had transpired over coffee and pastries. Preliminary remarks and observations were succeeded by a lengthy hiatus during which the two men were absorbed by their own private thoughts. In due course, Liebermann lit a cigar and signalled his readiness to share his conclusions.
‘Very interesting,’ he said, still only half extricated from the inner world.
‘Arianne Amsel?’ Rheinardt queried.
‘All those tears, all that remembering of Rosenkrantz in her prayers … and then her splendid and very revealing verbal slip! She must have spent the greater part of the last two years wishing Rosenkrantz dead.’
‘Wishing Rosenkrantz dead, yes,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘But would she have acted on those wishes? Would she have plotted her rival’s destruction?’
‘It must have been difficult to bear, the humiliation, her decline in popularity.’ Liebermann smiled knowingly. ‘And they are hot-blooded creatures, these opera singers. I was once told of an incident that occurred in a provincial Italian theatre, near Naples, I believe. An ageing tenor was so mortified by the ovation his colleague received after performing a bravura aria that he stabbed the younger man in the back as he took his bow.’
‘Italians,’ grumbled Rheinhardt wearily. Then, finishing the dregs of his coffee, he said, ‘I suppose you must be getting along to the hospital now.’
Liebermann shrugged. ‘Not necessarily. Where does Schneider live?’
11
Amelia Lydgate had come from London to Vienna to study medicine at the university, where she was now enrolled as a student — one of only a handful of women. The prevailing view among the majority of her teachers was that medicine should be an exclusively male preserve, and consequently Amelia encountered prejudice, in one form or another, almost every day; however, she was undaunted by the dismissive remarks directed at her. The ignorance of others amounted to a mild irritation but nothing more, as it was in her nature to approach everything in life with an attitude of rational detachment. Moreover, such outmoded thinking was not ubiquitous. Indeed, she had made the acquaintance of some notable dissenters. Landsteiner, the man who had discovered blood groups, had taken a personal interest in her research, and her former doctor, Max Liebermann, had become — as much as social convention allowed — a close friend.
The public lecture that she was attending had been organised by the Socialist Education Alliance in cooperation with the General Austrian Women’s Association. Outside the small hall a poster announced that Frau Flora Eberhardt of the Society for Women’s Extended Education would be delivering a talk on the subject of ‘Equality and the marriage problem’.
Amelia was seated at the end of a row of chairs approximately halfway down the central aisle. The hall was somewhat austere. A faded portrait of the emperor hung above the entrance but there was little else to enliven the drab interior. A cold, persistent draught stirred the hem of Amelia’s petticoats.
Frau Eberhardt was a large woman with broad shoulders and wide hips, all comfortably accommodated in the loose folds of a blue and white reform kaftan. She had evidently dispensed with her corset. There was nothing evangelical about her delivery. She addressed the audience with measured, persuasive oratory.
Amelia noticed that the young woman sitting across the aisle was balancing a copy of Mantegazza’s The Physiology of Woman on her lap. The young woman had also crossed her feet at the ankles, something rarely seen in polite circles.
Frau Eberhardt had begun by setting out her agenda for change. She demanded the complete revocation of Austrian civil laws that permitted the exercise of patriarchal authority within the institution of marriage. According to existing statutes, a husband was entitled to forbid his wife to take certain jobs. A wife had no right to determine where her family should live, this being the husband’s privilege and, unless a prior legal contract had been signed to the contrary, a husband had absolute power to administer his wife’s property. Frau Eberhardt deemed all of these things unacceptable in a civilised society. She called for the abolition of all marriages where one party was a young girl and the other a significantly older man. Such marriages were, she maintained, almost invariably arranged to the financial advantage of the bride’s family. Thus, they might be legitimately described as a form of prostitution.
Summing up her position, she concluded that the economic independence of women was the first condition of a free marriage.
The speaker received a round of applause, led enthusiastically by the young woman sitting opposite Amelia.
The second part of Frau Eberhardt’s lecture was even more controversial than the first.
‘To demand economic equality is all well and good,’ proclaimed Frau Eberhardt. ‘But this will achieve nothing in the absence of sexual equality.’
There was unrest in some quarters of the audience, mutters and the rustle of silk.
‘It is the opinion of many leading gynaecologists,’ Frau Eberhardt continued, undaunted, ‘that the female of the species is sexually anaesthetic, that is to say, not troubled by erotic feelings. Other, more enlightened commentators have suggested that such evidence as exists for this opinion might be accounted for by cultural factors. Young women are forced to affect modesty and deny their instincts because of social expectations. Although this is a very plausible hypothesis, it has found no sympathy among the leading lights of the medical community. No less an authority than the late Professor Krafft-Ebing asserted that women have but a shallow interest in sexual activity because of their biology. He tells us in his writings that if she — the female of the species — were not passive and submissive,’ at this point Frau Eberhardt picked up a book from the lectern and read, ‘“the whole world would be a bordello, and marriage and the family unthinkable.”’
Frau Eberhardt paused before posing some interesting questions: ‘Is this true? Can Professor Krafft-Ebing really be correct? Is the female of the species sexually anaesthetic? And if she is not, is it really the case that her untrammelled lust and degeneracy would bring about the end of civilised society?’
A smatter of restrained laughter travelled around the hall.
‘I will address these issues in turn.’
Frau Eberhardt put the volume down and picked up a sheet o
f paper. ‘I have here the results of a study undertaken in the United States of America, some years ago now, by Frau Doctor Clelia Duel Mosher. Her survey shows that one-fifth of married women achieve a venereal orgasm every time they engage in intercourse, and another fifth on most occasions. Her respondents described the experience as ecstatic or delightful. One of them expressed the simple sentiment that she would have hated to have omitted the experience. Are these the responses of sexually anaesthetic women? The conjugal right to satisfactory consummation,’ Frau Eberhardt stabbed the air with her finger for emphasis, ‘is as much the right of women as it is of men. Economic equality and sexual equality. Nothing less will be acceptable!’
At this juncture a soberly dressed middle-aged woman and her daughter stood up. The daughter had blue eyes and her blonde hair was coiled in braids over her ears. She wore a long dark skirt, a white blouse, a rose-embroidered waistcoat and black suede shoes with silver buckles. She looked like a figure from a traditional German fairy story. In her hand she carried the white carnation of Mayor Lueger’s Christian Social Party.
‘That is enough!’ cried the older woman. ‘What you are saying is filth — gutter talk — and doesn’t help women at all. There is nothing wrong with wanting to be cared for by a man, a good working man who is willing to labour and support his wife and children. It is unnatural to think otherwise.’
‘Sit down,’ shouted the young woman opposite Amelia, shaking her copy of Mantegazza in the air. ‘Let Frau Eberhardt speak!’
‘A woman’s place is in the home,’ continued the proud housewife, scowling at her critic. ‘That is her proper place. We must raise our daughters to be selfless, obedient, and willing to make sacrifices. What is motherhood, if not a sacrifice? What will become of our people if we do not fulfil our duty to husband and country? You …’ Her face reddened as she brought her mind to bear on the problem of formulating an insult. The result was a single word: ‘Intellectual!’ She turned to her daughter. ‘Come, Gretl.’
The two women stepped into the aisle and walked briskly towards the exit. Before slamming the door, the older woman shouted back at the stage.
‘There are laws about this sort of thing. What you are saying is obscene. They will hear about this at the town hall!’
Frau Eberhardt smiled at her stunned audience.
‘Well,’ she said finally. ‘No one can deny that there is much to do.’
12
Felix Schneider was a diminutive clean-shaven man, with wavy dark brown hair that had begun to turn silver above his ears. He spoke with a lisp, gesticulated excessively, and his cigarettes produced a distinctive fruity aroma which blended with the floral registers of his cologne. His apartment, situated on the top floor of a building in the sixth district, was clean, tidy and tastefully decorated.
Rheinhardt and Liebermann had found Schneider entertaining a young man of dandyish appearance. Rather awkwardly, Schneider explained that his guest was about to leave and immediately hurried the youth to the door. When Rheinhardt had asked Schneider who the young man was, he had answered ‘just a friend.’ But it was obvious to Liebermann, from Schneider’s anxious demeanour, that the guest was an intimate acquaintance, and that the nature of this ‘intimacy’ was very probably the cause of Schneider’s discomfort. Rheinhardt had not wasted time probing Schneider’s private affairs and the subject of Ida Rosenkrantz’s death was raised without preamble.
After the customary declarations of horror and disbelief, Schneider talked spontaneously about his late ‘mistress’ with emotion. Indeed, while reminiscing about their years spent together in Prague he became distraught and began to cry.
‘I am sorry for your loss,’ said Rheinhardt, extending a hand and resting it on Schneider’s forearm. ‘Please accept my condolences.’
‘Thank you,’ said the dresser, pathetically grateful for the inspector’s sympathy.
Schneider looked drawn and tired, undernourished. He lit another cigarette, and after a short pause seemed to draw sustenance from the tobacco. Words flowed in an unbroken stream of fond recollections. He spoke of his great admiration for Rosenkrantz, the brightness of her smile, the magnitude of her talent, her beauty and good humour. He spoke of theatrical triumphs and the glowing reviews that had followed.
Although Schneider’s official title was relatively modest — personal dresser to court opera singer Fraulein Ida Rosenkrantz — it was apparent that, during the course of their association, he had been called upon to perform a variety of functions. He had managed her financial affairs (she was famously irresponsible with money), reminded her of coming appointments, smoothed the way for the repair of friendships spoiled by indiscretion, run errands, schooled her in the important matter of opera house politics, and supplied her with safety pins when the fastenings of her dresses broke (usually just before a key stage entrance). And in the privacy of the diva’s dressing room he was obliged to hear her confidences and offer her the consolation of a brotherly shoulder to shed tears on. All very unusual for a relationship between a singer and her wardrobe assistant.
‘I don’t think it was an accident, Inspector,’ said Schneider. ‘I think she took her own life.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘She was not herself … unhappy.’
‘Doctor Engelberg, her general practitioner, told me that he saw Fraulein Rosenkrantz a few weeks ago and she was in excellent spirits.’
‘Doctors …’ said Schneider, shaking his head and demonstrating his low opinion of the profession with a grimace. Then, remembering that he was in the presence of a medical man, he glanced at Liebermann and added, ‘My apologies, Herr Doctor, I am upset, you understand.’
Liebermann excused him with a magnanimous gesture.
‘What did you mean by that?’ Rheinhardt imitated Schneider’s tone: ‘Doctors …’
‘She was unhappy about lots of things. I don’t think they were able to help her very much. ‘
Schneider had been voluble, talking with natural ease, but now, quite suddenly, he became reticent. He looked across the room at a circular table covered with a purple cloth. A candle flame flickered above three picture frames. The first contained a print of the Virgin Mary, the second a sepia image of an old woman, presumably Schneider’s deceased mother, and the third a photograph of Ida Rosenkrantz. The singer was dressed in a medieval costume and had been captured in a melodramatic pose.
‘Herr Schneider,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘You were saying …’
The dresser came out of his reverie.
‘She was never right — in her mind. Well, at least not since this spring.’
‘We know that she saw a psychiatrist, a man called Professor Saminsky.’
‘She was a consummate actress. It was easy for her to convince her doctor and friends that she was in excellent spirits. But she wasn’t.’
‘Why? What happened?’ asked Liebermann.
Schneider sighed and stubbed out his cigarette.
‘Love did not make her happy. This was not necessarily the fault of the gentlemen. She could have made different choices.’
‘Forgive me, Herr Schneider,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘but I am finding it rather difficult to understand your meaning. Would you be kind enough to speak more directly?’
Schneider nodded, and lit another cigarette before resuming. ‘What I mean to say is, Fraulein Rosenkrantz was in the habit of becoming romantically attached to unsuitable men, more often than not older men … like Winkelmann.’
‘Hermann Winkelmann?’ asked Rheinhardt.
Schneider did not respond to the question and just carried on. ‘It was plain to me that such relationships would never amount to much. The gentlemen were usually married with families. They were never very serious about her. She, however, was always serious about them. She would have found happiness more readily in the arms of someone like Schmedes, or a young officer, someone looking for romance rather than a brief amorous adventure.’
‘Was she rejected then, in the spri
ng? asked Liebermann.
Schneider turned towards Rheinhardt. ‘This is rather difficult for me, inspector. I feel as though I am betraying her.’
‘It is extremely important,’ Rheinhardt replied, ‘that we determine Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s state of mind at the time of her death. If you know anything at all that clarifies the issue, then you must say.’
Schneider shrugged. ‘I suppose whatever I disclose now cannot harm her.’ He sucked on his cigarette and blew the smoke out through his nostrils. ‘She got herself pregnant … and sought assistance to resolve the predicament.’
‘The pregnancy was terminated?’ asked Liebermann.
‘Yes.’
‘Who was the father?’ asked Rheinhardt.
‘She never told me. But from that time onwards, as far as I’m concerned, she was never herself again. She became sad, preoccupied. She had some kind of throat problem, which got worse. Fortunately, it only became very bad when the opera house closed for the summer. I think she started seeing the psychiatrist about then, too. One must suppose he helped her a little, because she was ready to sing again before the new season started. Be that as it may, she wasn’t the same person. I don’t know how to describe it.’
‘When did she tell you about the termination of her pregnancy?’ asked Rheinhardt.
‘About three weeks ago, after a performance of Fidelio. She burst into the dressing room and started crying as soon as she was through the door. She was beside herself and said all kinds of things about how she was going to hell, and that it was only right given the severity of her sin. I had to give her some slivovitz to bring her back to her senses and then I had to cancel her table at the Imperial.’ Schneider flicked a smut of ash from his trousers. ‘It was going to be impossible to get her out of the building without being seen and I was worried about what might happen if we encountered anyone important as we tried to leave. But I needn’t have worried. She acted her way out. No one would have suspected that only minutes earlier she had been weeping uncontrollably, digging her fingernails into her own flesh … horrible.’ Schneider shuddered. ‘You would never have guessed it. She smiled, accepted compliments, and even stopped to sign a few autographs before getting into her carriage. Remarkable.’
