by Frank Tallis
‘It was you, Herr Professor, who prescribed laudanum for Fraulein Rosenkrantz.’
‘Yes, Inspector, to help her sleep: a longstanding problem, and not uncommon among those with weak nerves.’
Saminsky offered his visitors a resume of the costs and benefits associated with various sleep remedies. When he reached the subject of constipation, Rheinhardt’s interruption was resolute, ‘Most illuminating, Herr Professor, however …’
‘Forgive me,’ said Saminsky, ‘I digress.’
Rheinhardt accepted the apology.
‘In your opinion,’ asked Liebermann, ‘what was the root cause of Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s hysterical illness?’
‘Root cause?’ Saminsky repeated, a hint of irritation creeping into his voice. ‘Her constitution, of course, the weakness of her nervous system — what else could it be?’
Rheinhardt tactfully intervened. ‘Could you tell us something of Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s history?’
Saminsky pulled a face. His features were remarkably expressive. Although he was willing to comply with Rheinhardt’s request, it was clear that he viewed the exercise as redundant.
‘Ida was raised in upper Austria, near Gmund. Her father died when she was eleven and her mother took her to Prague. There they lived with her mother’s sister, Ida’s Aunt Connie, who had three daughters of her own. Connie was married to a civil servant, Herr Stepanek. Ida wasn’t very happy in Prague as her cousins never accepted her into the family. They resented her and said hurtful things. She was, needless to say, a pretty child, and I suspect they were jealous of her looks. Young ladies can be very cruel. Ida took piano lessons and it was evident that she was gifted. She was encouraged by a schoolteacher, Herr Bachmeier, and eventually went for singing lessons with a choirmaster called Peter Helbing. I believe he is quite well known in Bohemia. Ida then came to study in Vienna, during which time her mother remarried, leaving Prague to live with her new husband in Italy. Relations between mother and daughter were somewhat strained thereafter. Her mother died quite recently from blood poisoning after being bitten by an insect.’ Saminsky shrugged, exasperated by the perversity of fate. ‘When Ida had completed her studies, she sang in Hungary for a year and then returned to Prague. Her reputation grew and in due course she was invited to join the court opera by Director Mahler.’
Reinhardt made some notes and, looking up, said, ‘Did you ever discuss her private life?’
‘Yes.’ The syllable was extended, dipping and rising.
‘We were informed by one of her associates that the attachments she formed rarely resulted in happiness.’
Saminky’s response was circumspect.
‘That is probably true.’
‘Did she have a lover at the time of her death?’
‘She was a striking beauty …’
Again, Saminsky’s plastic features did the work of language and provided an affirmative answer.
‘When was the last time you saw Fraulein Rosenkrantz?’
‘Last month.’
‘Who was she being courted by?’
‘Forgive me, Inspector, but how is this relevant? What passes between patient and doctor is confidential. Even after a patient dies, a physician must endeavour to protect the patient’s interests. What is your purpose?’
‘Although Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s death has been reported in the newspapers as accidental or suicidal, we are not, as yet, entirely persuaded of either possibility.’
The hush that followed was lengthy and disturbed by a series of clucking noises that increased in frequency and volume until Saminsky was able to expostulate. ‘What? You think she was murdered? Why?’ The professor directed his incredulous gaze at Liebermann, hoping that a medical colleague would be more forthcoming. When the young doctor did not oblige, Saminsky continued. ‘Who would have wanted to kill her?’
‘I was hoping that you might provide us with some clues,’ said Rheinhardt.
Saminsky shook his head.
‘There were men in her life. But she was discreet and referred to them in general terms: a certain count, the banker, or my composer friend. She rarely disclosed names.’
‘Did she mention quarrelling with any of them?’
‘She spoke of quarrels at the opera house.’
‘With who?’
‘Arianne Amsel, Celine Fuchs … and she was once slighted by von Mildenberg. But really, inspector, I do not think you can conclude very much from such disclosures. That is how life at the opera house proceeds.’
Rheinhardt tapped his pencil against his notebook.
‘Did you know that Fraulein Rosenkrantz consulted Doctor Engelberg on the twenty-seventh of April because of a gynaecological infection?’
‘Yes.’
‘And do you know the probable cause of that infection?’
‘Yes, I do. The termination of an unwanted pregnancy.’ Saminsky took a deep breath and continued. ‘She must have conceived shortly before I started seeing her. I realised something was wrong immediately. She was anxious about her treatment and asked many questions about the safety of faradisation. One must suppose that at that juncture she was still undecided as to whether or not she intended to have the child. In due course she told me what had happened and what she proposed to do.’
‘Who performed the …’ Rheinhardt hesitated before saying, ‘… procedure?’
‘I don’t know. I tried to dissuade her, although I must confess on medical grounds rather than moral. Visiting one of these people … these abortionists, is highly dangerous. They operate using dirty instruments and the abortifacients they employ are nothing more than a cocktail of poisons. Ida was lucky. The infection cleared up and there were no further complications.’
‘Why didn’t you share this information with Doctor Engelberg?’
‘Ida didn’t want me to. I urged her to reconsider but she wouldn’t hear of it. Engelberg was not unduly worried by her condition and I did not want to lose her trust.’
‘Who was she seeing about that time? February, March?’
Saminsky’s frown deepened.
‘I don’t know whose child it was.’
It was not a convincing denial.
‘Professor,’ Rheinhardt pressed. ‘I must insist on your full co-operation.’
Saminsky removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow.
‘You are putting me in a very difficult position.’
‘With respect, Herr Professor, I don’t see how.’
‘Do you have a family, Inspector?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Sons, daughters?’
‘Two daughters.’
‘Ah,’ said Saminsky. ‘Like me.’ He pointed across the room at the vapid portrait. ‘Bianka and Claudia. They are older now, twenty-one and twenty-three. My pride and joy.’
‘Daughters are indeed a blessing, I am bound to agree; however, you will not think me a dullard, I hope, for failing to appreciate how mention of the rewards of fatherhood makes things any clearer?’
‘Ida made me swear to keep the identity of her lover a secret. She made me swear on my daughters’ lives.’
‘Come now, professor …’
‘Come now? It’s easy for you to say that, I’m sure. But if you were in my position, how would you feel?’
‘Discomfited, of course. Even so …’
‘Are you a religious man?’ asked Liebermann.
‘No, not really,’ answered the professor.
‘Then what exactly …?’
The professor flapped his hands in the air. ‘I know that it’s irrational, but one cannot break such an oath without pause for thought. I do not want to tempt fate.’
‘With respect,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘I must inform you that with-holding information from the security office is a serious offence. By doing so you also tempt fate in the person of a magistrate. The terms of your pledge were most unfortunate and, as a father, I sympathise with the sentiments you express. Be that as it may, the process of law m
ust take precedence over superstition.’ Saminsky’s lips remained firmly pressed together. ‘Was it Count Wilczek? Bader? Winkelmann? Mayor Lueger?’ The professor flinched. ‘Lueger?’
Saminsky nodded and whispered, ‘Heaven help me.’
‘What do you know?’ asked Rheinhardt. ‘It is imperative that you say.’
The professor stuffed his handkerchief into his coat pocket and answered slowly, as if each word was chafing his conscience.
‘The association began after she was invited to sing for the mayor on his birthday.’
‘That would have been in October, last year?’
‘About that time, yes.’
‘Did the mayor know that she was pregnant?’
‘I believe so.’
‘And he consented to her …’ Rheinhardt paused to select an appropriate euphemism, ‘… plan of action?’
‘I really can’t say. Please, Inspector, you must appreciate that I did not quiz her about the details of this liaison. It was not my business to do so. I do not subscribe to the view that the treatment of nervous disorders is best achieved by talking. Neural deficiencies are not corrected by confession. If that were the case, hysteria would never be seen in devout Catholics. Nervous disorders are plainly caused by disordered nerves!’
This little play on words obviously satisfied Saminsky. A faint smile appeared on his face but it was not sustained. Instead, it flickered and faded.
‘Did their association continue,’ asked Rheinhardt, ‘after the pregnancy was terminated?’
‘For a period of time, yes.’
‘How long?’
‘It lasted until the summer, at least.’
‘But eventually it ended?’
‘That was my impression. But I cannot be certain. It is possible that Ida maintained her association with Lueger while simultaneously becoming intimate with other gentlemen.’
Rheinhardt glanced at his friend.
‘Do you have any questions you would like to ask the professor, Herr Doctor?’
‘Yes,’ said Liebermann. ‘I do.’ He paused thoughtfully and pointed towards the piano.
‘Do you play, Herr Professor?’
Saminsky looked puzzled.
‘When I get the time’
‘I notice you own an Ehrbar.’
‘A gift from His Majesty. I attended the late empress.’
‘How do you think they compare with Bosendorfers? I’ve been told the action can be a little heavy.’
Rheinhardt closed his notebook and found that his mind was offering him a string of expletives for later use.
‘Why on earth did you ask him those ridiculous questions about his piano?’
‘The relative merits of the Ehrbar and Bosendorfer actions is a topic of great interest to me. Besides, there’s a lot you can learn about a man from such a conversation.’
‘And what, may I ask, did you learn?’
‘Enough to confirm my existing prejudices.’ The two men stepped off the paving stones and began their transit of the wide cobbled road. ‘He’s a fool. A perfect example of the “physiological psychiatrist”: a practitioner whose thinking is stunted by a slavish obedience to historical precedents, an individual who, when presented with the marvel of the human psyche, with its dark continents, power to create dreams, passions and enigmas, sees only a brain trailing threads of nerve tissue: a self-important cretin, looking backwards, resisting progress, while his discipline is straining at the leash, leaping forward, pulling medicine, philosophy and science into the future and the new century.’
‘Don’t mince your words — eh, Max?’ said Rheinhardt.
Liebermann ignored Rheinhardt’s sarcasm and continued to vent his spleen.
‘General faradisation! A singer walks into Saminsky’s consulting room with a throat problem and it doesn’t even occur to him to make a connection.’
‘I thought globus hystericus was associated with difficulty swallowing, not singing.’
‘An imaginary obstruction would almost certainly have affected Rosenkrantz’s ability to sing.’
‘Yes,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘I suppose it must have, even if the effect was only to damage her confidence.’
‘Remember, Oskar, we are discussing a hysterical illness, an illness which has only an apparent physical cause. There is, in reality, no lump in the throat, no inflammation of the larynx. The symptoms are perceived, not actual, and as a rule anything produced by the mind has meaning.’
‘All right, then, what did Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s globus hystericus mean?’
They reached the other side of the road. ‘Perhaps she wanted to terminate her contract at the opera house, or even cease performing entirely.’
‘Nonsense; she loved the applause, the attention.’
‘But she didn’t love the director’s tyranny and the spite of her rival divas. Sometimes when a person cannot make a momentous decision the unconscious settles the issue by other, more subtle means. The person becomes ill, providing convenient exemption from worldly obligations. The fact that Ida Rosenkrantz suffered from a condition affecting her throat is one that no competent psychiatrist would have overlooked.’
Liebermann halted and raised his index finger. ‘That is just one possibility, but there are others.’ A second finger appeared. ‘Perhaps the illness represented a punishment for a past transgression; a transgression that she could only atone for by giving up her most valuable possession, her voice.’ A third finger joined the first two. ‘Or … perhaps the imaginary obstruction in her throat allowed her to avoid performing a sexual act.’
Rheinhardt winced.
‘Really, Max …’
‘All or none of these possibilities might be true. My point is that Saminsky didn’t consider any of them. Instead, he tried to strengthen Rosenkrantz’s nervous system with electricity because that was what he was told to do when he was a student! The man is an absolute fool.’
Rheinhardt directed Liebermann’s attention back across the road to where Saminsky’s house and garden occupied a substantial plot. It was a mock-Renaissance edifice not unlike a French chateau. Pitched roofs and turrets suggested aristocratic luxury and the windows were decorated with foliated, volute gables.
‘He’s doing very well for a fool,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Don’t you think?’
‘It’s scandalous,’ said the young doctor. ‘Freud, a genius, only lately a professor, struggles to achieve recognition, whereas Saminsky, an idiot, collects honours and gifts from the palace.’
‘Who said that life was fair?’ Rheinhardt slapped Liebermann on the back and they proceeded towards the waiting carriage.
‘I take it you will be paying Commissioner Brugel a visit this afternoon?’
‘He asked me to return with something more substantial. “A little more meat on the bone” were his exact words.’
‘Well, he won’t be disappointed.’
‘If it really transpires that the mayor …’ Rheinhardt abandoned his sentence. ‘No, one must not think that yet. It is far too early.’
The two men looked at each other and much passed between them. A strange, shared excitement, tainted with the expectation of encountering uncertain dangers.
‘You will let me know, I trust, should you succeed in getting the commissioner’s approval?’
‘Only if you promise not to talk to the mayor about pianos.’
‘You have my word. I’ll be at the hospital.’
They arrived at the carriage but when Rheinhardt pulled the door open Liebermann made no attempt to get inside.
‘Don’t you want to come back to Schottenring with me?’
‘No. I’m going to catch a train.’
‘To the hospital?’
‘No, Landstrasse.’
‘Why are you going there?’
‘To pay my respects to Mozart.’
Liebermann raised his hand, turned sharply, and walked off as though he was suddenly in a great hurry. Rheinhardt took a cigar from his pocket, lit it, and wa
tched his friend’s brisk progress down the gentle gradient.
‘He does it on purpose,’ the inspector muttered.
‘What did you say?’ asked the driver.
‘Nothing,’ Rheinhardt replied.
25
In the seventeen-eighties, Emperor Josef II had decreed that, in order to limit the spread of disease, all interments should take place outside the city walls. So it was that the St Marxer cemetery came to be situated on the south-eastern fringes of the modern metropolis. The new cemetery was so small that it soon became overcrowded and no further burials were permitted after eighteen seventy-four. Standards of maintenance were relaxed and the ensuing decades had imbued the cemetery with a desolate, forlorn aspect.
On previous occasions when Liebermann had ventured out to St Marxer, this general impression of remoteness and neglect had been assisted by the weather. An overcast sky had created an oppressive, eerie gloom. Curiously, the conditions now were, once again, identical. He had never seen, and wondered whether he ever would see, this sad little graveyard in sunlight. It seemed to exist under a pall of perpetual melancholy. Grey clouds had massed on the horizon and the fitful breeze carried with it the harsh laughter of crows.
Liebermann strolled down the principal avenue, occasionally stopping to admire the statuary: an angel, kneeling, hands clasped together, his robes falling in beautifully executed folds from his muscular body; a sweet little child, with curly locks, hands crossed over his chest, and chubby ankles exposed beneath the hem of his baggy nightshirt; an ethereal being, bearing a torch, emerging from the uneven surface of a rough-hewn slab of rock. None of the tombs were very grand, but the understated artistry of their design was eloquent and arresting.
Turning off onto a muddy footpath, Liebermann made his way between more graves until he reached an open space containing a monument of white marble. A stricken cherub, hand held despairingly against its forehead, leaned against a broken pillar for support. The truncated column was symbolic, representing an untimely death. There was no epitaph on the pedestal, only a name in gold letters, and some dates:
W.A. Mozart
