Death And The Maiden lp-6

by Frank Tallis

  Their speech became more elliptical.

  ‘An unforeseen difficulty did arise, Your Majesty, but it was promptly dealt with by my office.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Franz-Josef stubbed out his cigar and pulled at his mutton-chop whiskers. ‘Even so …’

  The lord marshal detected the emperor’s unease.

  ‘Your Majesty?’

  ‘I think, perhaps, we should take measures to ensure that the waters remain untroubled. Loyalty should be rewarded.’

  ‘Indeed, Your Majesty.’

  ‘One wouldn’t want…’ The emperor did not feel it was necessary to be explicit.

  ‘Of course, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Well then,’ said the emperor, indicating with a change of intonation that, as far as he was concerned, their business was concluded. The lord marshal placed some signed documents in his leather briefcase, bowed, and crossed the floor.

  ‘Good evening, Your Majesty.’

  The emperor responded with a barely perceptible nod of his head.

  As the doors closed Franz-Josef lit another cigar. It was his custom to be in bed by eight or nine, but he was disinclined to retire. He suspected that he was going to have one of his bad dreams again. Flames, breaking glass, the Hofburg stormed by agitators. The emperor looked at the bust of Radetzky.

  ‘Is there anything we can do?’ he said aloud.

  The silence that followed was enough to bring a tear to the old man’s eye.

  62

  When Rheinhardt found the envelope bearing the mayor’s seal in his mailbox, his heart faltered. He stood for some time, immobilised by anxiety, supposing that the letter inside must contain a list of the mayor’s grievances. A second letter — demanding Rheinhardt’s dismissal — was probably awaiting the commissioner’s perusal. Bracing himself, Rheinhardt began to read; however, he was surprised to discover that it was not a letter of complaint, filled with allegations of professional incompetence, but a plainly worded invitation written by a municipal secretary. The mayor respectfully requested Detective Inspector Rheinhardt and his colleague, Herr Doctor Liebermann, to attend a private meeting at the town hall two days hence.

  Thirty minutes prior to their engagement, Rheinhardt and Liebermann sat in the Cafe Landtmann, drinking pear brandy and speculating on the mayor’s purpose.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Whatever can he want?’

  Liebermann was concerned that Rheinhardt had imbibed more liquor than was strictly necessary to steady his nerves.

  ‘Come on, let’s go,’ said Liebermann, ‘We’ll walk around the park a few times before going in. Some fresh air will clear our heads.’

  They left the coffee house, crossed the Ringstrasse, and wandered around the green avenues in front of the town hall. In due course Rheinhardt looked up at the clock tower and said, ‘We’d better go in.’ Ascending the stairs, they stepped beneath the Gothic archway and entered the building. On this occasion they were met by one of Lueger’s green-coated courtiers who escorted them straight to the antechamber outside the mayor’s apartment. Soon after they were seated the double doors opened and Pumera appeared, gesturing for them to come forward.

  The mayor was sitting behind his desk and stood as they entered.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen.’

  Rheinhardt and Liebermann crossed the wide expanse of the Persian rug, bowed, and sat down in the two chairs that had been placed in readiness for their arrival.

  Lueger offered them cigarettes, which they refused, before lighting one for himself.

  ‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said, smiling. ‘Congratulations. You got your man. Professor Saminsky, eh? And who would have thought it? I never encountered the fellow but I am given to understand that he was well thought of by his peers and a favourite of the late empress. I’ve been following the revelations in the Wiener Zeitung. Have you read the latest? No?’ The mayor picked up a newspaper and pointed at a column. ‘Not only was he a murderer but an embezzler too. It’s all coming out now. Apparently, he pocketed thousands from palace charities. Extraordinary, that he got away with it for so long. No wonder he took his own life. I suppose he knew that his days were numbered.’ The mayor dropped the paper and drew on his cigarette. ‘Gentlemen: would you care for a cognac?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Rheinhardt.

  ‘Please. You are my guests and I will be offended if you do not accept my hospitality. Pumera? Some cognacs, please.’

  The bodyguard moved silently to a cabinet and began to prepare a tray.

  ‘Mayor Lueger,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘why did you wish to see us today?’

  The mayor appeared astonished by Rheinhardt’s question. ‘To congratulate you on solving the Rosenkrantz murder and to thank you for exercising discretion. Things could have turned out very badly for me, had certain sections of the press,’ he smiled benignly at Liebermann, ‘been informed of my. .’ he hesitated before adding, ‘. . involvement.’ The certain sections of the press to whom he referred were Jewish journalists. Showing no sign of embarrassment, the mayor continued: ‘Yes, a scandal could have been very damaging just before an election; however, as things stand, my campaign is proceeding well and I have every reason to expect a favourable outcome.’

  Rheinhardt bowed his head. ‘Commissioner Brugel will be delighted to hear that you are satisfied with our conduct.’

  ‘And so he should be. One more thing, Inspector.’ The mayor puffed at his cigarette. ‘My letters, the ones that I wrote to poor Ida: given that the investigation is now over, I assume that they can now be returned to me?’

  ‘Only a few scraps survived.’

  ‘Still, I would be grateful for their return.’

  ‘I am sure that the commissioner will not object to such a request.’

  ‘Good man.’

  Pumera appeared by the desk and the brandies were distributed. Lueger raised his glass. ‘Prost! Gentlemen. Your good health!’

  Rheinhardt’s glass came up, but Liebermann’s remained resolutely still. ‘I am most surprised …’ he said softly.

  ‘What?’ The mayor frowned.

  Rheinhardt threw a quizzical glance at his friend.

  ‘Surprised,’ Liebermann repeated, ‘that you are happy to drink my health.’

  Rheinhardt sensed Pumera bristling. The mayor smiled and said: ‘Herr Doctor, in these rooms, I decide who is a Jew. Your good health!’

  With evident reluctance, Liebermann raised his glass.

  ‘Prost,’ said Rheinhardt, starting to breathe again.

  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 o
f 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.’