Frank Tallis - Death And The Maiden

‘And her other garments?’

‘Of course, although a lightweight gown is provided to preserve modesty.’

‘Which muscles did you stimulate?’

‘The sternocleidomastoid — the splenius capitis and cervicis — the levator scapulae — the trapezius — the pectoralis major …’

‘The muscles of the neck and chest?’

‘And upper back, yes.’

The professor reached out and picked up one of his unguentaria — a clay bottle, the neck of which was pinched, creating a shape vaguely reminiscent of the female form.

‘We are agreed that Fraulein Rosenkrantz had a weakness for father figures. Therefore the therapeutic situation you describe must have had a particular but predictable effect on her.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Did she not become … excited? After all, you, a distinguished psychiatrist, must have appealed to all her expectations of what a father figure should be. Successful, suave, cultured, caring.’

Saminsky’s mouth dropped open.

‘Doctor Liebermann, what are you suggesting?’

‘She became aroused, did she not?’ The professor was speechless. ‘It must have been an extremely testing situation. Fraulein Rosenkrantz was a renowned beauty. You are a physician, but being medically qualified does not make you inhuman. We understand this. You are still a man, with a man’s needs. Yes, it must have been very testing indeed to touch her and feel her responding, to feel the soft warmth of her flesh beneath your fingers, to observe the quickening of her breath: a kind of torment.’ Liebermann found that his words had conjured in his mind an image of Amelia Lydgate. He had meant to build towards a condemnation, but when he reached his final sentence it was forgiving. ‘More than a mere mortal man could reasonably expect to resist.’

‘That is enough!’ cried Saminsky. He directed a fiery look at Rheinhardt. ‘What is the meaning of this outrage, Inspector?’

Rheinhardt produced a cigar, lit it, and said calmly, ‘We have reason to believe that the mayor was not responsible for Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s pregnancy.’

‘ What? ’ said Saminsky.

There was an odd cracking sound. Saminsky opened his clenched fist. The tiny bottle had been snapped in half.

The carriage rolled past the Kaiser Pavillion and followed the railway line towards the centre of Vienna. For most of the journey Liebermann and Rheinhardt were isolated from each other by the heavy folds of a contemplative silence. It wasn’t until they crossed from Funfhaus into Neubau that the inspector stretched his legs and said. ‘Well?’

Liebermann removed his spectacles from his pocket, cleaned the lenses with a handkerchief, and put them on.

‘I am inclined to believe,’ he began with scholarly aplomb, ‘that when Fraulein Rosenkrantz confided in the angel maker she was telling the truth.’

Rheinhardt made a grumbling noise, the elements of which eventually came together as speech: ‘I suppose I should go and see Herr Kluge.’

‘If you discover that Professor Saminsky does not have a satisfactory alibi …’ Liebermann allowed the incomplete sentence to terminate at a precipice beyond which there existed a host of possibilities.

‘Then that will definitely complicate matters.’ Rheinhardt blew out his cheeks and let the air escape slowly. ‘I couldn’t help noticing that you were unusually direct with Saminsky.’

Liebermann shrugged.

‘It seemed the right approach to take.’ He didn’t want to discuss Saminsky or the illicit goings-on between doctors and patients. Turning to gaze out of the window he produced a jarring non sequitur. ‘Is it very difficult to get a corpse exhumed?’

‘What?’

‘I suppose there are forms to be filled.’

Rheinhardt’s expression darkened. ‘Quite a few of them, actually.’

‘You could get permission, though — I mean, as a senior detective you have the authority.’

‘If an exhumation is pertinent to a murder inquiry, yes.’

Liebermann spun round to face his friend. ‘I would like you to get authorisation for the exhumation of David Freimark’s body.’

Rheinhardt groaned.

‘Max, we’ve got more important things to worry about than the fate of David Freimark!’

‘A murder is a murder.’

‘Indeed. All human lives are of equal value. Be that as it may, a diva of the court opera has been murdered, Karl Lueger, the Lord God of Vienna, is our prime suspect, and the late empress’s physician has just given us good reason to doubt his integrity. It is not the time to be chasing around cemeteries digging up dead composers of thwarted promise!’

‘He was murdered. I’m sure he was.’

‘Let this Freimark business go, Max. It’s becoming a morbid pre-occupation. There are more pressing matters.’

Liebermann shook his head and repeated stubbornly, ‘A murder is a murder.’

Liebermann entered his apartment clutching the day’s mail. He sorted through the letters looking impatiently for one that had been addressed in Amelia’s distinctive hand, but was disappointed. Overwhelmed by tiredness, he dropped the unopened envelopes into his writing bureau and found himself drawn towards the featureless cabinet in which he kept his spirits. He angled his head to study the contents: slivovitz, becherovka, vodka, and a quarter-full bottle of absinthe. He picked up the absinthe, held it up to the light and, after a moment of perilous indecision, sensibly decided against the idea. Instead, he poured himself a glass of slivovitz and sat down at the piano.

Brosius’s Three Fantasy Pieces stood on the music stand. He played through the second of these, before essaying a few of Zemlinsky’s Rustic Dances . He then felt a strong urge to hear some Chopin and lifted the Opus Nine Nocturnes out of the piano stool. After a satisfactory rendition of the B flat minor, he rewarded himself with a warming swig of alcohol and positioned his hands in readiness for the opening bars of the E flat major. His mental preparations were interrupted by the sound of someone knocking at the front door. His first thought was that it must be one of Rheinhardt’s emissaries. However, he immediately dismissed the idea, having only recently bid the inspector goodbye at the Schottenring station.

Liebermann rose from his seat and went to investigate. He was amazed to find his erstwhile fiancee leaning nonchalantly against the door jamb.

‘Clara?’

‘You look surprised to see me.’

‘Well … I am.’

‘Didn’t you get my letter?’

‘Your letter?’

‘I sent you one this morning. Didn’t you get it?’

Liebermann remembered the unopened correspondence in the bureau. ‘I might have.’

‘What do you mean, you might have?’

‘I’ve only just returned from Hietzing. I haven’t had time to open my letters yet.’

‘No time? You were playing the piano. I could hear you.’

‘Yes.’ Liebermann extended the word until its thinness aroused suspicion.

‘I see.’ Clara took a step backwards. ‘This isn’t quite the welcome I was expecting. I will write to you again and-’

‘No. Don’t go!’ He had not forgotten the gratitude he had felt when she had generously forgiven him, the sweet relief, the heady release from oppressive guilt. The last thing he wanted now was to offend her. ‘I’m so sorry, Clara. Whatever will you think of me? Please, do come in.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. Of course.’

Liebermann took her hat and coat. As she turned he was enveloped by her perfume, a heavy scent that recalled the overlarge exotic blooms and humid heat of a greenhouse. Clara was wearing an impressive gown of blue silk, trimmed with silver. The neckline was low but a crescent of diaphanous gauzy material covered the swell of her breasts. Liebermann’s expression must have betrayed his appreciation. She looked up at him with dark eyes that communicated quiet amusement and satisfaction.