Frank Tallis: Death And The Maiden

‘Yes, these things are associated with a kind of happiness,’ said Mendel. ‘But not true happiness, not the kind of happiness that comes from marriage and children. These experiences are essential. They are sacred.’ Liebermann flinched at this last word. The movement was so pronounced that his father noticed. ‘It isn’t so foolish, Maxim, to believe that we have been put on this Earth for a purpose.’

There were many subjects that Liebermann preferred to avoid when conversing with his father and religion ranked highly among them. He was greatly relieved when Mendel’s train of thought was interrupted by the arrival of Bruno, the waiter.

‘Herr Liebermann, another pharisaer?’

‘Yes, Bruno, and another schwarzer for my son.’

‘Herr Doctor Liebermann, you have hardly touched your Mohnstrudel . I trust it is to your satisfaction?’

‘Yes, Bruno,’ said Liebermann. ‘It’s very good.’

The waiter bowed and dashed off, vanishing behind the open lid of the piano.

‘You remember Blomberg?’ said Mendel. ‘You met him at my lodge.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘He has a daughter. Twenty years old. Very pretty.’

Ah , thought Liebermann. So this is what it’s all about!

Liebermann shook his head. ‘Not yet, father. It really is too soon.’ Mendel acknowledged his son’s request with a brusque nod, and finished his guglhupf in silence. The B minor waltz came to a close, and the pianist, responding to a smattering of applause, began a second Chopin waltz: the languid E flat major. Their conversation continued in a desultory fashion until Liebermann, observing the time, announced that he was expected at the hospital.

‘You’d better hurry along, then,’ said Mendel. Liebermann had the distinct impression that his father was relieved to see the back of him. Bruno arrived with Liebermann’s coat and soon the young doctor was standing on the Ringstrasse waiting for a cab. The hazy fog had still not lifted and the air smelled damp and autumnal. A woman wearing a feathered hat passed by and he found himself staring at her retreating figure. The slimness of her waist and the curve of her hips held his attention; interest slowly transmuted into desire.

Marriage , thought Liebermann. Maybe the old man has a point .

A cab drew up and he stepped towards it, but another gentleman had hailed the vehicle while Liebermann had been distracted by the woman in the feathered hat. Liebermann watched as the carriage pulled away and set off towards the looming mass of the opera house, his brain teeming with thoughts and the nervous melody of Chopin’s B minor waltz.

Rheinhardt and his assistant were smoking cigars in the corridor outside the morgue. A sawing sound emanated from within, above which Professor Mathias’s fragile tenor was drifting aimlessly. Somewhere in the pathological institute a chiming clock announced that it was six o’ clock. The day had been long and Rheinhardt had eaten nothing since breakfast.

‘I think it would be permissible for us to stop for some refreshment on our way back to Schottenring, don’t you?’

‘There’s a new beer cellar that’s just opened on Turkenstrasse,’ Haussmann replied. ‘They serve some very spicy Weizenbock . Knauss, a friend of mine, went there last week. He said it was good.’

‘I was really thinking of something more substantial, Haussmann, something requiring the use of implements, such as a knife and fork.’

‘Oh, I see, sir.’

‘Boiled beef, fried onions, and dumplings, followed by a thick slice of topfenstrudel.’ As Rheinhardt envisaged the meal his stomach produced a plangent wail that evoked images of eternal torment. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he added, positioning a placatory hand on the corrugated distensions of his waistcoat.

‘This place also serves food, sir,’ said Haussmann. ‘Simple but wholesome. That’s what my friend said. I’m sure you’d be able to get some boiled beef and dumplings.’

‘Very well, Haussmann,’ said Rheinhardt, suddenly feeling weak and seeing no purpose in prolonging the debate. ‘That is where we shall eat. Turkenstrasse.’

‘Rheinhardt!’ It was Professor Mathias. ‘Rheinhardt, come in, will you? I’ve got something to show you.’

The two men re-entered the morgue, where they discovered Professor Mathias standing by a bench next to the autopsy table. He was looking down at something that glistened beneath the beam of an electric lamp. As Rheinhardt passed Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s corpse he saw that she had undergone a hideous transformation. All the skin had been peeled away from her chest and it now hung down from either side of her body like the loose flaps of an unbuttoned coat. Her breasts were still attached to these flaps and they drooped, piteously, over the lip of the table. Rheinhardt’s gaze lingered on the neatly packed organs of Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s thoracic cavity and he found himself swaying a little, unbalanced by the macabre spectacle.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Professor Mathias.

‘Yes, quite all right, thank you,’ Rheinhardt replied, drawing on his cigar for comfort.

‘It’s just, I can’t help noticing,’ continued Mathias, ‘that you’ve gone green. Hasn’t he, young man?’ Mathias turned to address Hausmann. ‘Oh, I see that you have too, dear fellow. Would you like some schnapps? It’s good for queasiness.’ The old man produced a bottle from a shelf beneath the bench.

‘A very kind gesture, Professor,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘But we are on duty and must decline your offer.’

‘You have no objection if I-’

‘Do as you please, professor.’

Mathias filled a shot glass, threw his head back, and downed the contents in one gulp.

‘Ah, that’s better!’ said Mathias. ‘I’m feeling the cold more than I used to. The schnapps helps. Now, where were we?’ He put the glass down and indicated the object beneath the lamp. It was the forepart of Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s ribcage. Rheinhardt noticed that the sternum and all the projecting struts of bone were coated with a fibrous silvery material. Mathias’s eyes bulged behind his thick spectacles. ‘You said that you weren’t convinced Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s death was accidental. What made you say that, Rheinhardt?’

‘There was something about the way she was lying on the floor that looked rather odd to me. It was as if she’d been’ — Rheinhardt searched for an accurate expression — ‘tidied up.’

‘How so?’

‘She was positioned in the middle of a Persian rug and her arms were exactly parallel to its edges.’

‘Interesting,’ said Mathias. The old pathologist reached out and, taking one of the ribs between his thumb and forefinger, demonstrated that a section of bone, distal to the costal cartilage, could be moved freely in all directions within its fibrous sheath.

‘It’s broken?’ said Rheinhardt.

‘It most certainly is,’ said Mathias, turning to face the autopsy table. ‘Now, take a look at these lungs. Enormous, aren’t they? The secret of her success, I expect. I saw her in The Flying Dutchman last year: extraordinary power. You wouldn’t have believed that a small woman could produce such a noise. Her voice soared above the orchestra.’ The professor, inspired by this reminiscence, attempted to recreate the effect by singing in a wavering falsetto that cracked almost immediately and became a hacking cough. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Mathias, resting his hands on the side of the autopsy table. ‘My asthma. It gets bad at this time of year.’

‘You were about to show me something, Professor?’

‘Fraulein Rosenkrantz is supposed to have ingested a deadly quantity of laudanum — is that correct?’