Frank Tallis - Death And The Maiden

The lord marshal pressed his hands together. ‘He was distracted, but I cannot say any more than that. It would be misleading to imply that I saw in his demeanour a presentiment of coming tragedy.’ The lord marshal frowned. ‘I will inform the emperor of Professor Saminsky’s death in due course. You will appreciate that suicide is a sensitive subject where His Majesty is concerned.’

Only four years had passed since the emperor’s son had shot himself in a hunting lodge at Mayerling.

‘Was His Majesty also acquainted with Professor Saminsky?’

‘They met a few times when Saminsky was treating the late empress. And Saminsky has been presented at court on many subsequent occasions. It is only right that I inform His Majesty.’

‘I see.’

‘Well, Inspector, I’m sorry I haven’t been much help.’ The lord marshal rose from his seat. ‘But that is all I can tell you — a sad business.’

Instead of calling the servant, the lord marshal escorted Rheinhardt to the double doors. They both walked out onto the landing.

Rheinhardt inclined his head. ‘Thank you, once again.’

The lord marshal made an indulgent sign and mumbled an unintelligible platitude. At that precise moment, the second set of double doors opened, and out walked the emperor, accompanied by two generals. Rheinhardt stiffened and his heartbeat accelerated. The emperor was wearing blue trousers and a white tunic with gold flashes. He was a little shorter than his companions, who were also brilliantly attired but in red uniforms decorated with yellow braid. All were equipped with sabres. Rheinhardt looked to the lord marshal and the rising terror must have shown in his eyes.

‘It’s all right,’ whispered the lord marshal. ‘Stay exactly where you are.’

More people emerged, following the emperor and his generals: an entourage of palace aides and adjutants — and behind them a swarm of serving men. The emperor was marching straight towards Rheinhardt and the lord marshal. As the emperor approached, the lord marshal bowed low and Rheinhardt did the same. He was in this position, looking down at the floor, when he became aware of a pair of extremely shiny shoes occupying the uppermost arc of his visual field. The shoes were motionless, and the general kerfuffle that had previously accompanied the emperor’s advance had now been replaced by a restive hush. When Rheinhardt lifted his head, he discovered that the shiny shoes, as he had feared, belonged to the emperor. Rheinhardt swallowed and tried to keep perfectly still.

It was a face that every citizen of the empire knew: the bald head and the massive oversized mutton-chop whiskers, the round chin and prominent nose, an inescapable face, reproduced, as it so frequently was, in paintings and postcards and on commemorative tea services and chocolate boxes. Rheinhardt was dimly aware of the entourage piled up behind that familiar visage, but most of all he was aware of the emperor’s clear blue eyes. They were looking directly at him.

Rheinhardt could hear the roar of his own blood in his ears, the remorseless pounding of his heart. Suddenly, the emperor threw an inquiring glance at the lord marshal.

‘Your Majesty,’ said the lord marshal, ‘may I introduce Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt of the security office.’

Franz-Josef …

The great empire and all its disparate peoples were held together by this one man. From Bohemia to Galicia, Transylvania to Bosnia, Dalmatia to the Tyrol — Germans, Magyars, Czechs, Slovaks, Croats, Serbs, Slovenes, Italians, Ruthenians, Poles and Little Russians, all of these citizens — from those who dwelt in the grandest Schloss to the humblest peasant hut — revolved around this pivotal figure of power. And he, Rheinhardt, was at that very moment closer to him than any other human being. He felt as though he was standing at the very hub of the universe.

‘Rheinhardt,’ said the emperor. ‘Security office, eh?’

‘Indeed, Your Majesty,’ said the lord marshal.

Behind the emperor his entourage were waiting with bated breath. It seemed to Rheinhardt that his destiny was in the balance, his fate hanging by a thread. It was well known that one of the architects of the opera house had hanged himself after the emperor had made a disparaging remark about its ‘lowness’. The curling of the emperor’s upper lip had destroyed careers and ruined lives.

The emperor nodded, as if a process of inner deliberation had come to an end.

‘Where would we be without our fine security office?’

The generals muttered their approval.

‘Very good, very good,’ said the emperor, addressing no one in particular. He swept his arm forward. ‘Carry on.’ With these words, the passage of time, which had hitherto been held in a state of suspension, was permitted to proceed again. There was an almost physical sensation of unlocking and release.

Reflexively, Rheinhardt bowed again. He could hear the entourage marching past. When he raised his head, he could see the aides, adjutants and servants chasing after the emperor and his companions as they trotted down the staircase. One of the generals was talking about manoeuvres in the east.

Rheinhardt was stunned.

‘Well, Inspector,’ said the the lord marshal. ‘You have been honoured.’

Rheinhardt didn’t feel like he’d been honoured. Rather, he felt as if he had narrowly missed being crushed beneath a juggernaut.

The director had not offered the flautist a seat. Mahler opened a desk drawer and removed a sheet of paper. As if to avoid contamination he held it between his thumb and forefinger and signalled that he wished Treffen to take it from him.

‘What am I supposed to do with this?’ asked Treffen.

‘Read it.’

Treffen studied the letter. As his eyes oscillated his neutral expression was unchanging. When he had finished reading, the flautist stepped forward and placed the letter on the director’s desk. He then stepped back to his original position.

Mahler tapped a distinctive rhythm on the cover of a score. Liebermann, who was seated on the piano stool, thought it sounded like one of the director’s funeral marches.

‘Well,’ said Mahler. ‘Who do you think wrote such a letter?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Then you won’t mind providing us with a sample of your handwriting.’

Mahler pushed a blank card and a pencil towards Treffen.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘For a graphologist to look at.’

Treffen’s eyebrows rose a fraction, but it was enough to convert neutral indifference to surprise.

‘Herr Director, are you accusing me?’

‘No. I am giving you an opportunity to demonstrate your innocence.’ The director picked up the pencil and held it up. ‘A few phrases will suffice, or a poem that you have committed to memory. Schiller’s “Ode to Joy”, perhaps?’

‘I am afraid I cannot comply with your request, Herr Director.’ Mahler feigned puzzlement. ‘If I were to provide you with a sample of my handwriting, which would, needless to say, prove my innocence, you would then summon another member of the orchestra. And if it transpired that he too were innocent, you would be obliged to summon others. Where would it end? There is a principle at stake here. You cannot treat members of an imperial and royal institution with such casual contempt. When you disrespect the rank and file, you also disrespect the institution, and, when you disrespect this institution, you disrespect the emperor.’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Mahler, ‘and ordinarily I wouldn’t dream of making such an impudent demand. I only do so now because I am absolutely certain of the outcome.’ Mahler placed the pencil on the blank card with exaggerated care. ‘I know where you go after rehearsals, Herr Treffen. I know where you plot and scheme. This gentleman,’ he gestured towards Liebermann, ‘overheard you. There really is no point pretending otherwise. You have been found out.’