Frank Tallis - Death And The Maiden

They began to play, filling the room with a sound of such beguiling beauty that Liebermann instantly forgot himself. The melody was weightless and unhurried, hovering, occupying a tonal universe that was at once both ecstatic and painfully sad. It was like nothing Leibermann had ever heard before, touching him in some deep place, finding subtle and sympathetic registers of emotion. This music was peculiarly eloquent, suggesting the numinous in its oceanic pitch and swell. Here, unmistakably, was the weary soul, bidding adieu to earthly existence. Yet the lure of eternal peace was not so great as to mitigate mundane attachments, the recollection of simple human pleasures: sunlight on an upturned face, a child’s smile, mountain air in the morning, the smell of flowers after summer rain, the immediacy of physical love. The soul was leaving for a better place, but not without a backwards glance and the reluctant acceptance that some things would be lost for ever. Throughout, the aching melody was held in a state of suspension, striving for but repeatedly denied resolution. The effect of this was to make the music unbearably intense. When the final phrase desended, step by step, Liebermann was fighting to hold back tears. An F major chord, pure and translucent, consigned the soul to heaven, and the silence that followed lasted for some time.

The director removed his hands from the keyboard and said: ‘Well, what do you think?’

Liebermann was speechless.

As usual, Cafe Central was busy. Even so, Rheinhardt and Liebermann had found a table where they could talk without being overheard. A group of litterateurs were arguing loudly about poetry and the pianist was thumping out a medley from Strauss’s Die Fledermaus . Liebermann noted that his friend had failed to order a pastry: a reliable indication that something was amiss.

‘I feel responsible, somehow,’ said Rheinhardt, stirring his Turkische coffee and staring glumly into the black whirlpool that he had created. ‘Don’t you?’

‘Oskar,’ said Liebermann, sighing, ‘we didn’t drive Saminsky to commit suicide!’

‘But how can you be so sure?’

Liebermann turned away and gazed towards the corner where the chess players had gathered. It was remarkable how they could concentrate, given the noise. ‘Professor Mathias is quite certain that it was suicide?’

Rheinhardt nodded. ‘Frau Saminsky said her husband was preoccupied. He didn’t go to bed after returning from the palace. The lord marshal also said Saminsky wasn’t his usual jovial self. I think we may have been a little too …’

‘Emphatic?’

‘Yes.’

Liebermann shrugged. ‘It’s all very odd, though, don’t you think? That Saminsky should drown — at this particular juncture?’

‘Yes. And ordinarily we would be obliged to consider the possibility of foul play. But Professor Mathias was unequivocal with respect to his conclusion.’ The crescents of loose skin under Rheinhardt’s eyes had darkened due to the absence of sleep. He shook his head and added, ‘I’m not sure we went about things in the right way. Those blunt accusations. He couldn’t face the prospect of scandal and ruin.’

Liebermann pushed his Topfenstrudel across the table.

‘Eat this. It’ll make you feel better.’

‘Aren’t you hungry?’

‘I’ll order another.’

Rheinhardt sliced the pastry with his fork and placed a small piece in his mouth. He began to chew, slowly, and Liebermann hoped that it would have the desired effect.

‘Did you go to see Herr Kluge?’

‘Yes. The poor fellow is old and plagued by supernatural visitations.’

‘Does he live on his own?’

‘No, with his wife who is also very peculiar.’

‘Did they remember Saminsky paying a call on the seventh of September?’

‘Frau Kluge remembered Saminsky visiting in August and early in the following month, but she couldn’t provide dates. She was, however, confident that Saminsky had arrived late. Apparently Herr Kluge is most vulnerable to hallucinations after eating his evening meal which is served at half past eight.’

Liebermann remembered Saminsky opening the D’Arsonval cage. He had looked like a stage magician, a creator of illusions. In a way, his whole life was misdirection and deception. He had concealed his mediocrity behind a screen of smoke and mirrors.

The pianist finished the Strauss medley and received a vigorous round of applause. Liebermann waited for the noise to subside. ‘I think I might have been mistaken about Lueger.’

Rheinhardt put down his fork.

‘Good God! I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say such a thing.’

‘The mayor is shrewd. And I wonder, would a shrewd man have chosen such a course of action …’ The sentence trailed off and Liebermann grimaced.

‘What about the voice of Frau Lueger, sounding in her son’s head, her possessive love, her denunciation of sluts and sirens? What about all that?’

Liebermann ignored Rheinhardt’s taunt.

‘The very fact that Geisler saw the mayor outside Rosenkrantz’s villa should have given us pause for thought. If he had intended to kill her, surely he would have taken better care not to be seen.’

‘Men with murder on their minds are, not surprisingly, somewhat absorbed by their thoughts and therefore prone to incautious behaviour. It was a foggy night. Lueger might not have seen Geisler approaching.’

‘And those letters in the stove? Would he really have tried to destroy them after killing his erstwhile mistress?’

‘We don’t know that he did try to destroy them. Perhaps they were placed in the stove by Rosenkrantz. However, if it was Lueger, his behaviour cannot be considered entirely unreasonable. Most people are completely unaware that certain inks survive fire.’

Liebermann pulled at his chin.

The pianist began to play again, a Slavic melody that Liebermann didn’t recognise. ‘What if Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s rib wasn’t accidentally broken?’

‘I’m afraid I’m finding your reasoning a little difficult to follow, Max. Are you suggesting that the perpetrator broke the rib on purpose?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why would he have done that? If it wasn’t for the broken rib he would have almost certainly got away with it!’

‘Exactly.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘The broken rib was broken because of an unconscious wish to be caught and punished.’

‘No. I believe the perpetrator was fully aware of what he was doing.’

‘Forgive me, Max, but you really aren’t making much sense.’

Liebermann took a sip of his schwarzer coffee.

‘Whoever killed Rosenkrantz wanted us to conclude that she had taken laudanum, lost consciousness, and that her rib was accidentally broken while she was being asphyxiated. And why wouldn’t we reach such a conclusion? It’s so very plausible.’

‘But to what end?’

Liebermann caught the attention of a passing waiter.

‘Another Topfenstrudel , please.’

The waiter bowed and dashed off towards the counter.

Rheinhardt frowned at his friend: ‘Well?’

Commissioner Brugel had arranged an arc of photographs on his desk. Each of the images showed a different view of Professor Saminsky’s drowned body. Some of the photographs, especially those taken at a distance, possessed a modicum of artistic merit. They showed the still surface of the lake, the ring of trees, and the pale uniform sky overhead. If it had not been for the corpse in the foreground, some of these landscapes would have been suitable for display at an exhibition.

‘Why,’ said the commissioner, ‘did you request an audience with the lord marshal without consulting me first?’