Frank Tallis: Death And The Maiden

The case was far from closed.

Rheinhardt tilted the bottle and a rainbow of colours appeared beneath the dark blue stopper. He was obliged to continue the investigation. If Commissioner Brugel challenged him, he could always blame Professor Mathias.

Apart from the occasional rustling of reeds and leaves, the lake was, once again, shrouded in absolute silence, the surface a sheet of glass beneath a white void. Rheinhardt passed through the beech trees and followed the gravel path until he reached the changing hut. For a few moments he stood quietly, contemplating the hushed scene. He placed his hands on his thighs and, leaning forward, peered into the water. He couldn’t see very much, only the sky’s pale reflection.

In the hut he stripped off his clothes and donned a black and green swimming costume. He hadn’t been swimming for months and was quietly excited by the prospect. The door hinges needed oil and bellowed a bovine protest as he made his exit.

Rheinhardt edged down the gentle incline until his feet were covered in water, and then began to wade out slowly into the lake. It was cold, but not cold enough to make him shiver. When the water was lapping around his waist, he bent his knees and pushed off, launching himself into a horizontal glide before initiating a languid breast stroke. Occasionally he would allow his legs to descend in order to test for depth, and he discovered that the lake was generally shallow. Only when he was in the very middle was there a place where the bottom was beyond the reach of his toes. Taking a deep breath he dipped his head beneath the surface and stared at the bed of the lake. The water was pellucid. He saw flat stones and some bricks embedded in the mud. Coming up for air, he took another deep breath and lowered his head again. He scissored his legs, creating a disturbance, and watched dark nebulae rising. They expanded until the agitated water was opaque. Rheinhardt undertook various experiments of this kind, and when he was satisfied that he had gathered enough evidence to support Professor Mathias’s hypothesis he swam a few circuits of the lake for pleasure.

As he followed the bank opposite the wooden hut, Rheinhardt caught a glimpse of someone walking beyond the beech trees. He expected to see a man emerging onto the path at any moment — another swimmer, perhaps? But no one did emerge. His instinct was to go and investigate, but he resisted the urge and continued to circle the lake. Where had the man gone? Rheinhardt became acutely aware of his vulnerability. The lake was a lonely place. Moreover, he had just established that Saminsky had very probably been murdered there. Rheinhardt’s carriage was parked some distance away. He wondered whether the driver would hear him if he called for help.

Feigning indifference, Rheinhardt rolled onto his back and allowed the buoyancy of the water to support his body. He continued to observe, and did so for some time, but saw nothing unusual. In fact, he was beginning to question whether he had seen anything at all when, quite suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a man wearing a coat and hat leap from behind one tree to a new hiding place behind another.

Rheinhardt decided that it was unwise to remain passive. He was a sitting target. Rolling over, he immediately began a fast crawl, hoping that an element of surpise might work to his advantage. He made directly for the bank, which at its nearest point was quite steep. Finding some purchase, he heaved himself out of the water. He stood up, crossed the path, and made his way through the trees. When he arrived at the location where he expected to discover a man crouched down in the scrub and brushwood, he found nothing. Nor, when he looked across the grass towards the road, did he see anyone attempting to make their escape.

The inspector scratched his head.

After Rheinhardt had dried himself off and changed back into his clothes he conducted a quick search of the area and then made his way back to the road. His carriage was waiting for him near one of the unfinished villas. Rheinhardt looked up at the driver.

‘Did you see anyone by those trees?’ He pointed towards the beeches.

The driver shook his head.

‘There was a man skulking around up there. He was wearing a coat and hat — you must have seen him!’

The driver shrugged.

‘I didn’t see anyone.’

The director looked Amsel directly in the eye and said, ‘I am afraid that your contract will not be renewed next year.’

At first, the singer looked as if she was going to cry. Her haughty expression lost its integrity as her lower lip began to tremble. But then she touched her crucifix and seemed to draw strength and inspiration from its substance. Suddenly she was like a martyr, bravely accepting her destiny as the faggots ignited and the flames licked at the hem of her gown. Arianne Amsel shook her mane of dark curls and raised her chin. ‘I am not surprised, Herr Director. You have been undermining me for years now. It was inevitable that you would one day deliver the final blow.’

‘That is a very serious allegation, Fraulein Amsel.’

The singer responded by assuming an expression of pure contempt. ‘You men are so weak.’ Mahler drew back, his quizzical expression intensifying. ‘So easily manipulated.’

‘What?’

‘She turned you all against me.’

Mahler laughed incredulously.

‘Are you referring to Ida Rosenkrantz?’

Amsel reached across the director’s desk, pointing.

‘You were duped, just like the rest of them. Prince Liechtenstein, Intendant Plappart, Mayor Lueger! Yes, even you fell for her act.’ Amsel jabbed her rigid finger. ‘Even you were seduced by her counterfeit innocence.’

‘I can assure you,’ said the director with earnest authority, ‘Ida Rosenkrantz played no part in my decision to end your contract.’

‘That is something I find very hard to believe.’

‘Perhaps so, but it is true. There is only one person responsible for your fate.’ Mahler produced a knowing look. A subtle movement was sufficient to clarify his meaning. ‘You have given me many reasons to terminate your contract — your frequent indispositions, your tantrums and your tiresome objections to being cast in perfectly good roles. All these I have overlooked. But there is one thing that I could not, and cannot, overlook — your stubborn refusal to accept my prohibition of the claque.’

‘You are mistaken, Herr Director. I have never required services of that kind. I can hardly be blamed if my supporters are moved by the beauty of the human voice and choose to show their gratitude for artistry with applause.’

Mahler sighed.

‘I might have been persuaded otherwise last year, but this …’ Mahler’s hand revolved in the air as he searched for the right word, ‘… nuisance has become particularly conspicuous of late.’

Amsel motioned as if to speak but then suddenly changed her mind. She shook her head and her curls bounced before settling. This gesture, which usually betokened pride and vainglory, was now devoid of confidence. It had been reduced to a nervous tic, little more than an involuntary spasm.

‘I have employed some professional gentlemen of my own,’ Mahler continued. ‘Private detectives.’ He allowed Amsel a moment in which to register the implications of this admission: ‘The likes of Herr Vranitzky have no place in the opera house of the new century.’

The look of defeat on Amsel’s face was unmistakable. She rose from her chair and walked to the door. Mahler stood up and bowed. The gesture was entirely redundant but it was unthinkable for him to remain seated. It was important to observe the customary courtesies. Amsel turned. Her lips were pressed tightly together and her eyes glinted with moisture.