Frank Tallis: Death And The Maiden

‘Yes.’

‘Yet there is no inflammation of the lungs and her pupils are only slightly contracted.’ Mathias lifted one of the woman’s eyelids, revealing a striking emerald iris with a distinct circle of darkness at its centre. ‘She most certainly drank laudanum, but I’m not altogether sure that she imbibed enough to kill her.’

‘There were many empty phials by her bed.’

‘Which signifies nothing, Rheinhardt,’ said the professor, dismissively Then he placed a finger on the spongy exterior of the dead woman’s left lung. ‘What do you see here?’

‘It’s a different colour from the rest.’

‘The distinctive cherry-purple of a contusion, corresponding with the break I showed you on the eighth rib. If Fraulein Rosenkrantz had had an accident before retiring, she would have experienced considerable discomfort. Of course, it’s always possible that she sustained the injury, went to bed, and decided to treat herself with laudanum — although that would be most irregular. The pain and respiratory difficulties associated with a broken rib would almost certainly have caused Fraulein Rosenkrantz to call her physician with all possible haste.’

‘But if Fraulein Rosenkrantz was disorientated she might have injured herself before losing consciousness.’

‘In my opinion, it is quite difficult to break a rib by merely stumbling around a lady’s bedroom.’

Rheinhardt stubbed his cigar out in a glass dish and exhaled a final cloud of smoke.

‘In which case, how do you think the rib came to be broken?’

‘It’s only a theory, of course …’

‘Nevertheless, I would like to hear it.’

‘I strongly suspect that the rib was broken when someone applied pressure to her chest.’

‘I beg your pardon, Professor?’

‘Her lungs wouldn’t have been able to expand and she would have suffocated. She might still have been conscious when it happened — or at least partially conscious. She wouldn’t even have been able to scream. No air, you see.’ Mathias stroked the dead woman’s face and adopted a tender expression. ‘She would have been helpless.’

‘Forgive me, Professor, but are you suggesting that Fraulein Rosenkrantz was crushed?’

‘In a manner of speaking — yes.’

4

‘Young man — you are occupying my seat.’

Liebermann looked up and discovered that he was being addressed by a frail old woman with rheumy, colourless eyes. Her face was deeply lined and her thinning hair had been lacquered and curled into a cobwebby mass through which the glass facets of the chandelier behind her were visible. She was leaning on a walking stick with a carved ivory handle, though her principal means of support was the arm of a pretty woman in a blue dress, whose flushing cheeks proclaimed her profound embarrassment.

‘Great-aunt!’ said the woman, the tone of her voice combining admonishment with desperation.

The dowager turned the whole of her body in order to look at her anguished relative. ‘Whatever is the matter with you, Anna?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said the woman in the blue dress, smiling at Liebermann.

‘What are you apologising for?’ asked the old woman.

‘This gentleman is in the correct seat, I am sure,’ her great-niece replied. ‘Besides, it hardly matters — we’ll be able to see the stage wherever we sit.’

Liebermann stood up.

‘May I see your tickets?’

The young doctor inspected the numbers and said, ‘You are seated next to me — these two here — but I am perfectly happy to move along.’

‘That is very kind, but-’

‘No, I insist,’ said Liebermann. Before the old woman sat down she stared up at him and squinted. She had very distinctive features. A thin mouth, hooked nose, and pointed chin. It was unlikely that she had ever been beautiful, quite the contrary, but once she must have been very arresting. She exuded a dry floral fragrance, like scented talcum powder. ‘Allow me,’ said Liebermann, taking her walking stick and offering her his arm. The dowager took it and he performed the necessary actions to get her comfortably seated in her preferred chair.

‘Thank you,’ said the woman in the blue dress.

Liebermann bowed. ‘Doctor Max Liebermann.’

‘Anna Probst — and this is my great-aunt Frau Baerbel Zollinger.’

Liebermann bowed again. ‘Frau Zollinger.’

The old woman’s expression did not soften. Anna rolled her eyes, and Liebermann, recognising that he could do no more to win Frau Zollinger’s good opinion, returned his attention to the programme notes.

In due course the auditorium filled with patrons, the house lights dimmed, and the musicians appeared on stage. After some preliminary tuning, the conductor, who was wearing a white carnation in his lapel, entered through a door to the right of the stage and mounted the platform. When the applause had subsided he raised a very large baton and the air resonated with sublime harmonies.

The first piece was Mozart’s B flat major Serenade for twelve wind instruments and double bass. Liebermann was particularly fond of the Adagio, the immaculate melodies of which floated smoothly above a pulsing accompaniment. It was music of supreme elegance. The second piece was also a Serenade, scored for a smaller wind band, by Johann Christian Brosius, a composer with whom Liebermann was completely unacquainted. The two pieces had evidently been programmed together because Brosius had incorporated several themes from Mozart’s B flat major Serenade into his own composition. When the final movement, a charming presto assai, came to its end, Liebermann clapped loudly. In due course the conductor signalled his intention to leave the stage, the applause subsided and the audience began to disperse for the interval.

‘So, Herr doctor, it seems that you enjoyed the Brosius.’

Frau Zollinger was looking at Liebermann intently.

‘Great-aunt …’ said Anna, eager to prevent further embarrassment.

‘Yes,’ said Liebermann. ‘I enjoyed it very much.’

‘Over forty years,’ said Frau Zollinger. ‘Over forty years since I last heard that piece …’

‘I must confess that prior to this evening I knew nothing of Brosius. Not a single note.’

‘Oh, he had quite a reputation in his day. Brahms held him in very high regard.’

‘Did he?’

‘Well, that’s what he said. But I was never convinced of his sincerity. He was a difficult man, Brosius: sullen, brooding, and prone to angry outbursts.’

Liebermann looked more closely at the old woman.

‘You were acquainted with Brahms?’

‘Yes. I couldn’t stand the smell of his cigars.’

‘Great-aunt,’ said Anna, ‘it is the interval. Doctor Liebermann does not want to hear about Brahms’s cigars.’

Liebermann indicated with a gesture that he did not object to being delayed and invited Frau Zollinger to continue.

‘He used to come to my soirees,’ she declared.

‘Brahms?’

‘Yes. And Brosius. Once they came together. Of course, the real talent was his pupil …’ Liebermann wasn’t sure whether Frau Zollinger was referring to a pupil of Brahms or a pupil of Brosius.He waited patiently. ‘Brosius was technically accomplished, but young Freimark …’ The old woman sighed. ‘His songs … so clever, such careful attention to the meaning of the words. None of them were published, except “Hope”. You must know “Hope”? His setting of Schiller’s “Hope”?’

Liebermann was aware of a well-known song of that name and even thought he might have it at home in a volume titled Klassiker des deutschen Liedes .

‘Yes,’ said Liebermann. ‘I believe I do know it.’

‘A tragedy that he should have died so young. And even more of a tragedy that he should be remembered now for just one song.’