Ted Riccardi - Between the Thames and the Tiber

Holmes had surmised that the poison had been delivered mainly through Wagner’s fingers, by the ink that he used. Stored in powdered form, the composer mixed it religiously every morning and spent long hours ruling his music paper. He would then write for several hours. By the evening he would be saturated with small quantities; unable to sleep, he would pace about, then fall into a sleep of terrible dreams. The dosage was precise, and Holmes judged that the poisoning occurred intermittently at first, then regularly over two years. The murder was committed not only by one who hated him, but one who knew poisons and knew them well.

There was only one clue: the ink company in Dresden, And so, later that very day, having wired our plans to Liszt and asking him to join us in Dresden, Holmes and I boarded a train for Germany.

The trip was uneventful, but by coincidence we shared the compartment with someone who had arrived in Venice with the specific purpose of visiting Wagner. She was a Mrs. Burrell, a woman from Philadelphia, who described herself as one of Wagner’s American disciples. She was one of many American visitors, mainly female, who came in along stream to meet the Master, as they referred to him. He never refused to see them. She had come to invite Wagner to New York and Philadelphia to conduct performances of his own operas. She also had arrived too late.

Mrs. Burrell was a vivacious and intelligent woman of about twenty-five who had lived in Germany when she was a child. Her father was an American doctor who had served as Wagner’s physician before his return many years before to America. She had never met the Wagners, for she was a mere infant when her parents left for America, but a letter from her father had elicited a reply saying that his daughter was welcome at any time. This fact increased her disappointment at the composer’s death. She now planned to write a biography of Wagner and to invite two of his close associates, Anton Seidl and Hans von Bülow, to America. She had a long list of people she was going to visit, in Leipzig and Dresden, prepared for her by her father, as well as letters of introduction from the leading conductors of America.

We descended at Munich, bade farewell to Mrs. Burrell, and boarded a train for Leipzig. There we stayed for a day with the Brockhauses, to whom Liszt had provided an introduction. The Brockhauses themselves were busy preparing to leave for Bayreuth and the funeral. Ottilie Brockhaus, Wagner’s sister, tearfully questioned me closely about her brother’s last days, for she was the closest to him, and he had spent many hours in the quiet, rich, contentment of their home. Hermann, her husband, a large fat man, was a celebrated scholar of Sanskrit, and it was through him that Richard Wagner obtained many of the Buddhist texts that he had learned of in his reading Schopenhauer. Like many professors, Brockhaus liked to talk, and he and Holmes engaged in long dialogue about innumerable things pertaining to the composer. Holmes informed him in detail of Wagner’s last days, and Brockhaus expanded on his experience of Wagner, his difficult ways, and his creative genius. Holmes noted that Wagner took his own work so seriously that he used special inks that he himself prepared for the writing of his texts and scores.

“Yes,” Brockhaus answered, “Richard was particularly careful in the preparation of his scores. Because his music is so difficult technically, not only for singers but for the orchestra as well, he made his scores models of clarity in order to minimize the number of possible errors before they went to the publisher. It was upon my recommendation that Richard came to use the firm E. Windisch. The firm is owned by the father of one of my students, and they were always prompt in serving him, I gather. We of course use their inks in the books published by our family’s company.”

“For some projects of my own, I should like to consult the Windisches. I was deeply impressed with the Wagner scores. Perhaps you could inform Herr Windisch that I should like to meet him,” said Holmes.

“Easily done, Herr Holmes. I shall give you a letter and send a wire to him today. Because of your interest in Wagner, you may also want to meet one of his employees, Nathalie Planer. She has been in Windisch’s employ for several years now. She is the younger sister of Minna, Richard Wagner’s first wife. Although she and Richard have been out of touch for many years, she would, I am sure, appreciate hearing from you about your visit during his last days.”

I saw that Holmes could barely contain his excitement in hearing Brockhaus’s last words. Casually spoken, they may have delivered a significant clew to the solution of the mystery. No one, not even Liszt, had ever mentioned the name of Nathalie Planer to him. With Brockhaus’s letters, we left by train for Dresden the following morning, where we arrived just before noon. From the station we went directly to the Hotel Metropole, a small inn recommended by Brockhaus, and then walked directly to the firm of E. Windisch. Herr Windisch received us warmly.

“The world has lost its greatest composer,” he said, “and we mourn for his family and for the world.”

“You are right, Herr Windisch. The loss is irreparable. I gather that you have working for you a relative of Wagner’s through his first marriage, one Fräulein Nathalie Planer.”

“She is no longer with the firm, Dr. Watson. She became ill several months ago, and took leave. She has not returned, and I have not seen her.”

Windisch gave us her last known address, which he said lay at the other end of town. We took our leave and went directly in search of her. There, in a dilapidated rooming house, we asked the owner to direct us to her. We were led to the third floor. The proprietress knocked on a door at the end of the hall.

The door opened and an old woman appeared.

“What do you want?” she asked curtly.

“I come from the house of Richard Wagner,” said Holmes moving forward to the door. “He is dead.”

The name made her start, and she immediately let us in. As soon as we entered we realized that we had walked into a small shrine to the dead composer. His portraits and photographs were everywhere, and his scores and libretti were among the few books that lined the walls.

The old woman was dressed in rags. Her room was cold, and her wrists were wrapped tightly in an effort to keep warm. Her feet were bare and swollen. She moved slowly, and I saw immediately that she was very ill. Her hand shook as she motioned him to a chair. Holmes spoke to her bluntly.

“Fräulein Planer, I shall not hide my purpose in seeking you out. My name is Sherlock Holmes. That surely means nothing to you. I am, however, a consulting detective. My colleague, Dr. Watson, and I have been engaged by a client to investigate the decline in health and now death of the composer Herr Richard Wagner. I have reason to believe that you are responsible for his death by poison gradually administered to him.”

Holmes uttered the accusation with the utmost conviction.

There was but a momentary surprise on her face. She sighed and looked down at the floor and remained silent for a time. When she began speaking, she made no attempt to deny Holmes’s accusation.

“You are correct,” she said proudly. “I am, but only in an earthly sense, responsible for the death of that monster, for it is the work of God whose agent I am. You cannot know the happiness I felt when I learned of his death. He is now mine.”

Her eyes narrowed at first as she spoke, then a smile formed on her lips.

“Fräulein Planer,” said Holmes, “I cannot condone your actions, but at the same I am neither a representative of the police nor am I a German citizen. I am the only one who suspects that Herr Wagner did not die of a heart attack brought on by natural causes. I would encourage you, therefore, to tell me what reason you had to kill him. As to your punishment, that will come from another than I.”