Death And The Maiden lp-6

by Frank Tallis

  ‘When did your aunt die?’

  ‘Almost ten years ago.’

  ‘Can you remember if there was anything among her effects which concerned Freimark?’

  ‘There might have been.’ Frau Abend winced. ‘We threw a lot of things away.’

  ‘Letters? Papers?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t remember anything specifically to do with Freimark. And there was certainly no music, if that’s what you’re looking for. All the unfinished manuscripts were by Brosius.’

  ‘What did you do with them?’

  ‘We gave them to the conservatoire. My aunt used to copy out his scores. They were very neat.’

  ‘She was a musician?’

  ‘Yes, and a good one, so my mother said. But I never heard her play the piano. Not once.’

  Liebermann handed the photograph back and took a sip of tea.

  ‘Frau Abend, do you know how Freimark died?’

  ‘An accident, I believe. My mother mentioned a mishap on the Schneeberg.’

  ‘Did she say anything else?’

  ‘About the accident? No, not that I recall.’

  Liebermann paused before asking his next question.

  ‘Why did your aunt arrange to have flowers placed on Freimark’s grave? And why was she so anxious for this to continue?’

  Frau Abend looked at Liebermann with wide eyes. A certain mischievousness played around her lips.

  ‘Oh, isn’t it obvious, Herr Doctor?’

  ‘They were …’ Liebermann hesitated before adding, ‘… lovers?’

  ‘My mother said that Aunt Angelika would probably have left Uncle Johann had Freimark lived.’

  ‘Fascinating.’

  Frau Abend smiled. ‘Affairs of this kind are commonplace among artists. Is it really so fascinating? I must suppose that you came here today hoping to discover the whereabouts of some lost Freimark songs or piano pieces. But I’m afraid all I can offer you is some very old gossip. If, today, Uncle Johann was held in higher regard, or if Freimark had written more, then perhaps these private details might merit a chapter in a volume of biography. But neither composer is very significant. No one is interested in them any more. Uncle Johann is sometimes mentioned as a footnote in articles on Brahms, and as for Freimark — well.’ Frau Abend sighed. ‘Perhaps, Herr Doctor, you should find a more worthy subject?’

  ‘I am a psychoanalyst,’ said Liebermann. ‘A disciple of Professor Freud.’ Frau Abend shrugged to show that the name meant nothing to her. ‘We psychoanalysts believe that there is much to be gained by studying small things, the things that are usually overlooked by others. I am not in the least deterred by the fact that only one of Freimark’s songs seems to have survived. Most of us live and die without leaving anything of value behind. Freimark bequeathed humanity one very beautiful song. That is sufficient reason, as far as I am concerned, to continue my inquiries.’ Imitating his friend Rheinhardt, Liebermann lowered his voice and added: ‘You have been very helpful. I am most indebted.’

  31

  ‘Now, Haussmann, stand by the table, and for heaven’s sake keep still,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘This is a very delicate procedure.’

  Rheinhardt knelt by the stove, opened the door, and inspected the blackened papers within. The charred remains looked very much like a bundle of letters. Unfortunately, the lowest sheets in the bundle had been reduced to ash and most of the surviving sheets had fused together. Only the upper leaves looked as if they might be saved. Rheinhardt slipped a clean square of paper beneath the uppermost sheet. Holding his breath, he lifted the brittle remnant off the top of the carbonised bundle and stood up. He then took a few misjudged steps and watched in despair as the blackened sheet glided lazily towards the floor. It shattered as it landed, giving Rheinhardt cause to swear with uncharacteristic ferocity.

  Haussmann looked on with sympathy.

  ‘Bad luck, sir.’

  ‘Nothing to do with luck, Haussmann — that was sheer incompetence!’

  Rheinhardt returned to the stove and repeated the manoeuvre, insinuating the clean paper again beneath the uppermost leaf. As he withdrew his hand, only half of the leaf came away. This time, the pace of his departure from the stove was funereal. He crossed to the table and allowed his precious cargo to slide onto a rectangle of glass that had already been prepared with gum. The burnt paper was horribly warped and he pressed the crisp surface with his fingers. He was able to depress some of the blisters but others broke up, creating jagged mosaics. It wasn’t ideal but it was better than nothing. Moreover, when he examined his handiwork his spirits lifted at the sight of some ghostly lettering.

  ‘We’ve got something.’

  ‘Well done, sir.’

  Rheinhardt repeated this painstaking process several times, but the task of removing sheets from the top of the bundle became increasingly difficult. It became impossible to slide the clean paper into the crumbling mass without causing extensive damage. In the end, he had to settle for the retrieval of a few ‘corners’ before it became impossible to proceed further.

  ‘Observe,’ said Rheinhardt to his assistant. ‘The ink appears grey, or a different shade of black against the dull black of the paper. This doesn’t always happen when letters are burned. One must assume that the outcome depends to a very large extent on the chemical composition of the ink. Be that as it may, as you can see, our efforts have not been wasted.’

  Rheinhardt lifted the first pane of glass and turned it towards the window. The writing manifested in grey loops.

  ‘See, Haussmann: best interests … in the meantime … we should … and therafter I earnestly hope that …’

  The young man frowned.

  ‘Not very-’

  ‘Informative?’ Rheinhardt cut in. ‘No. However, a word of advice: dripping water hollows a stone.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

  ‘So said a Roman poet. Oh, never mind …’

  The second sheet of paper was blank, but the third contained phrases that made Rheinhardt’s heart quicken: affection for you is not in doubt … constancy and truth … our meeting when …

  Rheinhardt indicated the text and beamed at his assistant.

  ‘A love letter, sir?’

  ‘I would say so.’

  The next two fragments contained nothing more than a few words, but the final fragment, a triangular piece with two straight edges, showed the correspondent’s name. Rheinhardt allowed the light to play over the signature. There was something magical about the way in which the script flashed in and out of existence. The characters were black, a black of preternatural depth. They stood out in sharp relief against the pitch neutrality of the scorched background.

  From your dearest Karl

  ‘Sir?’ Haussmann had detected Rheinhardt’s sudden change of expression. The older man’s cheeks had become flushed with excitement.

  ‘Haussmann. Tell me — what does that say? Can you see the letters?’

  ‘From your dearest … Karl.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. Dripping water, eh?’

  32

  Liebermann found himself seated, once again, opposite the daunting figure of director Mahler.

  ‘I am sorry I couldn’t come earlier,’ said Liebermann. ‘Other commitments, I’m afraid.’

  Mahler accepted the apology and handed Liebermann a letter.

  ‘The correspondent signs himself a musician who wishes to hear unadulterated Beethoven,’ The director could not conceal his disdain. ‘It was sent to Intendant Plappart and is almost identical in style to the heinous article that the editor of the Deutsche Zeitung saw fit to publish. I have assumed that both article and letter are the work of the same author. He is almost certainly a member of the orchestra. There can be little doubt now, as his complaints are very specific. For example, he objects to my addition of an E flat clarinet for performances of Beethoven’s Coriolan Overture and the Eroica Symphony.’ Mahler looked at Liebermann with renewed intensity. ‘Before you proceed, Herr Doctor, I
must take you into my confidence so that you will fully appreciate the importance of this matter. My personal relations with Intendant Plappart, the opera house administrator, are somewhat strained. His Excellency and I disagree on almost everything. A dissenting orchestra would suit his purposes.’ Liebermann required further clarification. ‘He would like,’ Mahler added, ‘to have me dismissed.’

  ‘He can’t do that — surely.’

  ‘He can try. And that is reason enough for me to make the detection of troublemakers a priority. They provide Plappart with justifications for his cause.’ The director changed position, crossing his legs and throwing an arm over the backrest of his chair. ‘You must be aware that Emperor Franz-Josef is not a very discerning patron of the arts. He is much more comfortable sitting on a horse than in the royal box. And it is rumoured that His Majesty thinks that I take music too …’ Mahler grimaced, ‘… seriously.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Liebermann. His instinct was to console, but under the circumstances he thought that it was probably best to offer only tacit support.

  ‘And one more thing,’ said Mahler, raising his index finger. ‘I must beg your indulgence.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘When I learned that you could not come immediately I consulted a graphologist, Professor Skallipitzky — do you know him?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘A gentleman of some renown in his field. Even so, I did not find his comments very illuminating.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He drew my attention to the slant and shape of the letters and made some inferences about the writer’s character. He said that the correspondent was opinionated and held rigid beliefs concerning what is right and wrong. This, of course, is self-evident from the text. I was not impressed and Professor Skallipitzky’s fee was, I am sorry to say, exorbitant.’

  Liebermann gestured, indicating that he was not offended.

  ‘I am happy to assist; however, now that you have a sample of the culprit’s handwriting, my services are surely redundant. All that you have to do now is ask the musicians to write a few lines and compare scripts. Even if the culprit attempted to disguise his handwriting, it is probable that an expert like Professor Skallipitzky would be able to make a positive identification.’

  ‘The solution you suggest would take time, Skallipitzky’s time, which is costly. I have already included his initial bill among my official expenses and a subsequent, even larger bill would not meet with Plappart’s approval. I would then have to defray — personally, you understand — a quite preposterous sum. But the issue of Skallipitzky’s remittance is really a secondary consideration. I am obliged to be wholly honest with the orchestra. If I were to do as you suggest, it would be necessary for me to stand in front of them and explain why such an unorthodox request was being made.’ The director paused before continuing. ‘I do not want the guilty party and his supporters — there will inevitably be supporters — to see that I am worried. It will only encourage them and then they will attempt to stir things up even more.’

  Liebermann accepted the director’s reasoning and began to read the letter. The content was much the same as the Deutsche Zeitung article, a ranting, labile invective littered with anti-Semitic slurs and crude flights of fantasy masquerading as wit: Yes, Mahler has E flat clarinets on the brain. Not content with adding one to the Eroica, he has also reinforced the trombones and double basses, and it is even being said that he will send his brother-in-law to Jericho to rediscover Joshua’s trumpet, because Aryan trumpets are not loud enough for him.

  When Liebermann had finished reading he looked at the director. The great man was biting his fingernails and his high forehead was scored with horizontal creases.

  ‘Well?’ said Mahler eagerly. ‘Do you detect anything of interest?’

  Liebermann stroked the letter flat. ‘I am of the opinion that inferring character traits from writing is a dubious pursuit. It may be that certain features of a hand are more common, let us say, in men than in women, but apart from such crude distinctions it is difficult to say very much else with certainty. One cannot assert that a well-rounded “O” betrays perfectionism or a jagged “W” impulsivity! It is possible, however, to draw some modest conclusions about the writer’s state of mind by examining the effects of pressure during the act of writing.’ Liebermann raised the letter. ‘The nib has broken the paper in several places, which suggests a high degree of muscular tension.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Anxiety or anger. In this instance, most probably the latter.’ Liebermann lowered the letter again. Mahler’s face showed palpable disappointment. The young doctor was not deterred. He ventured a smile and continued: ‘Let us abandon our consideration of the physical properties of the script and adopt a more psychological approach. The letter is anonymous. This is an important fact because certain things follow from it. The author was anxious to conceal his identity and, curiously, what we try to conceal frequently finds alternative and involuntary means of expression. The truth leaks out, as it were, in the form of subtle signs and aberrations.’

  ‘With respect, Herr Doctor, I am not altogether sure what you are talking about.’

  ‘Mistakes merit close inspection, as they often reveal an underlying preoccupation.’ Liebermann ran his finger down the page. ‘The author refers here to a philharmonic concert on the tenth of March, which he describes as a fiasco. Beethoven’s Egmont Overture and Seventh Symphony were performed. The programme also included Weber’s Second Piano Concerto. Needless to say, you were conducting. Actually, I recall that concert well. I attended with my mother and younger sister. And it did not take place on the tenth of March but the tenth of April. Such transpositions usually represent a kind of distancing, a denial. There was something about that concert that made the writer uncomfortable. The author then refers to Burkhard’s review. But notice, he spells the critic’s name incorrectly: B-U-C-K-R-H-A-R-D. When he was writing the name, the movement of his pen was disrupted by a disturbing association. It would be most interesting to read the review to which he refers. I would suggest that you find a copy and examine it very closely.’

  ‘There is no need.’ Mahler was grinning.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I can remember what Burkhard wrote. He was very critical of the wind players — and with good cause. They did not acquit themselves well.’ Mahler pulled his arm out from behind the chair and leaned forward. ‘That is very interesting.’ He raked his hair back. ‘Very interesting,’ he repeated with more emphasis.

  ‘Displacement,’ said Liebermann, more to himself than to his companion. ‘Unwilling to accept responsibility, the blame is transferred — projected.’

  ‘Among those in the orchestra I suspect,’ said Mahler, ‘there is no one whom I consider more untrustworthy and potentially disloyal than Thomas Treffen, the principal flute player.’ The director suddenly slapped his thigh. ‘The culprit is Treffen! It must be!’ Springing up from his chair, he paced up and down before coming to an abrupt halt. ‘Once again, Herr Doctor, you have provided me with an invaluable service. Could I remind you that I am perfectly happy to remunerate — assuming that your fee is reasonable, of course.’

  ‘The complimentary tickets that you have already offered are quite satisfactory.’

  ‘As you wish, but I feel I owe you something more,’ said Mahler. ‘Particularly given how much Professor Skallipitzky was paid.’

  Liebermann handed the letter back to Mahler. ‘The tickets will be more than adequate recompense for my time. Thank you.’

  He began to stand.

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Mahler. ‘But we are not quite finished. How am I to proceed? Perhaps you have an opinion?’

  When Liebermann arrived back at the hospital he was surprised to find Rheinhardt waiting outside his room.

  ‘Oskar? What on earth are you doing here?’

  The inspector answered his question with a blunt statement.

  ‘We must return to the town hall.’
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  ‘I can’t go to the town hall. Not now — I have patients to see. And there’s a ward round this afternoon with Professor Pallenberg.’

  ‘I have taken the liberty of negotiating your release from clinical duties for the rest of the day.’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘The professor was very accommodating. Come, there is a carriage waiting outside and the mayor is expecting us at eleven-thirty.’

  Liebermann noticed that his friend was less composed than usual. Indeed, his eyes were wide open, giving him a slightly wild look.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘We found something. I’ll tell you on the way.’

  33

  This time there were no delays. Liebermann and Rheinhardt were escorted straight to the antechamber adjoining the mayor’s private apartment in the town hall. At eleven-thirty precisely, one of the double doors opened and they were ushered in by Pumera. Again, Lueger was sitting behind his desk, but this time he had abandoned the pretence of industry. He was smoking a cigarette and he watched their approach with predatory interest.

  ‘Good morning, Inspector.’

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  The mayor silently acknowledged Liebermann but did not trouble to greet him personally. He then dismissed Pumera with a hand gesture.