Death and the Maiden (16 page)

The commissioner produced a lopsided smile. ‘Isn’t he?’

‘Sir, I know that there are certain constitutional obstacles—’

Brügel cut in vehemently. ‘He would have to be removed from office before a case could proceed against him.’

Rheinhardt looked up at the emperor’s portrait. ‘It is not for me to comment on matters of government and state. But if the mayor was removed from office before the election, there are many elevated persons who would welcome such a development.’

The inspector kept his gaze high.

After a long silence, during which Brügel once again assumed a distinctly ape-like mien, the commissioner clapped his hands together and made a gravelly sound that might have been chuckling.

‘A very good try Rheinhardt – you’re getting quite slippery these days. But
no
, you cannot interview the mayor. However …’ The commissioner lowered his voice. ‘You raise an interesting issue, a perspective on these matters which I must agree does merit further consideration. Therefore I don’t want you to feel discouraged.’ The commissioner’s grin widened. ‘I am not, in principle, opposed to you taking the investigation in the direction you suggest. We just need something more substantial, a little more meat on the bone, eh? Now, if you should come across any further evidence linking Mayor Lueger with Ida Rosenkrantz …’

Brügel rubbed his hands together.

‘You’ll be the first to know, sir,’ said Rheinhardt.

‘Excellent,’ barked the commissioner, glancing over his shoulder at the emperor’s portrait.

L
IEBERMANN PLACED
K
LASSIKER DES
deutschen Liedes
on the music stand and said to his friend: ‘“Hope”, by David Freimark. Do you know it?’

‘Yes,’ Rheinhardt answered. ‘I do, although I haven’t sung the song for many years.’

Liebermann played the introduction. When Rheinhardt’s warm baritone came in it reminded the young doctor of chocolate sauce, a dark, delectable, sensuous flowing. Although the melody was simple, beneath its unhurried arc sharp discords imbued the words with depth and tender poignancy.

As they tackled the final stanza, the piano accompaniment became restive and throbbing chords signalled an imminent emotional climax.

A two-beat rest preceded a hymn-like coda over which the closing lines were plainly delivered.

Liebermann lifted his hands from the keyboard and released the sustaining pedal.

‘Beautiful,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘I’d quite forgotten those ingenious harmonies. Quite extraordinary.’

Liebermann consulted the contents page. The composers included in the collection were listed with their dates in parentheses. Liebermann ran his finger down the column of names: Robert Franz, Peter Cornelius, Johannes Brahms, Adolf Jensen.

‘David Freimark. Eighteen thirty-seven to eighteen sixty-three.’

‘He died young.’

‘When he was only twenty-six. An accident on the Schneeberg. It happened while he was staying with his teacher, Johann Christian Brosius, and Brosius’s wife Angelika. Today, Freimark is remembered only for this one work, “Hope”.’

‘Always the way. The good and the gifted have a habit of dying young.’

Liebermann rose and took Brosius’s
Three Fantasy Pieces
out of the piano stool. He held up the cover for Rheinhardt to read.

‘Ah, you’ve found something by the teacher. Is it any good? I must admit, I’ve never heard of him.’

‘I want to play you some of his melodies.’

Rheinhardt shrugged.

‘As you wish.’

Liebermann searched through the score until he came to the second of the
Three Fantasy Pieces
and started to play the right-hand part. Picking out a vague, tonally ambiguous thread of sound, he called out: ‘D-A-D-F-E-A.’ He then wrote David Freimark at the bottom of the page and underlined the same letters, demonstrating that they occurred within the name.

‘You see? How the tune is produced?’ Rheinhardt rested a hand on Liebermann’s shoulder and stooped to examine the music more closely. The young doctor repeated the melody. ‘Let us call this the pupil’s theme.’ Turning back a page, Liebermann played another melody, again identifying the notes as he struck the keys: ‘B-A-C-B-A-B flat.’ Glancing up at Rheinhardt, he continued, ‘H – of course – is B natural in our German nomenclature. Thus what we have here is a melody derived from the name: Johann Christian Brosius. Let us call it the husband’s theme.’

‘How very interesting,’ said Rheinhardt.

Liebermann then showed his friend that a third melody, consisting of the notes A-G-E-A and B flat, had been constructed from the serviceable letters contained within the name Angelika Brosius.

‘The wife’s theme. This is how Brosius treats his material.’ Liebermann began to play. ‘Listen – the husband’s theme… then the wife’s theme. Now you hear them played together – interlinked – united.’ He stopped and, resuming at a section marked
nicht zu langsam
, he continued: ‘Here we have the pupil’s theme, which at first appears on its own. The wife’s theme returns, and we hear both, simultaneously. Note, the husband’s theme is absent. It is as though the pupil has taken the husband’s place. There then follows this rather strange
mysterioso
passage.’ Shadowy sonorities in the lower reaches of the Bösendorfer growled beneath softly ringing octaves. ‘It sounds like a tolling bell, does it not?’ Liebermann turned the page. ‘After that eerie central section, husband and wife are reunited but now the pupil’s theme is absent – and it does not appear again.’

Rheinhardt smiled.

‘You have discovered a programme?’

‘I believe the music tells the story of a marital crisis and its resolution. Conjugal bliss, an episode of infidelity and, finally, reconciliation.’ Rheinhardt twisted the horns of his moustache. He made
a deep humming sound which found sympathetic support from the strings within the piano. He sensed that Liebermann had not finished. ‘The accident on the Schneeberg wasn’t an accident. Brosius murdered his protégé to save his marriage.’

Rheinhardt straightened up and, after a brief pause, produced a hearty laugh.

‘Come now, Max!’ He shook his friend’s shoulder. ‘You are getting carried away.’

The young doctor returned to the
misterioso
passage, with its rumbling bass notes and tolling octaves.

‘You can’t hear what’s happening down there very clearly.’ He nodded towards the lower extremity of the keyboard. ‘The sound is quite muddy. But if I release the sustaining pedal and play a little faster you’ll recognise what’s buried in the gloom.’

He played a familiar mournful dirge.

‘The
dies irae?
’

‘Precisely. From the requiem Mass. The tolling bell declares that the hour of reckoning has arrived. Angelika was Brosius’s muse. Not only was she young and beautiful, she was also, so Brosius came to believe, the source of his inspiration. When she transferred her affection to his protégé, Freimark began to produce work like “Hope”, a masterpiece. Brosius must have been desperate.’

‘How do you know so much about these people? Brosius and his wife aren’t exactly Robert and Clara Schumann.’

‘I happened to meet an elderly lady called Frau Zollinger who was personally acquainted with Brosius and his circle.’

‘Where did you meet her?’

‘At a wind-band concert. The ensemble performed a Serenade by Brosius. And I’ve also been doing a little research of my own in the newspaper archive.’

Rheinhardt pulled at his chin.

‘Let me get this clear: you are suggesting that Brosius murdered his pupil and wrote this piece as – what? – a kind of confession?’

‘No, Oskar, I am suggesting something far more interesting. David Freimark died in eighteen sixty-three. The
Three Fantasy Pieces
were published a year earlier, in eighteen sixty-two. Creative works originate in the unconscious – the realm of dreams – and Professor Freud informs us that dreams conceal forbidden wishes. This piece,’ Liebermann tapped the score, ‘expresses a forbidden wish. A wish that was eventually realised.’

‘Brosius might have employed the
dies irae
for symbolic purposes. He was alluding, perhaps, to the death of his marriage or the death of love. Not wishing his protégé dead. Besides, it seems unlikely to me that Brosius would have risked detection by leaving such an obvious clue.’

‘The programme isn’t
that
obvious,’ said Liebermann, somewhat peeved. ‘Moreover, Brosius was probably unaware of what he was doing. A hysteric has no idea that a useless arm has been paralysed because of a repressed urge to strike out. Similarly, Brosius might have had no idea that his composition was being shaped by a repressed desire to murder Freimark.’

‘I find that difficult to accept.’

‘Why?’

‘Extracting musical themes from people’s names requires intellectual engagement. Conscious thought.’

‘Mediums have written great works of philosophy while in a trance, supposedly guided by spirits. Of course, such writings are not really the accomplishment of a discarnate author but the product of the medium’s own unconscious mind. The unconscious is equal to the conscious mind in every respect, and is in some ways its superior.’ Liebermann dismissed Rheinhardt’s objection with a gesture. ‘The exact mechanism by which Brosius came to encrypt his composition
is rather academic. Whether the process was conscious or unconscious, unintentional or intentional, the fact remains that the themes he employed are meant to represent people and what he did with those themes suggests foul play.’

‘I take it that Brosius is deceased.’

‘He is.’

‘And his wife?’

‘Yes, she too is deceased.’ Liebermann’s hand strayed again to the keyboard and he played the pupil’s theme. ‘Since making these discoveries I have been overcome by a curious need to know whether my speculations are correct.’

‘There are some intriguing possibilities here, certainly, and it would be most interesting to establish the facts. But the murder, if there was a murder, was committed some forty years ago. All of the principals are dead. How do you propose to conduct an investigation?’

‘I could speak to Frau Zollinger again. She might know more.’

Rheinhardt smiled. ‘Forgive me for so saying, but there are other cases more deserving of your attention. More recent cases.’

‘There have been some developments?’

‘Yes,’ said Rheinhardt, with ironic understatement. ‘There have been some developments.’

In the smoking room, Liebermann and Rheinhardt took their customary seats. After the brandy had been poured and cigars lit, Rheinhardt recounted what he had learned from Doctor Engelberg. He then spoke of his interview with Herr Geisler. As his narrative approached the point where the identity of Ida Rosenkrantz’s visitor was about to be revealed, his friend became quite impatient and made rapid circular movements in the air with his cigar.

‘Well?’ A flake of tobacco fell, incandescing briefly before landing on the tabletop as a smut of black ash. ‘Who was it?’

Rheinhardt delayed the delivery of his answer, savouring Liebermann’s irritation, before saying: ‘Herr Geisler told us that the visitor was Mayor Lueger.’

Liebermann’s reaction was predictable. Shock, followed by disbelief.

‘The visitor
resembled
Lueger ...’

‘No. The visitor
was
Lueger.’

‘And you accept what Geisler says?’

‘I am not a psychiatrist. But Herr Geisler gave me no obvious reason to question the accuracy of his report.’

Liebermann covered his mouth with his hand and, after considering Rheinhardt’s disclosure, removed it again to say, ‘If it’s true …’ The enormity of the prospect was inexpressible and the sentence remained incomplete. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Nothing.’

‘
What?
’

Liebermann’s incredulity demanded an explanation and Rheinhardt went on to give an account of his conversation with Commissioner Brügel.

‘He doesn’t think I have enough. The mayor is too powerful. You can imagine what would happen if Herr Geisler’s testimony proved to be inaccurate – allegations of incompetence, demands for the commissioner’s resignation. However,’ Rheinhardt drew on his cigar and produced a wreath of smoke, ‘Brügel would be happy to approve further action if I can furnish him with better evidence. He is an ardent royalist and, with a little prompting, I got him to acknowledge that the situation could be played to his advantage. The mayor cannot be prosecuted while in office. A criminal investigation would require him to stand down.’