Death and the Maiden (17 page)

‘And with an election looming …

‘Such an outcome would be a cause for celebration at the palace.’

‘Well,’ said Liebermann, fortifying himself with more brandy. ‘What an extraordinary turn of events.’

‘We already know that Ida Rosenkrantz was attracted to older gentlemen. We also know that she sang for the mayor on his birthday.’

‘It is perfectly possible that they were better acquainted than those around them suspected.’

‘Then there is the matter of the termination. If it was the mayor’s child and Rosenkrantz had threatened to make their affair public …’

‘Such a scandal would certainly have injured the mayor’s electoral prospects. The traditional Christian voters who support him are harsh in their moral judgements.’

‘Precisely.’

Liebermann flicked his glass, tilted his head, and listened to the chime until it had faded into silence.

‘But it doesn’t make sense.’

‘What doesn’t?’

‘If Lueger had wanted to
silence
Rosenkrantz, he wouldn’t have done it himself. Excepting the emperor, he is the most powerful man in the empire. He has loyal lieutenants, bodyguards, a host of men to do his bidding. The idea that he would commit murder, in person, is utterly absurd.’

‘Perhaps he didn’t intend to commit murder when he left the town hall. Perhaps he was overcome in the heat of the moment. You know how passion compromises reason – people can become unbalanced. If the mayor and Ida Rosenkrantz were lovers, then anything is possible. We can imagine the scene: accusations, provocations, spiteful words, threats …’

‘Rosenkrantz had imbibed a considerable quantity of laudanum. She wouldn’t have been in the mood for a fight. Nor would she have been able to deliver a coherent ultimatum.’ Liebermann swirled his
brandy and contemplated the jagged rainbows imprisoned in the glass. ‘I must say, the more I think about it, the more I am forced to question the reliability of your witness.’

Rheinhardt shrugged.

‘I will make further inquiries. Perhaps Schneider or one of the singers knows more.’

Liebermann chuckled. ‘I would like to observe the mayor at close quarters. It would be fascinating. They say he can be a paragon of virtue one minute and a raging monster the next. I am reminded of patients who exhibit several personalities.’ Liebermann crossed his legs and sat back in his chair. ‘I have long subscribed to the view that those who achieve high office cannot enjoy perfect mental health. Such self-belief must be delusional.’

‘How reassuring,’ said Rheinhardt.

Liebermann smiled mischievously as he refilled the inspector’s glass.

‘So, what do you propose to do next?’

‘I am going to visit Professor Saminsky tomorrow morning. You will recall that it was Professor Saminsky who treated Ida Rosenkrantz’s
globus
…’

‘Hystericus.’

‘Exactly. Do you know him?’

‘I know
of
him. He’s very well respected.’ Liebermann’s expression soured. ‘But he hasn’t published very much and I’m not altogether sure he deserves the honours he has received.’

‘The Order of Elizabeth, I understand.’

‘Yes, among many other accolades.’

‘You don’t like him?’

‘I can’t say I do. He’s one of those medical men whose name appears far too frequently in the society pages. He summers in Karlsbad, where he hobnobs with archdukes, and I cannot forgive him for writing a very disparaging review of Professor Freud’s dream book. He’s rather
conservative in his methods. He seems to disapprove of anything other than sedatives and rest cures.’

‘Well, whatever he did with Ida Rosenkrantz it must have worked. She was well enough to sing at the start of the season.’ Liebermann conceded the point without grace, letting one of his shoulders rise and fall like a petulant adolescent. Rheinhardt ignored the movement and added, ‘I’d be grateful for an opinion.’

‘You want me to come?’

‘If you would.’ Rheinhardt turned towards his friend. ‘People tell secrets to their psychiatrists.’

‘And good psychiatrists guard them.’

‘In which case, I sincerely hope that your low estimation of Professor Saminsky is correct.’

C
OURT
O
PERA
I
NTENDANT
B
ARON
August von Plappart was seated in his office on Bräunerstrasse. He opened the drawer of his desk and removed the letter inside. Carefully unfolding the diaphanous paper, he read through one or two paragraphs to refresh his memory. The correspondent was highly critical of Director Mahler and had signed off with the words, ‘From a musician who wishes to hear unadulterated Beethoven.’

As a rule, Plappart disapproved of insubordination, but in this instance his indignation was mitigated by a sense of self-righteous vindication. Here was proof, of sorts, that the appointment of Director Mahler had been a grave mistake.

Plappart cast his mind back to the very first occasion when he had become uneasy. The director had invited a large number of celebrated and expensive singers to perform at the opera house without first seeking his, Plappart’s, approval. It was a blatant and provocative violation of protocol. Plappart had reminded the director that, in his capacity as financial administrator, it was his duty to issue a caution. Funds were not inexhaustible and the director should observe budgetary limitations. A deferential apology would have been the appropriate response. Instead, Mahler had raised himself up and declared, ‘Your Excellency, that is not the right approach. An imperial institution such as the court opera should feel honoured to spend money in this way – it could not
be put to better use. Nevertheless, I shall do my best to take your request into consideration.’

Plappart, not accustomed to being addressed like a subordinate, had been horrified. The memory of that rude dismissal was so vivid that it resounded in his auditory imagination as if the words had only just been spoken.

Nevertheless, I shall do my best to take your request into consideration
.

How dare he say such a thing?
In the intervening years, Mahler had succeeded in making Plappart an implacable enemy.
And now
, mused the intendant,
he’s doing the same with the orchestra
.

Plappart had to make a conscious effort to stop smiling when a knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.

‘Enter.’

‘The director of the court opera has arrived.’

‘Show him in.’

The servant disappeared and returned with Mahler. As the door closed, the director bowed and allowed his heels to meet, creating a soft click.

‘Excellency!’

‘Herr Director, do come in.’

Plappart did not rise from his seat but gestured toward the empty gilt chair in front of his desk. Mahler strode across the floor, sat down, crossed his legs and leaned forward.

‘You wanted to see me.’

It sounded like an accusation.

‘Yes,’ said Plappart. ‘I received this letter yesterday.’ He held up the sheet of paper. ‘The correspondent has chosen to remain anonymous, but it is clearly written by a member of the orchestra. Unfortunately, it is full of allegations concerning your behaviour, particularly at rehearsals.’

‘Allegations?’

‘Here, read it for yourself.’

Mahler took the letter and studied its contents. When he had finished, he dropped it into the side pocket of his jacket.

‘Thank you, Excellency.’

‘Thank you?’

‘For drawing the matter to my attention. Will that be all?’

Plappart’s expression passed from confusion, through amazement, to outrage.

‘One cannot simply ignore such allegations.’

‘The letter contains nothing new to me. Once again, the same old slanders and smears, the only difference being, perhaps, that this time they are expressed with more venom.’

‘This is a worrying development, Herr Director, particularly after the
Deutsche Zeitung
article.’

‘Written by the same person, no doubt.’

‘Possibly,’ said Plappart. ‘On the other hand, dissatisfaction in the orchestra may be more widespread than you imagine.’

‘There are always certain parties who resist progress and change. I do not believe that their views are very representative.’

‘Even so, it might be wise to reconsider your working practices.’

‘An orchestra is not a committee. Interpretations are not negotiated and sanctioned by the majority.’

‘I am not suggesting that you cede authority, Herr Director, I am merely suggesting that you treat people with more respect.’

‘Great music is not created by observing points of etiquette.’

‘You forget that the opera house is an imperial and royal institution. It serves the palace and the people. We don’t want a mutiny on our hands. The emperor would be most distressed. Unrest of any kind unsettles him.’ Plappart paused before adding, ‘You understand, I hope, that if problems arise I will have to explain to the lord chamberlain that you
were
advised to be more flexible.’

Mahler lifted his hand and touched his forehead. He held it there for some time, assuming the attitude of someone rapt in deep contemplation. When he finally removed his hand, he sat up and faced the intendant squarely.

‘Soon after accepting my appointment I was conducting a performance of
Die Walküre
. In the final act I gave my cue to the timpanist, whom I had carefully rehearsed. He was to produce a long roll. Nothing happened. I glanced in his direction and was astonished to see another man standing in his place. After the performance I demanded an explanation, and was told that because the timpanist lived in Brunn he was obliged to leave early in order to catch the last train. A friend, who lived close by, routinely took up the mallets on his behalf. That is how the philharmonic conducted itself before my arrival.’

‘Discipline was required. A firm hand, I quite agree. But perhaps you have gone too far.’

‘There are many members of the orchestra who appreciate what I have achieved. Not only has their playing improved but they are considerably better off. Who was it that petitioned for an increase in their salaries?’

Plappart did not reply. He rose from his chair and crossed over to the window. While looking out, he said, ‘I have tried to give you good counsel.’

‘And I am most grateful for your concern.’

Mahler stood up to leave.

Plappart turned and extended his arm, reaching out. ‘Herr Director, the letter, if you please?’

His fingers vibrated, a tremulous beckoning.

‘I will return it shortly.’

‘The letter was addressed to me.’

‘But it concerns me.’

‘Herr Director!’ said Plappart sternly.

Mahler bowed.

‘I will return it ‘shortly,’ he repeated. ‘Good morning, Excellency!’ Mahler bowed and marched to the door. As he pulled it shut, Plappart’s cursing followed him into the vestibule. The servant, who was waiting outside, inclined his head politely.

‘W
OULD YOU LIKE SOME TEA
?’

The maid’s face was narrow and duplicated the weary sadness of an overburdened dray horse.

Rheinhardt glanced at Liebermann. The young doctor shook his head.

‘Most kind,’ replied Rheinhardt. ‘But no, thank you.’

‘Professor Saminsky will be with you shortly.’

She bobbed up and down and retreated. The drawing room in which Liebermann and Rheinhardt found themselves was impressively appointed. Heavy burgundy curtains were tied back with thick yellow cords, admitting shafts of light through high rectangular windows. Wide leather sofas faced each other in front of a fireplace of red marble and on the walls hung romantic landscapes and what Liebermann assumed must be a family portrait mounted in an ostentatious gold frame: the professor, his dowdy wife, and two daughters. It was a rather formal group, lacking warmth and revealing nothing of their personalities. Below this sterile canvas was the gleaming black cabinet of a shiny upright piano. The open lid showed the name Friedrich Ehrbar in silver letters, the first name separated from the second by a double-headed Habsburg eagle.

Liebermann found such an instrument distracting. As a pianist, he was vulnerable to its subtle powers of attraction. It drew him
across the floor and he depressed the keys – silently, not allowing the hammers to strike. The physical contact, the feel of cool ivory beneath his fingertips, was accompanied by a curious sense of relief.

‘Ehrbar,’ he said to Rheinhardt. ‘First of the Viennese piano manufacturers to adopt an iron frame for all his pianos.’

Rheinhardt’s inability to become excited by this nugget of information was evident in the flatness of his reply. ‘Really.’

‘The Ehrbar company are purveyors of pianos to the royal household.’ Liebermann opened the stool and glanced inside. ‘Beethoven piano sonatas.’ Lifting the uppermost score to see what was beneath he added, ‘Brahms intermezzos.’