Death and the Maiden (23 page)

An upright Bösendorfer piano stood between two windows. There were several sofas and numerous chairs, enough seating to accommodate an audience of at least twenty guests. A large canvas showed an eighteenth-century ship with blood-red sails, listing precariously in the steep funnel of a whirlpool. High above the masts and rigging, in the roiling storm clouds, he detected the features of a satanic face. As far as Rheinhardt could judge, it was not an accomplished work of art. The paint had been applied too thickly.

Lifting the picture off its hook, Rheinhardt scrutinised the wall, but saw nothing irregular. He then turned the picture over. A title had been scrawled across the stiff backing paper: ‘The Dutchman rounds the Cape of Good Hope.’ The artist’s name was almost illegible but might have been ‘Schreiber’ or ‘Schreiner’.

There was a loud knock, a single, decisive strike.

Rheinhardt balanced the painting on a chair and went to admit his assistant.

‘Ah, Haussmann. Thank you for coming.’ The young man stepped into the hallway, wiping his feet on the floor mat and offering his superior a pinched smile. ‘We’re going to conduct a search.’

‘But the villa has already been searched, sir.’

‘We are going to look for places of concealment.’

‘Secret compartments?’

‘Yes.’

Haussmann produced a visiting card and handed it to Rheinhardt. The inspector held it up and read:
Orsola Salak, psychic
. ‘An imaginative suggestion, Haussmann, but I think we can manage without this woman’s services.’

‘No, that’s not what I meant, sir,’ Haussmann responded. ‘A gentleman was looking for you earlier today. Herr Schneider?’

‘Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s dresser.’

‘Yes, sir. He said that when you interviewed him he had been unable to give you Salak’s address.’

‘Orsola! Of course. Rosenkrantz’s psychic.’

‘Herr Schneider found her card in Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s dressing room.’

Rheinhardt looked at the address.

‘Ybbs Strasse 23. That’s close to the Prater, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, sir. Near the Nordbahnhof.’

‘Thank you, Haussmann.’ Rheinhardt dropped the card into his jacket pocket and led his assistant into the parlour. When he saw the painting of the Dutchman’s vessel again he wondered whether the artist’s signature, which looked like ‘Schreiber’ or ‘Schreiner’, was, in fact, ‘Schneider’.

‘Obvious places first,’ continued Rheinhardt. ‘Beneath paintings and under rugs, then drawers and chests. Books should also be studied very closely. A hollow is often made in the pages of larger volumes. If our initial efforts are unsuccessful, we’ll take up some floorboards. Come.’ Rheinhardt clapped his hands together. ‘Let us begin.’

They set about their task with determined energy. After completing their search of all the rooms on the ground floor they ascended the
stairs and entered Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s bedroom. The rummaging continued with renewed vigour, but without result.

‘Help me with this, Haussmann,’ said Rheinhardt.

He was stripping the four-poster bed. Once the counterpane and eiderdown were removed, the two men lifted the heavy mattress. There was nothing underneath. Rheinhardt then began tapping the bedposts, which proved to be disappointingly solid. When they had finished, Rosenkrantz’s exotic chamber looked as if it had been ransacked and Rheinhardt was feeling a creeping sense of frustration.

The adjacent room was small and seemed to have no specific purpose. It contained a cupboard full of linen, two wooden chairs, a table and an enamel stove. A pile of old songbooks were stacked in the corner. Rheinhardt slumped down on one of the chairs and removed a cigar from his pocket. After lighting it, he opened the stove door in order to dispose of the extinguished match. He leaned forward – and froze.

‘Sir?’ his assistant ventured.

‘Haussmann, when we were here last, the day we found Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s body, I asked you to prepare a floor plan of Rosenkrantz’s bedroom and check the other rooms. Do you remember looking in this stove?’

‘No, sir.’ Haussmann squatted next to Rheinhardt and discovered that his superior was staring at some blackened papers. The young man turned to face Rheinhardt, his expression perplexed, puzzled.

‘It’s always a good idea to check stoves and grates, Haussmann.’

The young man struggled to understand the insinuation. ‘I’m sorry, sir?’

‘These papers, Haussmann.’

‘They’re completely burned, sir.’ He reached out to touch the crumbling remains. ‘What use could—’

‘Stop!’ Rheinhardt cried, grabbing his assistant’s wrist. Rheinhardt
closed the stove door gently with his foot. Then, releasing Haussmann, the inspector rose from his chair and examined the polished metal pipe which connected the stove to the chimney. He took from his pocket a pair of pliers, which he then used to loosen the bolts which kept the pipe and stove joined together. ‘Be a good fellow and fetch me some linen from the cupboard.’

The pipe came away from the stove and Rheinhardt, taking the material from Haussmann, plugged the circular hole. ‘At least we don’t have to worry about the wind now.’ Rheinhardt opened the window and flicked some ash from his cigar. ‘One big gust and there would be nothing left, just a pile of ashes. Now, run to the post office and telephone Schottenring. I need a few items.’ Rheinhardt scribbled in his notebook, tore out the page and handed it to his bewildered assistant.

A
FTER RETURNING HOME FROM
the St Marxer cemetery Liebermann had written a note to Frau Astrid Abend. He had declared an interest in the music of David Freimark and explained how he had learned of her provision of flowers for the composer’s grave. Further, he had asked if she was prepared to reveal her connection with the composer. Liebermann justified this inquiry by claiming, somewhat disingenuously, to be an amateur musicologist with an interest in Freimark’s life and works. Frau Abend had dispatched a prompt reply, inviting Liebermann to her apartment in the fourth district.

When Liebermann arrived he was received by a manservant who escorted him into a cluttered parlour. Most of the surfaces were festooned with flowers and family photographs. The scratched furniture and torn upholstery suggested not poverty but, rather, the invasion – past and present – of young boys whose destructive behaviour was tolerated by indulgent parents. Liebermann noticed that a tin soldier had been hidden among the green branches of a potted plant. A rocking horse was poking its head out from behind a leather chair.

After waiting only a few minutes, Frau Abend entered the room and introduced herself. She was in her late thirties and wore a simple green dress and white blouse. Although wrinkles were gathering around her eyes, her skin had a youthful bloom and her easy smile reinforced a strong impression of gentle forbearance. Tea was served and the conversation flowed without awkwardness.

‘I am not sure that I can tell you very much,’ said Frau Abend, ‘I suspect that you probably know more about Freimark than I do.’

‘Actually, I know very little,’ said Liebermann. ‘I have only recently begun researching his life.’

‘But why Freimark? He isn’t very …’ Frau Abend rotated her hand in the air ‘… fashionable.’

‘A chance encounter. I met an elderly lady who once knew him. Frau Zollinger? Do you know of her?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘She was a patron of the arts. Freimark was a member of her circle.’

Frau Abend poured the tea. ‘“Hope” is a very lovely song, Herr Doctor. But I don’t know anything else by Freimark. Do you?’

‘Nothing else he wrote is published. What is your connection with Freimark? Are you related?’

‘No.’

‘Then why—’

‘The flowers? Because of my mother. It was my mother’s wish that I continue an existing arrangement. She is dead now – two years passed.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Frau Abend made a gesture to suggest that sympathy was not required. ‘May I ask,’ continued Liebermann, ‘your mother’s name?’

‘Carolin Fuhrmann – née Cronberg.’

‘And what was she to Freimark?’

‘Nothing,’ said Frau Abend. Liebermann scratched his head and Frau Abend smiled, mildly amused by his perplexity. ‘I am sorry, Herr Doctor. It was not my intention to confuse. Allow me to explain in full. My mother, Carolin, had a sister, Angelika. It was Angelika who paid for the flowers originally. My aunt died almost ten years ago. However, before her death she asked my mother to ensure that the flowers continued. Naturally, my mother agreed. When my mother
was dying, she, in turn, asked me to honour the promise she had made to my aunt, and I have done so to this day.’

‘Angelika. That would be Angelika Brosius?’

‘Ah, so you do know something about my family.’

‘Only that your aunt was married to Johann Christian Brosius, Freimark’s teacher.’

‘Indeed.’

Frau Abend brushed a loose strand of hair from her face.

‘Do you remember your Aunt Angelika?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘What was she like?’

‘Striking,’ said Frau Abend. She plucked a frame from a small table and handed it to Liebermann. ‘This photograph was taken when she was in her fifties.’ Liebermann studied the portrait: a woman with long grey hair, high cheekbones and eyes of peculiar luminosity. There was something unearthly about her appearance, detached, immaterial – a natural muse. Frau Abend continued, ‘I was very fond of my aunt, but she lacked
something.’

‘Whatever do you mean?’

‘She wasn’t a very warm person. She wasn’t like my other aunts, the aunts on my father’s side of the family.’

‘You didn’t like her.’

‘Oh, no,’ Frau Abend exclaimed. ‘You misunderstand me. I liked her very much. She took me to concerts and exhibitions and for rides on the Prater. She was a good aunt. And she always treated me like a young woman, never as a child.’

‘Did she ever talk to you about Freimark?’ Frau Abend shook her head. ‘What about her husband?’

‘Yes, she spoke about him sometimes. Although Uncle Johann didn’t die until—’ She stopped suddenly and her brow furrowed.

‘Eighteen seventy-eight,’ said Liebermann.

‘Yes. I must have been about thirteen at the time. I went to the funeral, a grand affair at the Zentralfriedhof. But I remember him well, Uncle Johann, a big, sullen man – like a bear. He smoked enormous cigars. My mother always insisted on the highest standards of behaviour when we visited Aunt Angelika. We had to be very quiet because Uncle Johann was usually in the music room, working. I thought it most unfair. We had to be quiet while Uncle Johann could make as much noise as he wanted. He used to bash the piano like his life depended on it. Well, in a way, I suppose it did. My mother told me he would become incensed if disturbed. He was reputed to have quite a temper, which might have been true, although I never saw him angry. In fact, I remember him as a rather subdued man.’ Frau Abend sighed. ‘It always struck me as a sad place. Their apartment felt like a tomb. It always felt cold, empty. They didn’t have any children. When Uncle Johann died my aunt carried on living there. She should have moved – somewhere smaller, brighter.’

‘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?’