Death and the Maiden Read Free Page B

maid?’
    ‘She had no need for a cook. She dines at the Imperial or the Bristol. I take care … I took care of everything.’
    ‘Yet you do not sleep here?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘There is plenty of room.’
    ‘I stayed here when mistress was ill. In the summer she had a lump in her throat – and some other,’ she blushed, ‘ ladies ’ problems. She was confined to her bed for weeks.’
    Rheinhardt looked into the housekeeper’s bloodshot eyes and felt a stab of pity.
    ‘When was the last time you saw Fräulein Rosenkrantz?’
    ‘Yesterday afternoon. She said that I could go home early. She wanted to work on the new role.’
    ‘What sort of mood was she in?’
    Frau Marcus hesitated. ‘Quite irritable – but no more than usual. Not really.’
    ‘Was that how she was?’
    ‘Irritable? Yes, but her moods didn’t mean very much. She could be irritable one minute and brimming with good humour the next. I suppose it must have been something to do with her gift. They say that, don’t they, that artists are temperamental?’
    ‘Indeed.’ Rheinhardt wrote the word irritable in his notebook and tapped his pencil on the page. ‘Did you observe any changes in Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s behaviour that, on reflection, you feel might have been tokens of inner torment?’
    The housekeeper shook her head.
    ‘No.’
    ‘What about over the last week or month? Did you see her crying, for example?’
    ‘No more than usual.’ Rheinhardt motioned for her to continue. ‘She was easily moved to tears. It didn’t matter whether she was happy or sad. I can’t say that I noticed a difference.’
    ‘Did she ever speak to you about what was upsetting her?’
    ‘She wasn’t very happy at the opera house. She used to talk about going to Munich. There was bad feeling between the singers. And she said that the director was very demanding. She used to call him the tyrant.’
    ‘Bad feeling? What do you mean by that?’
    ‘I can’t say exactly. But my mistress would say something aboutso-and-so being jealous or so-and-so having spread a malicious rumour. And she would become upset.’
    ‘Did she mention anyone in particular?’
    ‘I can’t remember names, but it was usually a woman. One of the other singers.’
    Rheinhardt continued tapping his pencil on the notebook.
    ‘Do you know whether Fräulein Rosenkrantz intended to receive any guests after your departure yesterday?’
    ‘I don’t think she did. She wanted to work on her new role.’
    Rheinhardt smiled: ‘What was it, incidentally? This role that she was so keen to start working on?’
    ‘I don’t know very much about opera. But I think it was an Italian name. Was it Lucca or Lucia?’
    ‘Lucia di Lammermoor.’
    ‘Yes, that was it.’
    Rheinhardt recalled the principal elements of Donizetti’s epic romance.
    A beautiful young woman: madness, tragedy.
    He closed his eyes and the photographic image of Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s body came into his mind. Once more, he was made uneasy by the way she occupied such a central position within the borders of the Persian rug.
    When he opened his eyes again, Frau Marcus was looking at him expectantly.
    ‘You are quite sure,’ Rheinhardt said softly, ‘that you did not attempt to move your mistress before Doctor Engelberg’s arrival?’
    ‘Quite sure,’ said Frau Marcus.

2
     
    T HE PIANIST OF THE Café Imperial began playing Chopin’s Waltz in B minor. Liebermann recognised it immediately, a curious, wistful melody which trickled down the keyboard over a brisk left-hand part, executed on this occasion with staccato lightness. At the point where the ear expected repose, the melody suddenly began again, creating a peculiar impression of autonomy, as if the music possessed a will of its own and was determined to continue. This rallying quality produced in Liebermann’s mind a corresponding image of a dancing couple who – in spite of being exhausted – revolved, just one more time, only to find themselves caught up in