Free Death and the Maiden by Frank Tallis Page A

eye.
    At the far end of the room was a grand piano at which a youthful accompanist was seated. Next to the piano stood a woman, and beside her was a short olive-skinned man with a pointed black beard. Przistaupinsky introduced Rheinhardt and Liebermann and then said a few words concerning the purpose of their visit. On hearing Rosenkrantz’s name, the olive-skinned man made the sign of the cross and bowed his head.
    An arrangement was made to resume the rehearsal in thirty minutes, and Przistaupinsky, the accompanist, and the olive-skinned gentleman left the room.
    Liebermann studied the soprano.
    She was in her late twenties and possessed an abundance of dark hair, the extremities of which had a tendency to twist into coils. Her eyebrows were high, forming almost semicircular arches, and her nose was, if a little too long, finely cast. The lips beneath the nose were wide and coloured a shade of red that matched the brightly painted walls. She was not overly large, as the critics had implied, but she was certainly tall and had an imposing appearance. The loose-fitting dress that she wore was green and cut from a material that shimmered. Even her smallest movements created vivid coruscations that intimated the contours of her figure beneath – the curvature of her hips, and the full swell of her breasts. A silver and emerald crucifix hung from her neck.
    Rheinhardt looked at the score on the music stand. It was an aria from Verdi’s Aida .
    ‘Do you read music, Inspector?’ asked the soprano, seating herself on a chair by the piano.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And do you sing?’
    ‘Well,’ said Rheinhardt, his cheeks flushing. ‘I would hesitate to make such a claim in present company.’
    Amsel accepted the compliment tacitly by rippling her fingers.
    ‘Actually,’ said Liebermann, ‘he’s rather good for an amateur. A very competent lyric baritone.’
    The diva’s eyebrows, already naturally elevated, found further scope for ascent.
    ‘Then perhaps we should try a duet, Inspector.’
    ‘I think not,’ said Rheinhardt, lowering himself onto the piano stool. ‘Much as I would deem it a great honour.’
    Rheinhardt fancied that although Amsel’s suggestion wasn’t wholly serious, it wasn’t made entirely in jest, either. What a story it mighthave made, in years to come: how he had sung a duet with the celebrated prima donna. Rheinhardt dismissed the thought and returned the conversation to the subject of Ida Rosenkrantz.
    ‘Yes, poor Ida,’ said Amsel, touching her crucifix. ‘How dreadful, to turn away from God, to rebel against one’s maker.’ Then, looking from Rheinhardt to Liebermann and back again, she added, ‘But I’m not sure that I can help you. We were not … friends.’
    ‘You must have been acquainted.’
    ‘Well, yes … But … ’ Amsel’s ample bosom rose and descended as she produced a lengthy sigh. ‘I do not wish to speak ill of the dead.’
    ‘No one ever does. I will not judge you unkindly for being honest.’
    ‘We were not friends,’ Amsel repeated. ‘Indeed, it is no secret that our relationship was somewhat strained. We rarely spoke. I am sure that von Mildenberg, Förster-Lauterer, Slezak or even Winkelmann would be much better informed concerning Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s circumstances and state of mind.’
    Rheinhardt removed his notebook and scribbled down the names.
    ‘Why was your relationship with Fräulein Rosenkrantz strained? What was so contentious?’
    ‘Are petty opera house squabbles really of interest to the police, Herr Inspector?’ Rheinhardt did not respond and as the silence intensified Amsel was obliged to supply an answer: ‘She turned people against me.’
    ‘Who?’ Rheinhardt asked.
    ‘I trust this conversation is confidential?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘The other singers – some of the critics – even Director Mahler. I do not want to speak ill of her, especially now, and I have remembered her in my prayers.’ Again the singer touched her