Free Death and the Maiden by Frank Tallis Page B

crucifix. ‘But there was something about her … something about her appearance,a kind of fragility, the illusion of childish innocence, that she used to her advantage. She found it easy to manipulate men. And men run the opera house.’
    ‘Why would she want to turn people against you?’
    ‘Jealousy, Inspector.’ These words were spoken with decisive finality. Amsel clearly believed that her vocal superiority was indisputable and that only a man whose musical instincts had been horribly corrupted by Rosenkrantz’s perfidious charms could possibly think otherwise.
    Liebermann crossed the Persian rug and leaned back against the piano, his arms folded.
    ‘Why,’ he began, ‘did you say that Ida Rosenkrantz turned away from God?’
    ‘Because she took her own life,’ the singer replied, a little perplexed. Then, looking narrowly at Liebermann, she added, ‘In the Catholic faith, Herr Doctor, self-slaughter is considered a mortal sin.’
    ‘Indeed,’ said Liebermann. ‘But why do you suppose she committed suicide?’
    ‘I am not supposing anything, Herr Doctor. I read that she had committed suicide in the Zeitung and the Tagblatt.’
    ‘The newspapers reported that Fräulein Rosenkrantz could have committed suicide. It was also suggested that Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s death might have been accidental. The reports were inconclusive.’
    Amsel shrugged. ‘I formed the impression that she had killed herself.’
    ‘Do you think that is what happened, then? Do you think she took her own life?’
    The diva lifted her hands, her expression showing exasperation. ‘I don’t know. And what does it matter what I think? My opinion on this matter is surely of little importance. I didn’t know her well enough to pass comment.’ Then, quite suddenly, Amsel’s lower lipbegan to tremble and she produced a loud sob, an anguished spasm of grief that might easily have reached the upper balcony of the world’s largest opera houses. The sob was so theatrical that Liebermann could hardly accept it as sincere, even though tears had begun to course down Amsel’s cheeks.
    ‘Madam,’ said Rheinhardt, offering her a starched white handkerchief.
    ‘Thank you, Inspector. I’m sorry.’ She dabbed at her eyes and spoke between mighty heaves of her chest. ‘We were not friends – quite the contrary – even so – it is a terrible thing … a terrible, terrible thing … One would … one wouldn’t wish such a thing to happen to anyone.’
    Liebermann glanced at Rheinhardt to make sure that he had registered the slip.
    The inspector leaned forward and asked softly, ‘Where were you on Monday evening, Fräulein Amsel?’
    ‘Monday evening?’
    ‘It was very foggy.’
    ‘Oh, yes, Monday evening. I was at home, entertaining some friends.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Herr Eder and his wife, Herr Brunn … old friends. I sang for them after supper.’
    ‘And what time did they leave?’
    ‘Oh, I can’t remember exactly.’
    ‘Early? Late?’
    ‘About ten o’clock.’
    Rheinhardt nodded.
    Amsel mopped up the last of her tears and held the handkerchief out, still neatly compressed, for Rheinhardt to take.
    ‘You can keep it,’ he said.
    * * *
     
    It was early afternoon when Rheinhardt and Liebermann finally left the opera house. In addition to interviewing Arianne Amsel, they had interviewed the soprano Bertha Förster-Lauterer, the tenor Leo Slezak, and Rosenkrantz’s Czech voice coach Herr Janda. All confirmed that Rosenkrantz had demonstrated no signs of significant mental anguish in the months preceding her death. There was also unanimity concerning Amsel, whose resentment of Rosenkrantz’s success was judged to run deep, even by opera house standards.
    Rheinhardt and Liebermann retired to the Café Mozart where they discussed all that had transpired over coffee and pastries. Preliminary remarks and observations were succeeded by a lengthy hiatus during which the two men were absorbed by their own private thoughts. In due