The Melancholy Countess (Short Story) (7 page)

“Upstairs.”

They began their ascent.

“What time was it when you received Frau Marcus’s telephone call, Herr Doctor?”

“Around seven-thirty.”

“And what time did you get here?”

“No later than quarter to eight.” Rheinhardt’s expression was skeptical. “I rise very early, you see. I was already dressed, and I live only a short distance away.”

When they reached the landing, Engelberg opened the first of several doors. “She’s in here.”

They entered a richly appointed bedroom where gas jets flickered within globes of smoked glass. A four-poster bed occupied a commanding central position, its heavy curtains tied back with gold cords so as to reveal a counterpane embroidered with a medieval scene: against a backdrop of peacocks and roses stood a noblewoman who was holding a standard displaying three crescent moons. At her feet sat a docile unicorn and a good-humored lion that seemed content to entertain a small white rabbit in the gap between its paws. Two purple stockings had been discarded on the pillows. The wallpaper was striped, burgundy columns alternating with green, with a repeated violin and laurel-wreath motif in raised silver.

Next to the window was a dressing table with a hinged oval mirror, on which several bottles, an amber-colored decanter, and numerous small mother-of-pearl boxes had been casually laid out. Scattered among these items was a tortoisehell comb, several brooches, and a curious totemic object made of hair and beads. Rheinhardt inhaled. The smell of hyacinths had intensified. He looked around and identified
its source as a large egg-shaped pomander of fretted ivory; however, the inspector was also conscious of an acrid undertow. In the far corner he saw a wardrobe and beside it a washstand. Instead of the usual porcelain, the bowl and jug were made from a semitransparent turquoise glass, encrusted with jasper.

The overall effect of the room suggested luxury and abundance. Yet there was something distinctly dissolute about the décor. The gemstones and sumptuous colors tested the limits of aesthetic tolerance and awakened prejudices. Rheinhardt found himself thinking that he had entered not the bedroom of an operatic diva but a seraglio.

Engelberg crossed to the other side of the room and made a sweeping gesture. Rheinhardt and Haussmann followed, and as they rounded the bed, Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s lifeless form came into view. The dead woman was lying on her back, positioned within the rectangle of a Persian rug. It was a pleasing effect, possessing the compositional virtues of a painting. She was wearing a pink silk dress overlaid with a lacy décolleté trim. Her complexion was pale, and her plenteous auburn curls complemented a youthful face of exceptional delicacy. Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s eyes were closed, and the almost perfect ovals of her fingernails were tinged with a bluish hue. She was not wearing any shoes, and her bare feet projected out from a sufficiency of petticoats. On the floor, next to the rug, was a vial. Its stopper had rolled beneath a bedside table on which more empty bottles stood.

“Herr Doctor?” said Rheinhardt. “Did you move Fräulein Rosenkrantz when you examined her?”

“No. She remains exactly as found.”

“What about Frau Marcus? Did she move Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s body?”

“I don’t think so. As far as I know she made no attempt to revive or resuscitate her.”

Rheinhardt stepped closer. “How did Fräulein Rosenkrantz die?”

“It would appear that she imbibed an excessive quantity of laudanum.”

“Intentionally?”

“That is certainly a possibility …”

“However?”

“I can think of no reason why she should have chosen to end her life. I take it you are aware of Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s reputation? She was at the height of her powers. There are few who can claim to have conquered the hearts of the music-loving public so decisively. We have been robbed of a singular talent, make no mistake.”

“When was the last time Fräulein Rosenkrantz had cause to request a consultation?”

“Only two weeks ago.”

“With respect to …?”

“A touch of neuralgia, but otherwise she was in excellent spirits. I can remember her talking excitedly about roles she expected to take next season.”

“So what are we to conclude, Herr Doctor? That her death was accidental?”

“That
would
be my opinion …” Engelberg’s sentence trailed off into silence. He sighed and began again: “That would be my opinion, were it not for the fact that Fräulein Rosenkrantz once needed the services of a psychiatrist. In the spring I arranged for her to see Professor Daniel Saminsky.” Engelberg paused before adding, “A colleague of some distinction. He once had the honor of attending the late empress, and has since been awarded the Order of Elizabeth.”

Rheinhardt twisted the horns of his mustache.

“What was the reason for the referral?”

“Globus hystericus,”
Engelberg replied.

“Would you care to explain?”

“A hysterical phenomenon—typically the patient reports the presence of a lump in the throat that produces difficulty when swallowing. Physical investigations reveal no obvious obstruction, and the lump, or rather the perceived lump, is subsequently ascribed to psychological causes.
Globus hystericus
is not a diagnosis that we doctors commonly associate with suicide. And to the best of my knowledge Professor Saminsky’s treatment was effective.”

Rheinhardt walked over to the bedside table, picked up one of the bottles, and sniffed the pungent residue.

“Did you prescribe these tinctures?”

“No.”

“Then who did?”

“Professor Saminsky, I believe.”

“Didn’t you say that Saminsky’s treatment was successful?”

“That is correct. Nevertheless, he continued to see Fräulein Rosenkrantz for monthly appointments.” Engelberg raked his hand through his hair. “No doctor can be absolutely certain of a patient’s state of mind. If Fräulein Rosenkrantz was suffering from suicidal melancholia, it not only escaped my notice, it also escaped Professor Saminsky’s.”

Rheinhardt replaced the bottle.

“Herr Doctor, you say that Fräulein Rosenkrantz was fully recovered. Why, then, was she taking laudanum?”

“To hasten the onset of sleep. Difficulty sleeping was another of her problems. She has taken paraldehyde, sulphonal, potassium bromide, and a host of herbal remedies. The laudanum has nothing to do with her
globus hystericus
.” Engelberg patted his pocket and removed a cigar. “May I smoke, Inspector?”

“Of course,” said Rheinhardt, taking a box of matches from his
pocket and courteously providing a light. “Herr Doctor, looking at Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s body, does anything strike you as odd?”

“I’m not sure what you mean, Inspector.”

“Her position,” said Rheinhardt. “In the center of the rug.”

Engelberg shrugged and surrounded himself with a yellow nimbus of smoke. “Inspector, imagine, if you will, the following: Fräulein Rosenkrantz retires to her bedroom. She cannot sleep. She takes some laudanum but it has little effect. Those of a nervous character, as she undoubtedly was, are often less susceptible to soporifics.” He sucked at his cigar and flicked some ash into an onyx dish. “She waits, but remains incorrigibly awake. Becoming impatient, she drinks another vial. Although she feels the laudanum isn’t working, it most certainly is. She is no longer fully compos mentis. She cannot remember how much she has taken, and she is confused. In this disoriented state she takes yet more laudanum, and the dose is now fatal. She sits on the side of the bed and removes her shoes and stockings. As she bends down, she becomes dizzy. She slides off the bed and onto the floor. She rolls over, onto the rug, and closes her eyes.” Engelberg shrugged again. “It might well have happened like that, Inspector—an accident, a cruel tragedy of mischance.”

Rheinhardt lifted the counterpane and looked under the bed, where he saw a pair of brown leather ladies’ shoes. He then examined the coverlet more closely, searching for small indications consistent with Engelberg’s scenario. It was all very plausible, but when Rheinhardt looked again at Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s body, positioned so neatly within the rectangular limits of the Persian rug, he could not quash a nagging doubt.

“Thank you, Herr Doctor,” said Rheinhardt. “You have been most helpful.”

“May I leave now?”