“How so?”
“For two reasons: first, I didn't know that charm was one of the requisites of police work. Second, I never dreamt for a moment that a crime investigator would be interested in music. Tell me honestly now, how did you come to be at the soirée that night?” Her voice took on a teasing inflection. “Let me guess, Inspector. You heard the rumour that Richard Wagner and Eduard Hanslick were due to attend and that one of them was going to murder the other.”
Clara Schumann punctuated her little joke with a gentle chuckle which I found totally enchanting. “Madam,” I said, “the hostility between Wagner and his arch critic is a fact that has every police force in Germany on high alert at all times. How fortunate you are, you and Maestro Schumann, that Mr. Hanslick's reviews are invariably kind.”
I was unprepared for (but amused by) Madam Schumann's next statement. “The truth is, Eduard Hanslick is as pompous as an archbishop saying Mass. Mind you, whenever he delivers last rites to Wagner in the press, my husband and I genuflect and utter a little prayer of thanks.”
She lowered her voice, as if she and I were about to exchange confidences. “Now tell me, Inspector, how did you come to be at the gala?”
I said, “Believe it or not, Madam Schumann, I am a music lover, though I admit that my attempts at playing the piano are at best a cut above those of an orangutan. Luckily, I've made the acquaintance of Helena Becker-”
“Ah, yes,” Clara Schumann said, her face brightening. The simple mention of Helena Becker's name seemed suddenly to elevate my stature. “She's the cellist with the Düsseldorf String Quartet. And very pretty, too.”
“Come to think of it, madam, my very first hearing of Dr. Schumann's Opus 41 Quartets-the three that he dedicated to Felix Mendelssohn-was at a performance by the Düsseldorf, and it was at a reception afterward that Miss Becker and I were introduced to each other.”
As I was telling this to his wife, Schumann appeared in the hallway. Raising his eyebrows and looking suddenly interested, he asked, “So, Inspector Preiss, and how did you like them, the quartets, I mean? The critic for the Berliner Zeitung called them my finest works for strings. Even compared them to Beethoven's.”
I thought the pieces marvellous and told him so without hesitation. In a flash, this turned out to be a mistake. “You hear that, Clara,” Schumann said, his arms outstretched as though pleading for justice, “everywhere people go out of their way to flatter me. I am treated by everyone as though I am some fragile hothouse plant who can't be told the truth.”
“But I am being perfectly honest, Maestro,” I said fervently. “Please believe me.”
Clara Schumann took the final step down to floor level. She was considerably shorter than her husband, but somehow she seemed taller, and she spoke to him in a firm, almost harsh, tone of voice. “You see, Robert, this is precisely what I've been talking about all these months. There is a side to you that is determined not to accept praise. In the bluest sky, you somehow never fail to discover black clouds.”
She turned to me. “Inspector Preiss, what my husband needs is a doctor, not a detective. Despite what he's told you, this is a medical case, not a criminal case.”
This brought an outburst from the maestro. “How in hell, woman, do you know what I've told Inspector Preiss?”
“If you must know, Robert, even from the top of the stairway I could hear every word.”
“In other words, you were eavesdropping on a confidential conversation.”
“I'm your wife, for God's sake. Wives don't ‘eavesdrop’ on so-called confidential talk involving their sick husbands.”
She turned back to me. “And you believe, sir,” she said, “that my husband's condition…this business about the ‘A’ sound…you really believe there is some deliberate evil being done to Robert?” Though she did not put this question to me with open sarcasm, she left no doubt that she considered the whole affair ridiculous.
“Madam, you ask if I ‘believe’ this or ‘believe‘ that. I avoid elevating suspicion to the level of belief until there's a foundation of solid facts. But I have heard and seen enough this past hour so that I could not for the life of me walk out that door without promising to look into Dr. Schumann's suspicions. And the sooner the better.”
“Then it's obvious, Inspector,” Madam Schumann said, her manner indignant now, “that nothing I say can convince you not to interfere.” She turned her gaze on her husband, giving him a look that bore a mixture of pity and contempt. Without taking her eyes from him, she said, “But I warn you, sir, you will not like what you find.”
“As a matter of fact, I never do,” I said.
I let myself out and noted that the chill in the street was only a touch more penetrating than the chill in the house from which I had just departed.
Chapter Three
Back in my rooms, I poured myself a healthy portion of schnapps, which I downed in a single draught. The strong liquor burned its way through my system like a fine stream of lava, but instead of calming me as I'd hoped, it left me with a restless feeling. It was now just past one o'clock in the morning, and yet I felt totally awake. I moved across the sitting room to the large bay window, parted the heavy curtains and looked down to the small park directly across from my dwelling. Despite the bleakness outdoors, the ornate wrought-iron gateposts at the park entrance, bracketed by tall gas lamps, their yellow light gallantly flickering, presented a warm and satisfying picture. My rooms could not be called lavish, but they were comfortably furnished and a source of pleasure to me.
What was even more pleasing to me was the thought that I had just been admitted to the private world of one of the most illustrious couples in Germany and indeed the whole of Europe, a world light years removed from my origins.
The town of Zwicken, where I was born in 1820, was located in the heart of poor farming country. To characterize our town as “the heart” was not exactly appropriate, for it was a heart that pumped very little blood. The place was not much more than a collection of humble houses and shops leaning against one another for support in their old age. From backyards one could hear chickens and geese clucking away meaninglessly, like village idiots. Occasionally a sow could be heard grunting as she rolled over on her side, inviting her piglets to feed. Horses and cows left their calling cards on the unpaved roadways, obliging pedestrians to step gingerly when crossing, like children learning to walk.
Not long before I was born, Napoleon Bonaparte's infantry and artillery had shuffled and rattled into our town, confusing Zwicken with another and more important centre nearby, Zwickau. Disgruntled over their mistake, the Frenchmen had taken their unhappiness out on the local townsfolk. While their officers turned a blind eye, the troops proceeded to ransack the shops until every shelf was bare. Worse still, with the kind of brute desperation known only to conquering soldiers far from home, they harassed or raped any young woman who could not run fast enough to escape their hungry pursuit.
On the day of their departure for Zwickau, Napoleon's heroes left behind them a town drained of its energy, its resources, and above all its dignity. The populace licked their wounds and patched their scars as best they could. But Zwicken's reason for existence had pretty much petered out, like the footprints of the last French militiamen.
My father, Wolfgang Preiss, operated a small tailor shop on the main thoroughfare of Zwicken, an occupation which, given the state of affairs in the town, left him with much time on his hands. This permitted him to indulge every day and most nights in the labour that was dearest to his heart-writing novels. Though not well-educated, he had read the works of Goethe, Schiller, and several other distinguished German authors and poets, and dreamed of joining their ranks with his tales one day, when the literary world would finally wake up and recognize his own peculiar genius.