Chapter Twenty-Five
It took a half-dozen sharp raps on the front door before the Schumanns’ housekeeper opened it and greeted me with an apology. “I'm sorry, Inspector,” she said, having trouble looking me in the eye, “but you'll have to come back later. Madam Schumann is extremely busy at the moment.”
“That makes two of us,” I said, and brushed past the hapless woman. “Kindly tell Madam Schumann I must see her at once.”
My voice must have carried, for a moment later Clara Schumann emerged from the parlour. “What now, Inspector?” she demanded, adding quickly, “I have a very full schedule today, as always.” She shot a withering look at the housekeeper. “I thought this was made clear to you.”
I said, “Madam Schumann, perhaps we might speak in private-”
She gave an impatient sigh. “If we must,” she said, and motioned me to follow her. “We'll use Robert's study. He's dashed off somewhere, as he has a habit of doing these days, whenever he's faced with something he finds disagreeable. God knows it doesn't take much to set him off.”
I said, “Forgive me, Madam Schumann, aren't you at all concerned about his erratic behaviour?”
“We already have an army of doctors to cope with Robert's problems. You have to admit that their training and experience exceeds your own in such matters.”
“But your husband has no confidence in the doctors. Take for instance this fellow Möbius-”
“Doctor Möbius.”
“Witch doctor is more apt. The man belongs in a jungle.”
“You seem so sure of yourself,” she said. “Perhaps you've been a patient of his?”
“I've consulted him, though not as a patient.”
“Then you're hardly in a position-”
“On the contrary, I am very much in a position. In addition to my own encounter with Möbius, a close friend of mine has had reason to consult him…as a patient. The man's a quack, nothing more.”
“A friend, you say?” Clara Schumann's tone turned contemptuous. “What kind of ‘friend’ would confide that he or she was compelled to seek treatment for mental illness? It's hardly fashionable to talk openly of such intimate matters. Believe me, I speak from experience. Do you have any idea how mortifying it is, Inspector, that Robert and I find ourselves baring our private lives before one doctor after another? And how doubly mortifying when we must do so before a policeman? Be honest, Inspector,” she said, “and admit the plain truth. You have no business being involved in our troubles. My biggest regret is that I gave in to Robert and wrote the damned note summoning you that night. It was a moment of weakness on my part, for which I will never forgive myself.”
“About your friend, Brahms-” I began to ask.
“What about my friend Brahms?”
The expression on her face tightened, and a fierceness in her eyes gave me the feeling that somehow I was on trial here. I said, “I have some questions I must ask…about him…about you.”
“I will not lie to you, Inspector,” she said quietly, “though I assume you anticipate lies in these situations. It is true that I have some affection for Johannes, a great deal, in fact. What normal woman would not?”
“Enough affection that-to put it plainly-you have given yourself to him?”
“I repeat, Inspector: what normal woman would not?”
“But you are no normal woman, surely,” I said.
“In some respects,” she replied, “I am normal. In other respects…well, see for yourself: daughter of a tyrant, wife of a man who has become as wildly unpredictable as the weather, mother of six demanding children, performing artist, and these days more and more the sole source of income for our family. I carry not one but several albatrosses about my neck.”
“The only thing I observe about your neck is a locket, which I recognize.”
“Really? How so?”
“I happened to be at Thüringer's Jewellery Shoppe the day Brahms purchased it. There's an inscription on the back-‘To dearest Clara, my life's blood’.”
“I don't know what you're talking about,” Clara Schumann said. “What inscription?”
“Come now, Madam Schumann, you indicated there would be no lies.”
She promptly reached behind her neck, unclasped the locket, and handed it to me. “Look for yourself, Inspector.”
There was no inscription.
Had my ears and eyes played some kind of trick on me? Or was Johannes Brahms, clever devil, the trickster here?
“You see, Inspector,” she said, “once again your policeman's imagination has run away with itself.” She extended her hand in an imperious manner. “The locket…please give it back.”
I confess to feeling sheepish and more than a little confused as I handed back the locket and watched as Clara replaced it around her neck. “Now, sir, if we are quite finished-” she said.
“No, madam, we are not quite finished,” I said. From an inner pocket of my coat I withdrew one of my finest Irish linen handkerchiefs and unfolded it carefully to reveal a tuning fork. “Do you recognize this?” I said, watching intently for her reaction.
Without bothering to examine it closely she said, “You're asking me if I recognize a tuning fork?” She gave a little laugh. “Seriously, there must be thousands of such tuning forks.”
“Quite so,” I agreed. “I doubt, however, that all of them have bloodstains on the prongs, as this one does.”
Her expression betrayed little interest. “You must forgive me,” she said, “if I fail to find the artifacts of crime as fascinating as you do.”
“This is no mere ‘artifact’,” I said. “This happens to be a murder weapon. This innocent-looking instrument, applied with immense force to the skull of Georg Adelmann, took the man's life.”
“Then that must have been the last musical note the poor fellow heard, mustn't it?” she said, pretending to be stricken.
“Madam Schumann,” I said, “this is not a time for clever jests. I'm certain this tuning fork belongs to your husband. He is known to carry one much of the time. I'm told, for instance, that whenever he's conducting, he and the orchestra's oboeist battle constantly over tuning, and the Maestro insists his own tuning fork must settle the pitch.”
“Go on.”
“He is also renowned for his seemingly uncontrollable fits of rage.”
“I take it, then, that you think you have sufficient grounds to arrest my husband and charge him with the murder of Georg Adelmann?”
Before I could reply, the housekeeper burst into the study. “Madam Schumann, come quickly!”
Suddenly the house was filled with the sounds of a scuffle. With Clara close behind, I followed the housekeeper into the entrance hall, now the setting for a scene of complete chaos. The front door of the house had been flung open and there, in the centre of the hall, three burly men in fishermen's apparel were struggling to restrain a fourth man who, despite the odds against him, appeared on the verge of overwhelming them and breaking free. A raw wind from the street blew through the open door, scattering that morning's newspaper, a stack of unopened mail, and a thick sheaf of music paper. Puddles were forming under the feet of the four men, and my nose caught the rank odour of river water. That same smell was on their clothing. There were cries, shouts and garbled words that made no sense.
The loudest of these came from the fourth man who was, of course, Robert Schumann.
Ribbons of what looked like seaweed dangled from his matted scalp. His complexion, which in moments of contentment had been a reassuring pink, was now colourless, the skin wrinkled as though it had been marinated in brine. His clothing-he wore only a thin suit but no coat despite this cold, rainy season-was soaked. I had seen drifters in the slums of Düsseldorf who looked less dishevelled.
Both Clara and the housekeeper had rushed to fetch shawls and towels to cover and dry him. His arms flinging about wildly, Schumann rejected everything. The man was clearly beyond being comforted. He cursed everyone, Clara and the housekeeper included, but aimed most of his hostility at two of the three men, accusing them of meddling. “Why didn't you leave me be?” he demanded, shouting at them in a voice growing hoarse, as though his lungs were filled with water and silt.