Read Online The Melancholy Countess (Short Story) by Frank Tallis - Free Book Online
Authors: Frank Tallis
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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 hispocket 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?”
“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 hispocket 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?”
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