Borrower of the Night

Chapter Twelve

I HAD NOT RECOGNIZED Irma. I wouldn’t have known my own mother under those confusing conditions (especially my mother, under those conditions). But I was willing to take Blankenhagen’s word for it. I couldn’t figure out what Irma was doing there, but I decided maybe I had better go up and find out.

Tony beat me to the stairs. Blankenhagen was behind me, but not for long; I heard him stumble and fall after a few steps.

We kept going up – all the way up. I don’t know what I expected to find up there. I wasn’t thinking coherently. But I felt a mild shock when I came out of the opening onto the roofless top storey, and saw what was happening.

The character in the cloak stood at the edge of the platform, with not even a ridge of stone between him and the ground some sixty feet below. Irma lay at his feet. She was drugged or unconscious – probably the former, because her face was quite peaceful and she was breathing heavily through her nose. If the poignancy of the moment had not raised my mind above ordinary cattiness, I would have said she was snoring.

The man who had brought her there was wearing riding breeches and boots. The hood of his dark-grey loden cloak was thrown back, so that his fiery head gleamed in the moonlight. His gun gleamed too. It was big and shiny and it was pointed straight at Tony’s stomach.

‘So it was you,’ I said unoriginally.

‘In part. No, Tony, don’t try anything. A bullet hole in you wouldn’t spoil my plans at all. As soon as I’m finished here, you two go back where you came from. Where’s Blankenhagen?’

Tony sat down, yawning. I couldn’t help admiring his nonchalance. He didn’t even look surprised . . .

‘You knew,’ I said to him. ‘You knew it was George.’

‘I knew George was one of the villains. Unfortunately, he isn’t the only one.’ Tony looked at the villain. ‘Blankenhagen? He’s down there someplace. Broke his arm when the staircase gave way.’

‘I admire your tenacity,’ George said, baring his teeth in one of those toothpaste-ad grins. ‘I didn’t think you could get out.’

‘I’m a little tired,’ Tony admitted. He yawned again. ‘Can I sit over there, against the parapet, without your shooting me?’

‘Just don’t stand up.’

Tony obeyed literally; and George raised his eyebrows politely at me. I shook my head. I didn’t want to sit down. I had a feeling I would be lying down only too soon, and permanently.

‘Found the shrine yet?’ Tony asked.

‘Oh, yes. I followed you last night and overheard Vicky telling Konstanze’s life story. It wasn’t hard to figure out what it meant, so far as the hiding place of the shrine was concerned. I had prepared the tunnel with no specific plan in mind – an emergency reserve, you might say – but I had to get you down there right away, before you could use your information. I had plenty of time after that to search.’

‘I hope you haven’t told anyone else where it is,’ Tony said.

I wished George would stop grinning. He looked like an Aztec death mask – the kind that is half teeth.

‘I’m not such a fool as that.’

Tony wasn’t as calm as he seemed. I could see the tension of bunched-up muscles in his legs and shoulders. I kept very still and watched him. He was leading up to something and I wanted to be ready to back him up, whatever he did.

‘I don’t know, Nolan,’ he said. ‘I find your position somewhat shaky. What are you going to do with Irma?’

‘Somnambulists are accident-prone, old son. They even have fatal accidents.’

‘And you can always go down after you throw her off and make sure.’

‘What’s one more?’ said George.

It took me a couple of seconds to understand what he meant.

‘Now, wait,’ I said energetically. ‘Let’s not be hasty. You haven’t killed anybody yet. We can’t even accuse you of attempted murder; shutting us up in that hole was just a boyish prank, right? Why kill anybody? Just take the shrine and split. We haven’t any proof.’

‘Wouldn’t work,’ said George promptly. He waved the gun at Tony, who tried not to cringe. ‘He’s been too nosy. Sending cables all over the place.’

‘You’ve been reading my mail!’ Tony said angrily.

‘Only the cables that arrived today. You know too much about the state of my finances, brother. And you were too inquisitive about Herr Schmidt.’

‘You crook,’ I said to Tony. ‘Were those the cables you sent that day it rained? How did you know where to inquire about Schmidt? Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘You have a lot of nerve talking about cheating,’ Tony shouted. ‘Squatting like a setting hen on all those little tidbits you dug up – ’

‘Sssh!’ George danced irritably up and down. ‘Somebody will hear you!’

I expected Tony to jump him then; I braced myself, ready to move. There was a nasty cold lump at the pit of my stomach. I had never seen a gun from quite that angle. It is a disconcerting sight, and I had no desire to see it any closer. But we had to do something; I didn’t intend to let myself be herded back into that hellish tunnel without putting up a fight. We would be in a better position to attack if we waited till George had us on the stairs. But we couldn’t wait. He was going to kill Irma first.

Tony settled back.

‘Does Schmidt really have a degree from Leipzig?’ he inquired conversationally. ‘I haven’t had a chance to read my mail, you know.’

George laughed.

‘I think you’ll be surprised when you find out who Schmidt is. He was using his own name. Not his fault if it’s a common name.’

‘One thing I already know,’ said Tony. ‘He was the one who engineered the armour and the séance. What is he, an amateur hypnotist, or just a common garden-variety fortune teller?’

‘Both. He hypnotized Irma with some crazy idea that she might have ancestral memories he could tap. Until the great séance he didn’t realize that what he was doing could hurt the wench.’

The gun barrel dropped, casually, to indicate the girl’s motionless form, and my heart skipped a beat.

‘Why don’t you shoot her, if that’s what you’re going to do?’ Tony said, between his teeth. ‘Get it over with.’

‘No bullet holes in Irma. That would spoil the illusion.’

Tony was rapidly losing his calm. He glanced at me. Then, following his eyes, I finally realized what he was up to. He was trying not to look at the square opening of the stairwell, which was now, thanks to his manoeuver, out of George’s direct line of vision. I didn’t share his optimism. Blankenhagen might come, but I doubted it. The man wasn’t superhuman.

‘So Schmidt hypnotized Irma,’ I said. ‘He was the one who prompted her with all that stuff about fires and possession.’

‘He had help. The old lady has been workmg on the kid for years.’

‘She would,’ Tony muttered. ‘Just for fun.’

‘It came in handy, after Schmidt appeared at the Schloss with his questions about the shrine. He didn’t realize Irma was the heiress. He went straight to Elfrida and they started searching. He was no match for the old witch; he did just what she told him to.’

‘How did he find out about the shrine?’ I asked curiously.

‘He read the same book you all found, and reached the same conclusion. When you arrived he got panicky. He wanted the shrine and he was afraid you’d beat him to it. I met him prowling the corridors one night and persuaded him to join forces with me to discourage you. But he didn’t realize how far I was prepared to go. The night we staged the armour episode, I had to use the dagger myself, after I tapped Tony on the head. The sight of blood sent the old fool into a tailspin. I had to keep him from yelling, and in the struggle he passed out. I thought I was going to have an attack myself before I got him out of that armour and into his room, so I could rush down to take my part in the drama.’

‘And the second attack? Staring eyes, look of horror?’

‘Baffling, wasn’t it?’ George grinned. ‘I only meant to scare him. He was threatening to confess all.’

‘Then the Gräfin is in with you,’ I said.

‘It’s not fair,’ Tony said wildly. ‘Everybody’s guilty. There’s only supposed to be one criminal. What about Miss Burton?’

‘She is innocent, if that consoles you any. Arrogant, stupid, and innocent.’

‘Nolan, don’t you see you’re being used?’ Tony demanded. ‘That old bitch is in the clear. She’ll end up with the shrine, after you’ve killed Irma, and you’ll end up in the chair, or whatever they use in this country. You’re a stooge, buddy; a lousy cat’s-paw.’

For the first, and last time in his life, he hit George where it hurt. The big white grin disappeared. George took a step forward, almost stumbling ovet Irma, and Tony braced himself. I got ready to jump. Then I saw two things.

One was a hand, whose whitened fingers were curled gruesomely over the edge of the topmost step. The other was Irma’s eyes – wide open.

‘No,’ I said hysterically. ‘No, don’t! Don’t kill us!’ I threw myself onto my knees, yelped as the gritty stone bit into my lacerated skin, and wriggled gracefully forwards until my body was between George and the stairwell.

It was no use. George’s gun stayed smack on Tony’s liver, and Blankenhagen followed his hand out onto the roof.

He looked like death walking – tattered, bloody, smeared with dust and cobwebs. He was an automaton, moving by pure will. It was so awful it was fascinating; I half expected to see him walk stiff-legged into a hail of bullets, like the monster out of Frankenstein.

Everybody has his limits, though, and Blankenhagen reached his. He fell to his knees, his eyes crossed and his mouth half open.

‘What do I have to do, use a meat cleaver?’ George demanded irritably. ‘All right; you’ll be out of your misery in just a few seconds.’

I didn’t see exactly what happened. My eyes, like those of the others, were fixed on Blankenhagen. I saw enough, though, to keep my dreams uneasy for some time to come. Suddenly Irma was up on her hands and knees. George’s arms were in the air, flailing frantically. I’ll never forget the expression on his face. The sudden change from triumph to failure, and his awareness of it, were blended with the most ghastly terror. For a moment he tottered on the edge of oblivion. Then he was gone. His scream came up like a shriek of anguish from some bodiless ghost borne through the air by the scudding clouds. It ended in another sound. Then there was silence.

I looked at Irma. She had risen to one knee. Her arm was lifted in the gesture that had just sent a man to a messy death. Her black hair was whipped about her face by the wind, and her eyes were enormous.

‘Well,’ said Tony weakly, ‘well, well, well . . .’

He might have gone on like that indefinitely if Irma had not interrupted.

‘He would have killed you,’ she cried, gesturing from Tony to the prostrate form of the doctor. ‘Should I lie still and see him kill you?’

She didn’t mention me. I was in no position to complain; I don’t mind having my life saved as an afterthought.

I cleared my throat. Nobody looked at me. Irma had decided the doctor was the more pathetic of her two heroes, and had taken his bloody head onto her lap. She was crooning over him, and I thought I detected a slight smirk on his face. One of his eyes was open; when he saw me staring, it quickly closed. Tony was trying to look pitiful too, but he couldn’t match Blankenhagen’s performance.

‘Somebody should go for help,’ I said. ‘Hey, Tony – ’

‘Aber nicht!’ Irma gave me a cold look. ‘He cannot go, he is bleeding, in pain – near death, in saving our lives. Run! Go at once!’

‘Run?’ I said. ‘Me?’

Tony moaned and let his head fall back against the parapet.

‘You creep,’ I said to him. I looked at Blankenhagen. ‘The same to you,’ I said. With great dignity I crawled to the stairs and started down them.

I covered about half the distance to the Schloss before my legs gave out. Shivering with shock and reaction, I squatted in a patch of nettles and let my mind wander.

The outlines of the castle wall wavered like fog in front of my half-closed eyes. I was sick. I was thirsty. I was all covered with dirt, and nobody loved me.

After a while my head cleared a little, and I tried to think. Maybe I should go directly to the police. The idea made me giggle wildly. They would take one look at me and send for a doctor. Meanwhile the Gräfin would be on the loose. What if she took a notion to go out and see how George was coming along with his murder? Tony’s groans weren’t altogether phony, he wasn’t in shape to fight anybody, and the Gräfin had always scared the hell out of him. She wouldn’t have to shoot him; she would just stare at him. He would shrivel up and blow away. So would I, if I ran into the old lady now. She could demolish me with a breath.

‘What I need,’ I said aloud, ‘is an army. Right now.’

Then I remembered a fact out of a past that seemed years away. I hauled myself to my feet and headed for the front door of the castle.

My entrance was public, and as spectacular as any ham actress could have prayed for. In the hall I met one of the blond waitresses on her way to the lounge with a big tray of steins. I grimaced into her horrified face and went on my way, hearing the crash of glassware behind me. In the lounge was the group I had hoped to see – the university kids, brimming over with beer and song and youthful joie de vivre. I was incapable of counting them, but the general effect was just what I wanted.

‘Guten Abend,’ I said politely and saw four . . . eight . . . sixteen – good heavens, how many were there? – all those eyes focus in glazed stares. I’m sure they expected me to bend over and extract a knife from my stocking. Only I wasn’t wearing stockings.

‘There has been an accident,’ I said, in my best German. ‘We must have the police. And a doctor. And on the top of the keep, behind this place, you will find several people who need to be transported to the Schloss. And – could I have a drink?’

I fell flat on my face, but they wouldn’t let me pass out; dozens of enthusiastic arms bore me to a couch and another arm poured the dregs of a glass of beer down my throat. I lapped it up like a dog, and somebody brought a full glass, and somebody else held my head . . . I have some unpleasant memories about my sojourn at the Schloss, but the heavenly coldness of that beer trickling down my dusty gullet compensated for all of them.

I shouldn’t have had it, though; on an empty stomach it was almost disastrous. After a while I found myself lying flat on the couch with my head floating up somewhere near the ceiling and a handsome tanned boy bending over me with a glass of brandy.

‘Oy,’ I said, pushing it away. ‘That I don’t need. Will you please – ’

‘I am a student of medicine,’ said the boy grandly. ‘Rest quietly, Fräulein, all has been done as you directed. But what in God’s name has happened?’

‘Look at my face,’ I said hysterically. ‘I know I’m drunk, but I can’t help looking like this, I didn’t do it on purpose; and I don’t know why all you men can’t stop looking at my – ’

He had been patting me – absentmindedly, I’m sure. He got quite red and leaped to his feet.

‘I apologize! No disrespect was intended – ’

‘I know,’ I said sadly.

I had not forgotten the Gräfin, but I was no longer worried about her; with all those husky witnesses rushing around, it was unlikely that she could do any more damage. She must have heard all the activity and come down to see what was going on. When I saw her standing in the doorway, I struggled to a sitting position.

She dismissed the student with an autocratic wave of her hand. Her faint smile, as she studied my unkempt person, told me more clearly than any mirror how terrible I must look. It stung me into relative coherence.

‘Grin all you want,’ I said. ‘You still lose. All is known.’

Her smile didn’t change.

‘Poor girl, you are delirious after all you have suffered. But if you will insist on prying into places where you have no right to be – ’

‘It won’t work,’ I said. ‘George is dead.’

That did it. Her smile vanished.

‘I’m going to let you go,’ I said. ‘I hate to do it, but without George I’m not sure how much we can prove. In your position, though, I wouldn’t risk it.’

‘You would turn an old woman from her home?’

‘You can go live with Miss Burton. I’ll bet she’s loaded; you wouldn’t cultivate her for her gracious personality. And you probably have plenty stashed away. You’ve been milking this place of its saleable antiques for years.’

She stood there looking at me with the Medusa stare that had paralyzed so many luckless victims. It didn’t affect me. She had no power, except over weak minds like Irma’s and Miss Burton’s.

‘The police will be here any minute,’ I said.

She left.

The local constabulary of Rothenburg, accustomed to drunken brawls and traffic jams, were out of their depth at the Schloss. The case was closed. There was nothing for them to do but gather up the wounded. However, they were understandably confounded by the train of events. Finally one of them settled the matter.

‘Mad,’ he said, tapping his forehead. ‘The man was mad, no doubt.’

Everyone agreed. Then, at long last, they led me to my room, and with a groan of voluptuous satisfaction I fell full length on the bed, dirty and half naked as I was, and let my poor old eyes close.

It was late the following afternoon when we all assembled in my room for the denouement. I had slept till noon. Then I washed. That took quite a while. I spent the rest of the time at the hospital with Schmidt, who was coming along nicely. We had a fascinating talk. I was giddy with the implications when I joined the others.

Tony and Blankenhagen were still acting like wounded heroes. I thought Tony had overdone the bandages just a bit, but the effect was impressive.

Irma looked beautiful. She hadn’t dug through forty feet of dirt or fallen down a shaft or crawled through a couple of miles of brambles. She had simply rested peacefully for a few hours. She was safe, rich, beautiful, and surrounded by men who had risked all for her sake – at least that was how she thought of it. No wonder she looked gorgeous. She could even afford to be nice to me. She made me a pretty little speech thanking me for my help.

I looked at my bare arms, which were covered with a network of scratches, and squinted at the tip of my nose, which had a scab on it, and I said dispiritedly, ‘Oh, no problem. I had a talk with your aunt last night. I was dignified, but convincing.’

‘You should not have let her escape,’ said Blankenhagen critically.

‘It would be hard to prove her guilty of anything except poisoning Irma’s mind. That kind of crime is hard to describe in a court of law.’

‘It was a nightmare.’ Irma shivered prettily. ‘To think that the soul of that dead woman could seize my body . . ’

All of us looked at that astounding portrait. ‘Damn it,’ Tony muttered. ‘The resemblance is uncanny.’

‘Not really.’ I lifted the portrait off the wall. I had had plenty of time to study it, and I wasn’t proud of myself for seeing the truth. It should not have taken me so long. ‘The Gräfin didn’t miss a trick. See how faded the rest of the picture is, compared to the face? Someone has touched it up.’

‘You mean – that is not how she looked?’ Irma gasped.

‘No one will ever know what she looked like.’ I tossed the portrait carelessly onto the bed. ‘When your aunt mentioned that she had studied painting . . .’ I shrugged. ‘If you doubt me, have an expert examine this thing. Even I can see that it is modern work.’

‘It started so long ago,’ Irma said, pressing her hands to her face in another of those pretty, fragile gestures. ‘Even before my uncle died, she hated me. Then, later, she started to tell me stories – terrible stories about the crimes of the Drachensteins and the burning of Konstanze. I had not noticed the portrait till she showed it to me; there are so many faded pictures here.’

‘She had to keep you off balance so she could steal your belongings,’ Tony said.

‘She sold even the locks from the doors. She said there was no money from my uncle, that we had to live.’

‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘Everybody has a few rotten apples on the family tree. We all have the same family tree, if you go back far enough. I have a little surprise for you that should take your mind off your troubles.’

‘I hope,’ said Blankenhagen apprehensively, ‘that you do not want any stones moved?’

‘I’m no more anxious to move stones than you are. George has already been here, so it shouldn’t be necessary.’

Mortar had been cleared from around four stones that formed a door. It yielded easily to the pressure of my hand, exposing a dark cavity in the wall. The space was almost filled by a big wooden box. Everyone rushed forwards to help me get it out onto the table. I brushed off some of the encrusted dirt and broke the corroded hasp with a twist of my hands. The front of the box fell away.

Against a Gothic tracery of carved vines and flowers sat the Virgin, her unbound hair flowing over her blue robe, her hands lightly touching the Child on her knee. Above them, cunningly supported by sections of the vine, hovered two angels, slender youths with austere young faces and lifted golden wings. One of the wings was missing.

The three kings knelt at Mary’s feet, and for a disgraceful interlude my eyes forgot the beauty of the carving and lingered greedily on the stones set in the sculptured forms. Balthasar was dressed in crimson; on his head, framed in gold, was an emerald whose depths caught the sunlight and flung it back in a thousand green reflections. Melchoir, behind him, wore a turban set with a great baroque pearl. The third king, balancing the group on the right, lifted his gift in both hands: a golden bowl, holding a globe of scarlet fire.

Irma’s eyes were as round as saucers.

‘Mine?’ she said, in a childish squeak.

‘Yep,’ I said.

She was staring at the stones, not the figures. Her open mouth was pink and pretty and wet and greedy. And then, just as I was enjoying my contempt for her, she did something that cut the ground out from under my feet.

‘No, it is yours,’ she said suddenly. ‘Three gems, for the three who saved my life. Do they measure any value compared to that?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Blankenhagen; and ‘My God, no,’ said Tony.

They could afford to be noble. Whoever married Irma – and I figured they had an equal chance, she was ready to fall into the arms of any man who asked her – got all three stones. I felt old and wise and rather sad. She was corny, but she was a good kid. I think she really meant it – for about a minute and a half.

‘Aw,’ I said, ‘shucks. Forget it, Irma.’

‘But I mean it!’

‘Sure you do. But we can’t accept anything like that.’

‘But – but what can I do with it?’ Irma asked helplessly.

‘The National museum, I think,’ said Blankenhagen. ‘It is the richest in Germany; it will offer a fair price.’

‘The Met, or some foreign museum, might offer more,’ said Tony. Irma looked at him.

‘No,’ said Blankenhagen firmly. Irma looked at him. ‘It is fitting that such a treasure should remain in Germany.’

‘Hmmm,’ I said. ‘Tell you one thing. If I were you, I’d take those jewels out and sell them separately. Nobody can afford to buy the shrine as it is; and the jewels will attract every crook on two continents. You can substitute paste copies without affecting the beauty of the workmanship; and isn’t that the important thing?’

‘Are you always right?’ asked Blankenhagen, looking at me severely. ‘You are too clever. That is a very annoying quality. How did you know the shrine was here, in this room?’

‘Oh, well,’ I said modestly; ‘that was easy. You told Irma about the arsenic, and Burckhardt’s murder? But don’t you see, that was the clue we were looking for. Many of the details will never be known; but I think I can reconstruct the outlines of the story now.

‘Konstanze was young, seventeen or eighteen, when Burckhardt married her and brought her here. Yet even then she must have been deeply involved in the witch cult; they started young, usually at puberty. It isn’t surprising that she should have learned to despise her oafish husband. Maybe she turned to Nicolas because he was available, and corrupted him. Maybe he didn’t need corrupting. A man of his ability must have hated the social system that labelled him inferior, and the ignorant clod who exemplified that system.

‘Anyhow, I’m sure the two became lovers before the Revolt broke out. Konstanze had been poisoning her husband for some time; it takes several months for arsenic to work its way through the body and show up in the hair and nails. And there were all those references to Burckhardt’s queasy stomach, remember?

‘Burckhardt’s call to arms must have pleased her. She wouldn’t have shed any tears if he had been killed in battle. Then the matter of the shrine came up, and that was a real bonus. I can see Konstanze drooling over those jewels and cursing the old count for giving them to the church.

‘At first, everything seemed to be working out for the lovers. Burckhardt practically handed the shrine over to them by sending it to Rothenburg in Nicolas’ charge. Nicolas murdered or bribed the guards and brought the shrine to the Schloss alone. He and Konstanze hid it in the tomb of the old count. Then Konstanze wrote that letter to her husband saying that the expedition had never arrived.’

‘He kept her letters,’ Tony muttered. ‘Carried them around with him, brought them here . . .’

‘He was a stupid sentimentalist,’ said Blankenhagen, looking contemptuously at Tony. ‘Stupid not to suspect such a story . . .’

‘We didn’t suspect it,’ I said wryly. ‘And he was deeply in love with her; love has a very dulling effect on the brain. There was no reason why anyone should have been suspicious. Even when we found Nicolas’ body, and the wing that had been broken off the shrine, there was no evidence to show that Konstanze knew anything about it.

‘After that night, when Nicolas appeared as the Black Man, he went into hiding. He couldn’t be seen hanging about; Konstanze meant to kill her husband, if he wasn’t killed in battle, but until he was dead she couldn’t let him get suspicious. And he wasn’t the only one who had to be deceived. The bishop was after the shrine and he was giving Konstanze a hard time. I’ll bet her reputation was already shaky. The mere fact that she read authors like Albertus Magnus and Trithemius would be enough to start nasty gossip.

‘So Burckhardt came home from the wars, hale and hearty, and delighted to see his loving wife. She didn’t waste any time. He was taken ill the day after his return.

‘On the crucial night, the night of the steward’s murder, the conspirators decided to move the shrine. We’ll never know why; Burckhardt was dying, so maybe they thought it was safe to proceed with their plans. At any rate, there they were, down in the crypt; I can see Konstanze holding the lamp and Nicolas working on the tombstone. He raised it. The shrine was lifted out, losing a wing in the process. And then . . .

‘Then they looked up and saw, in the lamplight, the face of the man they had robbed and cheated and tried to murder. God knows what aroused him, or how he got the strength to come looking for them. But he was there. He must have been there. He saw the lovers, with the shrine between them, and he knew the truth. You can’t blame him for turning berserk. The theft of the shrine was bad enough, but the knowledge that his servant and his beloved wife had cuckolded him . . . he went mad. By the time he finished Nicolas, who must have put up a fight, Konstanze was gone – with the shrine. I suppose she had someone with her, a servant maybe, who had helped with the heavy work. She could quietly bump him off at any time with her handy store of arsenic. Nobody asked questions in those days about the death of a serf.

‘After stabbing Nicolas and throwing him down at Harald’s feet, like a dead dog, Burckhardt piously closed his father’s tomb. What I can’t get out of my mind is a suspicion that Nicolas wasn’t dead when the stone was lowered. If you remember the position of the body . . . Well, enough of that. It certainly wouldn’t have worried Burckhardt. Having disposed of one traitor, he went after his wife. He would have killed her too, if it hadn’t been for the nurse, who thought he was delirious. She testified to his insane strength and mentioned that his dagger was not at his belt. But Burckhardt was half dead from arsenic poisoning. They wrestled him back into bed, and Konstanze finished him off in the next cup of gruel.

‘Maybe he had time, before he died, to whisper an accusation to a servant or priest. Maybe not; she would have watched him closely, and arsenic doesn’t leave a man particularly coherent. In any case, the bishop got suspicious. He disliked Konstanze anyhow. So she got her just deserts, by an ironic miscarriage of justice – though I think the punishment was worse than the crime.’

‘Death by arsenic poisoning is exceedingly painful,’ said Blankenhagen.

‘I know. But the count had helped torture Riemenschneider and had bashed in the skulls of a lot of miserable peasants who were only trying to get their rights . . . I guess they were all rotten.’

‘So we figured,’ Tony said sweepingly, ‘that the shrine had to be in the countess’s room. The count had the whole castle at his disposal, but she was limited to her own room.’

‘We,’ I said. ‘Yes.’

‘One more thing,’ Tony said, ignoring me. ‘I don’t think anyone else caught this. Remember Irma’s cry at the séance – das Feuer? That was the result of Schmidt’s hypnotic talents and the Gräfins gruesome stories; but what I didn’t think of until later was that Konstanze didn’t know German. She was a Spaniard, and she and Burckhardt probably communicated by means of the Latin spoken by the noble classes in those days. So if she had given a last frantic scream, as she may well have done, it would have been in Latin or Spanish. In other words – no ghost.’

‘Obviously,’ I said.

‘Sooo clever,’ murmured Irma.

‘That’s about it,’ I said briskly. ‘No more questions?’

‘Only my heart’s gratitude,’ said Irma mistily. ‘Now I go to see that we have a celebration dinner. I cook it with my own hands, and we dine together, yes? And a bottle of Sekt.’

‘Sekt,’ I said glumly. Sekt is German champagne. It is terrible stuff.

Irma departed, to cook her way into somebody’s heart. I wondered whose heart she was aiming for.

I looked from one man to the other. Neither of them moved.

‘Well,’ I said.

‘I want to talk to you,’ said Tony to me, glaring at Blankenhagen.

‘And so do I,’ said the doctor, staying put.

‘Go ahead,’ I said.

‘If we could have some privacy . . .’ said Tony, still glaring.

‘I do not mind speaking in your presence,’ said Blankenhagen. ‘I have nothing to hide.’

Tony said several things, all of them rude. Blankenhagen continued to sit.

‘Oh, hell,’ said Tony. ‘Why should I care? All right, Vicky, the game is over. It wasn’t as much fun as we expected, but it had its moments. So – speaking quite impartially, and without bias – who won?’

‘Me,’ I said. ‘Oh, all right, Tony, I’m kidding. Speaking quite impartially, I’d say we came out about even. It was partly a matter of luck. You would have fingered George sooner or later – if he hadn’t fingered us first. I solved the murder of Burckhardt, but primarily because I was the one who found the arsenic. Shall we call it a tie?’

‘That’s all I ever wanted to prove,’ said Tony smugly.

‘You’re a damned liar,’ I said, stung to the quick. ‘You were trying to prove your superiority to me. And you did not. I didn’t need you at all. I could have figured out the whole thing – ’

‘Oh, you cheating little crook,’ said Tony. ‘You said you would marry me if I could prove you weren’t my intellectual superior. I proved it. I didn’t need you, either. I could have handled this business much better if you hadn’t been around getting in my way and falling over your own feet – ’

‘Liar, liar,’ I yelled. ‘I never said any such thing! And even if I did, you haven’t – ’ I stopped. My mouth dropped open. ‘I thought you wanted to marry Irma,’ I said in a small voice.

‘Irma is a nice girl,’ said Tony. ‘And I admit there were moments when the thought of a soft, docile, female-type woman was attractive. But now she’s rich . . . Let Blankenhagen marry Irma.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Blankenhagen, who had been an interested spectator. He looked severely at Tony. ‘You use the wrong tactics, my friend. You do not know this woman. You do not know how to handle any woman. Under her competence, her intelligence, this woman wishes to be mastered. It requires an extraordinary man to do this, I admit. But – ’

‘Really?’ said Tony. ‘You think if I – ’

‘Not you,’ said Blankenhagen. ‘I. I will marry this woman. She needs me to master her.’

‘You!’ Tony leaped out of his chair. ‘So help me, if you weren’t crippled, I’d – ’

‘You,’ said Blankenhagen, sneering, ‘and who else?’

‘You can’t marry her.’ Tony added, unforgivably, ‘You’re shorter than she is.’

‘What does that matter?’

‘Right,’ I said, interested. ‘That’s irrelevant. I can always go around barefoot.’

‘Shut up,’ said Tony to me. To Blankenhagen he said, ‘She doesn’t know you. You could be a crook. You could be a bigamist!’

‘But I am not.’

‘How do I know you’re not?’

‘My life is open to all.’ Blankenhagen had kept his composure which put him one up on Tony. Turning a dispassionate eye on me, he remarked, ‘You are somewhat concerned, after all. Perhaps we should hear your views.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I don’t feel that I ought to interfere . . .’

‘Well,’ Tony said grudgingly. ‘I guess you are entitled to an opinion.’

He was flushed and bright-eyed, and he looked awfully cute with his hair tumbling down over the romantic bandages on his undamaged brow. In the heat of argument, or for other reasons, he had risen to his feet. Blankenhagen calmly remained seated, but he was right about his height. That was unimportant.

If it didn’t bother him, why should it bother me?

I sighed. Turning to Tony, I said, ‘Have you had a chance to read the answers to your cables yet?’

‘My God, how can you ask at a time like – ’

‘Do you know who Schmidt really is?’

Tony sat down with a thud.

‘You’re going to marry Schmidt?’

‘Schmidt,’ I said, ‘is the top historian at the National museum. I had a long talk with him this afternoon.’

‘Anton Zachariah Schmidt?’ Tony gasped. ‘That Schmidt?’

‘That Schmidt. One of the foremost historians in the world. At the moment he is a sad and sorry Schmidt . . .’

‘He should be,’ said Blankenhagen, unimpressed. ‘Such disgraceful behaviour for a grown man and a scholar.’

‘He’s a nut,’ I said. ‘What’s wrong with that? Why, the nuts found the New World and discovered the walls of windy Troy! Where would we be without the nuts? Schmidt has dabbled in parlour magic and spiritualism since he was a kid. He’s in good company. Businessmen and politicians consult astrologers; many scientists have been suckers for spiritualism. When he got on the trail of the shrine, Schmidt went a little haywire. It was his dream come true – sneaking around the halls of an ancient castle, finding a treasure, and presenting it to his precious museum. When Tony and I arrived, he had horrible visions of rich Americans stealing his prize – it had become “his” by then.’

‘Even so,’ said Blankenhagen coldly. ‘Even so . . .’

‘You’re a fine one to talk. You’re a secret nut yourself. If you were as sensible as you think you are, when I came around in the middle of the night babbling of arsenic you’d have sent me away and gone back to bed. You would have gone for the police when the knife missed Tony, instead of chasing George into the tunnel.’

‘Umph,’ said Blankenhagen, turning red.

‘Schmidt didn’t mean any harm,’ I said. ‘He’s a sweet little man. I always liked him.’

Blankenhagen’s face got even redder.

‘You are going to marry Schmidt!’

‘I’m not going to marry anybody,’ I said. ‘I’m going to take the job Herr Schmidt has offered me, at the Museum, and write a book about Riemenschneider, and also a best-selling historical novel based on the Drachenstein story. Maybe I’ll call it “The Drachenstein Story.” The plot has everything – murder, witchcraft, blood, adultery . . . I’ll make a fortune. Of course I’ll publish it under a pseudonym so the scholarly reputation I intend to build in the next five years won’t be impaired. Then – ’

‘You aren’t going to marry anyone?’ Tony asked, having found his voice at last.

‘Why do I have to marry anyone?’ I asked reasonably. ‘It’s only in simple-minded novels that the heroine has to get married. I’m not even the heroine. You told me that once. Irma is the heroine. Go marry her.’

‘I don’t want to,’ Tony said sulkily.

‘Then don’t. But stop hassling me.’ I smiled impartially at both of them. ‘You’re very sweet,’ I said kindly. ‘The trouble is, neither of you has the faintest idea of how to handle women – not women like me, anyhow. But you’re both young, and fairly bright; you can learn . . . Who knows, I might decide to get married some day. I’ll be around; if, in the meantime, you feel like – ’

Blankenhagen’s expression changed ominously, and I said, with dignity.

‘If you feel like taking a girl out now and then, I am open to persuasion.’

I smiled guilessly at him.

After a long moment he smiled back.

‘Also,’ he said coolly. ‘I will be here. I will continue to be here. I do not give up easily.’

There was a knock at the door, followed by the voice of one of the maids telling us dinner was ready. I started for the door.

Tony got there ahead of me.

‘It wouldn’t help Schmidt’s reputation if this affair were made public,’ he said meditatively. ‘I don’t suppose you intimated – ’

‘Why, Tony,’ I said, with virtuous indignation. ‘That would be blackmail! Would I resort to such a low trick?’

‘Of course not. Schmidt offered you a job because of your brilliance. I’m brilliant too,’ said Tony. ‘I imagine Herr Schmidt could find another job at the Museum, if I asked him nicely . . .’

Blankenhagen stood up.

‘You talk to me of rascals!’ he exclaimed. ‘You are an unprincipled dishonest – ’

I left the two of them jostling each other in the doorway and went humming down the corridor. The next five years were going to be fun.