Borrower of the Night

Chapter Five

I HAD FORGOTTEN about Irma. She attracted my attention by dropping the tray she was holding. It made a splendid crash. We swung around, as one man – to use a male chauvinlst formula – and when I saw the girl’s face, I leaped out of my chair. I thought she was going to faint. All my half-formed suspicions about the relationship between aunt and niece came into focus, and without stopping to think I said rudely, ‘If you’re talking about Konstanze, she hasn’t returned, and she isn’t about to. The dead don’t come back. Anyone who believes that rot is weak in the head.’

Miss Burton’s nostrils flared. ‘You said you believed!’

‘I said I was interested. I am willing to admit the possibility of contacting those who have passed beyond . . .’ That was an exaggeration, but I didn’t want to be excluded from the séance ‘. . . but ghosts, clanking chains in the halls? Ha, ha, ha.’

My laugh was a bit artificial, but it affected Irma as I hoped it would. A faint touch of colour came back to her cheeks, and for the first time since I’d met her she looked at me with something less than active dislike. I didn’t blame the girl for resenting me; to her, I represented the freedom and independence she conspicuously lacked. I didn’t resent her, even if she did have all the physical qualities I lacked. I felt sorry for her, and whether she cared for me or not, I wasn’t going to stand around and let the two witches bully her. Not with that kind of half-baked stupidity, anyhow.

Tony had also been studying Irma with concern. He chimed in. ‘I agree. I’m willing to go along with your theories up to a point, ladies, but let’s not get distracted by fairy tales.’

‘Do you call Konstanze’s portrait a fairy tale?’ The Gräfin had stopped grinning. She wasn’t used to back talk from inferiors, and it angered her.

‘These chance resemblances are fascinating, genetically,’ Tony said smoothly. ‘I remember once seeing a row of portraits in a French château. Two of the faces might have belonged to identical twins. But one man wore medieval armour, and the other the uniform of Napoleon’s Guards.’

Irma had forgotten my kindly intervention. She was staring at Tony the way what’s-her-name must have looked at Saint George, when he killed the dragon. Tony’s chest expanded to twice its normal size. He was so busy exchanging amorous glances with Irma he didn’t notice the Gräfin; but I did, and an unpremeditated shiver ran down my back.

‘How fascinating,’ she said, through clenched teeth. ‘You are indeed a confirmed sceptic, Professor Lawrence. Some day you might like to visit our crypt. I think you will find it interesting, in spite of your rational explanations.’

‘Oh, there is a crypt?’ For a moment Tony forgot to leer at Irma. This was his opening.

‘Yes, there is a crypt. Ask me for the keys whenever you like. I do not allow casual guests to go there, but in your case . . .’

‘Perhaps I may also take advantage of your generosity, Gräfin,’ I said. ‘Is there a library in the Schloss? I am something of an expert on old books and manuscripts. If you have never had the library examined by someone who knows books you may discover there are objects of value that could be sold.’

‘How kind you are.’ The old bat gave me one of those smiles that make nervous people want to hide under the nearest piece of furniture. ‘I fear we have already disposed of most of our treasures. But of course you are welcome to look. Let me give you the keys now.’

I accepted the keys, and with them my congé, as Emily Post might say. The exodus was a mass affair; the tea party had not been a social success. It was primarily my fault, and I was delighted to take the responsibility. But I wasn’t sure the good guys had come out ahead.

At least we had the keys to the library. I tossed them, jingling, as we went down the stairs. George patted me on the back.

‘Nice work, Vicky. But you’re wasting your time.’

‘Hush your mouth,’ said Tony, with some vague idea that he was speaking a kind of code. Schmidt, who was ahead of me, turned to give us a bewildered look.

‘You will inspect the library?’ he asked.

‘Yes. Why not?’

‘Oh, of course, of course. I only meant to ask – I too am an antiquarian. An amateur, of course!’

‘Of course,’ I said. We had reached the corridor leading to our rooms, and I gave the little man a very hard stare. He beamed ingratiatingly.

‘It would be a privilege to assist you,’ he said.

‘She has an assistant,’ Tony said. ‘Me.’

‘Then as a favour to an old man?’

I didn’t see how I could refuse without giving the whole business an aura of secrecy, which was the last thing I wanted. In the unlikely event that I found a useful clue, I believed myself capable of distracting Schmidt’s attention from it.

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘The more the merrier. How about you, George?’

‘No, thanks. It’s not in the library. I’ve already looked.’

He ought to have been on the stage. He didn’t even look back as he walked off down the corridor, humming softly to himself.

‘It?’ said Schmidt, with a frown.

‘Crazy American,’ said Tony wildly. ‘You know how they are.’

‘If he doesn’t,’ I said, sighing, ‘he’s finding out now. Come on. Where is the blasted library, anyhow?’

It was on the same floor as the Great Hall, off a corridor to the south. When the door swung open, I couldn’t hold back a groan. The room had once been handsome. The fireplace was of marble, with stiff Gothic figures of saints supporting the mantel; there wasn’t a nose or chin left among the holy crew, and the stone was pitted, as if by acid. Tapestries covered the walls, but they were cobwebby masses of decay; behind them, small things scuttled and squeaked, disturbed by our entry. The bookshelves sagged; the books were crumbling piles of leather and paper.

At some time, the library had been stripped of most of its contents. The remaining volumes were either valueless or decayed beyond hope of repair.

Then, by the dust-coated windows, I saw something that looked more interesting. It was a tall cupboard, or Schrank, black with age, but still sound. It was locked. I tried the keys the countess had given me, and found one that worked.

The Schrank contained several books, a metal box, and a roll of parchments. I took the last object first and carried it to a table. Tony and Schmidt looked on as I unrolled it.

The parchments were all plans of the castle and its grounds. They were very old.

I let the sheets roll themselves up again, and twisted them out of Tony’s clutching hand.

‘Naughty, naughty,’ I said gaily. ‘We don’t care about these old things, do we? Nothing valuable here. Let’s see what else there is.’

The books were three in number – heavy volumes, bound in leather, with metal clasps and studs. I wondered why they had not been sold with the other valuables, for they could be considered rare books. When I tried to open one, I understood. Hardly a page remained legible. Water, mildew, worms and rats had all taken their toll.

‘Amazing,’ said Tony, breathing heavily over my shoulder.

‘Rather peculiar volumes to find here,’ I agreed, picking up the next book. It was in equally poor condition.

‘What is it?’ Schmidt asked.

‘You might call them books of philosophical speculation. In their day, they verged on the heretical. I’m surprised to find them here because the Counts of Drachenstein don’t strike me as intellectuals. This is Trithemius; this one is Albert of Cologne, better known as Albertus Magnus – ’

‘The great magician!’ Schmidt exclaimed. ‘Fascinating! May I please – ’

I handed him the book. He glanced at it, and shook his head.

‘I cannot make it out. You two perhaps understand?’

‘I read medieval Latin,’ Tony said. Schmidt let him have the volume, and he opened it.

I was too distracted to indulge in my usual bragging. Of course I read Latin, classical and medieval, as well as most of the European languages. I had a feeling Schmidt did, too. Whatever his other talents, he had no gift for dissimulation. In other words, he was a lousy liar. When he said he couldn’t read the book, his eyes shifted and he changed colour, the way Matthew Finch did back in fifth grade when he was trying to psych the teacher.

I left Tony deep in the heresies of Trithemius, and turned to the object that interested me most. If papers could survive for four centuries, it would be in just such a metal box.

The box was locked, but the key proved to be on the countess’s ring. I tackled lock and top cautiously; air, admitted to a formerly sealed container, can be destructive to items within. But it was clear that this box had been opened in the recent past The lock had been oiled, and the lid lifted easily.

After a minute I turned to Schmidt, who was hovering.

‘Nothing much,’ I said, as casually as I was able. ‘A couple of old diaries and some account lists.’

Tony’s head came up. His nose was quivering.

‘I’ll have a close look at them some other time,’ I said, before he could speak. ‘Must be almost time for dinner. Shall we?’

I hated to put that box back in the Schrank. I didn’t trust Schmidt as far as I could throw him. Not nearly as far – I could have thrown him quite a distance. His shifty looks and inconsistent behaviour were not proof of guilt; but whether he was witting or ignorant, my safest attitude was one of indifference to anything I found. I felt sure the metal box had once contained the letters which had been reprinted in The Peasants’ Revolt. Therefore someone had already searched its contents. And the box was as safe in the Schrank, under lock and key, as it was anywhere.

Having reached that conclusion, I was able to meet George’s smiling curiosity at dinner with relative calm. We fenced through the meal, with innuendoes falling thick and fast, and Tony glaring, and Blankenhagen watching all three of us as if he suspected our sanity. We had reached the coffee stage when Irma came to the table. As soon as I looked at her, I knew something was up.

‘My aunt asks that you spend an hour with her this evening,’ she said, addressing Tony.

‘This evening? Sure . . . Is there any particular . . . I mean, why does she . . . ?’

The girl’s face got even paler.

‘I cannot say, Herr Professor. It is not for me . . . She asks the others to come also. Fräulein, Herr Nolan, and you, Herr Doktor Blankenhagen.’

Blankenhagen was watching her curiously.

‘The Gräfin has not honoured me before,’ he said. ‘I think this is not a social occasion. I will come; but I too ask you, why?’

The repetition of the question was too much for Irma. She shook her head speechlessly and turned away.

‘I think I know why,’ I said coyly, as Blankenhagen, still on his feet, stared after her slim form.

‘So do I,’ said Tony, with a dismal groan.

We were correct in our assumption; but I was surprised when Irma led us to one of the guest rooms instead of the Gräfin’s eyrie in the tower. The room was the one occupied by Schmidt. He stood modestly to one side while Miss Burton bustled about, arranging the setting for a séance. A heavy round table had been pulled out into the centre of the room and a pack of alphabet cards was arranged in a circle on its top. In the centre of the circle, looking as menacing and squatty as a toad, was a planchette.

The Gräfin was seated in a high carved chair. Hands folded in her lap, face and hair lacquered into mask-hardness, she had the air of a high priestess waiting for a ceremony. Seeing our surprise, she condescended to explain.

‘Herr Schmidt kindly allows us to use his room. It has a particularly interesting aura.’

If Schmidt had any misgivings about the proceedings, he didn’t show them; beaming, bobbing up and down on his toes, rubbing his hands together, he seemed quite pleased about the whole thing. It was the first time I had seen his room, and as I studied it I could understand why it might be appropriate for a séance. It was by far the largest of the guest rooms, and was the only one still furnished with antiques. The walls retained their panelling – dark, worm-eaten wood, atmospheric as all get out. The windows were heavily draped.

I caught Tony’s eye, and knew what he was thinking as surely as if he had spoken aloud. Was this the master bedchamber, the room once occupied by Count Burckhardt himself? Some of the furniture might have belonged to him – the great canopied bed with its carved dragon posts, for instance.

George cleared his throat.

‘Ladies, I want to warn you that I’m not a believer.’

‘So long as your attitude is not positively hostile . . .’ said Miss Burton.

‘No.’ George looked sober. ‘I’ve seen a few things in my travels . . . Well, what about it, Doctor?’

Blankenhagen’s face was a sight for sceptics. If he had been able to voice his real feelings, they would have come out in a howl of outraged rationalism. But something made him strangle his protests, and when I saw Irma, standing white-faced in a corner, I thought I knew what the something was.

‘I remain,’ said Blankenhagen, after a moment.

We took our places at the table. I sat between George and Tony. The two Germans flanked Irma.

‘Miss Burton prefers to sit to one side, in order to take notes,’ said the Gräfin, as Tony, always the little gent, glanced inquiringly at that lady before seating himself.

‘And you?’

‘I never participate,’ said the Gräfin, with an unpleasant smile.

Miss Burton extinguished the lamps, leaving only a single candle at the end of the table.

‘Now,’ she said, ‘put only the tips of your fingers upon the edges of the planchette. You all understand the procedure? If we are able to make contact, the discarnate will spell out its answers to our questions, using the alphabet cards. Do not resist the movement of the planchette. And let me ask the questions.’

She sat down behind Tony, holding a pencil and a pad of paper. His shadow hid all of her except her hands. They looked like the claws of a scavenger bird as they clutched the writing implements with feverish intensity. I wondered what sick desire had driven Miss Burton to spiritualism. The best psychic investigators approach the subject in a spirit of genuine inquiry and endeavour to maintain scientific controls. Not Miss Burton; the bony, clawlike hands betrayed her. The room had an ‘aura,’ all right – not the psychic residue of past centuries, but the projected emotions of the living. The flickering candlelight left people’s bodies in darkness, casting ugly shadows on faces that seemed to hover disembodied in air.

The room grew very silent. A rustle of the draperies, at a sudden breath of wind, made us all jump. Gradually the stillness spread again. I found myself staring dreamily at the bright shape of the candle flame. It took some effort to wrench my eyes away; the whole business was a perfect example of hypnotic technique, and it was damnably effective. The silence was not the absence of sound; it was a positive force that seemed to grow and strengthen. Silence, concentration, and a single point of moving light in darkness . . . Yes, very effective. It was hard to keep my mind critical and controlled.

A prickle ran down my back. The planchette had moved.

I lifted my hands until my fingertips barely brushed the planchette. So far as I could determine, the others had done the same. I could have sworn no one in the circle was exerting enough pressure on the planchette to move it.

It moved again. Rocking unsteadily, it shifted towards the side of the circle.

Miss Burton’s voice was hoarse with excitement.

‘Is there a spirit present?’

At opposite sides of the circle of alphabet cards were two cards bearing the words ‘yes’ and ‘no.’ The planchette sidled across the table and nudged the ‘yes’ card.

Someone gave a little gasp.

‘Quiet!’ hissed Miss Burton. ‘Do you wish to communicate with someone here?’

The planchette edged coyly away, and then, with a swoop, again pushed the ‘yes’ card.

‘What is your name?’

The diabolical little wooden triangle teetered out into the centre of the table. It hesitated. Then it moved purposefully around the alphabet cards.

‘K-O-N––’

My elbows ached. I watched the animated chunk of wood with horrid fascination as it bobbed and dipped around the ‘N’ card, scraping back and forth in painful little jerks. I realized that I was mentally describing its actions with words I would have used for a living creature. It seemed to be alive, to be directed by a guiding intelligence.

After an uncanny suggestion of struggle, the planchette slid slowly towards the ‘no’ card. ‘No’ – then ‘no’ again – then it gave a violent heave – upwards, against six sets of fingertips. It fell over and lay still. I felt as if something had died.

‘What the hell,’ George began.

‘Hush,’ said Miss Burton solemnly. ‘There is conflict – a hostile entity . . .’

The candle needed trimming. The room was noticeably darker. The other faces were dim white blurs. I rubbed my elbows, and wondered how much practise it would take to manipulate a planchette unobtrusively. It could be done. It had been done, in thousands of fake séances. Maybe it didn’t require practise. I mused, ignorantly, on the eccentricities of the subconscious.

‘This is a very strange thing,’ Schmidt began, and then gasped. ‘Look – the young countess!’

Irma had fallen back in her chair, arms dangling at her sides. I could hear her breathing in low, deep sighs. It was a horrible sound.

Blankenhagen got to his feet.

‘Don’t touch her!’ Miss Burton’s voice stopped the doctor as he reached for Irma’s wrist. ‘She is in trance. If you try to waken her, it could be disastrous. Let me handle this. Irma – can you hear me?’

There was no answer. The doctor looked from Miss Burton to the unconscious girl. Miss Burton took a deep breath and said distinctly, ‘Who are you?’

For a few seconds there was only silence. Then, from the sleeping girl’s mouth, came a voice speaking a strange garble of words. It sounded like German, but it was a form of the language I had never heard. Or . . . had I? It sounded vaguely familiar.

Then, for the first time, my hair literally bristled. I had heard the language before, when a visiting professor of Germanic literature read some of the Meistergesang of the sixteenth century in their original form. Irma was speaking Frühneuhochdeutsch – the earliest form of modern German, the language used by Martin Luther and his contemporaries.

Miss Burton scribbled like a maniac, taking the speech down in phonetic symbols. Her cold-blooded competence was repulsive.

The voice – I couldn’t think of it as Irma’s – stopped.

‘Why have you come?’ Miss Burton asked. This time, prepared, I caught some of the answer. I didn’t like what I heard. Tony understood, too; his breath caught angrily, and he pushed his chair back.

‘This has gone far enough,’ he began, and was cut short by the scream that ripped from Irma’s throat. The next words were horribly clear.

‘Das Feuer! Das Feuer!’ She shrieked, and slid sideways out of her chair.

Blankenhagen caught her before she hit the floor.

That broke up the séance. Miss Burton moved about lighting candles. Her eyes glittered. Blankenhagen knelt by Irma, and the rest of us huddled in a group near the door.

‘What did it mean?’ George hissed. ‘That last word?’

‘Fire,’ said Tony uneasily. ‘Fire.’

‘What fire?’ George demanded. ‘Is she trying to tell us the Schloss is going to burn?’

‘How should I know?’

Miss Burton came back to the table.

‘Did anyone recognize the language?’ she asked briskly.

I gave her a hostile, unbelieving stare, which didn’t disturb her in the slightest, and turned to Blankenhagen.

‘How is Irma?’

‘She recovers,’ the doctor said shortly.

‘She will feel no ill effects, except for great weariness,’ Miss Burton said complacently. ‘I have seen deep trance before. My dear Elfrida, how fortunate. You told me the girl was susceptible, but I had no idea!’

The countess hadn’t moved from her chair. She didn’t look at Irma.

‘Now, the language,’ Miss Burton went on. ‘A form of German, I believe. Professor Lawrence?’

‘Not now!’ Tony said angrily.

‘Professor Schmidt? Really, this is too important – ’

Schmidt was too shaken to argue. I felt a touch of sympathy for the little guy when I saw his twitching face; he was like a man who goes out hunting for a lost pussycat, and meets a tiger. With a despairing shrug he took the paper Miss Burton thrust at him.

‘Yes, yes,’ he muttered. ‘It is the early form of modern High German. “I am the Gräfin Konstanze von Drachenstein; from the sunny land of Spain I came, to die in this place of cold winters and colder hearts.”’

‘Lousy prose,’ George said critically.

Schmidt hurried on.

‘Then, it is something like this: “There is danger everywhere. I cannot rest. I cannot sleep, here in the cold of eternity. Let me see the sun again, let me feel warmth, breathe the air. Give me life. She has so much; let her share life and breath with me. Let me have – ”’

The sobbing cry might have been the ghost’s own addition to Schmidt’s translation. It was Irma’s voice, though. Supported by Blankenhagen, she had raised herself to a sitting position. As we turned, guilty and surprised, she slumped back with closed eyes.

‘Idiot,’ said the doctor furiously. ‘It is criminal, what you do! To put such insane ideas into the girl’s mind – ’

‘It is you who are insane, to deny the evidence of your own senses!’ Miss Burton was as angry as Blankenhagen. Two febrile spots of colour burned on her sallow cheeks. ‘You heard her; you must know it was not Irma who said those words. Possession by the spirits of the dead is a well-documented fact; only a bigoted scientist would deny – ’

‘Herr Gott in Himmel,’ bellowed Blankenhagen. ‘Will no one stop that cursed woman’s mouth?’

He surged to his feet, lifting Irma as if she were a child. Miss Burton’s colour faded; she fell back a step as the irate doctor advanced on her. I decided it was time to intervene.

‘I’ll stop it,’ I said. ‘If she says another word, I’ll gag her. Come on, Doctor. You’d better get Irma out of here.’

Miss Burton gave me a long, measuring look, and decided I was not only willing to carry out my threat, but capable of enforcing it. The Gräfin smiled like Andersen’s Snow Queen. George was smiling too, but he looked rather thoughtful. Tony didn’t say a word; he just moved up behind me and put a steadying hand on my shoulder. Of the whole group, the one who was most upset was little Herr Schmidt. His face was puckered like that of a baby about to cry.

‘Furchtbar,’ he muttered. ‘I am ashamed; I did not know she heard. I did not realize – ’

George gave him a slap on the back.

‘Don’t kick yourself, Schmidt. It wasn’t your fault. Well, ladies, I guess it’s time to break up the party. Thanks for an interesting evening. Not much fun, but interesting.’

The light touch was inappropriate. Blankenhagen bared his teeth at George and stamped towards the door. I started to follow, since it was clear that the Gräfin didn’t intend to go with her stricken niece, but Tony’s hand held me back.

‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘Gräfin, you once said I might explore any part of the Schloss. I want the keys to the crypt, please.’

‘The crypt?’ The Gräfin laughed musically. ‘You are thinking of going there now? I admire your courage, mein Herr, it is an uncanny spot by night, even for a sceptic. But if you are determined, come to my room and I will give you the keys.’

I caught up with Blankenhagen in the hall.

‘I’ll show you where Irma’s room is,’ I said. ‘You may need some help.’

His rocky face relaxed a little.

‘You are good,’ he said formally.

The only thing he needed me for was to undress Irma and put her to bed. I wondered at his modesty; a doctor shouldn’t be embarrassed about female bodies, even bodies as gorgeous as Irma’s. Then it occurred to me that maybe he was thinking of her as something other than a patient.

The girl didn’t stir as I wrestled her into one of her hideous nightgowns and tucked her in. She was a little thing; it wasn’t hard for me to handle her. But I didn’t like the flaccidity of her muscles, or the depth of her trance. As soon as I had her in bed, Blankenhagen took over. After a few minutes she began to mutter and stir.

In the silence I heard footsteps outside – Tony and the old witch, going after the keys. The footsteps didn’t stop, they went on up the stairs. The cold-blooded female hadn’t even looked in.

I moved closer to the bed and took Irma’s hand, which was groping desperately, as if in search of something. Blankenhagen gave me a faint smile of approval. I felt absurdly complimented. The smile made him look almost handsome.

Finally Irma’s eyes opened, and I gave a sigh of relief. Blankenhagen leaned over her, murmuring in German – repeated reassurances, comforting and semi-hypnotic. The technique seemed to work; her face remained calm. Then she turned her head and saw me.

‘It is the Fräulein Doktor, come to sit with you,’ said Blankenhagen quietly. ‘She will stay – all night, if you wish . . . ?’

The question was meant for me as well as for Irma. I answered with a prompt affirmative, and patted the kid’s hand.

Gently but decisively it was withdrawn.

‘Thank you. You are good. But I would like my aunt.’

‘But – ’ the doctor began.

‘My aunt! I must have her, she alone can help me . . . Herr Doktor, please!’

Her voice rose. I recognized the sign of incipient hysteria as well as Blankenhagen did. Our eyes met, and he shrugged.

‘Yes, of course you shall have her. I will fetch her.’

Irma’s eyes closed.

‘I’ll get the Gräfin,’ I said in a low voice. ‘You’d better stay here. If Irma changes her mind I’ll come, any time.’

‘Sehr gut.’ He got up from his chair with an anxious glance at the girl, who lay unmoving. He opened the door for me, and as I was about to go out he moved with a quick grace I hadn’t expected in such a stocky, solid man. He kissed my hand.

‘You are a good woman,’ said Blankenhagen, in a burst of Germanic sentimentality. ‘I thank you for your help . . . I apologize for what I thought . . .’

I didn’t know what he had been thinking about me, and I didn’t particularly want to know. He was still holding my hand – his hands were big and warm and hard – when Tony appeared on the stairs that led to the next floor. He stopped, with a corny theatrical start, when he saw us. Blankenhagen released my hand, and Tony came on down slowly, his eyes fixed on me.

‘Got the keys?’ I inquired.

‘Huh? Yeah. How’s Irma?’

‘Not good. She wants Auntie. God knows why.’

Auntie chose that moment to make her appearance. I think she heard me. She gave me a mocking, ice-blue stare, and spoke to Blankenhagen.

‘I will stay with my niece tonight. Thank you, Doctor.’

‘But I – ’

‘I will call you if there is need. But I think you may sleep undisturbed. I know how to deal with this. It has happened before.’

The door closed on our staring faces, but not before we had seen Irma’s face turn towards the old woman, and heard her breathless greeting.

Blankenhagen made a movement towards the closed door, but I grabbed his arm.

‘Better not,’ I said. ‘She’ll throw you out of the hotel if you interfere. She has the right.’

‘And I have none,’ Blankenhagen muttered.

‘No,’ Tony agreed. He glanced at me. The glance was friendly; he had concluded that the doctor was falling for Irma and was therefore safe from my predatory clutches. ‘Better go to bed. See you all in the morning.’

I observed the awkward angle of the arm Tony was hiding behind his back, and I remembered why I had come to Rothenburg. I had not come to rescue oppressed damsels. Let the boys take care of that.

‘Go to bed, while you explore the crypt?’ I demanded. ‘You’ve got the keys behind your back right now. I’m coming with you.’

‘The crypt?’ Blankenhagen repeated. ‘Why in the devil’s name do you want to go there?’

‘Why not?’ I said flippantly. ‘Maybe we’ll meet Konstanze. That’s where she – er – lives, isn’t it?’

‘I should not go with you,’ Blankenhagen muttered. ‘If I am needed – ’

‘You weren’t invited to come,’ Tony said indignantly.

‘I invited myself,’ said the doctor, with an unexpected gleam of sardonic humour. ‘I do not know what you are doing, but if I were in your shoes, I would not mind a companion. There are forces abroad in this place which are not good, though they are not supernatural. For safety it is best to travel in groups.’

‘I agree,’ I said, before Tony could object. ‘The countess won’t call you, Doctor; she made that pretty clear.’

Blankenhagen nodded.

‘Come, then. I understand none of this; but some of it I must understand if I am to help that girl. She has need of help, I think.’

We went down the stairs, through the Hall, and out into the night-shrouded court. There was enough moonlight to let us see the arched door of the chapel in the north wing. Tony’s first key fitted the lock.

The interior was a blaze of tarnished gilt in the rays of Tony’s flashlight. I blinked, and mentally discarded one possible hiding place. The chapel had been redecorated in the baroque period; twisted marble columns, sunbursts of gold plaster, and stucco cherubs by the cartload filled the long, narrow room. The remodellers would have found any treasure here.

‘The entrance to the crypt should be near the altar,’ I said.

Blankenhagen hesitated.

‘I am wondering – should we not wait until daylight?’

‘You aren’t scared, are you?’ Tony grinned weakly.

‘The dead are dead,’ said Blankenhagen.

In broad daylight it might have sounded sententious. In the baroque gloom, with the memory of the séance fresh in our minds, it had the ring of a credo.

‘Thanks for reminding me,’ said Tony. ‘This way.’

The entrance was behind the altar. It was barred by a grilled iron gate, which yielded to Tony’s second key. He turned the flashlight down into the black pit of the stairs, and he wasn’t the only one who hesitated just a bit before starting to descend.

The crypt extended the full length of the chapel. Rough square stone pillars supported the vaulted roof. There was none of the dampness I had expected, but the air had a musty smell that struck at the nostrils, and the imagination.

Across the floor, row on row, lay the tombstones of the Drachensteins. Those nearest the stair were simple marble or bronze slabs, with a name and a date: Graf Conrad von u. zu Drachenstein, 1804–1888; Gräfin Elisabeth, seine Frau, 1812–1884.

‘That must be Irma’s father,’ said Tony, pointing to a bronze plaque bearing the dates 1886–1952. ‘He was succeeded by his younger brother.’

‘They are a long-lived family,’ said Blankenhagen thoughtfully.

We moved forward.

Graf Wolfgang. Gräfin Berthe. 1756–1814. 1705–1770.

As we approached the far end of the crypt, the simple stones were replaced by more elaborate ones. Tony flashed his light on a sculptured form clad in armour, with hands clasped on its breast and the remains of a four-footed beast under its feet.

‘The first of the effigies,’ he said in a low voice. ‘We’re getting there.’

Against the wall we found the sixteenth-century markers.

Graf Harald von und zu Drachenstein, Burckhardt’s father, looked in grey marble much as he might have looked in life. His face, framed in stiff stone ringlets, was stern and dignified. The hardness of stone suited his harsh features. His left hand rested on his sword, and his right held the banner of his house, with its crest of a dragon on a stone. Beside him lay his countess, her face set in a pious simper, her hands palm to palm under her chin. The ample folds of her best court gown were frozen for all eternity.

Tony moved to the next monument. Upon it also lay a knight in armour, encircled by a long epitaph in twisted Gothic script. It had been carelessly carved. The letters were not deeply incised. But there was no traffic or weather here to wear them down. Tony translated the essential data.

‘Graf Burckhardt von und zu Drachenstein. Geboren fourteen ninety-five. Tot fifteen twenty-five.’

‘Thirty years old,’ I said.

There was an empty space next to Count Burckhardt, presumably because the old family had died out with him. The stones of the cadet line began beyond the next pillar.

Tony returned to Burckhardt’s effigy and waved his flashlight wildly about.

‘What is it?’ Blankenhagen asked. ‘What do you search for?’

‘Don’t you see? All the counts have their wives laid out beside them – in rows, when they wore them out too fast. There’s room for her there by his side. Where is the Countess Konstanze?’