Borrower of the Night

Chapter Seven

A RATIONALIST IS AT a disadvantage when events are irrational. One of the count’s contemporaries would have howled with terror and bolted. Tony wasted several vital seconds trying to tell himself that what he saw wasn’t really happening.

I could see the armour quite clearly in the moonlight. It was armed cap-à-pie, and the metal plates clanked musically with each stiff stride. The visor was closed. I saw the right arm go up; the fan-shaped piece of steel at the elbow spread like a peacock’s tail. The mailed hand held a long dagger.

At long last, Tony moved. He moved backwards, and I didn’t blame him a bit. Unfortunately, his retreat took him into the hidden area under the stairs; and when the armour followed him I couldn’t see either of them. I heard a clank, and a howl from Tony, and deduced, through a haze of horror and disbelief, that the idiot had swung at the armour, which was a damned silly thing to do . . .

The whole episode didn’t take very long. Even so, my paralysis was inexcusable, and what I did next was even worse. Instead of rushing down the stairs to Tony’s rescue, I ran the other way.

I could claim I was going for help; and, in fact, some vaguely sensible instinct led me to the doctor’s door. I banged on the door with both fists and yelled. The door was locked, or I would have rushed in. Finally Blankenhagen answered me. I shouted something – it was incoherent, but forceful. Then I got a grip on myself. I turned and ran back.

I had a flashlight, which I had completely forgotten in all the hullaballoo. By its light I located Tony. He was flat on his back on the floor under the stairs – his eyes closed, his face white, and blood all over his shirt.

Maybe I’m not the type for a heroine, but then I behaved like the worst stereotype of the feeble female. I flopped down on the floor beside Tony, held his hand, and insisted that he wake up. I think I cried. I was sure he was dead, and it was all my fault; I had talked him into this crazy escapade, I had jeered at him and dared him.

Blankenhagen had to push me out of the way to get at Tony. I sat on the floor snivelling while the doctor, fully dressed, poked interestedly at Tony’s shoulder.

‘You took long enough,’ I said nastily. ‘A fine doctor you are. Do you have to put on a tie while somebody is bleeding to death?’

‘Be still,’ said Blankenhagen coldly. ‘He is not dead.’

As if to prove it, Tony opened his eyes.

‘Well,’ I said, hastily wiping my face on my sleeve. ‘Are you with us again? That was a dumb thing to do, Tony.’

I don’t think Tony heard me, which is probably just as well. His eyes focused on something behind me. I turned. There was George, wearing a dressing gown. His shanks were bare, and as hairy as a gorilla’s.

‘What happened?’ he asked.

Poor Tony considered the question.

‘You wouldn’t believe it,’ he mumbled.

George turned to Blankenhagen.

‘What’s wrong with him, Doc?’

‘He hit his head falling,’ said Blankenhagen, with a ruthless jab at a spot over Tony’s left ear. ‘He has also been stabbed,’ the doctor went on reluctantly. ‘It is only a scratch, very shallow. Herr Lawrence, it is time you spoke. What has happened?’

I tried to imagine what Blankenhagen’s face would look like if Tony said, ‘I was attacked by a suit of armour.’

‘I was attacked by a suit of armour,’ muttered Tony.

Blankenhagen’s face took on exactly the expression I had visualized. Tony was in no mood to accept scepticism. He sat up and thrust out a dramatically stiffened arm.

‘You don’t believe me? Then tell me what’s happened to that set of armour?’

The pedestal was undeniably empty. We were close enough to read the identifying label. It said, ‘Armour of Graf Burckhardt von Drachenstein, ca. 1525.’

‘That’s what happened,’ I said. ‘I saw the whole thing.’

Tony gaped at me. George said calmly,

‘I thought maybe you were the one who slugged him.’

‘Well, of all the – You think I was in that armour?’

‘You’re too tall,’ George said, with the same maddening coolness. ‘So am I,’ he added.

‘Hah, that is right.’ Blankenhagen looked relieved as the conversation took a rational turn. ‘I have noticed, with old suits of armour, how small these ancestors of ours were. Diet, of course, and unhealthy living . . .’

Poor Tony collapsed again. He hit the back of his head, groaned, and swore.

‘While you’re standing around arguing about medieval diet I’m slowly bleeding to death, and Schmidt is getting away. I know you don’t care about me, but – ’

‘Schmidt, of course!’ exclaimed the doctor. ‘He is not here.’

‘Oh, damn,’ said Tony.

‘Come on, get up.’ I lent him a strong right arm. ‘You can’t be much hurt or you wouldn’t be so talkative. Schmidt is the only one of us who could fit into that armour. Let’s go get him.’

George was already halfway up the stairs.

Blankenhagen followed, leaving me to support Tony’s tottering footsteps. When we reached Schmidt’s room we found another crisis in process. The fat little man was lying on his bed and the doctor was bending over him.

‘I found him in the doorway,’ George said. ‘Looks like a heart attack.’

‘He said he had a bad heart,’ I said.

‘Maybe we were wrong about him,’ Tony said, leaning heavily on my shoulder. ‘A man with a weak ticker couldn’t go tearing around in armour. If he heard that racket Vicky made and came running out . . .’

Schmidt’s eyes opened. Involuntarily I stepped back and Tony, deprived of my support, swayed wildly. Schmidt’s face was transformed by the most vivid expression of terror I have ever seen.

‘Ruhig sein, Herr Professor,’ said Blankenhagen soothingly. ‘You are better now.’

‘But he . . .’ Schmidt mumbled, ‘Herr Lawrence. He is not . . . dead.’

Tony was not a reassuring sight; the cut, though shallow, had bled copiously, and his shirt front was a bloody mess. With his hair standing on end and his face white under the dust that smeared one side of it, he was enough to alarm anyone, much less a man who had just had a heart attack. George stepped in front of him.

‘Of course he isn’t dead, he’s in great shape. You’re the one we’re concerned about, Schmidt; did you hear something that alarmed you?’

Schmidt’s shrivelled eyelids drooped.

‘A scream,’ he said with difficulty. ‘Someone screamed . . .’

His eyes followed George, who was wandering around the room.

‘That will do,’ Blankenhagen said. ‘He must rest now.’

The doctor followed us to the door.

‘It is not serious,’ he said in a low voice. ‘A faint, shock – not his heart. He will be recovered in the morning. Lawrence, go to bed. A bit of plaster on that cut, that is all you need.’

George and I escorted Tony to his room and put him to bed. The doctor’s diagnosis was correct; once I had mopped off the blood I could see the cut was nothing to worry about. I slapped some Mercurochrome and a couple of Band-Aids on it.

George had settled himself in a chair with a cigarette and Tony’s bottle of bourbon. When I had finished being Florence Nightingale he offered me a drink, which I was glad to accept. Tony demanded his share, pointing out that it was his bottle.

George shook his head.

‘Can’t risk it. Concussion and alcohol – very dangerous, old man. That was quite a crack on the head.’

He helped himself to a second drink and smiled cheerfully at Tony.

‘If it wasn’t Schmidt in the armour, who was it?’ I asked, sensing that the conversation was about to deteriorate into an exchange of pejorative comments.

‘Who says it wasn’t Schmidt?’ Tony grumbled.

‘If it was, what did he do with the armour? It wasn’t under the bed or in the closet. I looked.’

‘Who else could have squeezed into that hardware?’

‘It wasn’t me, old son. I’d stick out both ends.’

‘Blankenhagen?’ I suggested. ‘He’s muscular, but not tall. How big was the armour, anyhow?’

‘I don’t remember. I’d have noticed if it had been unusually outsized, but a few inches more or less . . . How long does it take to get out of a suit of armour? I never tried.’

‘More to the point, how long does it take to get into a suit of armour? I don’t suppose our mysterious comedian stands on a pedestal fully accoutered every night . . .’

‘It wouldn’t surprise me if he did,’ Tony grumbled. ‘Maybe he likes dressing up in armour. Some people think they are Napoleon or Jesus Christ. Some people think they are pineapples.’

‘Pineapples?’ I repeated. ‘That’s a weird one. I never heard of that. Where did you – ’

‘Will you stick to the subject?’ Tony shouted. ‘I gather that in your incoherent fashion you are trying to ascertain whether the comedian had time to climb into his armour after I left my room. I don’t think he did. So he was down there waiting for me – or for somebody . . .’

‘You,’ I said hastily. ‘I’d rather have him waiting for you . . . When you went creeping off to bed at ten o’clock, I knew you were planning to prowl tonight.’

‘He could safely assume one or the other of us would be along,’ Tony said, eyeing me malevolently. ‘We haven’t missed a night so far.’

‘You’ve gotten him into the armour,’ remarked George, who had been following this exchange with a broad grin. ‘What about getting him out of it? Would Schmidt have time – ’

‘Forget about time,’ I said wearily. ‘I lost track completely. Nobody has a respectable alibi.’

‘I can’t understand why you’re so vague,’ Tony said critically. ‘You must have been on the gallery, if you were following me. Why didn’t you pay attention? Wasn’t the action exciting enough to hold your interest?’

I felt myself blushing.

‘All right, so I lost my head. When you backed up into the area under the stairs I couldn’t see you any more. What did happen down there? I heard a funny clanking sound. You didn’t hit that thing with your bare fist, did you?’

It was Tony’s turn to redden.

‘I wasn’t thinking straight either,’ he admitted, trying to hide his scraped knuckles.

‘Left hook or right jab?’ George asked with interest.

‘Oh, shut up,’ Tony growled. ‘The whole thing was confusing. I guess I can’t blame you for not seeing what happened. I don’t remember myself. I did swing at the damned thing. Felt like I broke my arm. After that everything went black.’

‘We’ll forget the whole thing,’ I said magnanimously. ‘You’d better get some sleep, Tony. We’ll all be more sensible in the morning.’

‘Right.’ George got to his feet. ‘Tony, old boy, I’ll be sitting up the rest of the night, with my door open. Don’t worry about a thing. I won’t let anyone get to you.’

I pushed George bodily out of the door.

I didn’t sleep well that night. I guess Tony didn’t either; he was up early. I had been sort of hanging around. I figured he might need some help, and that he would be as reluctant to ask for it as I was to offer it directly. As soon as I heard his door open I stepped casually into the hall. He had gotten into his clothes without assistance, but he looked as if he had not enjoyed the process; he held his left arm at an awkward angle, and his face was all bony points and grey hollows.

He gave me a look of solid dislike, and I dropped the arm I was about to offer him.

‘Where’s Nolan?’ he asked brusquely.

‘In his room, I guess. Why?’

‘I want to talk to him.’

‘Can I come?’ I asked meekly.

‘Sure, why not? If I’m going to eat crow, I might as well have an audience.’

Intrigued, I trailed along after him. George answered the door right away; alert and bright-eyed, stylishly dressed in brown slacks and a fresh white sports shirt, he was a sight for sore eyes. He hauled Tony over the threshold and deposited him in a chair.

‘God, you look terrible,’ he remarked. ‘Didn’t I tell you not to worry? I sat up most of the night, didn’t see a thing. Never need more than three, four hours sleep . . . What’s on your mind, Tony?’

‘You made me an offer yesterday. I’m ready to take you up on it.’

‘Now I wonder,’ said George thoughtfully, ‘why you changed your mind.’

‘Good God,’ Tony said querulously. ‘After last night, how can you wonder? It may be you or Vicky who gets the axe next time. Worst of all, it might be me again. We foreigners ought to form a protective alliance. I don’t intend to take you by the hand and lead you to the shrine. But I’m willing to share some of my brilliant deductions in exchange for some help.’

‘Great.’ George stood there beaming, all tanned and white-toothed. ‘You do the thinking, I do the dirty work. Is that it?’

‘Approximately.’

‘Then let’s get at it, whatever it is.’

‘After breakfast.’ Tony rose with a theatrical groan. He avoided my eye, and I wondered what low-down scheme he had in mind now.

During breakfast Tony was honoured by a personal call of condolence from the Gräfin. She pressed him back in his chair when he started to rise, and he sat back with a thud. Quite by accident, of course, she had her hand on his injured shoulder.

‘I am so sorry for your terrible experience,’ she said, smiling like a wolf. ‘I hope it has not made you decide to leave us.’

‘On the contrary. I wouldn’t leave a bunch of helpless women alone in this place. Unless, Gräfin, you intend to call the police?’

‘Do you honestly think, Professor, that the police can give the kind of help we need?’

She walked away, giving him no time to retort.

‘Get her,’ I said. ‘Now she’s a believer.’

‘Oh, she doesn’t believe in the supernatural,’ Tony said disgustedly. ‘Didn’t you watch her at the séance? She’s using the ghost theory for her own ends, and God knows what they are.’

‘I know I’m not supposed to be thinking,’ George said. ‘But I’ll throw in this little tidbit as my contribution to general goodwill. Irma is the heiress. This place and everything in it belongs to her.’

The only new thing about that tidbit was that George was aware of it. But until then I hadn’t considered the corollary.

‘What happens if Irma dies?’ I asked.

‘I didn’t think it would be smart to ask that. But I guess the old lady would inherit everything. Which isn’t much – just this old pile of stones and a lot of work. Every object of value has already been sold . . .’

He stopped. None of us finished the sentence aloud. We didn’t have to.

Except the shrine.

‘The old lady couldn’t possibly know,’ Tony began.

‘Wanna bet?’ I said.

‘No. Well, Nolan, let’s get going – if you’re still game. What I’m proposing to do is not only socially unacceptable, it is probably against several laws I can’t call precisely to mind at the moment.’

‘I’ve broken a number of laws in my time,’ said George – with perfect truth, I felt sure.

It was Sunday. The workmen who had been remodelling the south wing were gone for the day. Tony loaded George down with tools and led the way to the chapel. When we reached the stairs to the crypt, George stopped.

‘What are we going to do down there?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘Just a spot of tomb desecration,’ Tony answered.

George dropped a crowbar. He gave Tony a funny look, but bent to retrieve the tool without comment.

When we reached the tomb of Count Harald, Tony knelt down and shone his flashlight along the cracks between the tombstone, with its carved effigy, and the stone floor.

‘When I was here before I noticed something different about this tomb. Look. The stones on the other tombs are cemented into place.’ He opened a pocket knife and illustrated on the next tomb, that of Count Burckhardt. The knife blade ran along the crack without penetrating, leaving a trail of fine white powder. ‘But Harald’s stone . . .’ The blade of the knife disappeared, sinking deep into the black line between the tombstone and the next slab.

‘Looks as if someone has had it up, once upon a time,’ George agreed. His eyes glowed like a cat’s in the dim light. ‘I don’t envy them the job. That stone weighs hundreds of pounds.’

‘That’s why I enlisted you,’ Tony said affably. ‘With my bad arm I can’t lift a pillow.’

George glowered at him, and then burst out laughing.

‘All right, old boy. I asked for it.’

Tony did enjoy the next hour. Reclining comfortably, with his back up against the stone feet of Count Burckhardt, he watched George sweat. I didn’t help much. George had the necessary muscle, and he knew what he was doing – first the crowbar, then a series of wedges to prop the slowly rising stone. Finally he had it tilted back like the lid of a box, with about three feet between its lifted edge and the floor.

George sat down and lit a cigarette.

‘I don’t think we should risk raising it any more,’ he wheezed. ‘There’s nothing to brace it on the other side if the angle gets too steep. Now what?’

‘Now I take over.’

Tony crawled to the edge of the hole. I was already peering in. I couldn’t see anything, though; it was too dark down there.

Besides shoving in wedges, at George’s orders, I had spent the time kicking myself. I should have noticed that crack. Here we were looking for a hiding place, and this was one of the right size. This could be it. I was so excited I forgot to breathe. I even forgot George Nolan, big and brawny and thoroughly unscrupulous, standing over me.

Tony turned his flashlight down into the crypt. But no flash of refracted light from huge jewels dazzled our eyes. No gilded wings glimmered and shone. There seemed to be nothing in the vault but a wooden coffin bound with strips of rusted metal. It rested on the bottom of a hole that was faced and floored with stone. The top of the coffin was about two feet below floor level. It was pushed to one end of the vault, so that there was an empty space at the bottom. Tony turned his light in that direction.

A moment later I was backing hastily away on hands and knees like a puppy that has encountered a porcupine. George stared at me and bent down to look for himself.

‘Nolan, go get Blankenhagen,’ said Tony, in a funny croak.

George stepped back.

‘For that? Believe me, old man, he doesn’t need – ’

‘He doesn’t, but I do.’ Tony lay down on the floor and closed his eyes.

George peered into the hole again, shrugged, and went to the stairs. When he was out of sight Tony scrambled to his feet.

‘Better you than me,’ I muttered, as he slid into the pit and bent down, out of sight, below the lifted slab. For a while I could see only agitated but controlled movement as he worked. Then he poked his head out. He was in his shirt sleeves.

‘Don’t look if you’d rather not,’ he said, eyeing me.

‘Don’t be insulting,’ I said, breathing slowly through my nose. ‘It was just the air down there that got me – made me dizzy for a minute.’

Tony lifted a dark bundle out of the hole and deposited it gently on the chapel floor. It was his jacket, rolled around something that bulged in peculiar places. Tony climbed out beside the bundle and started to open it. I spoke without premeditation.

‘It isn’t – it isn’t the old count, is it?’

‘No, he’s still resting peacefully in his coffin. At least I hope he is. This is a little something extra.’

He folded his jacket back. I braced myself, but there was no need. Disconnected and jumbled, the bones suggested an anthropological exhibit rather than a human being who had died in agony. But I knew I would not easily forget my first sight of the huddled shape, with its fleshless face turned up as if gasping for the air that had been denied it.

The skull was yellow but intact. A wisp of rusty hair hung over one side. There were other objects in the pile besides bones: bits of tarnished metal, a blackened silver ornament, some scraps of rotting cloth. And under a handful of ribs . . .

Then I heard footsteps echoing on the floor above and saw George appear at the top of the stairs, a featureless silhouette against the light. Blankenhagen followed him down.

‘So you got it out,’ George said.

‘I felt better after you left,’ Tony said blandly. ‘Grüss Gott, Doctor. Maybe you can tell us what to do with this.’

Blankenhagen knelt and began to finger the exhibits.

‘He has been dead too long to profit from my services,’ he said drily.

‘He?’ Tony’s nose quivered with curiosity.

‘Definitely male. The occipital ridges . . .’ Blanken-hagen’s index finger pointed. ‘Also, the configuration of the pelvis is unmistakable.’ He lost himself in professional meditation for a time. ‘Yes. A male of mature years, but probably under forty. The third molars are present, but not badly worn; the filium and ischium – ’

‘I’ll take your word for it,’ Tony interrupted. ‘No way of telling how he died?’

‘That would depend on where you found this.’

Blankenhagen lifted a dagger and balanced it on his palm. The blade was dark and rusted, the hilt elaborately carved.

‘It was lying among the ribs.’

‘Ah, hmmm.’ Blankenhagen sorted ribs. Then he held one up. ‘Yes, it is possible to see the mark of the blade. It passed along the inner surface. It would then presumably have pierced the heart.’

He dropped the brittle ivory bone back onto the jacket and wiped his hands on his knees.

‘A murder?’ George said interestedly. ‘Who’s the victim? Silly question, I guess, after all this time.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Tony, in a lazy drawl I knew very well. ‘No doubt about his identity. This was the steward of Count Burckhardt. His name was Nicolas Duvenvoorde.’

He picked up the tarnished ornament.

‘This was a clasp or badge worn on the doublet. You can see the Drachenstein arms, and, if you strain your eyes, the initials N. D. Maybe it was a present from the count, for meritorious service. The scraps of clothing are right for the period, and suitable for a man of respectable but non-noble rank. There’s a pair of leather boots down there, too. They are pretty mouldy, so I didn’t bring them up, but here are the spurs that went with them. Travelling costume, that’s what he was wearing.’ He produced some bits of leather, which did indeed have a mildewed look. ‘This was a pouch, which was worn at the belt. These coins were probably inside it. Here’s a thirty-kreuzer bit from Würzburg, dated fifteen thirteen, and an imperial florin with a head of Charles the Fifth and a date of fifteen twenty-three. And the last bit of evidence, if we need one, is the dagger itself. On the hilt is the dragon and stone, the Drachenstein crest. The workmanship is too fancy for a servant’s weapon. This curlicue under the crest seems to be Burckhardt’s personal mark. You can see the same design on his tomb.’

He turned the flashlight beam to the right, where it illumined the shield at the shoulder of the reclining knight on the next stone.

‘In fact,’ Tony concluded, ‘we can not only identify the victim, but we can hazard a good guess as to the murderer.’

There was a brief, impressed silence, during which Tony vainly tried to look modest.

‘By God,’ George exclaimed, ‘I have to hand it to you, Tony. That’s a damned good piece of detective work.’

‘Seconded,’ I said briefly.

Tony smirked.

‘Oh, well, anyone could have done it. Anyone who knew his history and had a logical mind, trained in deductive techniques – ’

I interrupted. I hope I am a good sport, but I do not care for blatant egotism.

‘Now that we’ve got him, what are we going to do with him?’

‘We must notify the Gräfin,’ Blankenhagen said stiffly. Now that the first excitement was over and his curiosity had been satisfied, he had relapsed into his normal state of cold disapproval. ‘I do not know what her wishes will be; if it were I, I should call on the good father from Rothenburg.’

‘A brief ceremony of exorcism might not hurt,’ Tony said obscurely. He rose to his feet. ‘Ow. I’m as stiff as he is. I’ll go see the Gräfin. After all, the poor devil was a faithful family retainer. They ought to be able to spare him a few feet down here in the vault.’

‘I will remain here,’ Blankenhagen said. ‘When you return with the Gräfin, bring a sheet or blanket.’

‘I’ll stay,’ George offered. ‘Why don’t you interview the old lady, Doctor? Tony ought to be in bed – he’s probably strained that arm. And frankly, I’d rather face a whole cemetery of dead bodies than Elfrida.’

‘I am not on good terms with the Gräfin,’ Blankenhagen said. ‘Perhaps you can think of an acceptable excuse for your breach of hospitality and good taste here; I certainly cannot, and I see no reason why I should face her indignation when she hears what you have done. But I agree Lawrence should go to bed. I will look at his injury later.’

We left him standing over the bones with bowed head. He could have been praying, but I didn’t think so.

‘It wasn’t there,’ I said to Tony, who was leaning pathetically on my arm.

‘It isn’t there now, anyhow.’

‘That was a bright idea, though,’ I said generously. ‘Where do we look next?’

Tony shook his head.

‘I’ve used up my hunches. Without a plan of the Schloss, I’m lost. I wish we could find those missing maps.’

His voice rose a little on the last sentence, and George turned around.

‘Maps? Blankenhagen has some.’

‘What kind of maps?’

‘Old ones, on parchment, in a big roll. He was looking at them when I knocked on his door. He told me to wait outside, and when he came out the maps were gone.’

‘Blankenhagen.’ Tony smacked himself on the forehead. ‘He must be involved in this thing somehow . . . Nolan, I’ve got to have those maps. Did he lock his door?’

‘Yes, he did. But I think your key will open it. The locks in this place are simple, cheap deals.’

‘Okay. Then you go – ’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Tony is going to beddy-by. George, you get the Gräfin and take her straight down to the crypt. Make sure she and Blankenhagen stay there for a while. I’ll get the maps.’

‘I’ll get the maps if you interview the Gräfin,’ George offered.

‘What are you so nervous about? I thought you were accustomed to breaking laws with devil-may-care insouciance. I admit what we did was outrageous – ’

‘Unbelievable,’ George agreed heartily. ‘Why did we do it?’

We both looked at Tony.

‘I was mad,’ said Tony simply. ‘Not crazy mad – angry. I hate being stabbed.’

‘I’ll tell the old lady that,’ said George. ‘I am sure she’ll understand. Damn it, I don’t like this partnership. I get all the dirty jobs.’

‘Then we’ll dissolve the partnership,’ Tony said. He looked a little ashamed as George gave him a reproachful look, but he continued, ‘I didn’t say we were going to share all our clues. You worked like a Trojan today, and I appreciate it; but without me you wouldn’t have found Nicolas. So far, I think we’re quits.’

‘Big deal. I didn’t want Nicolas anyhow. What am I supposed to do with him?’

He left, grumbling, and I went on my errand. George was right about the keys. Tony’s key fitted Blanken-hagen’s door. All the keys probably fit all the doors, which was not a comforting thought.

Blankenhagen hadn’t bothered to hide the maps very well. They were on top of his wardrobe, quite visible to anyone with my inches. I grabbed them and left.

Tony sat up when I came in.

‘Got them? Good work.’

‘Lie down.’ I slid the roll of parchment under his bed. ‘Blankenhagen is on his way up. I just got out in time.’

There was a knock at the door. Tony flopped back onto his pillow.

‘All settled,’ George announced briskly. He pushed Blankenhagen into the room and followed him, rubbing his hands together with the air of a man who has just finished a painful session at the dentist’s. ‘The Gräfin was quite reasonable. The minister will be up later, and they’ll probably have some kind of service, today or tomorrow. She won’t have the lad in the family vault, though. Says, with all due respect for Tony’s deductions, that she can’t accept the identification as certain, and anyhow, the crypt is reserved for Drachensteins. They’ll bury him in the town cemetery. Lord knows what they’ll put on the tombstone.’

‘Good,’ said Tony, closing his eyes as Blankenhagen started poking at his shoulder. ‘What excuse did you give her for our tomb robbing?’

‘Funny thing,’ said George thoughtfully. ‘She didn’t ask.’

‘You have done yourself no injury,’ Blankenhagen said, tucking in an edge of bandage. ‘But remain quiet and do not raise any more tombstones. Such childishness.’

He stalked to the door and went out. George followed, with a rather wistful glance at me.

‘Maybe we ought to keep him in the club,’ I said.

‘Generosity does not become you. Somebody is behind all these kookie manifestations here, and until I find out who it is – ’

‘You don’t seriously suspect George, do you? He hasn’t had time to arrange all the things that have happened.’

‘I know. I’d like to suspect him, but he doesn’t fit. Herr Schmidt is a better bet. How is he, by the way?’

‘Okay, I guess. He’s up and around, anyhow. He wouldn’t even go to the hospital for a checkup, as Blankenhagen suggested.’

‘Very interesting. Maybe he faked his faint. He told you his degree is from Leipzig? Convenient that it’s in the East Zone, where official inquiries aren’t easy for us amateurs to make. And of all the suspicious names – it’s as bad as Smith.’

‘I think the countess is our man – pardon me, woman.’

‘She’s almost too perfect,’ Tony objected. ‘Probably she has a heart of gold under that frosty exterior. I can’t see her galloping around in a suit of armour, either.’

‘Don’t be fooled by that air of languid dignity. She’s as hard as nails. She detests Irma; she’s a natural bully, and you must admit Irma asks to be trampled on. Also, the Gräfin is the only one to profit if, for instance, Irma fell down the stairs while she was sleepwalking.’

‘She could encourage, if not actually induce, the sleepwalking,’ Tony agreed. ‘She’s got that girl mesmerized. But the profit motive doesn’t amount to much if this’ – he waved a hand around the poorly equipped room – ‘is all Irma’s inheritance.’

‘Unless she knows about the shrine.’

‘Right.’ We stared at one another in silence. Finally Tony said,

‘We don’t want to face it, do we? But it would be naïve of us to assume that we’re the only ones who could have spotted the original clues. Anyone who read that book and who knew Riemenschneider’s life story could have reached the same conclusions we did. And don’t forget the Gräfin may have other information. She could have removed significant family papers from that collection before we saw it.’

‘But she hasn’t found the shrine yet. Or has she?’

‘No. She wouldn’t tolerate our messing around if she had. Hasn’t it struck you how cooperative the old witch has been? Keys to the crypt, keys to the library, no embarrassing questions about our nocturnal wanderings or even about our outlandish performance this morning. Her restraint is completely out of character, unless – ’

‘Unless she is hoping we can find the shrine for her. She may know that it exists; but if she doesn’t know where it is hidden, she might think that we, with our training, stand a better chance of finding it than she would. Has it occurred to you – ’

‘That we had better guard our backs if we do locate the shrine? Yes, dear, it occurred to me with a vengeance when that homicidal armour came at me.’

‘I don’t think you were in any danger from the armour,’ I said callously. ‘You won’t be in danger until you locate the prize. That was just fun and games, to spur you on. You always think better when you get mad.’

‘Fun and games,’ Tony muttered. ‘Somebody has a sick sense of humour.’

‘Definitely,’ I agreed, thinking of Irma and the séance.

‘Enough of this,’ Tony said. ‘We haven’t enough evidence to make sensible deductions about the living villain. Let’s get back to the dead villain. You do see, I trust, what our discovery this morning has to do with the problem of the shrine?’

‘I haven’t had time to think about it. But – my Lord, yes. In that letter of Konstanze’s she said the shrine, and the steward, had not arrived. Now we know he did arrive. And stayed here.’

‘Indeed he did. Now,’ said Tony patronizingly, ‘go on. What was old Nicolas doing down there with the count’s dagger between his ribs?’

‘Hmm. How about this? The steward was not a faithful hound after all. He stole the shrine for himself, sneaked into the castle – which he knew well – at the dead of night. He was about to hide the shrine in the old count’s tomb when Burckhardt wandered in – to pray, or pay his respects, or something. Seized by rage at the sight of his double-dealing servant, and the shrine – which he assumed had been lost on the way from Rothenburg – Burckhardt stabbed Nicolas, tumbled him into the ready-made grave, and hid the shrine himself. Then he got sick – wait, wait! Remember the testimony of the nurse? The murder must have happened that very night. Burckhardt was already ill, ill and delirious. That’s why he never told anyone where he put the shrine. It’s still hidden!’

‘Not bad.’

‘Not bad! What else could have happened?’

‘You have fallen in love with your own theory,’ said Tony severely. ‘A dangerous fault in a scholar. I can think of at least one other possibllity. The count himself came home with the caravan and the shrine. He and the faithful steward hid it, at dead of night, as you so quaintly put it, in the old count’s tomb. Konstanze didn’t know a thing about this. Later the count got to worrying about the safety of the hiding place, and went down, with the steward, to move the shrine. They hid it somewhere else, and then the count stabbed the steward, etcetera, etcetera.’

‘I don’t mind making the count the villain,’ I said. ‘I never liked him anyway. But you have a slight credibility gap, bud. Why should Burckhardt hide his own property and kill his faithful retainer?’

‘Remember what was supposed to happen to the shrine? Count Harald’s will left it to the church. The countess is definite about that in her letters, and she agrees that it should be done. Suppose Burckhardt didn’t agree. The jewels were worth a pile, you know. Maybe he needed money. He wouldn’t let anyone, especially his pious wife, know he wanted the shrine for himself. When the faithful steward realized what Burckhardt had in mind, he threatened to expose him, and Burckhardt murdered him. That way Konstanze never would know where the shrine was hidden, and Burckhardt wouldn’t be about to tell her.’

‘Plausible,’ I admitted. ‘But all the theories are plausible. You’re the one who used to lecture me about the difference between possibility and proof; judging by some of the articles I read in the journals, a lot of historians don’t know the difference. We have no proof, Tony. We can’t even be sure that the shrine was ever here, in the castle, much less in that vault.’

‘Oh, yes, we can.’ Tony was so proud of himself he swelled up like a toad. Reaching into his pocket, he carefully withdrew a small object.

I looked at it as he held it up to the light, and my stomach got a queer queasy feeling. The object was a wing, carved of wood and lightly gilded. In form it was the sort of thing that might have been broken off a phoenix, or a golden bird in flight; but there was a quality about it that eliminated these possibilities and defined it as what it was –

‘An angel’s wing,’ I whispered.