Borrower of the Night

Chapter Three

IT WOULD HAVE been fun to think I had been shown to my room by the family ghost, but after consideration I abandoned the idea. For some reason, the only logical alternative disturbed me almost as much as the ghost theory. Family resemblances like that do crop up, though I had never seen one quite so startlingly close. But it is distasteful to me to think that a random rearrangement of genes can duplicate me, or anyone else, at the whim of whatever power controls such things.

I unpacked, and then kicked off my shoes and lay down on the bed. It was surprisingly comfortable. I didn’t mean to doze off, but excitement and travel had tired me out. When I woke up, the sun was declining picturesquely behind the plateau and my stomach was making grumpy noises. It was almost seven. I didn’t meet a soul as I retraced my steps, through the Great Hall and across the courtyard. Apparently the rest of the guests had already gone to dinner. I was looking forward to that meal, and not only because of my hunger pangs. I had every expectation of seeing at least one familiar face.

The dining room had been one of the drawing rooms of the château wing. Its painted ceiling and plastered walls were extravagantly baroque, and not very good baroque. The westering sun, streaming in through floor-to-ceiling windows, freshed the gilt of the smirking naked cupids and cast a rosy glow over the shapes of pulchritudinous pink goddesses. At a table by the window, looking neither cherubic nor pulchritudinous was the person I had expected to see.

I approached, not with trepidation – because who was he, to resent my presence? – but with curiosity. I wasn’t sure how he was going to receive me.

He looked up when I stopped by his chair, and a broad grin split his face. Then I felt trepidation. I didn’t like the gleam in his eye. He looked smug. I wondered what he knew that I didn’t.

‘Greetings,’ I said. ‘I hope you have been saving a seat at your table.’

‘Grüss Gott,’ said Tony. ‘Let us use the local greeting, please, in order to show our cosmopolitan characters. Sure, I saved you a place. I knew you’d be along. What kept you?’

With a wave of his hand he indicated the chair next to his. I took it, without comment; if he wanted to continue the childish pattern of noncourtesy he had established back home, that was fine with me. I put my elbows on the table and studied him. No doubt about it: jaunty was the word for Tony.

‘How long have you been here?’ I asked.

‘Couple of days.’

‘You must have made good use of your time. What have you – ’

‘Quiet,’ said Tony, scowling. ‘Not now.’

He was trying to look like James Bond again. It’s that loose lock of hair on his brow. I didn’t laugh out loud because it was expedient to keep on good terms with him, for a time. I turned my head away and glanced around the room.

If the tables in the dining room were any guide, the hotel part of the Schloss wasn’t large, but it was doing a good business. There were a couple of dozen places laid, four to a table. Most of them were occupied.

‘Fill me in on our fellow guests,’ I said.

‘Two American high school teachers,’ Tony began, indicating a couple at the next table. ‘A German family from Hamburg – two kids. The honeymoon couple are French; the old miserable married couple are Italian. There are some U.S. Army types from Munich, and a miscellaneous bevy of Danes.’

‘You’ve been busy,’ I said, smiling at him. He looked pleased, the naïve thing.

‘The little fat guy who looks like Santa Claus without the beard is a professor,’ he went on complacently. ‘What he professes I don’t know; he keeps trying to corner me, but I’ve avoided him so far. The middle-aged female with the face like a horse is English. She’s a crony of the old countess’s.’

‘Old countess? Is there a younger one?’

‘You must have met her. If she wasn’t carrying your suitcases, she was scrubbing your floor. She does all the work around here.’

‘Her?’ I gasped ungrammatically.

‘Sure. Irma. The last frail twig on the Drachenstein family tree.’

‘Irma!’ It was some name for a girl who looked like a Persian houri. I was about to express this sentiment – and get some additional insight into Tony’s attitude towards her – when a man walked up to the table. He was a stocky young man with brown hair and blue eyes, a deeply tanned face, and an expression as animated as a block of wood. He distributed two brusque nods and a curt ‘Abend’ around the table, and sat down.

Now as I have indicated, I find the usual leering male look quite repulsive. I am accustomed, however, to having my presence noted. Tony, who knows me only too well, glanced from me to the newcomer and said, with a nasty grin.

‘This is Herr Doktor Blankenhagen, from Frankfurt. Doc, meet Fräulein Doktor Bliss.’

The young man half rose, clutching his napkin, and made a stiff bow.

‘Doctor of medicine,’ he said, in heavily accented English.

‘Doctor of philosophy,’ I said, before I could stop myself. ‘How do you do?’

‘Very pleased,’ said Herr Doktor Blankenhagen, without conviction. He opened a newspaper and retreated behind it.

‘Hmmph,’ I said; and then, before Tony’s grin could get any more obnoxious, I went on, ‘One more place at the table. Who’s that for?’

Tony’s grin faded into the limbo of lost smiles. I knew then. I had been half expecting it, but I still didn’t like it.

‘Hi, there,’ said George Nolan, making his appearance with theatrical skill, at just the right moment. ‘Glad you got here, Vicky.’

‘Hi yourself,’ I said. ‘Congratulations on your detective skill. Or did you just follow Tony?’

George laughed, and leaned over to give Tony a friendly smack on the shoulder. Tony swayed.

‘Right the second time.’

‘No problem following him?’ I asked sweetly. ‘Not for a man who has tracked the deadly tiger to its lair, and hunted the Abominable Snowman in his mysterious haunts.’

‘He went to the Jones Travel Agency,’ said George, still grinning. ‘As soon as my gratuity to one of the help produced the name of Rothenburg, I put two and two together.’

We both burst out laughing. Tony glowered. Blankenhagen lowered his newspaper, gave us a contemptuous stare in common, and hid behind it again.

The waitress, a stolid blond damsel, came with our soup, and the meal proceeded. Tony sulked in silence, Blankenhagen read his newspaper, and George and I kept up the social amenities. He was a master of the double entendre, and I don’t mean just the sexual entendre. He kept dropping hints about sculpture and secret passages in ancient castles. Tony writhed, but I was pleased to see he was learning to control his tongue. Part of George’s technique was to probe until he got an angry, unthinking response.

With the dessert came Irma, hot and harassed, but still disgustingly beautiful, to inquire how we had liked the meal. She didn’t give a damn, really. It was just part of the job. Tony bounded to his feet the moment she appeared, and even Blankenhagen registered a touch of emotion. I began to wonder about Tony’s joie de vivre. Maybe it had another cause than the one I had suspected.

When the meal was over, Tony got to his feet and reached for my hand.

‘Excuse us,’ he said firmly. ‘I want to talk to Vicky alone.’

George was amused.

‘Help yourself,’ he said.

We proceeded, in pregnant silence, to the courtyard. Behind the sheltering hedge lay a diminutive garden, its flowers pale pastel in the twilight. Tony sat me down on a bench and stood over me.

‘Well?’

‘Well what?’

Tony sat down beside me and reached out.

‘Oh, come off it,’ he mumbled. ‘Don’t be that way. No reason why we can’t be civil, is there?’

‘Civil, is it?’ I said, into the hollow between his neck and his right shoulder. ‘Hmmm . . . I wasn’t the one who started this stand-off business, you know.’

The succeeding interval lasted a shorter time than one might have expected. All at once Tony took me by the shoulders and pushed me away.

‘I can’t concentrate,’ he said in an aggrieved tone. ‘Why did we start this silly fight in the first place? I haven’t been able to think of anything else for months. It’s interfering with my social life and my normal emotional development.’

‘You challenged me,’ I reminded him. ‘Want to take back what you said?’

‘No!’

‘Then we’d better kiss and part. I can’t concentrate on any other subject either; and we aren’t collaborating, are we?’

‘No . . .’

‘Only?’

‘Only – well, we could compare background notes, couldn’t we? Nothing significant, just research. So we can start out even.’

‘Hmmm,’ I said. ‘Why the change of heart?’

‘It isn’t a change of heart. I’m not asking you to give anything away, and I’m not going to tell you anything important. Only – well, Nolan bugs me. I didn’t realize he was so hot on the trail. And if I can’t find the thing myself, I’d rather have you get it than Nolan.’

I didn’t return the compliment. If I couldn’t find the shrine, I hoped nobody would. But his suggestion made sense. I didn’t have anything that could be called a clue; maybe he did. I had nothing to lose by collaborating.

As it turned out, I didn’t gain much. For the most part, Tony’s research duplicated mine.

We had both gone back to the old chronicle, which contributed very little except a description of the shrine. If my appetite had needed whetting, that description would have done the trick.

According to the chronicler, the reliquary depicted the Three Kings kneeling before the Child – the ‘Anbetung der Könige,’ as the Germans put it. The subject was popular with European artists in earlier, more devout, eras, so it is not surprising that another version of the Anbetung, by Riemenschneider, should exist. This one is a bas-relief, on the side panel of the Altar of the Virgin, which he did for the church at Creglingen, not far from Rothenburg. So when I pictured our shrine I pictured it as he had done it at Creglingen, only in the round instead of in relief. The design was simple and forceful – the Virgin, seated, with two of the kings kneeling before her and the third standing at her right. Of course I knew the Drachenstein shrine wouldn’t be quite the same, but the subject was only open to a few variations. Since the old chronicle mentioned angels, I gave my visionary shrine a few of Riemenschneider’s typical winged beauties – not chubby dimpled babies, but grave ageless creatures with flowing hair and robes fluttering in the splendour of flight.

The three jewels were a ruby, an emerald, and an enormous baroque pearl.

Tony had looked this up too, but he professed to be more intrigued by the people who had been involved with the shrine back in 1525. (Women are always moved by crass materialistic things such as jewels; men concern themselves with the higher things of life.)

‘You had better get the characters straight in your mind,’ Tony said smugly. ‘There were three of them. The count, Burckhardt, was a typical knight – and I’m not thinking, like, Sir Galahad. I assume you had the simple wit to write the author of The Peasants’ Revolt, and ask if there were any other letters from Burckhardt? Oh. You did.

‘Burckhardt was a rat. A bloodthirsty, illiterate lout. His repulsive personality is even more apparent in the unpublished letters. I guess that’s why they weren’t published; they tell more about Burckhardt than about the war. He was obstinate, unimaginative, arrogant – ’

‘My goodness,’ I said mildly. ‘You really are down on the lad.’

‘Lad, my eye.’

‘He couldn’t have been very old. What was the average life span – about forty? As you say, he was fairly typical. Why the prejudice?’

‘Not all of them were hairy Neanderthals. Take Götz von Berlichingen; he supported the peasants.’

‘Under protest, according to Götz. I don’t think he’s a good example of a parfit gentle knight. He was a menace on the highways, a robber, looter – ’

‘At least he had courage. After his hand was shot off, he acquired an iron prosthesis and went on robbing.’

‘I stayed at his place once.’

‘Whose place?’

‘Götz’s,’ I said, spitting a little on the sibilants. ‘Schloss Hornburg, on the Neckar. It’s a hotel now. They have his iron hand.’

‘I wish you would stop changing the subject,’ Tony said unfairly.

‘You were the one who brought up Götz.’

‘And stop calling him Götz, as if he were the boy next door . . . To return to Burckhardt – he was only heroic when he was up against a bunch of serfs armed with sticks. And did you notice the hypochondria? All those complaints about his bowels!’

‘Maybe he had a nervous stomach.’

I could have said something really cutting. Tony’s prejudice against the valiant knight suggested a transferral of resentment against men of action in general – not mentioning any names. But I didn’t even hint at such a possibility. I didn’t like Burckhardt either.

‘He had one good point,’ Tony said grudgingly. ‘He loved his wife. That comes out, even through the stiff formal phrasing. I couldn’t find much information on her. All I know is that her name was Konstanze and she was beautiful.’

I started. I shouldn’t have been surprised. The dates on the portrait in my room would have told me that the woman portrayed had been the lady of our count. But it was – uncomfortable, somehow.

Tony gave me a curious look, but asked no questions. He went on, ‘The third character was named Nicolas Duvenvoorde. He was the count’s steward, majordomo, or whatever you want to call it. He was Flemish, by his name, and a trusted, efficient servant, to judge by the references to him. Now one of the unpublished letters, if you remember, says the count has sent ‘it’ to Rothenburg in the care of this steward and an armed escort of five men. The countryside was in disorder; bands of marauding peasants and men at arms marauding after the marauding peasants – ’

‘Don’t be cute,’ I said. ‘I’m not one of your giggly girl students.’

‘Then you tell me what happened next.’

‘I take it you found no further references to the shrine? Neither did I. But, assuming the caravan started on schedule, there are only two possibilities.’

Tony nodded. ‘Either the shrine arrived in Rothenburg as planned – no reason why not; a group of armed men, on their guard, with their precious burden a secret, had a good chance of getting through – or else they were attacked along the way and the shrine was stolen.’

‘No reason why not?’ I echoed. ‘But is there any reason to suppose the reverse? If the shrine was stolen, that would explain why it hasn’t been heard of since.’

‘Obviously. But if thieves seized and burned the shrine, what happened to the jewels? Such stones are virtually indestructible, and they have a habit of reappearing. Look at the great historic gems; you can trace them through the centuries, usually by the trail of blood they leave behind them. The fact that the jewels, as well as the shrine, have not been heard of since fifteen twenty-five is suggestive. They must have been hidden – hidden so well that all memory of the hiding place was lost.’

‘Suppose your hypothetical peasants did the hiding, after they robbed the caravan. The cache could be anywhere in West Germany.’

‘Or farther. But that isn’t likely. A single thief couldn’t overpower six armed men. And if there were several thieves, the chance of all of them being killed before they could pass on the secret of the hiding place is remote. Besides, where could they hide it, a group of homeless peasants, so that the hiding place remained undisturbed for four hundred and fifty years? Now this castle . . .’

The massive walls seemed to close in around us. Tony’s reasoning wasn’t new to me; I had reached the same conclusions, not because we were en rapport, but because they were logical conclusions. There were plenty of holes, and weak links, in the chain of reasoning, but at the end of it lay a solid fact: even on the evidence we had, Schloss Drachenstein was worth searching.

I said as much. Tony snorted vulgarly. Like all men, he likes to have his lectures received with little feminine squeals of admiration. So I added tactfully, ‘But that’s as far as logic took me, Tony. Suppose the shrine is here. Where do we look? The castle is enormous. You’re so clever at this sort of thing; can’t you narrow it down?’

Tony is very susceptible to the grosser forms of flattery. He beamed.

‘Obviously the shrine wasn’t left out on a shelf, in plain sight. Rothenburg was a real hotbed of radicalism, and although the revolt was officially suppressed before Burckhardt got home, I would think he’d prefer to tuck his valuables away till things were back to normal. Now here’s an interesting point that maybe you didn’t know. The count and his wife both died that same year, leaving an infant daughter. I don’t know how Burckhardt and Konstanze died, but it must have been suddenly. They had no opportunity to pass on the secret. The child was too young to know anything.’

‘It’s plausible. If the shrine exists, it is hidden somewhere in the older section of the Schloss.’

‘I wish I knew the layout of the place a little better. Where do Irma and the old Gräfin live? It would be mildly embarrassing to meet one of them while we were ripping up the floor.’

‘The dowager’s rooms are in the tower at the end of our wing.’ Tony gestured. ‘I think Irma’s room is under the old lady’s.’

‘Nuts. I hoped I was alone in the old wing.’

‘You’re surrounded,’ Tony said, with mean satisfaction. ‘Nolan’s room is down the hall. I’m next to you, and on your other side is Dr Blankenhagen, our conversational tablemate. The little fat guy is next to me. That’s about all . . . Oh, yeah, the English female is in the tower too. I told you she was a crony of the Gräfin.’

‘Good God. How can we do any searching? It’s like Main Street on Saturday night.’

‘If you’re planning to start ripping up floor boards in the guest rooms, you aren’t as logical as you think you are.’

I sighed ostentatiously.

‘Must I explain my reasoning? I thought it was obvious.’

‘I’ve been sharing my humble thinking with you. Go ahead, be obvious.’

‘Well, isn’t the master bedchamber – Burckhardt’s own room – the logical place in which to start searching?’

‘It might be, if we knew which room was Burckhardt’s.’

At that moment the moon rose above the wall and turned the little garden into something out of Rostand. I glanced at Tony. He put his arm around me and I leaned back against it.

‘I can’t fight with you,’ Tony said.

‘You can’t fight with anybody. You’re too nice a guy. No, none of that. We were reasoning, remember. What we need is a plan of the Schloss as it was in the good old days. Or we could ask the Gräfin which room was the master bedchamber.’

‘I’m against that.’

‘So am I,’ I agreed amiably. ‘We don’t want to rouse any suspicions. Anyhow, she may not know.’

‘And until we know, I don’t see any point in searching the bedrooms. The hiding place won’t be obvious; you really would have to rip up floors and tear down the walls.’

‘Anyhow,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘the count’s room might not have been the best place to hide something. Didn’t they have servants and attendants hanging around all the time?’

‘I wouldn’t say that. But there are any number of equally likely places: Such as – ’

‘Don’t,’ I said suddenly. The garden was a magical place, but it was a little uncanny, with the rustling shrubbery and a breeze moving the branches of the trees. ‘Let’s go in. I’ve had enough atmosphere for tonight. I could stand a glass of plain prosaic beer.’

We had our beer, served by Irma, in the room of the château that served as a lounge. The family from Hamburg were playing Skat and the honeymoon couple, in a shadowy corner, were fully occupied with each other. The only person in the room who wasn’t distracted by the squeaks and giggles coming from that corner was the English lady, who sat knitting like a robot, without removing her eyes from her needles. George was nowhere to be seen, and I wondered uneasily about the rustling I had heard in the garden.

When the clock struck ten, there was a general exodus. Apparently Rothenburg, like my home town, rolled up the streets at an early hour. That was fine with me. I had other plans for the middle hours of the night.

At the door I was intercepted by the little man whom Tony had identified, somewhat vaguely, as a professor. He introduced himself with a big broad smile.

‘Ich heisse Schmidt. And you are the American Professorin, nicht? What is it that you teach?’

I admitted to being a historian. I was caught off guard by his blunt approach but it was impossible to resent the little guy. He did look like Santa Claus. Besides, he only came up to my chin. As I have said, I can’t be cruel to little people.

‘And you, Herr Schmidt?’ I asked. ‘Are you perhaps also a historian?’

Herr Schmidt’s eyes shifted. All at once he looked like a very sneaky Santa Claus.

‘Alas, I am no longer anything. I am, as you say, retired. I enjoy a long vacation. And you, I hope you find Rothenburg pleasant? You are, like me, in the older wing of the Schloss? It is charming! Full with atmosphere of the past, very appealing to Americans. But inconvenient, this charm. For example, we must light ourselves to bed. There is no electricity in the old wing.’

He picked up a candle, one of a row which stood atop a chest.

‘So I noticed,’ I said drily.

In a mellow moment Tony lit a candle for me and we found ourselves part of a small procession which wound its medieval way across the court. The candle flame flickered in the wind; I had to shield it with my hand. When we entered the Great Hall, the illusion of antiquity was complete. The feeble flames were overpowered by the vast darkness of the room. They woke a dim reflection in the polished surfaces of helmet and breastplate, giving the armoured shapes an illusion of life and surreptitious movement.

‘I am glad to have company when I cross this room,’ said Schmidt, scampering for the stairs. ‘Brrrr! In candlelight it is too full with atmosphere. I expect to see the countess herself.’

‘The countess?’

‘But yes, have you not heard the legend? The countess walks here, on moonlit nights. Which countess I know not, but she is one of those who has no right to be walking.’

He chuckled. I wasn’t amused. I had a feeling I knew which countess he meant. Nor was I precisely easy in my mind about Herr Schmidt. If ever a name sounded like an alias . . . And he had been decidedly elusive about his occupation.

In the dim light of the candle, my room looked like an apartment in Castle Dracula. I lit the oil lamp beside the bed, lay down, and tried to read. The smoky light made my eyes ache.

It was a warm night, but the room had a clammy chill which the air from the open window didn’t alleviate. I went to the window and looked down into the tangled underbrush beneath. There were no screens in the window; the drop was sheer. To the left was another window – that of Tony’s room, I assumed. It was dark, as were all the other windows I could see.

I looked across the grounds at the bulk of the old keep. The jagged walls made a picturesque outline against the moonlit sky. As I stared, something peculiar happened. For a moment a square of wavering yellow light interrupted the blackness of the tower’s silhouette. Just for a moment; then it was gone.

I gulped, and told myself to be rational. What I had seen was not a ghost light, but a candle, behind one of the windows of the keep. But why would anyone be in the crumbling ruin at this time of night?

A possible answer wasn’t hard to find.

Frowning, I turned from the window and met the enigmatic eyes of the Countess Konstanze.

I lifted the lamp from the table and held it up so that its light fell full on the painted face. It was not one of the world’s great portraits. Though the physical features seemed to be accurately represented, the painter had failed to capture a personality. He had been more successful with the pose – the shape of the head and shoulders, the arrogant tilt of the chin suggested a strength of character not implicit in the expressionless face. The resemblance of the sixteenth-century countess to her downtrodden descendant was probably not one of character; but feature by feature the resemblance was uncannily exact.

‘If you could only talk,’ I muttered – and then made a quick, instinctive gesture of denial. The Gothic atmosphere was thick enough already. A talking portrait would send me screaming out into the night.

I looked at my watch. It was after midnight. The old Schloss and its inhabitants should be sleeping soundly by now. I put on a dark sweater, which I had brought for the purpose of nocturnal prowling, and tied a scarf over my light hair. I found my flashlight, and blew out the lamp.

Talk about dark. I hadn’t seen anything like it since the old days on the farm. The faint moonlight from the window didn’t help much, and when I closed the door of my room behind me the corridor was pitch-black. I didn’t want to use the flashlight until it was necessary, so I stood waiting for my eyes to adjust.

A hand touched my shoulder.

I thought of screaming, but my vocal cords didn’t cooperate. Before I could get them into operation I heard a voice.

‘Hi,’ it whispered.

‘Tony,’ I whispered back. ‘You rat.’

‘Scare you?’

‘Scared? Me?’

‘I figured you’d be prowling tonight. Couldn’t let you go alone. Who knows, you might be nervous.’

‘Sssh!’

‘Come on, let’s get away from all these doors.’

He found my hand and I let him lead me until a turn in the corridor brought light – the sickly sheen on the moon filtering through the leaded panes of a window set high above an ascending stair. Tony stopped.

‘Those are the tower stairs.’

‘I was heading for the Great Hall.’

‘Down this way.’

As we shuffled along the dark passageways, my pulse was uncomfortably quick. The castle was too quiet. There weren’t even the creaks and squeaks of settling timber. This place had settled centuries ago.

Finally we stepped onto the balcony over the Great Hall. I put one hand on the balustrade and moved back in alarm as it gave slightly. The Schloss needed repairs. No doubt there wasn’t enough money. The proud old family of the Drachensteins wouldn’t have gone into the innkeeping business unless they needed cash. I reminded myself not to lean heavily against that balustrade.

Below, in the Hall, the armoured shapes were dim in the grey moonlight. The shadows of tree branches swaying in the night wind slid back and forth across the polished floor . . .

My scalp prickled. That motion was no swaying shadow. There was something moving at the far end of the Hall – something pale and slim, like a column of foggy light.

The thing came out into the moonlight. I forgot my qualms about the shaky banister, and clutched it with straining fingers.

The figure below had the face of the woman in the portrait. I could see it distinctly in the light from the windows, even to its expression. The eyes were set and staring; the face was as blank as the face on the painted canvas.

The apparition wore a long, light robe, with flowing sleeves. The feet – if it had feet – were hidden by the folds of the garment, so that it seemed to float instead of walk. Slowly it glided across the floor, the staring eyes raised, the lips slightly parted.

There was a sound behind us. Tony, who had been equally dumbfounded by the apparition, swore out loud when he recognized the man who had joined us on the gallery. Personally, I was glad to see George. The bigger the crowd, the better, so far as I was concerned.

‘Did you see it?’ Tony demanded. ‘Or am I crazy?’

‘I did see her,’ George said coolly. ‘She’s gone now.’

I turned. The Hall was empty.

Tony ran towards the stairs.

‘Go slow,’ George said, catching his arm. ‘If you wake people like that too suddenly, it can be dangerous.’

‘She – she’s – sleepwalking, isn’t she?’ Tony asked.

‘What else?’

I didn’t say anything. George was right, of course. But I sympathized with Tony. George hadn’t seen that infernal portrait.

Then it hit me, and it was my turn to swear. Maybe George hadn’t seen the portrait, but Tony had; unless he knew of the uncanny resemblance between the two women, one living and one long dead, he wouldn’t have reacted so neurotically to what was – obviously! – a simple case of somnambulism. Tony hadn’t told me about all his research, then. I wondered how many other potentially useful facts he was hoarding.

I followed my two heroes down into the Hall.

‘I think she went this way,’ George said, starting towards the east end of the Hall. ‘You don’t happen to have a flashlight, do you, Lawrence?’

Tony did. The light moved around the room, spotlighting the suits of armour and the black mouth of the fireplace.

‘Wait a minute,’ George said. ‘She couldn’t get out this way. The door is locked.’ He demonstrated, rattling the knob.

‘You said she came this way.’

‘She must have doubled back under the stairs while we were talking. From the gallery that end of the room is not visible. Her room is in the tower, isn’t it?’

He led the way without waiting for an answer. At the opposite end of the Hall an open arch disclosed the first steps of a narrow stair.

‘We’d better check,’ Tony muttered. ‘Make sure the girl doesn’t hurt herself, wandering around . . . Follow me.’

The upper floor was a maze of corridors, but Tony threaded a path through them without hesitating once – another proof, if I needed any, that Tony had already explored the Schloss thoroughly. So, I reminded myself, we were not collaborating. He didn’t have to tell me anything . . . I wished I knew what George had been doing. I could feel his presence close behind me. For a big man he was very light on his feet.

On the first floor of the tower Tony tried a door. It creaked open. The flashlight showed an unfurnished circular chamber with rags of mouldering tapestry on the walls.

‘Nobody lives here,’ said George, peering over my shoulder. ‘Irma must be on the next floor.’

The stairs led up to a narrow landing with a faded strip of carpet across the floor. There was a single door. Tony hesitated, but George marched up to the door and turned the knob. His face changed.

‘Lawrence. Look at this.’

‘What’s the matter?’

George grabbed his hand and directed the flashlight beam onto the doorknob. Below it was a large keyhole, with the shaft of an iron key projecting from it. Tony gaped; but I didn’t need George’s comment to get the point.

‘Door’s locked. From the outside. Either this is not Irma’s room – or that wasn’t Irma we saw walking tonight.’