‘Hello, Mr Essenbach. I’m looking for my dad. You haven’t seen him, have you?’
‘I saw him at breakfast, but then he went for a morning stroll. I’ll bet he’s joined the goat hunt. Did you hear? One of them has escaped the pen.’ Oliver grinned. ‘I would have helped, but Bertha has told me the location of the key to the private library.’ He looked excited. ‘I’m hoping to discover something that will shine a new light on Faust.’
‘This mountain, the Brocken . . . That’s in Faust, isn’t it?’
Oliver nodded. ‘It’s a very interesting place.’
‘Because of witches?’
‘Not just witches. Stories tell of the flat summit being created by the stamp of a giant horse’s hoof, and that a troop of ghastly huntsmen ride through the ancient forests. The Brocken is steeped in folklore. I think it is because of the weather.’
‘The weather?’
‘The Brocken is misty nearly all year. That’s what causes the spectre.’
‘There are ghosts here?’
‘No.’ Oliver laughed. ‘The Brocken spectre is not a ghost– it’s a weather phenomenon. If you climb to the summit and look down into the mist, with the sun behind you, your shadow is projected on to the cloud. The angle makes a giant moving ghost with a rainbow aura. Climbers throughout history have been literally terrified by their own shadows.’
‘This place is so full of stories it’s confusing –’ Hal shook his head – ‘and they all seem to be scary.’
‘Its history is one of the reasons this place is so popular with tourists – and the ancient forest and wildlife,’ Oliver conceded. ‘The Brocken is the highest mountain of the Harz. In the Second World War, its television tower made it a target for Allied bombing.’
‘It was bombed?’
‘Yes. Then after the war the Russians came, and the Brocken became a security zone – a military fortress – because it was part of the border between East and West Germany. A concrete wall was built round the top of the mountain. No one was allowed up it. Border guards were stationed there. The Stasi – the East German secret police – turned the summit into a listening post, and the Soviet Red Army . . .’
Though Hal was interested in the history of the Brocken, it wasn’t going to help him find the key to his cypher and so he interrupted. ‘Mr Essenbach, what is so special about Faust? It seems to be about sly devils, farting witches and stinky goats?’
‘Some of it is funny –’ Oliver chuckled – ‘but the play is a conversation between the devil and a man about the meaning of existence: the perils and flaws of being human. It has big truths in it. That’s why it’s an important story. “Each sees in the world what he holds in his heart.” That’s from the Prelude in the Theatre, line one hundred and seventy something, depending on the translation.’
‘Because plays are made up of lines!’ Hal exclaimed. ‘Thank you, Mr Essenbach. You’ve been a great help.’ He put his hand on the door handle.
‘Glad to be of service,’ Oliver said, looking confused.
‘I’m going to leave a note for my dad,’ Hal said. ‘Enjoy the library.’
‘Oh yes, I will.’ Oliver nodded and walked away with a skip in his step.
The room was empty. Wherever Uncle Nat had gone after his visit to the station, he hadn’t yet returned. Hal’s eyes went straight to the nightstand. Faust was gone. He looked around the room. Then he saw it on the writing desk, in a stack with other books. Closing the door, he ran to the desk, sliding the book out and flicking through the pages. The piece of paper marking a page was gone. He saw tiny line numbers written in the margin of the pages. The play didn’t have acts or scenes, just lines. He turned the pages till he found line 3956, took out his pocketbook and scribbled it and the next line down:
Up Brocken mountain witches fly,
When stubble is yellow and green the crop.
There was that mention of witches again. His heart was racing. He didn’t want to get caught snooping, but he had to find out what the message said. Replacing the book in the pile, he ran back to the door, looked once around the room, making sure he hadn’t disturbed anything, and stepped outside, checking the coast was clear.
Hurrying to the first door beyond the guest rooms, he found it was a linen cupboard with shelves of sheets and towels, and a pile of cleaning materials. Scurrying inside, he listened with his ear pressed against the wood for a second, then looked down at pocketbook. He had the key! Turning round, he saw a beady-eyed vulture perched on a bleached white branch bolted to the wall above the shelves, looking judgmental.
‘What are you looking at?’ Hal said to the vulture as he sat on the floor.
First, he wrote out the alphabet, then underneath it he wrote the sequential letters from the lines of Faust. He flicked the page between the key and the message.
The first letter of the message was an N followed by a 2. He frowned. There were no numbers in the key. What did 2 mean? He looked at the key again and saw that there were three Ns. He realized the number two indicated it was the second N in the key, which would make it an M. Hal ran his finger along the key until he came to the second N in the line, the N of mountain, and saw it was underneath M. He wrote down M on a fresh page. The next letter was O, which was an E.
‘M . . . E . . .’ he muttered.
He kept going, decoding the next letters as S, S, A, G . . .
‘Message!’ Hal whispered feeling a flash of excitement. He’d done it! He’d worked out the key. He decoded the rest of the message.
MESSAGE RECEIVED. HANGMAN DEACTIVATED. IF OUR DRIED-UP ASSET ISN’T COMPROMISED, I WILL STAND DOWN. THE CASE IS EITHER NATURAL OR A DOMESTIC CRIME.
THE SIGNALMAN
Hal stared at the paper. He had no idea what the message meant. There was that word HANGMAN again. It must have some special meaning. Hal guessed that THE CASE was a reference to Alexander Kratzenstein’s mysterious death, but what was a DRIED-UP ASSET? And who was THE SIGNALMAN?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE SIGNALMAN
It dawned on Hal that he hadn’t talked freely with Uncle Nat since Friday morning. Had his uncle purposefully been avoiding him? Was he the Signalman? The realization that he might not know his uncle as well as he thought he did shook him. He suddenly missed the comforting warmth of his mother’s smile and the joyful face-licks of his dog, Bailey.
Looking down at the pocketbook, he felt a flush of guilt. He wanted to find his uncle, ask him all the questions buzzing in his head, but he couldn’t do that without admitting he’d been investigating him. And then it occurred to him that in investigating his uncle he had been distracted from the mystery the baron had brought him here to solve.
Tucking his pocketbook away, Hal got to his feet, deciding that he should focus his attention on the dangers of Dead Man’s Pass. Someone had sent a cascade of snow and rock down on him and Herman, and he’d almost forgotten the clue he’d discovered in the skull’s nose.
Checking the coast was clear, he slipped out of the linen cupboard. There was a circular gold-framed mirror hanging beside the wooden arch, and he stopped to look in it. He took off his glasses and flattened his fringe down.
‘Come on, Hal,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Think. Something is going on in this house. Someone is up to no good. Who is it?’
Hearing a clunk, he hurriedly put his glasses on and withdrew into the shadows, peering along the corridor. Bertha emerged from the corridor that led to her rooms. Her eyes were swollen, and he wondered if it had been her he’d heard crying earlier. His mind flashed up the image of the paper sticking out of her desk drawer. Was it Alexander’s missing will? Tiptoeing to the corner, he watched her disappear down the stairs to the kitchen.
There was only one way to find out what that piece of paper was, and this might be his only chance to look.
Creeping into Bertha’s private living room, Hal ran to her desk drawer. The paper was no longer sticking out. He pulled at the drawer and found it was locked. The other drawer
s were unlocked, but contained no key. Whatever was in that drawer, Bertha didn’t want people to see it. He scanned the room, running his fingers along the top of the window frame and searching in all the obvious places.
‘If I were Bertha, where would I keep the key to my private papers?’ Hal muttered to himself, trying to ignore his racing heart.
Then he thought of the family photo in her bedroom. It was the only personal item in her rooms. On a hunch, he scurried into the bedroom, and, going to her bedside table, he lifted the framed photograph and turned it round.
‘Bingo!’
Taped to the back of the frame was a small silver key.
With shaking hands, he tried the key in the lock. It fitted. His ears strained for the clickety-clack of Bertha’s footsteps as he opened the drawer. He felt a flare of triumph as he pulled out the wad of papers inside. But when he skimmed through them his triumph crumbled to ashes. He was holding well-worn hand-written pages, letters. They were written in German, so he couldn’t read them, but each one was addressed to Bertha and signed by Alexander. The ink was blurred in places by spots of water, probably tears. There were kisses at the bottom of each letter. He hadn’t found the missing will. These were love letters from a young Alexander to a young Bertha.
Carefully replacing them, Hal locked the drawer and taped the key to the back of the picture frame again, his insides burning with shame. He ran into the bedroom, desperate to get out of there. He put it down clumsily and it fell over with a clunk. He stood it back up and edged out of the room and into the corridor.
‘Hal?’ His uncle’s voice made him jump. ‘What are you doing?’ Hal spun round. There was a judgmental look on Uncle Nat’s face.
‘What are you doing, more like?’ he blurted out. ‘Signalman.’ Immediately shocked that he’d said it, Hal held his breath.
Uncle Nat stiffened, then checked over his shoulder, making sure no one had heard. ‘Come with me.’ He calmly put a hand on Hal’s back and guided him back along the corridor.
Entering his uncle’s room, Hal was certain he was in big trouble.
Uncle Nat picked up the desk chair and placed it next to the basin in the corner of the room. ‘Sit down.’ He put his finger to his lips, to show Hal should be silent, and went and closed the door. Returning, he turned the taps on full so that the water ran gurgling into the plughole. Perching on the corner of the bed, he leaned forward so that his head was close to Hal’s. ‘I would like you to tell me what you know,’ he said in a quiet, serious voice.
Hal swallowed. ‘I saw you at the station.’ He matched his voice to his uncle’s tone. ‘I found the message in the rat.’
Uncle Nat drew in a long breath. ‘Did you remove it?’
‘No. I copied it and put it back.’
‘Excellent.’ Uncle Nat nodded. ‘Well done.’
‘Why are the taps running?’ Hal glanced at the sink.
‘I’m using the running water as interference, in case anyone is listening to us.’
Hal looked at the door in alarm. ‘Who would be listening?’ He felt a shiver of fear.
‘Have you told anyone about the message?’
Hal shook his head.
‘Good.’ Uncle Nat pushed his glasses up his nose, pausing to think. ‘Hal, I’m going to tell you something that is a secret, a grown-up secret. But, before I do, I must ask you to promise not to tell anyone, ever. Not even your mum and dad.’
The hairs on the back of Hal’s neck rose. ‘I promise.’
‘Thank you.’ His eyes wandered as he considered how to begin. ‘Some time ago, I was what they call . . . a birdwatcher.’
‘A birdwatcher?’
‘An intelligence officer. I worked for the Secret Intelligence Service, gathering and transporting intelligence – information. My code name was the Signalman. My job as a travel journalist was a convenient cover, allowing me to connect with operatives all over the world.’
Hal stared at his uncle. ‘You were a spy?’
‘Yes,’ said Uncle Nat, meeting his eyes. ‘I was a spy.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
A BIRDWATCHER
‘It was a long time ago,’ Uncle Nat explained, ‘back when you were very little.’
‘How did you become a spy?’
‘I was recruited at university. I spoke several languages. I liked travel. It seemed like an interesting job at the time.’
‘Then why did you give it up?’
Uncle Nat smiled. ‘I fell in love. My priorities changed when I met James.’
‘The baron knows you were a spy!’ Hal realized. ‘That’s why he wrote to you.’
‘He wrote to us because he didn’t understand what was happening here, and one of the things he was concerned about relates to my old job. He hoped I could look into it.’
‘HANGMAN,’ Hal said.
‘Yes. Hangman.’
‘What does it mean?’
‘It’s a coded alert used when the life of an agent, or an asset, is in danger.’
‘But Alexander was already dead . . .’ Hal’s brain made a series of connections, and he suddenly saw the truth. ‘It wasn’t Alexander the baron was worried about, was it? It was Arnold. He’s the dried-up asset in the message.’
‘How did you work that out?’
‘There’s a red lantern in the topmost window of the tower. Arnold turns it on using his model trains. Last night, when you went out in the snow, the lantern was on. I noticed the red light behind Arnie when he’d played his trick on us with the bat. The red light is a signal.’
Uncle Nat looked impressed. ‘It’s a signal that a communication is being made.’
‘A signal to who? Arnold’s spy contacts?’
‘During the Cold War, Arnold was an informant. His railway lines were the backbone of the Soviet Union’s presence here, so he knew a lot about what they were doing. He lived and worked in East Germany, but he shared valuable secrets with the West. After the reunification of Germany, he no longer needed to do it, and retired.’ Uncle Nat shook his head. ‘This was long before you were born, but if the wrong people found out what he did back then his life could be in danger now. They would see him as a traitor.’
‘Arnold thinks Alexander was killed by mistake because someone was after him.’
Uncle Nat nodded. ‘He called the baron because he thought his life, and those of the people living here, were in danger.’
‘Is the baron a spy?’
‘No, the baron is an ally. In the past, he’s provided safe houses and helped operatives in trouble.’
‘Do spies really leave each other messages inside dead rats?’ Hal wrinkled his nose. ‘It’s not very glamorous.’
‘It’s called a dead drop.’ Uncle Nat chuckled. ‘It’s a way for agents to leave messages for each other when it’s not safe for them to meet. In Berlin, I visited an old friend who told me how to contact an agent in Wernigerode – someone who’d know about Arnold having been exposed as an informant. The local agent I’ve been communicating with, through the dead drop, is only known to me as Arctic Fox. They’ve assured me this is not a Hangman situation – Arnold’s life is not in danger.’
‘You think Alexander died naturally, or his death was a domestic crime,’ Hal said, repeating the message.
‘Yes, but I’m curious. Tell me, how did you know how to decode the message?’
‘I spotted HANGMAN in the baron’s letter in Paris, and then I realized that Faust was the key to the code because it was the book he recommended that you buy.’ Hal didn’t admit that without Hilda’s help he would never have worked it out.
‘Ha!’ Uncle Nat sat back. ‘Thank goodness most humans aren’t as observant as you.’
‘Is an asset the same as a birdwatcher?’ Hal asked, groping with the terminology.
‘No. An asset is a person who gathers information to pass on, or disseminates false information. They stay in one place. A birdwatcher travels.’
Hal looked at his uncle. ‘Did you like being a
spy?’
‘Not enough to keep being one,’ Uncle Nat replied. ‘But enough about me. What about you? How have your investigations been going?’
‘The baron is right – there is something strange going on here,’ Hal said. ‘But I can’t work out who is behind it or why.’ He told his uncle about finding the commonplace book with the turned-down page, the incident of the rocks falling on to the sledge and about Aksel’s locket and the strange comment he’d made about the Kratzensteins. ‘I’ve looked everywhere for the missing will, but I haven’t found it. Ozan overheard Freya and Rada saying they were here, in Wernigerode, when Alexander died, and they’re planning something, but we don’t know what.’
‘Freya was here?’ Uncle Nat was startled.
‘Yes, and she’s picking lots of strange plants. She’s got a weird copper cauldron in her room that she told me she uses for making potions.’ Hal looked at his uncle meaningfully.
‘And you think . . . ?’
‘Well, she’s got a black cat and a cauldron . . .’ Hal started to say, and Uncle Nat laughed. ‘What?’
‘Freya is a very successful perfumier. She lives in Cologne and has a laboratory of people making exclusive perfumes for those who can afford them. She’s known for having a nose for unusual blends of scent. I guess you could call her perfumes potions.’ He paused. ‘But it’s strange that she was in Wernigerode when Alexander died. I wonder what she was doing here.’
‘Could Freya have a reason to get rid of the missing will?’
‘She has enough money of her own, so unless she’s interested in a controlling share of K-Bahn – which I doubt she is – I don’t think so. Alexander left everything to Clara and Herman, which makes Bertha and Arnie suspects.’
‘Bertha loved Alexander.’
‘Once, but she had an argument with him the night he died. She was angry that he’d hired Connie to look after Arnold. She thought he was trying to push her out of Schloss Kratzenstein, and she was probably right.’
‘No, Bertha would never have killed Alexander,’ Hal said, thinking of the love letters she kept locked away in her desk.
Danger at Dead Man's Pass Page 13
