Circle of Shadows caw-4

by Imogen Robertson

  ‘Whelp was caught stealing.’

  ‘Will no one help her?’

  ‘And risk a whipping themselves? No fear. Let her look to him. He is to be let down at dusk anyhow.’ Michaels looked up; the sun was not yet near its heights.

  ‘What did he steal?’

  ‘Water from the river, maybe. Headman asked the widow to keep house for him, but she’s too proud to fulfil all her duties.’

  The other man laughed quietly to himself, then caught the expression on Michaels’s face and stopped.

  ‘What’s your business here?’ the first man asked.

  ‘Looking for someone. Woman, perhaps came through here two year ago, maybe stopped near here a while. Black hair, she wore down.’

  ‘She ain’t here no more. Never saw anyone like her.’ His answer was a bit quick and Michaels saw the other man’s eyes flick right and left.

  ‘Is that so? Who does the whipping?’

  The man nodded towards the forge. Michaels set a coin on the table. ‘See that someone feeds and waters my horse.’

  He stood for a while considering the woman and child. To intervene might prevent him making any further search for Beatrice. He remembered his offer to Mrs Westerman to kill Manzerotti and disappear into the forests and make his own way home. He thought of his wife and children in Hartswood. He didn’t want to make the life of Mr and Mrs Clode more difficult, but he couldn’t unsee this, and there’d be no real point in going home at all if he couldn’t look his family in the eye. He realised in truth the decision had been made before he even started to think on it. He crossed the square and walked into the smithy the man had nodded at. He found hammer and chisel on the work-bench and turned to go, when a shout stopped him.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’ A man his own height and wider by some margin came lumbering out of the back of the building, pulling his breeches closed. A young thin-looking woman followed him, smoothing her skirt. She slipped past Michaels and turned the corner without looking back. Michaels considered the man. His head was shaven and there were veins pulsing round his neck. His flab hung in bags at his waist, but his shoulders were broad, his arms long and his hands heavy-looking. Again Michaels thought of his mother’s fairytales.

  ‘Just borrowing these,’ he said, and walked out of the house. He heard the man shouting behind him. He sounded confused. Michaels lifted the hammer and chisel as he walked; he saw the woman’s face, frightened and tear-streaked. She held up a hand as if to ward him away, but before she could move further he placed the chisel on the chain and struck it. It split apart and the ends ran free of the ringbolt with a satisfying clatter. The woman took the boy’s falling weight and Michaels heard the child groan. He had just enough time to turn and duck under the hammer blow aimed at his head. The blacksmith staggered.

  Michaels stepped away from him, and the blacksmith charged again. Michaels waited, then again danced away from the blow. The blacksmith was panting.

  ‘There now, you’re just wearing yourself out, fella,’ Michaels said. ‘Not used to hitting people who ain’t been tied up first, are you?’

  In reply, the blacksmith dropped the hammer and charged at him head down, but this time he was ready for Michaels’s dodge and twisted enough to grab him round the waist. Michaels went down, but managed to squirm out from under the blacksmith’s falling body and scramble to his feet. The blacksmith’s left hand shot out, caught Michaels on the ankle and pulled him down again. Michaels kicked out hard with his right leg, bringing his heel down on the blacksmith’s face, and felt the nose break. The man roared with pain and let go of his ankle. Michaels threw himself across his back, got his arm around the man’s throat and pulled. The blacksmith’s arms paddled in the dirt and his eyes bulged.

  ‘Which arm do you use for your whipping?’ Michaels spoke through clenched teeth.

  ‘Get him off me, you bastards! Get him off!’

  ‘No one’s coming, fella.’

  ‘I’ll kill every bastard one of you for this! Fuck you all, fuck you all to hell!’

  There were people watching from all sides now, silent, expressionless.

  ‘Which arm?’ Michaels punched him sharply in the kidneys so the blacksmith yelled and writhed.

  ‘Left! Left, you motherfucking son of a bitch.’

  Michaels paused for a second, remembering the hammer blow. ‘Nice try.’ He stood and dragged him through the dirt to the stone steps leading up to the flogging post, then knelt on his back and yanked the blacksmith’s right arm out so the forearm rested between the two lowest raises. The blacksmith yelled out again but Michaels drove down with his open palm and felt the bone snap. The blacksmith screamed. Michaels stood, spat onto the dirt and watched for a moment. Then knocked some of the dust off his coat and turned to go.

  ‘Murderer …’ the blacksmith managed. Michaels paused.

  ‘What’s that, fella?’

  ‘You heard.’ The words came out between sharp pants. The blacksmith’s face was yellowish-white, like milk on the turn.

  ‘Bollocks. It’s a clean break. You’ll mend.’

  ‘You’ve murdered me, I tell you! If you go now, they’ll kill me,’ he hissed.

  Michaels looked about him. A couple of sour-looking youths had emerged from the buildings around them to watch the fun. One had a shovel in his hand. His face was pinched and he carried his head forward and his shoulders high. There was a glittering in the air and Michaels knew the taste of it. Normally when a fight was done, tension fell away, it was the same lightness that came after a thunderstorm. This air, this sense of heaviness, meant violence to come. He cursed under his breath and crouched down. The blacksmith’s cheek was pressed into the dirt, the fat of his face forcing his right eye closed.

  ‘You got any friends here willing to shelter you?’

  His left eye glittered with hope and he spoke quickly, his words flickered with spit and fear. ‘The pastor’s — Pastor Huber … His house is down the track past the forge.’

  Michaels looked at him. The man was worth nothing, and to take him would rob the growing crowd of its revenge for all the beatings he’d given out. He thought of his wife again, remembering an argument they had had about some business in Hartswood. ‘You’re not God, Michaels!’ she had said.

  ‘We’re going now.’ He got the man’s good arm over his shoulder and hauled him up, thanking God he hadn’t broken the bastard’s legs. He felt the crowd watching him, jealous, angry, but it was leaderless now. If one man had stepped forward and claimed the blacksmith, the rest would have followed, but no one did. ‘We don’t run, we don’t dawdle,’ Michaels said, and taking as much weight as he could, half-dragged the blacksmith from the square.

  V.5

  After some minutes breathing in the fresh air, Harriet found that Crowther had joined her. He stood a few feet away from her, leaning on the head of his cane and watching. It was typical of him, she thought, to remain at hand, but not approach her too solicitously. Rather he waited until she had recovered enough to speak. At last she lifted her head and looked about her. It was still early. The entrance to the Lady’s Chapel lay in a small enclosed courtyard, high-walled and hardly overlooked. There were a number of neat piles of workmen’s tools and a stone bench against one wall. Its plainness was a relief in comparison to the rest of the palace, and the slight chill in the air was welcome. The two men guarding the chapel doors kept their eyes on the empty air in front of their noses.

  Crowther saw her lift her head, and nodding towards the bench, he crossed the space between them and offered his arm. She took it and let herself be guided. As soon as they had taken their seat he reached into his coat-pocket and produced a document, much decorated with ribbon and seals.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘The order for Daniel’s release.’

  ‘Krall gave it to you?’

  ‘He procured it while we had our coffee and had it in his coat all the time. I feel as if it is a reward for having spotted the tri
ckery in the placing of the body.’

  She took it from him and traced with her fingertip the impression of the seal of Maulberg. ‘How strange. We came all this distance to obtain this. I should feel elated, should I not?’

  He began to twist his cane between his palms. ‘We came to save Daniel, yes. But we also came to know the truth. To find out what has happened.’

  ‘Where is Krall?’

  ‘He has gone to fetch my knives for me.’

  ‘Did he say anything to you about this mysterious chamber?’

  ‘He seems to think it was a place for confidential meetings. That is his speculation, at any rate. He asks us to let him interrogate Major Auwerk himself.’ She nodded. ‘It seems we were not the Countess’s first visitors, Mrs Westerman. The Duke came and sat vigil with her as dawn came up.’

  Harriet sighed deeply. ‘I will never know what is meant here, and what is true. Do you trust Krall?’

  Crowther shook his head. ‘I don’t think I trust anything I see here. My instinct is to think Krall honest and well-meaning, but that is my prejudice. I see the show and fakery of the court and do not like it. Therefore when I see Krall looking ill at ease amongst it in his old coat, I am disposed to like him. There is no logic in it. Do you trust him, Mrs Westerman?’

  She smiled slightly. ‘You put faith in my instinct, Crowther? I have learned to my cost it is not so accurate as I would like, but my feelings are as yours on the subject.’

  She pulled one of the ribbons on the release order through her fingers. She could hear the usual shouts and orders coming from the other courtyards now. The palace was waking.

  ‘Have you ever seen anything like this murder, Crowther?’ she said at last.

  ‘No, Mrs Westerman. I imagine few people have.’

  ‘I cannot help remembering what you told us of Kupfel’s drug. I wish he had not told you about the continued suffering of those rendered passive by it.’

  ‘May I suggest you do not dwell on the subject? Whatever hell they passed through, their sufferings are over now.’

  She did not reply at once, then: ‘Why does he want their blood, Crowther? I had been almost seduced by Graves’s talk of revolutionary Freemasons into thinking these killings had some sort of political intention behind them, then the blood and that symbol. This is some manner of ritual.’

  ‘Freemasonry is all ritual, in my opinion. It makes the members feel they are more than some ordinary drinking society, but this is a step beyond anything I have heard imputed to any branch of Masonry I know of. No mention of collecting blood, or smothering people with earth.’

  ‘A pity. It would have made life rather more simple.’ She sat forward and put her chin in her hand, tapping Daniel’s release order against her skirt. ‘The elements. We have three of the four: water, earth — fire, possibly, if Warburg is another victim — what of air?’

  ‘It is a very easy thing to smother a person who is incapacitated. Close the mouth, pinch the nose. In the absence of any other of the four elements at the death of Fink and Raben, I would suggest that this insanity could say they were killed by air, or rather, the lack of it.’

  ‘It has a rather twisted logic to it.’ She stared at the flagstones in front of her. ‘Why do people perform rituals? Make sacrifices?’

  ‘To gain some advantage, some blessing from the gods.’

  ‘I read a rather colourful account of instances of human sacrifice in my father’s library,’ she said. ‘Peoples who were in the habit of killing prisoners or their own kin for success in wars or some such.’

  He smiled. ‘I am surprised your father let you read such things.’

  ‘Oh, I was forbidden to do so. But he often forgot to lock his study door. Crowther, if these are sacrifices, these victims with rank and position, I feel that whoever is offering them must be asking for a very great favour from his gods. And there is another matter,’ she went on. ‘If we are right, and the blood is being removed from the place of killing …’

  ‘We are right. The blood flowed, the blood is no longer there. Ergo, it has been removed.’

  She lifted her hand, impatient at the interruption. ‘Then perhaps we are not seeing the ritual, but only a part of it. He is doing something else with the blood.’

  ‘I see.’

  At last she stood and smoothed her skirts.

  ‘I mean to track down this symbol that was on the door, Crowther. And put the order for Daniel’s release into Rachel’s hands.’

  ‘You will tell them of the murder of Countess Dieth?’

  ‘I shall.’

  ‘It is to be given out that Countess Dieth has gone into the country.’

  ‘Naturally. The new Duchess arrives in state tomorrow morning, does she not? Poor child.’ She turned away. ‘I shall leave you to the Countess. I wish I had had the opportunity to speak with her further.’ She bit her lip, then without another word, left him.

  The priest, Huber, opened his door himself, but when he made no move to stand aside, Michaels gave it a firm push and dragged in the blacksmith. The priest stank of brandy, though if they were fumes lingering from the night before or he had started again, Michaels could not say. He saw a simple parlour with a sturdy-looking chair in it, so dropped the blacksmith there.

  Huber looked baffled, and Michaels paused, wondering what explanations he should try and give. Then he simply walked out of the door again. Let them sort it for themselves. It was possible they would come after him, but Michaels had not given his name, and it didn’t look like anyone would be seeking that hard for justice on the blacksmith’s behalf. Still, it would be best not to linger. He walked back up the track again, knowing the rabble would not turn on him now the blacksmith was put away. As he entered the square he saw the young man with the shovel in the forge. It looked as if he and his friends had found the blacksmith’s strongbox, and were trying to break it open. The woman and her child were gone. He went to untie his horse. His mount had felt some of the violence in the air and was blowing hard through her nose. He put a hand on her neck and murmured to her. The words weren’t important, but she needed the touch, the steadying from him. He felt her muscles beginning to relax a little.

  The skinny girl he had seen at the blacksmith’s came running up and slid to a halt at his side. Her eyes were a little vacant and the bones at her collar stuck out like a bird’s.

  ‘They said you were looking for the witch.’

  Michaels continued to stroke his horse. ‘Looking for a girl, bit older than you, might have come through here two years ago.’

  ‘She had black hair. Never seen hair like it. Devil must have spat in it to make it so shiny.’

  ‘You know her then?’

  The girl began to chew at one of her fingernails. ‘She wandered round here from time to time. I saw her. Three times.’ She held up three fingers to show him, her nails bitten and dirty.

  ‘Where was she staying?’

  ‘Dunno. She’s dead. Came with her head held high and no nod or smile for anyone. Time one. She was a witch. Saw her out in the fields. Time two. Then I saw the devil himself burying her. Time three. She’s dead. Just before the first snow.’

  Michaels nodded very slowly. ‘The devil, you say? And where did he bury her?’

  ‘By the waterfall.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  She swung from side to side so her thin skirts swished around her ankles, chewing her thumbnail and staring at him. ‘Path goes up from old Rebecca’s place. You passed it if you came in from the big town. Steep. Your horsey won’t like it. You’ll have to walk.’

  Michaels ran his hand through the horse’s mane. It snorted and shook its head. ‘How come you saw it?’

  She kept swinging from side to side. ‘I like it there. Here is not nice. I only come when I am hungry. Would you like to know what the devil looks like?’

  ‘I think I should.’

  She stopped swinging and gave a little skip, speaking so fast Michaels could hardly keep pace with the se
nse of it. ‘Like a man! Tall and thin with a long black cloak! I hid in the bushes and watched for a while, then the devil made me sleep, so I never saw him disappear. I liked her hair. I made a wreath for her, even if she was a witch. I am glad the devil buries his servants somewhere pretty. Maybe I should work for him.’

  Michaels slowly took a coin from his pocket and put it out towards her, but she stepped away as if he’d held out something foul. ‘They’ll only beat me for it.’

  He put it back into his pocket then swung himself onto his horse. She watched him.

  ‘He’ll have to go away now.’

  He turned and looked at her with a frown. ‘The blacksmith?’ She nodded. ‘That any hurt to you?’

  ‘No.’ She was chewing her finger again.

  ‘By the waterfall, you say?’

  ‘I think maybe I’d like to be a witch.’

  ‘Even though you see what happens to them? Better learn your prayers.’ She wrinkled her nose and made a tsking note in her throat.

  ‘Do you know where she was going? When she first came through the village?’

  ‘Westways,’ she said, then turned to walk off, now dragging her feet.

  Michaels gently pressed his horse’s flanks with his heels. An hour later he was back with the egg-seller in Oberbach. He tipped his hat to her. ‘What’s your priest like here, sister?’ he asked quietly.

  V.6

  Harriet delivered the warrant for Clode’s release to Rachel and Graves while they drank their coffee. They were delighted to have it, then shocked into silence by her news of the murder of Countess Dieth. When she explained the symbol to them, Graves mentioned that he had met the gentleman in charge of the library, and offered to accompany her there and give her an introduction before leaving for Castle Grenzhow.

  ‘If you can wait, Rachel,’ he added gently to her. Rachel had taken the order for Clode’s release from the table where Harriet had placed it, and held it tightly between her white hands. She gave a quick nod.

  ‘I think I have a little courage left. Go. I can wait a while longer.’