Writ in blood : a novel of Saint-Germain

by Yarbro, Chelsea Quinn, 1942-

  Your man here, the one I have designated Eduard Angebot, is prov-ing difficult to deal with: he thinks this is some kind of game we are playing, and that there are no more serious consequences than a black mark on a record book. I have tried to explain to him that mens lives are at stake, but he has no conception of the brutality of the contestants. I would very much appreciate it if you would set him to rights as soon as possible—I fear for the lives of my operatives if he continues to blunder about as if this were blind-man’s-bluff. If he cannot be taught, then I request you assign another intermediary to me at once, before anyone gets killed.

  Sidney Reilly (Capt.)

  4

  Near the Schloss there were birches; on the rising flank of the mountain were oak, larch, and pine, all vibrantly green in the August heat. The sky overhead was unrelenting blue, but towering clouds far to the west might well bring rain before nightfall, at least that was the opinion of Bertram Grunbach, the Deputy Minister of Finance, who was the first of nine guests to arrive.

  “They are saying at the Hausham station that the road to Stamberg is being repaired; there is gravel everywhere. If it rains, it could be

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  closed. I stopped there for instructions to your Schloss.” His long, lugubrious face made any observation seem to have tragic meaning. Behind him, his squat Swiss valet struggled with two large bags.

  “I had not planned to go to Starnberg, so the condition of the road is of little importance to me, although I am grateful for the timely warning,” said Ragoczy calmly. “Thank you for coming, Herr Grunbach. It is a pleasure to welcome you to my Schloss.”

  “No doubt,” said Grunbach, looking about the entry hall with a critical eye. “What is this place—two hundred years old?”

  “Closer to three hundred twenty, as I understand; completed in the late fifteen hundreds, according to the records.” Ragoczy did not allow Grunbach s superior attitude to offend him. “It came into my . . . family in 1735,1 believe.” He had been in The Netherlands, establishing a private press and studying botany for the years immediately previous to his purchase of the Schloss, and before that he had spent two decades traveling about Europe making a reputation for himself playing the violin; having a place of his own had become irresistible. He indicated the nearest staircase. “My manservant will show you to your rooms, if you would be good enough to follow him? Then you may join me in my study. It is on the north side of the Schloss; the second door along the corridor on the left.”

  Bertram Grunbach scowled, but did as Ragoczy suggested, saying to his valet, “You will have to find your own quarters, I suppose.”

  “I will show him,” Roger assured Grunbach from his place on the landing. “Do not concern yourself.”

  This implication that he might let a servants predicament bother him annoyed Grunbach, who climbed more quickly, calling back over his shoulder that he would be down again directly and leaving his valet to pant after him, Grunbach s luggage making him clumsy as a bear.

  Twenty minutes later Euchary Apfelobstgarten—tall, pale and muscular—arrived in a two-year-old 20-30 Spyker, followed within minutes by Johann von Traunreuth of the Ministry of War, and Leopold Oberstetten of the Berliner Morgenblatt, whose political connections made him almost as powerful as the Ministries he reported on. As soon as these men—both middle-aged and portly—were escorted to their rooms, a Benz tourer pulled up, and three more guests got out—Vol-ger Kraftig, Lothar Teich, and Paul von Nordlingen, all from the Chancellor’s office: Kraftig was fretting from the journey, his lank hair fallen over his brow; Teich affected a sophisticated languor; von Nordlingen was open-faced and eager. Their servants arrived a short while later in

  an older De Dion Populaire, crammed in among suitcases and trunks sufficient for a safari.

  Von Nordlingen made a point to address his host with courtesy and to compliment him on the quality of restoration done to the Schloss since his great-great-great-grand-father had ruined himself at gambling and had sold off all the holdings he could in a vain effort to recoup his fortune. He did his very best frank smile as he said, “I don’t know how your ancestor knew to pay half the money to Fredrich s wife, but without his prudence, I shudder to think what would have become of us.”

  “I am gratified to accept your thanks on his behalf,” said Ragoczy with a hint of a bow and an ironic light in his eyes.

  “Your . . . was it great-great-great-uncle? ... is the preserver of our family,” von Nordlingen continued.

  “I am a trifle vague on our exact degree of relation,” said Ragoczy smoothly, remembering precisely how he documented his claim to the Schloss he had purchased from the bankrupt Fredrich von Nordlingen. “By now I am sure any obligation is . . . diluted, for both of us.” There had been many times in the past when he had come to realize that gratitude and resentment were two faces of the same coin and he had no desire to evoke such an emotion in Paul von Nordlingen; the hunting party would be tricky enough without that.

  The guests had all gathered in the study for sherry and schnapps when the last two invited men arrived: Koenig Einlass, and Werner Ho-hepfad, both functionaries in the Ministry of War advising on scientific developments, both intellectually energetic, both striving to make a mark in their work, both young enough to know they had not yet proven themselves. They and their manservants had been driven up from the station at Hausham, having shared a compartment on the train from Berlin. By the time they arrived in the study, the generator in the wine cellar was operating and the lights had been turned on, bringing a glow to the long summer twilight; all the rest of the guests were on their second drink and were enjoying the hot Hungarian sausages that Roger had just brought from the kitchen. A small fire burned in the hearth more to show hospitality than to provide any needed warmth.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” said Ragoczy, coming to greet the new arrivals. “What may I pour for you?”

  Hohepfad surprised the others by saying, “Scotch, if you have it.”

  “Certainly,” was Ragoczy s urbane response. “Single malt?”

  “If you have it,” Hohepfad repeated, taken aback by the offer. He generally requested the drink to show his sophistication and rarely ac-

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  tually had to drink the stuff. Knowing any hesitation would embarrass him more than Ragoczy, he held out his hand for the squat glass the Count offered.

  “There will be a light supper laid out in the dining room at eleven,” Ragoczy went on when he had finished pouring drinks and handing them to his guests. “I recommend getting a good nights rest, for we hunt at six in the morning. I have asked the local wardens about boar.”

  “Boar!” exclaimed Grunbach. “Now that is a prey worth going after. I haven’t hunted boar in . . . oh, it must be three years now.”

  A spurt of lightening flickered across the tall windows, followed a few seconds later by thunder.

  “What about the rain? Won’t that interfere with hunting?” asked Oberstetten.

  “It should not last more than an hour or two, not in summer,” said Hohepfad, wanting the rest to take note of his expertise.

  “But if the ground is too wet, we will not have a good—” Lothar Teich protested, turning to Ragoczy for additional information.

  “I have hired a few men to accompany us—men who know the terrain better than I, and who are willing to guide us.” Ragoczy saw a quick exchange of looks between Lothar Teich and Koenig Einlass. “I have guns for those who need them,” he added, wishing he knew what his two guests had conveyed to each other.

  “I . . . did not bring anything more than birdshot,” said von Nordlin-gen. “I thought, well . . . you see, I thought that this was not going to be . . . sporting. I assumed, given the company, that we would be expected to spend the time in discussion.” His fair cheeks reddened.

  “I do not anticipate our hunting will last more than three or four hours each day; certainly no longer than five at mo
st if we have to go any distance from the Schloss. You will have plenty of time for relaxation and talk, if that is what you prefer,” said Ragoczy. “We do not have to stock the winter larder with our kill.” Three hundred years ago and further back, the hunt would have been more demanding and purposeful. Now it was a recreation, and Ragoczy was not wholly convinced the change was for the better; these men had learned to enjoy hunting for its own sake rather than for necessity, an appetite he had lost three thousand years before.

  “No, indeed, if what my man told me is right,” said Leopold Oberstetten, rubbing his wide hands together. “This is what a hunting box should be—not like that comfortless place of von Wolgast’s. I understand you have a . . . larder to envy. He said that your cook is preparing a truffled goose for midday dinner tomorrow.”

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  “What a treasure, to have a fine cook,” exclaimed von Traunreuth. He put his hands over the front of his waistcoat and smiled. “Such a cook makes eating worthwhile.”

  “I am told that Martin is very accomplished.” Ragoczy leaned back, bracing his shoulders against the mantel, his arms lightly folded. “I trust he will show you why he has his excellent reputation.”

  There were murmurs of satisfied anticipation, and then Hohepfad remarked they were out of sausages. “We appear to have inhaled them,” he added with a trace of chagrin. “They were so delicious.”

  “I will ring for more,” Ragoczy offered, his manner unruffled. He reached for the bellpull to summon Roger. “Would you like cheese as well?”

  Two or three of the men demurred, but Einlass grinned. “That would be wonderful,” he exclaimed. “I don’t know why sitting down in a moving vehicle should be so wearing, but it is. I am always famished at the end of a journey.”

  “It is exhausting,” agreed Oberstetten, continuing smugly, “We newspapermen find we must develop a tolerance for such travel or we cannot perform our tasks.”

  Roger tapped once on the door and stepped into the study. He looked directly at Ragoczy, waiting for instructions.

  “More of the sausages, if you please, Roger; and a tray of cheeses as well,” he said, indicating the men gathered in the study. “And two bottles of the Mosel.”

  “Very good,” said Roger, and withdrew from the room.

  As the night came on tongues loosened; Oberstetten became more provocative in his remarks; von Traunreuth and Teich spoke adamantly about the future of Germany—neither of them expressed any desire for peace in Europe—Grunbach, Kraftig and Hohepfad all had some accomplishment still recent enough to excuse boasting of them; Einlass and von Nordlingen contributed their observations—Einlass’ sarcastic, von Nordlingen s idealistic. Only Apfelobstgarten remained as silent as Ragoczy, watching the others narrowly as the hour grew late.

  When the party was summoned to supper, von Nordlingen remarked that the time had passed too quickly; the rest seconded his enthusiasm as they rose and allowed Ragoczy to point out the way to the dining room. Only Apfelobstgarten lingered behind, taking stock of everything in Ragoczy s study in a series of knowing glances.

  “Is there anything you seek?” Ragoczy asked politely from the door.

  Apfelobstgarten hesitated before he spoke. “You have eclectic tastes, Herr Count.”

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  “I am curious by nature,” Ragoczy said, waiting in the door for this last, reserved guest. “And I have the luxury of time to indulge myself.” “A luxury indeed,” said Apfelobstgarten, not quite cynically. He turned on his heel and left the study.

  Ragoczy watched him go, wondering what the man had been looking for, and why. He followed after his guests at a leisurely pace, knowing that Roger would attend to the buffet. It would draw undue attention to his abstention if he went to the dining room now and did not eat, so he continued on his way to his music room and sat down at the ormolu-embellished Erard grand piano. He played from memory, with enjoyment and flair, melodies of Haydn and Bach and Scarlatti. Long after his guests went to bed, he remained at the keyboard, letting the music envelop him in its happy sorcery.

  The morning was bright, everything fresh from the rain of the previous evening; a rich, loamy scent filled the air as Ragoczy met his guests not long after sunrise near the excavation at the rear of the Schloss. He was dressed for hunting, his high, thick-soled black boots glossy with polish, his twill breeches as black as his boots, his dark-burgundy coat over a black collarless shirt. He carried a shotgun in the crook of his arm, and a cartridge box of black leather hung from a belt over his shoulder.

  Most of the others were in similar garments, though few of them wore black; it being summer, tan, deep green, and brown were the preferred colors; four of them—Einlass, von Traunreuth, Kraftig, and Hohep-fad—wore gaiters instead of boots. They had just come from the light breakfast laid out for them.

  Only Euchary Apfelobstgarten had donned a black jacket; his had a collar of dark green over a tan roll-neck pullover; his face looked unusually pale, as if he had become ill, though he was able to greet Ragoczy heartily. “I had the coffee and almond roll. Very good.”

  “So did I; truly excellent,” said Teich, his approval sounding sycophantic instead of genuine. “I remain impressed.”

  “Thank you; I’ll tell Martin,” Ragoczy said, glancing up at the wooded slope. “Renke should be here shortly, with his assistants,” he added. “He is the warden I mentioned to you last night.”

  Oberstetten put his hand up to shade his eyes. When he spoke his voice was gravelly; he was not yet fully awake. “I am always astonished at the good humor of those whose custom it is to rise early.”

  “Do not fault us, I beg of you,” said von Nordlingen with such earnestness that Oberstetten groaned.

  Bertram Grunbach appeared to have recovered from his travels; his

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  stride was jaunty as he joined the men. “What on earth are you planning for that hole, Count?” he asked, hitching his shoulder in the direction of the excavation.

  Ragoczy smiled slightly. “I am putting in a swimming pool,” he said blandly; he said nothing about the thick layer of his native earth that would line it, to protect him from the enervating effect of the water. “My villa in Rome had one; I’ve learned to like them.” He did not add that he had built the villa when Claudius was Caesar.

  “A swimming pool,” Teich marveled, and would have gone on, but was interrupted by the arrival of Renke with three other men, all of them in heavy jackets and knee breeches. Each carried a shotgun and each glowered with purpose.

  “Good morning, Herr Count,” said Renke, putting his hand to his grisled hair.

  “And to you,” said Ragoczy. “What are our prospects, would you say?”

  “We’ve been out since an hour before dawn.” Renke scraped his stub-bled chin with his thumb. “There are boar, if we can search them out.”

  “Excellent,” enthused von Nordlingen. “Just w hat we want.”

  Koenig Einlass grinned. “Let us start at once.” He glanced once at Ragoczy. “If you permit, Count?”

  “Of course,” said Ragoczy. “Stay in pairs and listen to your warden,” he reminded them. “We will gather here again no later than noon. Dinner will be waiting.”

  “Truffled goose,” Volger Kraftig said in anticipation.

  “Delightful,” seconded Oberstetten. “And I suppose we must earn it.”

  “I would not put it so harshly,” said von Traunreuth. He pointed to Grunbach. “Why don’t we hunt together this morning?”

  “Delighted,” said Grunbach, “so long as you do not want to discuss financing for weapons. Or anything else.”

  In a short while all the guests were off in pairs with wardens; Oberstetten made a point of having Ragoczy for his partner, saying as they set off, “Why don’t you tell me the real reason for this hunting party now, so that I need not pester you constantly?”

  “How do you mean, ‘real reason’?” Ragoczy asked blandly.
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  “I mean,” said Oberstetten, “that there have been rumors about you for weeks. I can’t believe that all of them are the products of gossip.” He fell into step beside his host, moving with spritely speed, his thick legs working steadily as they set off up a narrow trail, Renke slightly in the lead.

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  “What rumors are those?” Ragoczy inquired in the same unconcerned way.

  Oberstetten shook his head once. “All right; if you insist, I will be specific. I do not mean those ridiculous tales of children s brothels, nor do I mean the whispers that you are a spy. No. I am not as gullible as many others—”

  “Journalists rarely are,” said Ragoczy at his most affable. Ahead the pine trees crowded the trail and they were forced to walk single file until the trees thinned at the edge of a clearing.

  As they went on, Oberstetten kept talking, growing breathless with unaccustomed exercise, making his remarks deliberately blunt in the hope of startling Ragoczy into a revealing remark. “I am referring to the rumors—and they are rife—that you have been charged with the task of making some sort of private agreement with the Kaiser on the Czars behalf.”

  “If that were the case, you must know I would not be at liberty to discuss it,” said Ragoczy. He paused at the edge of the clearing in response to a signal from Renke. “What is it?”