Writ in blood : a novel of Saint-Germain

by Yarbro, Chelsea Quinn, 1942-

  Long acquaintance with Ragoczy prompted Roger to ask another question. “If she is in England, he will see her there, won’t he?”

  “Yes, he will, and her parents will probably urge her to accept Mister Bowen before it is too late,” Ragoczy told him. “He would say the same thing in Amsterdam, and probably be more intrusive, under the mistaken impression he was saving her from herself.” He was still for a short while, then said, “They would drive each other quite mad, you know, if they were ever foolish enough to marry. Neither would be able to endure the other. He would find her independence embarrassing and she would find his condescension intolerable. At least she knows it; he has no inkling.”

  “You talk about these things?” Roger said. “She confides in you?” “Well, she must talk to someone and her housekeeper is not an understanding woman; Rowbna is afraid that the woman gossips. I am not an inexperienced confidant, after all.” He listened to the whistle signaling, the train slowing. “I think this is a stop to take on water; as I recall one is scheduled. Do not put yourself to worry. We are not yet at the border.”

  “That will be another two hours,” said Roger, consulting his watch once more. “It is still possible to leave the train and slip across the border through the fields.”

  “No,” Ragoczy said. “If we did that and we were apprehended, we would be in more trouble than if we simply submit our documents in the regular fashion. There would be questions when the train reached Munich and our trunks were not claimed.”

  “Are you certain you will not consider going into Switzerland? It is near enough to Germany that you can gain the information you seek, isn’t it?” Roger asked, repeating a request he had made several times in the last few days. “Why do you expose yourself to arrest when it is not necessary? The police can take you into custody in Munchen as easily as in Berlin, and you will not have Inspector Blau to deal with.” “True enough, but in Switzerland, I cannot pursue my exoneration

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  as I can in Germany.” He made himself smile. “Besides, as the owner of Schloss Saint-Germain, I am known and respected enough that the police will think twice before detaining me.” He held up his hand to forestall Roger renewing his plea. “We are bound for Germany, my friend. When we cross at Strassburg, we will still be a long way from Berlin, and the crossing reports are sent by rail, not by telegraph. Any processing of documents will take time. I estimate we will have three days at least before we have to contend with Berlin.”

  “You have said yourself that they will be looking for you,” Roger reminded him.

  “But there would have to be some pressing reason to make inquiry, and there is none, not obviously,” Ragoczy pointed out. “Our papers are in order, and the Czar will vouch for them, if it comes to that. Whatever possessed the Russians to invent passports?” he asked of the air.

  “If they had not, the Germans would have,” said Roger, amusement in his faded-blue eyes.

  “You’re right, old friend.” He glanced out the window again. “We’ve almost stopped.” As the engine came to a halt, hissing and steaming like some iron dragon out of myth, the first-class conductor came along the corridor, inquiring if any of the passengers wished to order a nightcap.

  “We have cognac, schnapps, brandy, and kirschwasser,” he informed the occupants of E. “One of the waiters will bring it.”

  “None, thank you,” Ragoczy said, and offered the man a coin for his efforts. “For your service.”

  “Danke schoen, Mein Herr,” the conductor said as he backed out of compartment E and continued on to the last in the car.

  “Bitte,” Ragoczy responded as the door clicked closed.

  In fifteen minutes they were underway again, sweeping through the night, the headlight shining off the freezing rain, spangling all that was caught in its beam.

  “We will be at Tubingen before dawn, at about four,” said Ragoczy. “They take on coal at Tubingen. Then to Ulm, Augsburg, and Munchen. And you needn’t remind me,” he went on with one small hand raised, “that we could transfer here at Tubingen to a train bound for Basel.”

  Roger sighed deliberately. “You have made it clear you do not intend to do anything to prevent your arrest.”

  “I do not intend to encourage it, either,” Ragoczy said as he leaned back in his seat, pretending to enjoy the ride. “If I did that, we would be en route to Berlin, not Munchen.”

  The official who inspected their documents at Strassburg was young, self-impressed, and sleepy. He examined the Russian passports, frown-

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  ing at .the Cyrillic letters as if by staring hard he could read them. When he spoke, it was very slowly and loudly, as if he thought Ragoczy was hard of hearing. “How long ... how many... days . .. you understand? do you stay in Germany?”

  Ragoczy answered in excellent German, “I do not quite know yet. Perhaps three or four weeks, perhaps somewhat longer. It will depend on circumstances that are not entirely within my control.” Ragoczy was entirely polite, but he saw that the young official did not trust him. “I own land and businesses here, some in Bavaria, some in Prussia, you see, and they are in need of my attention. It will take a short while before I am in any position to assess all that must be accomplished. I will be near Munchen most of the time, if all goes according to plan.”

  “Ach, Munchen,” said the young man as if this explanation accounted for everything. He took his stamp and marked Ragoczys and Rogers passports, saying, “Welcome to Germany.” Then, handing back the passports, added, “Count.”

  “You will find six trunks in the baggage car with my name on them,” Ragoczy told him, and noticed the young man wince at his omission.

  “Six. Very good.” He turned on his heel so crisply that is was apparent he was trying to make up for his lapse. Then he was gone.

  “He will turn in his paperwork at the end of the day, it will be prepared to go to Berlin, and then tomorrow—more than twenty-four hours from now—it will be placed, with all other forms, on a train bound for Berlin. I expect there will be at least a day before someone in Berlin notices my name,” said Ragoczy in their conglomerate language, hoping as he spoke, that he was right.

  Roger had nothing to add; he picked up his map again and devoted himself to studying the route their train was taking, through Swabia toward Bavaria.

  Sleet mixed with snow was falling by the time they reached Tubingen, an hour later than scheduled. The ancient university town had much the same look to it as it had had a century before, and a century before that; narrow streets and steep slopes above the Necker. Pulling into the station, the train created a sudden flurry of activity in the predawn darkness. Porters appeared out of the night, their coats shining with wet; the stationmaster hollered orders for coal and the unloading of an automobile from the fourth baggage car.

  “How long will we be here?” Roger asked, and answered for himself, “Probably forty minutes. And we will be delayed again, getting into Munchen, with the weather what it is.”

  “Not enough to stop us, I assume; this will teach me to travel in the

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  first week of March, at least in this hemisphere,” said Ragoczy, and stared out at the station platform, listening to the shouts and bustle. “There are a dozen passengers getting on here; most of them look like students.”

  “It is a university town; you will find students everywhere,” Roger remarked pointedly as he consulted his watch. “Students are up to all hours, and do not mind taking this train. There is another train due through at ten in the morning. Who else is willing to travel at this hour?”

  Ragoczy chuckled. “Who indeed,” he said, listening to the train prepare to start up once again.

  They reached Munchen three hours late, arriving in a steady snowfall that turned the whole city into something out of a book of travel prints. Snow accented the roofs of the buildings, and with the mountains towering behind the city, it seemed that Munchen was
the ornamented hem of a sweeping train on the mountains’ cloak.

  “Tread carefully,” Ragoczy recommended as they left the train. “Its very slippery.” He was speaking German now, and heard Roger answer in the same language, “Do you want to hire a wagon to take the luggage to the Schloss? I don’t suppose we can hope to go the last distance by train, not in such weather.”

  “Gregor should be waiting for us,” said Ragoczy, drawing on his Florentine leather gloves. “Assuming the stationmaster at Hausham remembered to engage him.” He made a self-deprecatory motion of his hand. “I know it is a long way to go, but when I was informed that the spur through Hausham is closed due to damage to the tracks, I thought it best to arrange our transport from here. I wired them two days ago with instructions for Gregor to meet us.” Gregor Einsatz was the local drayer for Hausham, and was considered impudent but reliable.

  “A horse-drawn wagon. Well. We’ve done worse for transportation. At least its not llamas or camels. I’ll go look for him,” said Roger, heading off toward the end of the platform where all manner of vehicles waited for trains arriving and departing.

  “Count Ragoczy,” called out the baggage conductor, his breath as steamy as the engine’s as he approached.

  Ragoczy did not bother to correct the man for the misuse of his title. “We are trying to find our drayer,” he said to the conductor. “If you will have the trunks taken off and put on the platform, I will undertake to guard them myself.” He tipped the baggage conductor more generously than was customary, and saw the man straighten up in newfound respect.

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  “At once, Herr Count.” He very nearly saluted.

  “Danke,” Ragoczy told him, and went along to the baggage car where his luggage was stored. A few minutes later Roger found him there, four of his trunks standing beside him, lightly powdered in snow. “Two more and we’re ready to load the wagon. Is Gregor here?”

  “Yes. He has his four Rhinelanders hitched to his wagon. He says they’ll get through the snow better than any automobile could do; his wheels have studs on the rims. No doubt we will need them once we leave the city, if the snow is as deep as it looks.” Roger stood aside as a porter emerged from the baggage car with another large trunk on his handcart. “He has no shelter on the wagon—he doesn’t hold with it, says it saps a man’s character.”

  “He’s probably right about his team,” said Ragoczy, making no comment about the exposure to the snow. “I would beg to differ about the character-building properties of freezing.”

  Roger achieved a faint smile. “He told me to warn you that we won’t reach the Schloss until late afternoon; the roads are not clear of snow, and there have been avalanches. He expects that it will be slow going once we leave Hausham. The last leg may take the longest.”

  “That does not entirely astonish me,” Ragoczy said dryly, looking up at the steadily falling snow.

  “Do you want us to load these up and carry them to ... ” He indicated the general direction of the loading area.

  “That would be most satisfactory, yes,” said Ragoczy, and gave Roger a signal to return to Gregor’s wagon. “Tell him we will be along directly, if you will.”

  “He’s brought fur lap-rugs for us,” Roger informed him as he started back the way he had come.

  “Very good,” Ragoczy said, but he doubted Roger heard him. He noticed that the porter had gone back to collect the last trunk. He took his watch from the breast pocket of his heavy overcoat: not quite noon, and a cold, six-hour trek ahead of them.

  “Where do you want this taken?” the porter asked, emerging with the last trunk on his handcart.

  “Load up the rest and we will put them in the wagon pulled by four Rhinelanders,” said Ragoczy philosophically.

  The porter shook his head once, thinking it odd that a fine gentleman who traveled in a first-class compartment and dressed in fine clothes should load his trunks into an old-fashioned wagon instead of a motor lorry. “The one at the end of the platform?” He touched his cap in acknowledgment. “At once.”

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  “Thank you,” Ragoczy said mildly, and accompanied him to the loading area where Roger was waiting in the bed of the wagon to help. The Rhinelanders, all shaggy in their winter coats, stood patiently, their thick necks arched, long, taffy-colored manes showing the signs of recent grooming, their harness capped in snow. They had rough-woven blankets spread under the harness along their broad backs, to keep out the muscle-numbing cold, Gregors one concession to marginal comfort.

  “If you don’t want to stop for food, we’ll get underway now,” said Gregor in a tone that implied anyone asking for food would be regarded as a self-indulgent weakling. He lifted the reins in shearling gloves as massive as paws, whistled through his teeth, and they were off.

  The streets of Munchen were icy and what little traffic moved along them went cautiously. Even then, there were mishaps; near the Promendeplatz two automobiles had plowed into one another, both sliding up to the Karmelitenkirche, leaving a record of their collision in the snow. Further along on Maximillian Strasse there was a tangle of horse-drawn wagons and carriages, the struggle to extricate the vehicles hampered by the distress of the horses on the slippery street. Other, more minor, problems were encountered: turns had ended in skids, or had left such slushy furrows that those coming after were trapped by the trail.

  Once on the Maximilliansbrucke, Gregor permitted himself a satisfied smile. “Not as fast as motor cars, perhaps, but I will put my horses against a dozen automobiles in winter. Two dozen.” He glanced at his two passengers, stoically enduring the weather, and remarked, “I am surprised you were willing to ride with me when you could have hired an automobile.”

  “But you have said that automobiles could not reach my Schloss,” Ragoczy reminded him gently.

  “True enough, but that would not keep others from staying out of the weather. Most of the high-born are too soft for this life. You are not like them.”

  “I suppose not,” said Ragoczy, and prepared for the long haul out of the city and south into the mountains. “I prefer to remain with my valuables. Not that I mistrust you, Gregor,” he went on diplomatically. “I know you are honest to a fault, but in snow, mishaps may happen, and if that should occur, I want to be with my . . . property.” He had a fairly good supply of his native earth at the Schloss, but getting there without it would be uncomfortable during daylight.

  “I have a flask of brandy under the seat. Use it if you feel cold,” Gre-

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  gor recommended. “I don’t want you losing fingers and toes from this days work.”

  “Thank you, but we will not need it,” Ragoczy said, and accepted Gregor’s shrug without argument.

  “I left Hausham not long after dawn, Count. They hadn’t dragged the roads from last night, and they may not get much done today,” Gregor warned. “We won’t return any faster than I reached the train station.”

  “We understand,” said Ragoczy.

  It was nearly dark when they arrived at last at the entrance to the curving, upward drive leading to Schloss Saint-Germain. Lanterns burning on either side of the open gates marked their way, and more lanterns guided them through the trees to the Schloss, their little wings of flame wavering in the wind; around them pines sagged under the burden of snow on their branches, and bare oaks were limned in white, their limbs like spectral bones. The three huddled on the seat of the wagon were stiff from travel as much as the falling temperature. The last hour had been made wretched by a sharp wind that drove the snow into drifts and obscured the road ahead, making for white wallows in every bend of the way.

  “The boys know where they’re going. Never fear, they will get you home,” said Gregor as he whistled to his Rhinelanders. “That’s another thing an automobile cannot do—find its way in the snow.”

  “True enough,” said Ragoczy, who had steeled himself against the cold from the f
irst, and was inured to it by now.

  “It is a fine thing, having such horses as these; how can anything with a motor hope to take the place of these animals?” Gregor went on as he turned up the drive. “Is your staff expecting you?”

  “They were telegraphed,” said Ragoczy, watching the Schloss itself loom out of the wild snow. “You may take us to the side entrance. It will be easier to unload there.”

  “As you say.” Gregor signaled his team again. “I will need to light my lamps before we start down to Hausham again.”

  “Of course. And come in for hot rum to warm you,” Ragoczy offered, preparing to get down from the seat he occupied. “I will tell the cook to make you supper as well, if you like.”

  “Very pretty of you, sir, but I think not. I want to be getting back to my family.” He had reached the side entrance to the Schloss, and was pulling his horses to a halt. “It’s good of you to offer, Count. Many another would not.”

  “I will go summon Gualtier,” Roger offered as he jumped down from

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  the wagon, dislodging snow from his shoulders and hat as he landed. “He will help speed these chores.”

  Gregor shook his head. “Strange folk, the Alsatian,” he remarked, in oblique reference to Gualtier Shenk, Ragoczy s recently employed chef. “But they’re foreigners, after all.”

  “By that reckoning, so am I,” said Ragoczy, long since used to the insularity of European regions. “Far more than my cook, if it comes to that.”

  “Ah, but you’re Quality, sir, and birth makes all the difference,” said Gregor with earnest sincerity. “Gualtier is the son of a butcher.” Knowing that it was useless to pursue the matter, Ragoczy handed Gregor half a dozen banknotes before he got down from his perch. “If you will help lift down the trunks, I would appreciate it.”