Writ in blood : a novel of Saint-Germain

by Yarbro, Chelsea Quinn, 1942-

  “That I will,” said Gregor. “And I don’t want my team standing in this cold for any longer than necessary. They’re strengthy, but they feel the ice, like all creatures do. It will do them no good to be chilled.”

  Gualtier Shenk appeared in the doorway, a portly man of thirty with fussy habits and economic movement who held four feedbags in his hands. “I heard you, and I knew what you would want. For your team,” he called out. “Oats soaked in hot water with honey.”

  Ordinarily Gregor would have spurned such an offering, but his love of his horses overcame his reservations about the Alsatian cook. “They’re in need of grain. That’s kindly done,” he said grudgingly, and accepted two of the feedbags. “You may tend to the on-side.”

  “That I will,” Gualtier said as he set to work slipping the feedbag over the bridles of the lead and then the wheeler on the on-side of the wagon. “Splendid horses, Einsatz. Just splendid. My father had a team of Percherons, but they were as nothing compared to these.”

  “Percherons!” Gregor scoffed. “Lightweights, to be sure. You need one of those Dutch horses—the big blond ones—to come close to these beauties.” He patted the massive flank of the nearest horse, a descendant, in fact, of the very Dutch breed Gregor was praising. “Not that these boys don’t appreciate the grain. I know they do.” It was as close as he would ever get to thanking Gualtier.

  Ragoczy was tempted to tend to the unloading himself, but knew it would attract notice to his remarkable strength, and so resisted the urge to do more than drag the trunks into the corridor that led to the kitchen, the servants’ quarters and the hunters’ room, where heavy boots and muddied clothes could safely be stowed.

  “I am surprised that you chose to come up in such weather,” said

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  Gualtier, puffing slightly as he and Roger laid down the largest of the trunks. “I assumed you would remain in Munchen.”

  “I prefer my own bed,” said Ragoczy. “How have you fared up here? Has the winter been hard?”

  “Winter is winter,” said Gualtier. “Some years there is more snow, some years there is less, but it is cold and vegetables are in short supply.” He paused, as if uncertain how to go on. “I’ve started a mushroom plantation in the kitchen cellar. I trust you do not object.”

  “A mushroom plantation,” said Ragoczy, resisting the urge to laugh aloud. “Well, why not? Many good things come from the earth.”

  Gualtier looked relieved, and when he went back to work unloading the wagon, he was whistling.

  Not long after midnight Roger found Ragoczy in his alchemical laboratory, frowning over the pages of a notebook by the light of a kerosene lamp. “Gualtier and Lambert have retired; the Schloss is battened shut for the night,” Roger announced in their private language, lingering in the door.

  He worked up the nerve to say, “I want to apologize for complaining as I have, my master.”

  “Have you been complaining?” Ragoczy asked him mildly. “I hadn’t noticed.” Before Roger cduld interject any further observations, the Count went on, “I have been aware that your concern for my well-being has prompted you to remind me of the risks I am running, coming back to Germany, but I realize that is only well-intentioned advice, not complaint.”

  “Not complaint?” he echoed. “When I have been critical of everything you’ve done since we left Saint Petersburg?”

  Ragoczy smiled, his dark eyes enigmatic. “Who has greater reason than you to remind me of my capacity for recklessness? You have seen me through more inexcusable temerity than I can easily reckon. You have had to deal with the results of my blunders, and you seek to keep me from another such . . . miscalculation.”

  Roger could think of nothing to say. He bowed slightly. “Will you be staying up?”

  “I think so,” Ragoczy said, glancing down at the notebook once more. “I want to review all I have been able to discover about Nadezna’s murder, and so be better prepared to make the best use of my time in trying to determine the actual killer.” He shook his head once. “I have been trying to decide if I can entrust anyone with the task of consulting Inspector Blau.” He saw Roger’s eyes widen in alarm. “Blau is a sensible

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  man, old friend. He is not easily gulled. I cannot help but believe that if we could compare what we know, we might cut through much of the confusion that has weighed down this investigation.” He sighed once. “I cannot have such suspicions clinging to my name, not in this day and age.”

  “In time it will be forgotten,” said Roger. “If you were to return to Asia, or even to Russia, eventually it would be forgotten.”

  “Until I went to Germany again, unless I stayed away for . . . what? fifty years? More easily proposed than done,” he went on. “I have too many interests in Germany to be able to walk away from them for half a century and hope that they will continue as I intend they should. The research in blood alone would be enough to compel me to return; with the metallurgy and medical patents, my absence would be more conspicuous than my presence. There are too many changes now, and they happen too quickly. Think back fifty years, if you think I overestimate the situation.”

  “I could argue with you, but I will not,” said Roger, his reluctance less set than before. “I am not as convinced as you are that staying away will not serve your purpose, but I do not doubt that you have reason to make your assumptions.”

  “Thank you,” said Ragoczy in his native tongue.

  “Remember this, my master: if they hang you, your neck will be broken. No vampire can survive that.” Roger let himself out of the laboratory, doing his utmost to keep his apprehensions from showing too clearly. Only when he was in his own quarters and busy with quartering a chicken for his supper did his anxiety return at full force, and left him to lie awake most of the night, his mind prey to all manner of worries that all the good sense and calm assessment could not disperse.

  Over the next three days, Ragoczy prepared a number of telegrams which Roger dutifully took to Hausham and sent off; after the third day, there were five replies waiting when Roger presented the most recent messages for transmission.

  “Graffin von Bingen, Johann von Traunreuth, Lothar Teich, Leopold Oberstetten, and Urban Seligerquelle,” Ragoczy said, reading the names from the telegrams; outside his study window the sun was shat-teringly bright off the snow, turning the whole forest luminous. “Very good. I think we may learn something.”

  “Teich and Oberstetten I understand, and the Graffin and von Traunreuth as well,” said Roger. “But who is this Seligerquelle?”

  “He is an opportunist,” said Ragoczy bluntly. “He is one of those men who are found at the fringes of politics and advance themselves by clan-

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  destine means. In this instance, I am gambling that his snooping will lead me to those who might wish Nadezna ill. This man has, on various occasions, been of service to Colonel Vaclav Persuic, who spent some of his evenings at Nadezna’s soirees, or so Pflaume has told me. I am hoping he will be able to tell me who was following me in Berlin.”

  “I’m certain, if he is the sort you claim, he will offer whatever information will bring him the most money, if he has to make it up to suit you,” said Roger.

  “This is not Vadim de Silenrieux’s page, Roger, and I have means of ascertaining the value of what he tells me.” He looked up at the ceiling of his study. “Apfelobstgarten told me that the man is reliable, or I would not have approached him.”

  “You think he will help you to put together the pieces of—” He broke off. “What is to stop him telling the police about you?”

  “Nothing,” Ragoczy said with such unconcern that Roger regarded him accusingly.

  “You expect him to tell them, don’t you?” he challenged.

  “Well, I am assuming at least one of those I have contacted will do that. Whether it is Seligerquelle or another does not entirely concern me.” He tapped the
telegrajns impatiently. “With any luck, the knowledge that I have returned will give Inspector Blau the impetus he needs to resume his inquiries.”

  “It might also bring the police to arrest you, my master,” Roger pointed out.

  “It’s possible, but not likely, not in this weather, and with so many questions still pending in Berlin. They had better be ready to make a formal accusation if they come here. I am willing to talk with Inspector Blau at any time, of course, but I will not let them hold me when there are so many . . . loose ends to tie up.” His smile had more mischief than Roger had seen Ragoczy display in more than six hundred years.

  “And you intend to tie them? From here? Or to compel those in Berlin to deal with them, because it is what you want?” Roger asked, and made a gesture of resignation. “You need not tell me, my master. I understand. But let me remind you that the role of gadfly is not often rewarded with anything other than a slap.”

  “Yes, I am aware of that,” said Ragoczy coolly.

  Roger lowered his voice. “You are taunting them, my master. They will not take it kindly.”

  “I trust they will not,” Ragoczy agreed.

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  “It is hopeless to talk sense to you when you are in this frame of mind,” said Roger, and turned on his heel.

  Ragoczy shrugged to himself, and set about preparing more telegrams, including one to his banker in Munchen, authorizing a transfer of funds to the account of Urban Seligerquelle. He was beginning to feel the first true optimism he had experienced since he left Amsterdam; it was just possible that his plan would succeed, and he would have the information he required before the police came for him.

  Over the next week the snow gave way to rain in the day that brought ice at night. The roads were bordered in dirty slush and marked with deep, muddy ruts that mired progress by day and became treacherously slick once the sun was down. When not pursuing his investigation of Nadezna’s death, Ragoczy busied himself with constructing a new athanor in his alchemical laboratory, intending to continue his research with Isidor Rieman as time allowed. More telegrams were sent and delivered, including one from Rowena, who informed Ragoczy that his portrait was almost complete. Then one came from a man signing himself Oertel Morgenstern.

  “Who is this fellow?” Ragoczy wondered aloud as he read the page-long message a second time.

  “Why not ask one of your contacts in Berlin?” Roger recommended. They were in Ragoczy s laboratory, the half-finished new athanor between them, its beehive shape completed on one side. “Surely they know the man.”

  “Its possible,” Ragoczy mused. “I suppose Oberstetten should be able to find out something, or Seligerquelle.” He read the telegram a third time. “Whoever this Morgenstern is, he clearly has more than a passing interest in Nadeznas death. Listen to this: Saw you depart Ns house shortly after servant left stop Saw two other men arrive not long after stop Saw the two men leave hurriedly approx, twenty minutes later stop One of the men looked disheveled stop Had colleague with me to corroborate observation stop Trust you can find other verification stop Am not at liberty to address authorities stop. Who the devil is this man? and why was he watching Nadezna? More to the point, whom did he see arrive?”

  “Is there no way you can ask him yourself?” Roger knew the answer, but could not keep from speaking.

  “If I had the means to reach him. At least he tells me I may show his telegram to the authorities, in lieu of his own statement to them.” He set the telegram down, apart from the others. “I have a few things I would like this Oertel Morgenstern to explain to me.”

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  “Such as who her later visitors were, and why one was disheveled when they left,” Roger suggested.

  “Among other things.” Ragoczy s voice was distant and his dark eyes were focused on something far beyond the walls of his laboratory.

  Roger hesitated, then observed, “Have you considered that Mor-genstem may be sending you this to misdirect you?”

  “I have,” said Ragoczy at once. “And if that was his intention, he has succeeded. It has also occurred to me,” he went on before Roger could speak, “that Morgenstern was not watching Nadezna at all—that he was, in fact, watching me.”

  Text of a letter to Baron Klemens Manfred von Wolgast from Egmont von Rosenwiese, both in Berlin.

  March 18,1911

  My dear Baron;

  Pursuant to your instructions, I have submitted a fabricated report impugning F. Ragoczy s motives in regard to his mission in Berlin, which should suffice to mafe useless any further efforts on his part where matters of peace are concerned. The allegations are vague enough that they cannot easily be refuted without exposing more of the Counts dealings than it would be prudent to do. I have also instigated a series of inquiries related to the police investigation ofNadeznas tragic death. Even if Ragoczy is somehow able to show himself guiltless in that crime, the questions will remain in the records of this department, and unless my activities are discovered, they will not be removed. Further, I have introduced records of his businesses in Russia, some of which could be converted to the manufacture of military supplies. With all this mitigating against him, should Ragoczy attempt to present any petition for limiting arms, it will seem that he is intending to weaken the German sphere of influence in order to ensure the Czar’s domination of Poland and all of Eastern Europe.

  1 have also strengthened the recommendations in regard to dealing with the continuing unrest in the Balkans and what it could mean in our negotiations with the Czechs and Poles. The separatist Bohemian faction have proved most useful in this context, since they have been most outspoken over the years, and Prague is such an important city. It did not take much work on my part to make the stability of the region far less certain than it may actually be. That, in turn, lends credibility to my recommendation that men like you be included in the dis-

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  cussions of the Chancellors advisors so that the preparedness of the country for war he sufficient to meet any challenge.

  You have made certain promises in regard to my success in these endeavors, and I expect you to honor those promises. This is not a threat, merely the assurance of one gentleman to another that the terms on which we were agreed will be kept. I cannot help but worry that you, having such compromising material in your possession, might desire to use it to achieve more than what I have done thus far. If that is your intention, then I will have to reconsider my obligations to you and to my position as Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs. It would not be suitable for me to continue to act for you beyond the tasks originally stipulated. I would feel it incumbent upon me to expose my work on your behalf and to throw myself on the mercy of the law courts, or in some other way exculpate myself.

  I am curious still about your animosity toward Ragoczy, and while I understand what he represents in terms of your business, and how you despised him for his patronage ofNadeznas school, I continue at a loss as to why your determination to discredit him should be so vehement. What has this man done that you seek to ruin him so utterly? Is it that he has more strength of character than I, and will not be coerced by you? Is it that he is more wealthy than you? Or is it that he is an exile who has overcome his losses and made his way in the world? Or is it something else entirely—some antipathy beyond definition? Whatever it is, I pity him, as I pity any man who earns your enmity, including myself.

  Let me recommend, for your own sake, that you destroy this letter; its contents are damning for both of us.

  Yours to command, Egmont von Rosenwiese

  5

  From the drawing room of the Chez Noir came the sounds of energetic singing, squeals of laughter and an occasional whoop of dismay, the first prelude to what would be a busy evening; in this small, unadorned, private room at the end of the hall opposite the kitchen that served Paul

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  Reighert as an office, the voices were a
s hushed as if in a Confessional.

  “You understand what is to be done? We have specific instructions— can you follow them?” Reighert asked the thin, seedy young man in the threadbare coat seated across from him. “If you cannot do this, then the employer will not be pleased, for you have already received a handsome amount from him.”

  Abalard Dyre stared nervously down at his long fingers, refusing to meet Reighert s eyes. “Do we have to kill her? Is that really necessary? I mean, she’s . . . confined. She’ll be there the rest of her life. What’s the point in killing her?”

  “It’s what we’re being paid to do. If we do this well, there will be other work, and more money for both of us.” He held out a dozen banknotes. “Here. This is the second payment.”

  Dyre made no move to accept the money. “I don’t really want to kill anyone—let alone a madwoman. I don’t mind stealing, or taking a fool’s wallet if I have the chance—that’s the way of the world—but this killing isn’t like robbing a drunken Pole or raiding a jewel-box if the owners are stupid enough to leave it in plain sight and the doors unlocked. Killing a woman kept in a hospital run by nuns: what’s the point?” He winced as he spoke, as if the words made the deed more real. “Isn’t there another way? She’s locked up, isn’t she? Well, where’s the danger in her? It’s not as if she will be let out.”

  “What good is she to anyone? What good is she to herself, for that matter?” Reighert asked, assuming his most reasonable tone of voice. “Think about it. She has been confined as surely as if she were a desperate criminal for more than a decade. She is said to be dangerous to herself and others. She has attacked the nuns who tend her more times than I can tell you. She has no friendships with anyone; her family have long since ceased to visit her, except her husband, and he is only permitted to do that rarely. What land of life is that? She will never be anything more than an animal in a cage.” He leaned forward to be heard over a sudden burst of noise. “The money is very good. The woman is miserable and a burden. She has been living this way for long enough, don’t you see? What is the matter in profiting from ending her life? Would it be more merciful to ignore her plight and let her continue as she is?”