The Corpse with the Silver Tongue

by Cathy Ace

  “You’re a liar and I know it. You must have seen it when you left the table . . .” replied Chuck.

  They both shut up as soon as they saw me, and I was left to wonder what they might have been talking about. It could have been anything, but I had a nagging suspicion that it was something important.

  I sat, lit another cigarette, which I hoped I was actually going to be able to smoke, and picked up the coffee pot to top up my cup. It was empty.

  “More coffee, anyone?”

  Both men rumbled a sulky “no” in my general direction, and Beni sucked hard on a cheroot. I decided to not bother with more coffee.

  “Any news from the police on the break-in at the museum yet, Beni?” I asked, innocently enough.

  “No. Nothing.” He sounded morose.

  “Have you heard any more about Madelaine’s death through the grapevine here?” I asked Chuck.

  “Nothing.” He sounded just as grumpy.

  Oh great, I was stuck with two miserable men and a woman who had the knives out for me—fantastic! I got up and walked to the balustrade that surrounded the balcony, letting the breeze blow away the feeling that invisible walls were beginning to close in on me. I wanted to run away from it all, back to Vancouver, to my little home, and to my friends—well, okay then, to Bud and Jan who are about the only friends I’ve got—and to a place where everything was clean and fresh . . . not full of people who were wearing masks to hide their true selves. Then I remembered that even in paradise there’s danger, as poor old Bud knew only too well. Even amid the wonders of nature, I’d helped him on so many cases where hiding the truth was what had got people into trouble—killed, even.

  I finished my smoke and walked back to the ashtray on the table to stub it out. Tamsin re-emerged and floated across the balcony, smiling weakly.

  “Oh Beni,” she whispered huskily as she sat down beside him, “I wanted to ask if you’d come with me to the funeral? I’ve arranged everything for Tuesday morning.”

  Well, that was news to me, and Beni and Chuck, too, by the looks of it.

  “How have you done this?” asked Beni, puzzled. “Have the police said that you can?”

  “Have they released Alistair’s body?” echoed Chuck.

  Tamsin looked quietly pleased with herself. “Oh yes, they called this morning, so I made all the arrangements. I had to ring and ring before that vicar-man at the church answered, but I got him in the end and he said that ten o’clock on Tuesday would be fine.”

  “I guess the rector was quite busy, today being Sunday,” I observed, as wryly as I could.

  “Oh, is it?” replied Tamsin, airily. “One loses track of time when one is grieving,” she added, looking suitably tragic. “One” this and “one” that—who did she think she was—Lady Bountiful?! She was really laying it on thick. Surely Beni would see through it?

  It seemed he didn’t.

  “But Tamsin, of course I will escort you. You must not worry, I will be there to support you, as you wish.” Beni smiled kindly at Tamsin as he replied, then looked at me and added, “Will you still be here then, Cait? You will come to Alistair’s funeral, of course?”

  Instead of replying that I’d rather be on a plane back to Canada, I said, “Of course.” I used my most gracious voice. But I couldn’t just leave it there, could I? “It will be an odd experience for you, Tamsin, I’m sure,” I said, looking directly at the woman, almost daring her to answer, “because you don’t believe, do you? I mean, you’re not a Christian, right? That twig waggling and chanting that you did when Alistair died—that all seemed to be . . . well, not Christian anyway. What was it exactly?”

  Tamsin smiled a happy little smile and replied brightly, “Oh, that’s something I was reading about in a book.” I tried not to let my shock show. “It’s very interesting. Chuck loaned it to me, didn’t you Chuck?”

  Chuck looked vague as he replied, “Which book was that?” I wondered how many books he’d ever loaned to Tamsin.

  “Oh, you know, the one about that place in Germany where all the Knights of the Round Table used to meet . . . you know, like King Arthur. It’s got that funny name . . . Wewy-something. You know! Where they had all those big ceremonies and all those important relics—like in Raiders of the Lost Ark. It was ever so good! Oh—what was it called?” She was wailing like a child.

  “Do you mean Wewelsburg Castle?” I asked.

  Tamsin looked surprised. “How do you know about it?” she snapped. I suspected that what I was about to say would fall under Tamsin’s heading of “showing off.”

  “Oh, I guess I read about it, too, someplace,” I replied as casually as I could. “It was the Nazi’s ‘Camelot’ wasn’t it, Chuck? Himmler’s spiritual home for the SS once they’d achieved the perfect balance of race and power they were striving for in Europe? I think they just opened it up to the public. It was pretty controversial, I remember. Have you been yet? I should think it’s just your cup of tea.” I recalled the medals that adorned his walls upstairs.

  “Oh, why would Chuck want to go to a nasty place like that?” asked Tamsin, annoyed. “In the pictures in the book it wasn’t even pretty on the outside, so it can’t have been pretty on the inside. They used to have some interesting secret ceremonies there. Like back in the olden times. I thought it couldn’t hurt to do that when Ally died. If his spirit was passing right by us, which it must have been, it was my duty to help it on its way. Even if I didn’t want him to go. So that’s what I was doing. But, no, you’re right, I’m not really into church, or spirity things. It’s all a bit much for me, kneeling and bowing and singing. I like the old stuff better. Lots of love potions and spells and gallantry and horses. I like the idea of having an ‘eternal flame.’ The rector at the church said I couldn’t have one for Ally. They don’t do that there. Maybe they’d do it in that castle place.”

  Tamsin’s interpretation of the bizarre occultism that had been practiced by Himmler’s Grail Order, the SS, was not only frighteningly naive, but also sadly familiar. We humans often fill our spiritual void with all sorts of rubbish that we half understand, then hang onto as though our lives, or our souls, depended upon it. Funnily enough, she’d alighted upon a particular area of fascination for me: how man, as an animal, is differentiated from all other animals by his desire to worship something bigger than himself—something mysterious, and just beyond his grasp. It was clear that this wasn’t the place for a metaphysical or spiritual conversation, so I just sat there and pondered poor Tamsin . . . and wondered to what extent Chuck might be interested in this field.

  “I doubt they’d do anything like that there,” replied Chuck to Tamsin’s comment. “I should imagine they’d be over-run with such requests if they did.” It was an interesting comment, and one I couldn’t let pass.

  “Do you mean there are lots of people who’d like to be remembered with their own eternal flame at the place that was built by concentration camp inmates and prisoners—people used as slave labor so that Heinrich Himmler could practice his own unique form of religion at ‘The Center of the World’? Surely not.”

  “There’s a surprising number of neo-Nazi groups all around the world these days, and some are very big, and powerful,” replied Chuck gravely, “and many of them think of Wewelsburg as a shrine. They hope, one day, to see the Spear of Destiny in its appointed place there. But I’m pretty sure that the German government wouldn’t allow personal memorials to be placed at the site. As you said, Cait, renovating the place and opening it to the public was pretty controversial in its own right.”

  Somewhere in my head a picture was forming. Ideas and thoughts were shifting and resettling. I was still at sea. I lit another cigarette and drew on it, hard.

  “We should collect some clothes for Gerard and take them to him at the hospital, as he asked,” said Beni, his practical tones cutting across the suddenly heavy atmosphere, restoring a sense of time and place.

  I looked up and said, in a chorus with Tamsin, “We should.”
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br />   The widow and I looked at each other, then she said, sharply, “I know Gerard, you don’t. I should be helping him, not you. He’s my friend. You’ll be leaving as soon as you can. I’ll still be here. With my friends.” She was looking at Beni as she spoke. It was clear that she wasn’t just talking about Gerard. I got it.

  She was right. I was just passing through . . . at least, if I could work out what had happened to Alistair, Madelaine, and the necklace I was. In that instant, I sighed and faced the facts. I’d have to take the moments of flirtation and flattery and put them into my memory banks . . . and get on with the job of working everything out, so I could go home.

  Beni said he’d get Gerard’s key from Daphne to collect some things for the old man. Tamsin offered to help him. Chuck said he had a few things to sort out at his place before he could leave. I offered to stay behind and, once again, clear away the remains of our meal. We all agreed with the plan of action. After lots of cheek kissing, everyone headed off in their various directions.

  I carried a few plates into the kitchen, put them down, and found a beer on the counter, freshly poured into a lovely cut crystal glass. I wondered who had poured it—and for whom? Beni, Tamsin, and Chuck had all just gone out through the kitchen, one after the other. Surely no one would mind if I drank it? It looked very inviting.

  “Fancy a cold one, Cait?” I asked myself.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” I replied to myself. I picked up the glass and let the cool bubbles wash the back of my throat. It was a beautiful day, and pretty soon we’d all be on our way to visit poor old Gerard in hospital, with his much needed supplies. Until then, there wasn’t that much to clear . . . so I couldn’t see the harm.

  Sunday Night

  I WOKE WITH A SPLITTING headache, and knowing that I’d had some pretty wild dreams. Everything was black. I had no idea where I was. I rubbed my forehead. It was damp . . . or was that blood? I couldn’t even see my hand in front of my eyes. I realized I was sitting against a wall made of big, rough blocks of stone. I knew this because their lumps were digging into the base of my spine. Beneath me the floor was slightly less bumpy, but stone nonetheless. Everything was cold, me especially.

  What the hell was going on? Where was I? Why was I there? How had I got there—wherever there was?

  Not being able to see anything, I felt my body parts, just to make sure that everything was where it should be, and that it was all still working. It was. Nothing broken, or twisted. Well, that was a relief. I felt about me and located my handbag on the floor a few feet away. I scrabbled about inside it until I found a lighter, which I flicked into life. Its brightness blinded me, so I let it go out, then waited a moment and lit it again, this time away from my eyes.

  In front of me was another wall just like the one I was leaning against. To my right and left the two walls continued into blackness. Okay, so I was in a tunnel.

  I let the flame go out and listened. Could I hear anything? Only my own breathing. Could I smell anything? Not much—but there was something . . . what was it? It wasn’t dampness, and it wasn’t soil. I couldn’t put my finger on it—though I knew that I knew what it was. I let it go. It would come to me.

  I pushed myself up the wall until I was standing. My whole body ached. How long had I been there? I couldn’t see my watch, so, again, I scrabbled around in my purse and found my phone. It told me that it was 10:09. I assumed it was Sunday—though, frankly, I could have been there for more than a day and I’d have been none the wiser. I checked my phone again, but there was no signal. I guessed that would have been too much to hope for, and further surmised that whoever had dumped me here had left my bag with me because they knew it wouldn’t help me. And they must have been familiar enough with my location to know that there was no phone signal.

  I tried to kick my brain into a higher gear. What was the last thing I remembered?

  Drinking a beer in Tamsin’s kitchen after lunch on Sunday.

  Okay.

  Did I feel hungry?

  Yes, but not ravenously so. Okay, I was more certain that this was the same day as the day I had drunk the beer, because otherwise my tummy would have been telling me otherwise.

  Was my headache the result of having been hit on the head? Or not?

  I felt all over my head and I couldn’t pinpoint any part that was more tender than any other. I’d probably been drugged, not hit. It must have been the beer.

  I was good so far.

  There was something on my neck—a wide, flat, metal hoop, with lumps on it. I didn’t own anything like it. I felt it a bit more carefully and tried to unhook it behind my neck. I couldn’t work out the way the clasp worked, and I couldn’t turn the thing around either. What on earth was it? I felt it again, then I knew. I had never seen it, and I’d only heard a vague description of it, but I knew it was the Collar of Death.

  Wonderful! I was wearing the necklace that had always been the harbinger of doom. That cheered me up no end. Why the hell was it on me? I resigned myself to the fact I could do nothing about it. I was only making my neck and my arms sore, so I stopped. I was not happy. But I had to apply my energy to what really mattered. Getting out!

  Where was I? I told myself to not waste the lighter fuel, but to use my brain.

  If someone had drugged me, then I’d have likely collapsed. If I’d been drugged to the point of collapse, I had to admit it would have taken someone with a lot of strength to move me—I’d have been a dead weight. It would have been a big job to move me far. Or maybe not. Quite a few modern drugs allow the person who’s taken them to move about, albeit with help, and then remember nothing about it. Maybe I’d been “roofied.” If so, then I’d have needed support and steering, not carrying, and I could have been moved quite a long way—by car even. I could have been taken anywhere, then drugged again, so that I’d become unconscious.

  What is it they say? Three minutes, three days, three weeks.

  A person can survive for three minutes without air. There seemed to be lots of that, and I was pretty sure I’d been conscious for more than three minutes already. Three days without water? I supposed I’d be able to manage that, if I had to, but I was already very dry and thirsty. Three weeks without food—the thought horrified me! I had quite a while to find my way out of wherever I was without expiring. Good.

  I shouted for help as loud as I could. My voice reverberated off the stone walls around me. I thought I might as well keep trying, but I suspected I was wasting my time. Given the stone walls, the funny smell—what the hell was it—the dryness of the air, and the coolness of the temperature, I must be underground. As the thought came to me another one occurred: what if I was in the cellars underneath the gardens of the Palais? They’d been built out of stone, then covered over with tons of earth. That could be it.

  What had Beni said? Ah yes, “they built a web of cellars.” I wondered if he’d meant that literally—an actual web-shaped set of cellars, all converging on a central point. I felt along the wall behind me, and I could sense a slight concave curve. I pulled out my lighter again and held it up: I could just make out both walls and, sure enough, they had mirror curves. The one in front of me was the inner wall of the curve. I decided to feel my way along that one. Surely I could manage in the dark, and I let the lighter go out.

  I took my time because the ground was uneven. I felt as though I was inching my way along, but I supposed I was making progress. Nothing around me changed, not the light, not the sounds, and not the smell or the airflow, so I just kept going. I didn’t think about crying out again, as it didn’t seem to make sense. As I felt my way along, I kept thinking about who might have put me there, but I knew the only way I’d work that out was to work out who had killed Alistair and Madelaine, and who’d stolen the necklace. I was now convinced that it was all the work of one person. Otherwise, why would I be wearing the precious necklace?

  The wall was my main focus, and that was a good thing because it abruptly stopped. It disappeared around a corner
. I almost fell forward, but managed to stop myself. I used the lighter to establish that, while the wall behind me continued around, the one in front of me now turned left, and was faced by another wall—yes, it was like the spoke of a wheel running away from the wall behind me . . . maybe a spider’s web was the pattern they’d adopted after all. I had a choice to make: stick to the outside wall, and hope to eventually come to an exit, or head off to the center of the web.

  I sat down, carefully, to think. If I’d been dumping someone, I wouldn’t leave them anywhere near an exit, would I? No, of course not, because then they’d be likely to find the way out—or maybe make themselves heard. Would I have the time and energy to take them as far as possible from the entrance? Maybe, maybe not—it all depended on who’d been doing the dumping and how long they’d had to do it. If I was in the cellars for the Palais, which had been built to house the wine when the place was a hotel, it would make sense that there’d be an entrance to them inside the building itself—they wouldn’t want to send people outside in order to get wine, would they? No, of course not. Such an entrance would have to have a tunnel from the Palais to the actual cellars because they didn’t connect with the place itself, and the Palais was higher than the cellars, so there’d either be steps or a sloping exit.

  Having worked through this, I decided that my only course of action was to follow the outside wall, and to not be tempted to try to walk through the center of the web. It might well be a shorter route, but I was, quite literally, in the dark, and I didn’t want to misjudge things and inadvertently get side-tracked. I stood up, pulled my bag back onto my shoulder—checked my cell phone again just in case there was a signal. There wasn’t, and the battery was getting pretty low—why the hell hadn’t I charged it up before I went to bed the night before? I pushed myself over to the outer wall and carried on going, hoping that I hadn’t already missed the vital tunnel away from the web . . . if that was, in fact, where I was.