While she lay thus, she allowed her brain to idle, to coast, to drift where it would, setting it free to roam the intricate chambers of her mind, where she was confident it would happen upon the elusive answers and shy solutions hidden there. She gave it a little nudge in the right direction by pondering one or two of the facts presented by the case of the errant sorcerer.
The first of these was that Herr Arnold had not been good at his job. On the contrary, by all accounts other than that of his widow, he had been utterly useless at any sort of spell casting, conjuring, ethereal fixing, or indeed magic in any shape or form. He had, it transpired, blundered from client to client, bodging and bungling, and then doling out dough to keep his failures secret. After interviewing the unfortunate Victor Winkler—whom no amount of depilation would render hair-free—Gretel had visited two more of the sorcerer’s unsatisfied customers. One was a young man so stricken by shyness that it had taken him a month to summon the courage to call at the Arnold residence in the first place. If he had been reticent and retiring before the sorcerer’s ministrations, he was downright reclusive afterward, so that Gretel had been compelled to conduct the entire interview through the letterbox of his firmly locked front door. Crouched awkwardly, her questions had been a little blunter than they might have been. The young man had quivered in his hallway, but, like Herr Winkler, he had welcomed the opportunity—now that the sorcerer was dead—to unburden himself of his secret. The magic he had paid for had not alleviated but worsened his condition, and Herr Arnold had paid him not to tell anyone of his experience.
The final client on Gretel’s list was a woman who listened to her enquiry and then, without saying a word, led her into the kitchen of her home. There she indicated her husband, or at least, the vestiges of him. Gretel had known Herr Roth as an able baker, who had worked successfully in Gesternstadt for many years. She had, briefly some weeks ago, wondered at his absence from the market, and now she knew the reason. His wife’s misfortune—and his own, indeed—was that he was a dour man, known for his grim countenance and gruff disposition. People forgave him this because he was an accomplished baker and his honigkuchen was second to none. Frau Roth, however, had grown tired of living with such a grumpkin and asked the sorcerer to make him more cheerful.
“You see how it is, Fraulein?” the wife asked Gretel.
Gretel did see. It was tragic. On this occasion, rather than amplifying the problem, the sorcerer’s magic had worked too well. The once burly, round-faced man, with arms muscled from years of kneading dough and hefting bread trays, had been reduced to a stick-thin, flimsy husk of a thing, and all because he could not stop laughing. His body was wearing away from the effort of it. He gasped and guffawed and hee-ed and haw-ed ceaselessly, tears of joyless mirth streaming down his frail face, while he bent over doubled and clutched at his sides as he shook with unrelenting laughter. It was a pitiful sight. Shutting the door on him, Frau Roth had confirmed that she had taken money from the sorcerer in exchange for keeping the baker quiet. Or rather, keeping him at home, as clearly he could not go out in public without questions being asked about his condition. In fact, the Roths had received regular payments from Herr Arnold, who was the first to admit that the baker was no longer in any state to bake, and therefore could not earn a living.
Gretel’s mind, cosseted and comforted as it was, brought forth a conclusion or two.
To begin with, the missing magician might have been a useless sorcerer, but he was a halfway decent human being, in as much as he had a conscience that did not allow him to shy away from the responsibility he had toward his hapless clients. He had made a mess of things, and he had been prepared to pay for his mistakes, at least in hard cash and to the best of his ability.
Furthermore, this was a state of affairs which could not have continued indefinitely. If the sorcerer was paying for rather than being paid for his own work, the law of diminishing returns suggested that he must have been fast approaching a state of bankruptcy. And such a state, in Gretel’s experience, was apt to drive people to do Desperate Things.
Added to which, Herr Arnold had gone to considerable lengths—including financial ruin, it would seem—to protect his professional reputation, despite his chosen profession being one for which he was, evidently, singularly unsuited. Why would he bother? Why not simply find some other employment? Was the admiration of the Sorcerer’s Circle so vital to his happiness?
“Ah, Mademoiselle Gretel!” Madame Renoir’s cheery voice with its pretty French accent interrupted Gretel’s thoughts. “You look beautifully rested, ma cherie! Come, let me assist you in the sitting up. I have the very finest oil from Morocco for your scalp!” she said, holding up a slender bottle of golden liquid.
Gretel allowed herself to be repositioned and relaxed once more as the beautician’s fingers worked their magic.
“Mademoiselle, your hair will look exquisite after this.”
“But not as exquisite as my new wig,” Gretel countered. “When will it arrive?”
“Before the week’s end. Oh! It will be something wonderful. The new method of weaving the hair onto a netted cap is très, très belle!”
“Not to mention très, très costly.”
“But every coin well spent, n’est-ce pas?”
With this, Gretel could not argue. She had promised herself a new wig after her last one had taken a dunking in the sea off Schleswig-Holstein, and a new wig she would have. There was even greater justification for it now with the upcoming concert. The concert and Ferdinand’s fiancée. For there was no doubt in Gretel’s mind that they would both attend, such was the importance of the occasion, having such an illustrious composer as Herr Mozart in Gesternstadt. Well, Gretel would be ready. For the event, and for the competition. She would look her best, and the new wig would be the showpiece of her outfit. Ferdinand could not help but notice her, and she would make him consider what he would be giving up if he married this whoever-she-was.
“Tell me, Madame Renoir, what do you know of Herr and Frau Arnold?” she asked, attempting to keep her mind on matters of business. The beautician had proved a useful source of knowledge in the past, and this time was to be no exception.
“Of the sorcerer, very little at all, but of Evalina Arnold—well!” Here she paused to make a face of delight. “Such a pretty woman, and she was even prettier as a girl. She could have had her pick of the young men in Gesternstadt.”
“Really?” Gretel struggled to marry the picture in her head of the somewhat ordinary hausfrau she had interviewed with a town beauty. But then, the woman had been grief stricken, and clearly not at her best. Perhaps she would scrub up well, and after all, a face could be transformed by a bright smile.
“Mais oui!” Madame Renoir insisted, “She had the very brightest of smiles.”
“And a happy marriage, from what she tells me. Alas, she is now a sad widow and her sadness is of a tearful, off-putting nature.”
“Bof!” Exclaimed the beautician as she ran more oil through Gretel’s tresses.
“Bof?”
Madame Renoir gave a Gallic shrug. “I’ll wager she will not remain so for very long. There is nothing more certain to restore a woman to glowing beauty than the flattering attentions of ardent men.”
Pondering this for a moment, Gretel had to admit that there was truth in what the beautician said. A thought made itself known to her, jumping up and down and waving at the back of her mind. She brought it into focus and saw that it had merit and that it was pertinent to her enquiries. Prompted by it Gretel asked, “Was there, aside from her husband, anyone in particular who was enamored of Evalina Arnold?”
“Bien sur! There was one who was deeply, deeply in love with her, and his heart was so broken when he lost her to Ernst that he never took a wife, but lives as a lonely bachelor still. He is called Herr Voigt. The name is familiar to you?”
Indeed it was. It was written in Gretel’s notebook: Herr Otto Voigt, Master Magician, Grand Wizard, and Head Sorcerer of the Gestern
stadt Sorcerers’ Circle.
The surprising thing about Herr Voigt’s home was not its outward appearance, which was as normal as normal could be. It was a narrow town house, built of wattle, daub, and timber, with generous eaves, painted shutters, good-sized window boxes, and a smart, red front door. So far, so Gesternstadt. It was the interior that caused Gretel’s freshly plucked and tinted eyebrows to rise. Unlike the abode of Herr Arnold, there was not one piece of wizard junk to be found here. No throne-like chairs, no crystal balls, no gargoyles, or stars, or dangling moons, or anything remotely sorcerous by way of clutter and furnishings. In fact, there was barely anything at all that could not be considered essential. The house appeared to be full of bareness. To be filled with empty. To be stuffed to the gunwales with lack and absence. It was not a style of decor with which Gretel was familiar, nor one to which she warmed.
She had the impression that Herr Voigt had been expecting her. He let her into the hallway with a curt nod of greeting, but when she offered him her hand he looked aghast at the idea of touching it. Instead he led her into a reception room that had evidently been equipped in the hope it would never have to receive anyone. There was a table at one end, with two books upon it, and a row of quills lined beside them. There appeared to be nothing so messy as ink anywhere in view. Three pictures—all of maps of the classical world—were attached to the walls at precise intervals from one another. There were four candlesticks, each bearing candles of perfectly matching height, as if the sorcerer demanded that even their burning was regimented. It was a resolutely cheerless space.
Gretel’s heels rapped loudly upon the bare boards as she followed him to the only seating in the room: two spindly legged chairs, devoid of cushions, straight-backed and free from springs or padding. She sat carefully, but even so noticed her host frown at the way her skirts spilled—rather fetchingly, she had thought—over the seat, this way and that. She did her best to rearrange herself tidily, tucking her feet under the little chair. She took out her notebook, peering over it to quickly assess Herr Voigt’s appearance. The first word that came trotting to mind was neat, quickly followed by contained, chased home by fastidious. His hair was precisely trimmed and tamed. His clothes were elegant and spotlessly clean. As were his fingernails. There was nothing at all to mark him out as a practitioner of magic and caster of spells. He had the look of nothing more exciting or unusual than a public notary, though with fewer ink stains.
Gretel pitched in with some warm-up questions. “How long had you known Herr Arnold?”
“Many years. We went to the same school, and we both trained as sorcerers at much the same time.”
“And you found him to be a competent and successful man of magic?”
“He would not be permitted to remain a member of the Sorcerers’ Circle unless that were the case,” Herr Voigt pointed out.
“Quite so, but what was your personal opinion of his professional capabilities?”
“I had no personal opinion of the man.”
“Truly? And yet I understand you and Evalina Arnold were once quite … close?”
Opposite her, the man underwent a swift transformation. His features, which had been to this point exemplars in the art of masking any emotion, sprang into life, as though cut free of unseen bonds. A smile as broad as the Danube spread across his face, and the coldness in his eyes was replaced by a remarkable warmth. Gretel was astonished at such an alteration. It was but a transient glimpse into the sorcerer’s heart, however, for as soon as he became aware he had let slip his façade he regained stern control of himself. Nonetheless, Gretel had the answer to the unaskable question: Are you still in love with the woman? So there was a motive for murder, and yet, and yet …
“That is,” Gretel continued, “I believe there was once the possibility that she might not have married Ernst Arnold, but have become Frau Voigt instead?”
“I fail to see what such ancient history has to do with the … unfortunate situation regarding Herr Arnold.” As he spoke he kept his gaze cast down, and repeatedly smoothed the fine wool of his breeches over his knees.
“Jealousy can be a vicious master,” said Gretel.
“Which is why I freed myself of its rule years ago.” He looked up and met the searching eyes of his interlocutor. “I am not a man to act upon rash impulse, Fraulein. Furthermore, if, as you seem to be implying, I was determined to rid myself of Ernst so that Evalina would be free, why would I wait all these long years to do so?”
Long lonely years, Gretel thought. “A fair point,” she agreed, and one she had already considered herself. She began to feel that anything useful she would glean from Herr Voigt would be picked up from what he chose not to say, rather than the crumbs of information he was prepared to offer up. She needed to test a newfound theory. She got to her feet and began roaming the room. “What a very … discerning eye you have for decor, Herr Voigt,” she declared, pausing to scrutinize one of the maps, then moving on toward the desk. The sorcerer leaped up and followed close behind, watching her every move with anxious eyes. Gretel lifted her lorgnettes and peered at the neat stack of books. “And a lover of mathematics, I see,” she said as she flicked through the pages of the first volume before pushing it to one side, leaving it open, moving on to the next, deliberately dislodging the row of quills as she did so.
Herr Voigt began to breathe heavily. When one of the quills fell to the floor he snatched it up, setting it down quickly in the exact spot it belonged. Manners restrained him from actually tidying and organizing the books as Gretel was perusing them, but he was in hot pursuit.
“Yes, a fine home you have here, Herr Voigt. Still, do you not feel the lack of a woman’s touch? A silk cushion here, perhaps?” She indicated a bare windowsill, dropping her lace handkerchief on it to make the point. Her host scurried after her and removed it. “A bowl of roses there, maybe?” she asked, circling back to the desk to sweep aside the books so they crashed to the floorboards, the quills following, scattering and bouncing in all directions.
The effect upon the Grand Wizard was pronounced. With a gasp he pounced upon the fallen items, gathering them up, whereupon he returned them to the desk, his visitor utterly forgotten as he placed them with regimental order. When the task was completed he remained visibly dissatisfied and raised his hands, uttered a spell, and tweaked the arrangement minutely. At last, content that order had been restored, his breathing returned to near normal. It was then that Gretel leaned forward and laid her hand upon his in a gesture of reassurance.
“I see you are a man fully able to manage his own house,” she said.
But Herr Voigt did not hear her words. He was staring in horror at her hand upon his, her flesh contacting his own. For an instant he appeared unable to move, and then he wrenched his hand from beneath hers, taking out his own spotless kerchief with which to rub at it.
Gretel smiled a small smile to herself. She now knew all she needed to know about Herr Voigt. Her interview complete, she bid him good day and went on her way. The facts she had collected from his strange home were these: he was still in love with Evalina Arnold, which gave him a motive for murder (for jealousy kept beneath the surface for so many years does not extinguish but burns hot as lava until it must burst forth); and he was incapable of the physical contact, the disorder, not to mention the sheer brutal messiness, such a killing as that of Ernst Arnold would have involved. There was, of course, the possibility that he might have used magic as a weapon precisely to avoid touching anyone or anything, but still Gretel could not imagine the man so disrupting the space around himself, so engaging with chaotic violence as to actually do away with another human.
All of which meant that she was no further forward in her investigations. All she had convinced herself of was that a whole list of people were not the sorcerer’s murderers. Which meant back to square one. And square one, in this case, was Ernst’s magicarium.
Gretel took a deep breath, ignored the rumbling of her nearly-empty stomach, and resolved
to return to the sorcerer’s place of work and the scene of the crime and not to leave until she had at least one sensible, tangible, concrete and useful lead. She determined she would stay there all night if need be, though by the time she had hobbled over the cobbles of the town again she was fervently hoping that Evalina Arnold would provide her with a soft chair, a cozy blanket, and at the very least a bite or two of supper while she worked. She might have reminded herself that blessed is she who expecteth nothing.
FOUR
Two hours later Gretel sat on a hard chair in the chilly magicarium, painfully aware of the rate at which her mental capacity was dwindling due to lack of food. Hans trudged disconsolately around the room lifting objects at random.
“Remind me why I am not sitting by the fire at the Inn at this very moment with my favorite stein full of my favorite ale in my hand?” he asked.
“Because two can search more quickly than one.”
“Even when neither of them knows what it is they are searching for?”
“Especially then,” Gretel insisted. She had intercepted her brother on his way to an evening of drinking and pressed him into accompanying her to the sorcerer’s home. Her reasoning had indeed been that many hands made light work, and that Hans’s hands were as good as anyone’s for rifling through the muddle of the cluttered shed in search of Clues. What she would never admit to him, and could barely admit to herself, was that sometimes, just sometimes, her sibling had a way of unwittingly nudging her in the direction of theorems and postulations that proved helpful in her investigations. And she certainly needed some manner of help if she was to make any progress in this case, it seemed. So far no one had presented themselves as a probable murderer. At one point, the Head Sorcerer had looked like a prime suspect, but having met him Gretel had all but crossed him off her list. That he might benefit from the death of Herr Arnold was undeniable. That he had had anything to do with it seemed unhelpfully unlikely.
The Sorcerer's Appendix Page 3
