He looked up at me. ‘Like you, I have seen that stark barbarity and I can find no explanation for it.’ He hesitated a moment, as if debating with himself. ‘There is only one thing that any man wants in Nordcopp,’ he said in a calm penetrating voice. ‘Amber.’
He sank once more into silence.
I did not help him. I sipped from my glass and waited.
‘It may not help you much,’ he added some moments later, ‘but this I can say. Her death was not an accident. It was nothing like the dreadful mishaps that take me down to the beach more often than I like.’
I grasped at this conversational straw. ‘This morning on my way to Nordcopp,’ I said, ‘I saw a girl with her face blown away . . .’
His eyebrows shifted. ‘Works for Pastoris in Nordbarn?’
‘That’s her.’
‘Hilde Bruckner,’ he confirmed. ‘Now, that was an accident. Brought it on herself, the foolish wench! I was stuck with the task of trying to patch her up. She’ll die if she comes down with so much as a cold.’
He had made a start, but he stopped again abruptly.
‘That mutilation was caused by gunpowder,’ I persisted. ‘The person who told me also mentioned that a French soldier probably supplied it.’
‘Really?’ he said, busying himself again with the decanter.
That was it. He had nothing more to say. I had learnt twice as much from Grillet. And yet, I could not believe that Dr Heinrich was so detached, so apparently unconcerned about what was happening in Nordcopp.
I tried a different route.
‘I suppose you see a lot of accidents,’ I said, nodding at the casts on the wall.
‘Farm accidents, like that man in the other room,’ he replied. ‘Industrial accidents since the French arrived. The girls in Nordbarn sometimes manage to slice off a finger on those grinding-machines, having already lost a foot or a leg in the sea. Aye, that’s the major part: the girls on the shore. Gangrene is as common as an ingrown toenail. Occasional explosions, loss of a hand or an eye. I do what I can, but it amounts to little more than chopping.’
‘I heard another rumour coming here,’ I said.
‘You did?’ he asked, as my silence stretched out.
I looked hard into his eyes.
They did not flinch away, as I expected. And yet, there was something flinty and fixed about the way he returned my gaze, as if he resented the fact that I obliged him to be sociable. As if he had decided for reasons of his own to say as little to me as possible.
‘I heard that other girls have disappeared. Girls who harvest the amber. It is thought that they may have run away . . .’
‘Oh, it’s quite likely,’ he said. ‘They run away all the time.’
I sat forward in my chair, edging closer to him.
‘They also say,’ I lowered my voice, as if to confide in him, ‘that human remains have been found along the seashore. And that bones have been found in the sand-dunes. Have you heard such rumours, doctor?’
To my surprise, he smiled. It was the first time he had done so since I entered the house. ‘Human bones are often found in this area,’ he answered promptly. ‘I have a small collection of my own.’
My heart seemed to leap inside my ribcage.
‘May I see them?’ I asked.
He went across to a large black dresser with carved panels, curly spindles and a dozen shallow drawers. ‘I keep them here in my Cabinet of Curiosities,’ he said, sliding out one of the drawers. It was six or seven feet long, a yard deep. It had been divided up into twenty-odd smaller spaces, none of which was shaped quite like any other, by an ingenious system of interlacing struts. The exhibits were of differing sizes: some quite tiny, others relatively large. I recognised a tibia.
‘Did you find them all yourself?’ I asked.
‘I have bought one or two of proven local origin, but the others were found in the area by my father, or myself. A natural philosopher, he started off this collection more than fifty years ago. He discovered this skull in the dunes out beyond Nordbarn.’ He ran his finger around the rim of a large hole in the brow. ‘It was made by a stone axe, I’d say. I have a decent watercolour of such a weapon somewhere in my print collection. Our ancestors lived by hunting and fishing. Sometimes, when food was short, I suspect that they may have eaten one another.’
‘How old are these bones, then?’
Dr Heinrich smiled. ‘There you have it, sir,’ he said. ‘Exactly, I cannot say. Accurate dating is the great curse of modern antiquarianism. My father used to make an educated guess, but that is hardly scientific, as I’m certain you would agree. There is a lively academic debate going on at the moment. There is no known method for judging the age of ancient bones. Being so resistant to decay, they are usually dated by association. If we find, say, a small skeleton in a tomb along with a round Roman shield and a short sword, we may safely assume that the contents, including the bones, date from Roman times.’
‘And in the absence of such evidence?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
I took a deep breath. ‘How many of these exhibits can be reliably dated?’
Heinrich lifted up the tibia and held it in his hands. ‘I know what are thinking, sir. You are asking yourself whether this bone, and others like it, might belong to women who have died more recently on the coast.’
‘You are correct,’ I admitted.
‘And you are wrong,’ he said with the measured authority of a collector. ‘The bones found by my father and I have all been carefully documented. Regarding exactly where and when they were found, that is. Each one bears a label, and is carefully entered in the Heinrich catalogue. There is little room for doubt.’
He picked up a small hollow bone, held it to his eye and stared at me through the hole. ‘This one, for example. It is very well-documented, sir. A vertebra amulet. It came from the crypt of the local church three years ago. The coast of Prussia has always been a violent place. Pagan tribes, Vikings, brigands, the Teutonic Order, all of them seeking amber. Then, the Poles, the Lithuanians, the Russians. Now, the French . . .’
‘You mention amber,’ I said. ‘As a collector . . .’
‘Not of amber, sir, I assure you. It costs too much for my humble means.’
‘Still, you must have an opinion,’ I insisted. ‘For instance, regarding the creatures, flies and so on, that are sometimes found in amber. Were there men on Earth when those insects ruled the air?’
Dr Heinrich fixed me with an inquisitive stare.
‘The Bible says that it was so,’ he replied at last.
Hand in jacket pocket, my fingers caressed the nugget that Kati Rodendahl had been carrying. I marvelled again at its airy lightness, the smooth surface of the stone, the warmth that it seemed to emanate as I closed it in my palm. As it must have done inside the girl when she was living. It would have cooled down after her death. It was as if the amber had lived and died with her.
I pulled it from my pocket and held it out to him. ‘I removed this from the corpse,’ I said. ‘Is this what the killer was looking for, do you think?’
The way Dr Heinrich swept it from my palm reminded me of Erika’s hawk-like swoop at the honey-coloured bauble. He turned it over in his fingers, held it to the light from the window, shifted it from hand to hand as if to gauge its weight.
‘A marvellous piece,’ he said at last. Having opened his mouth, he seemed unable to stop. ‘The colour, the size, the form itself, a perfect lozenge. Yet that is not all,’ he said, looking up quickly. I had not seen such undisguised animation on a human face in quite some time. ‘The insertion is absolutely unique. You may find wasps today, sir, but you’ll not find one like this in God’s Creation. They were drowned in the Flood. I myself believe that these creatures are far, far older. Older than mankind, in fact, despite what the Bible, that is, what Biblical scholars, say . . .’
He did not finish. His brow creased, he raised one eyebrow, and peered at me intently. ‘When found, the corpse was
naked, according to Colonel les Halles,’ he said, his eyes fixed on mine. ‘Evidently you have found her clothes, Herr Procurator.’
Had he been more open with me from the start, I might have told him. We were both obliged to work for the French, but that fact had not made us allies. We seemed, instead, to be standing on opposite banks of a very wide river, calling to each other from afar.
‘Let’s say, I found the secret hiding-place,’ I said laconically.
‘And the killer did not,’ he concluded. ‘Might that be why he vented his anger on the victim’s face?’
13
Helena dearest,
I arrived safely on the coast and have now started work. I seem already to be making progress with my investigation, and I dare to hope that I will not be delayed here long. The French colonel in charge of the camp is doing everything in his power to assist me. And the local inhabitants appear to be more at ease knowing that a Prussian magistrate is asking the questions, and that he has their concerns at heart.
How goes it all with you at home? Is Lotte helping you, as she ought? And what about the children? Are they behaving themselves? I only pray that they are not too troublesome. They were so excited at the thought of a new baby brother. It will be a great relief for all of us–and most of all, for you!–when the child is born.
I miss you all, and Lotingen, too.
Has the situation improved . . .
I had never been good at writing letters to Helena on those rare occasions when I was away from home. I asked her only what I did not need to know, or knew already, and I lacked the courage to ask her what I really should have asked.
I wanted to say so much, instead I said very little.
I added a few lines regarding the general aspect of the coast and the state of the French camp where I found myself, assuring Helena once again that I would not delay my homecoming by so much as one single minute.
What more was there to tell that would put her at ease?
The door flew back on its hinges, crashing loudly against the wall of the cabin.
I looked up with a start.
A stubby forefinger was poking aggressively at my face.
‘To night we’ll dine together, Stiffeniis,’ said Colonel les Halles. ‘You can tell me what you have been doing all day.’
I had not heard him knock. Which is not to say that he had bothered to announce his arrival. Before he came, the only sound had been the muffled rumble of the sea upon the shingle shore below, the lesser rustle of a million pebbles as the retreating water tried to suck some back. If any knuckles had beaten against the door, I could not have failed to hear them. He barged in with the air of a superior officer who is inclined to see what his inferiors are getting up to in the privacy of their quarters.
And yet, it was difficult to think of him as my superior in any respect. His dark blue jacket was creased and crumpled. A pale tuft of lining sprouted from a jagged rip at the shoulder seam. His once-white trousers were stained, scuffed and filthy. His boots appeared to be sopping wet; he left a trail of sandy clots behind him as he entered the room. His face was wet with sweat. It had trickled down his temples and neck, and left white dribbles on his dusty skin. He might have come from some inhuman struggle which had wrung every single drop of every possible fluid from his body. Traces of fatigue were layered over his person. Oil, sweat, dirt and sand spoke out loud in spots and patches which dotted his skin and marked his clothes.
But the smell of him was worse. The damp, salty sea air, which had filled the hut before he polluted it, seemed like all the balms of the East in comparison. If the breeze had fought to get in through the cracks, I could easily believe that it redoubled the fight to get out and escape from him. The odour of his unwashed body inundated the atmosphere. And yet, clearly, he was pleased with himself. The expression on his face declared that a day spent mounting a new engine was a day well spent.
On my own face, I knew, a less happy expression reigned.
‘I must finish writing . . .’ I began to say.
Les Halles waved his hand dismissively.
‘Finish it later,’ he snapped, then conceded with brusque magnanimity: ‘If it’s on my desk by tomorrow evening, that will satisfy me.’
Evidently, he believed that the paper in my hand was meant for his eyes.
The urge to tell him that his professional concerns came a poor second to my domestic worries welled up in me, but I crushed it swiftly. The opportunity to dine with him, and tell him between mouthfuls what was on my mind, was too good to miss.
My letter could wait.
‘I accept your generous offer,’ I said, as if I had been invited to a formal dinner at the General Quarters. ‘If you’ll grant me the time to clean myself up, I would be grateful.’
‘To judge from the stink in here,’ he grunted, ‘you’ve been crawling through the drains of Nordcopp.’ He held up his hooded lantern the better to see my face and clothes. ‘But be quick about it. When hunger takes hold of me, it tends to swallow up my patience. In twenty minutes, hut three.’
An invitation? It was an order.
‘Most kind,’ I murmured, as he went out, leaving the door wide open.
Was I the one who stank? Was I the one who needed to spruce himself up?
As I put away my quill and closed the bottle of ink, stowing them carefully away in the travelling nècessaire that Helena had purchased for my thirtieth birthday, I felt the anger welling up in me.
Should I wash?
A bucket had been provided for my ablutions. It contained cold water from the sea. The bucket was not particularly clean. Nor was the water fresh. In something of a passion, I stripped off the shirt I had worn all that day and the day before, dipped it into the water and sponged my face, arms and chest with it.
What about my hair?
I wear my hair long, and loosely tied. It was dry, clogged and clotted with the sand that was carried on the persistent breeze. With a curse against French colonels and their sudden invitations to dine, I dropped down on my knees, took a breath and dipped my head into the bucket. Helena had put a towel into my bag, but I had acted without thinking. It was too late to start rummaging inside for a towel. I used the soiled shirt to soak up some of the water, brushing my hair back with my hands, tying it up tightly with the same strip of black ribbon that I had worn all day.
My beard?
Each attempt at improvement urged me on rashly to the next. And all in the desire to outdo Colonel les Halles. No Frenchman would outshine me. I shave each morning at home, but I had not shaved once in Nordcopp. I took the cut-throat razor out from my shoulder-bag, dipped the blade into the water—it looked less inviting every time I was required to use it—and made some darting correction to the stubble on my face and cheeks.
Again, I used the dirty shirt to rub my cheeks and dry my hands.
Now, what was I to do with the shirt?
I rolled it into a bundle, and stuffed it into the bucket, leaving it there to soak, while I went to look for the spare linen shirt that was rolled up somewhere in my travelling-bag. I had been intending to wear it the following week if the investigation dragged on so very long, but I was left with no choice.
Time was drawing on, but as I shook out the fresh linen, time stood still.
I held the garment to my nose, and took a deep breath. I closed my eyes, and inhaled the heady perfume of lilac and rosemary from Helena’s garden. For one moment I was back in Lotingen. Thank Heaven for the little cotton bags of crushed flowers which Lotte always put between the clean clothes in the drawers at home to take the edge off the smell of burnt ashes. When the maid washed on a Monday, the entire previous week’s supply of ashes went into the tub with the dirty garments.
I opened my eyes.
I pulled on the fresh shirt, carefully folding down the collar, knotting the linen bands in a fluffy bow at my throat. I was ready to dine. Except for the final touch. I took out a small ceramic bottle from my bag and unscrewed the stopper. The scen
t of Farina’s finest Kölnwasser filled my nostrils with lime and lemon, orange and bergamot. While visiting Paris in 1793, I had purchased a perfume enriched with a distillation of rose petals from the shop of Monsieur Roget & Cie in Rue Lerebours, and I felt sure that les Halles would have something of the sort. As I slicked my hands over my hair, luxuriating in the perfume, I could not help but smile. Hut three would be a battlefield of contrasting, competing scents: essence of Prussia versus the Grande Armée of essences of France. I trusted in Helena’s good taste to bring me safely through the conflict. By the time I knocked on the door, waiting for his gruff call to enter, I had convinced myself that the skirmish was already won.
A small, square table was laid with a plain white cloth embroidered with only a regimental emblem. The plates of fine bone china were also white, and adorned with the same red heraldic badge. The cutlery was heavy silver: worn, but very ornate. There were two seats, one on either side of the table, which was loaded down with a basket of bread, two bottles of red wine, cutcrystal goblets, a large salver on which a long boiled sausage lay, another dish containing meat chops in a red sauce, and dishes piled with potatoes and beet. The sight and aroma would have made a favourable impression in an eating-house.
Only one thing spoiled the scene.
Colonel les Halles was seated at the table, a napkin stuffed down the unbuttoned neck of his uniform. He held a large chop to his lips with both hands, and gnawed on it like a starving hound. He dropped the bone noisily onto his plate, rattling his knife and fork, splashing gravy over the tablecloth. With a loud sigh, he picked up his wine-glass and consumed half of the contents in a single draught. ‘You have used the time to good effect, Herr Procurator. You look and smell like another man. And much more pretty than the old one,’ he concluded with a raucous laugh, as if greatly satisfied with these ironic remarks.
I stood there like a jilted bridegroom.
He wore the same uniform. The same filthy trousers. The same sodden boots. His short hair stood on end, as if he had tried to scratch the sand from his hair, then given it over as a hopeless task. He did not sit at the table so much as slouch, his boots stretched out to one side, his head bending low to meet the food and drink before his hands could bring it up to his lips. The spotted mess on his napkin reminded me of a large map in my office in Lotingen which showed the shoals of the Nogat estuary in red ink, the shifting sandbanks in brown. He eased himself into a more comfortable position, sitting further back in his seat, and his boots left half-moon clumps of mud and sand behind them.
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