A lamp fuelled with train-oil is alight, and the foreman, standing by a sideboard, is getting dressed. What’s he up to at this late hour? By the look of things, some urgent business. He’s trying to pull his boots on at the same time as he’s frantically looking for a bushel for the light. They’ve come, he thinks, just these words, they’ve come . . . invoking the image of some serious-minded gentlemen whose faces Barfuss can’t recall having seen before.
The raven, unaware of being steered like a kite on the string of a human will, lifts again and lands eight windows away at Lisaveta’s, the housemaid of Russian descent. Distracted, a trifle unsure of its own motives, and maybe even a little sceptical about its own strength of character, the bird pecks at some seed on the windowsill. From here Hercule can intuit the girl’s dream; something about money and her mother. Lisaveta’s the only one of the servants who isn’t frightened off by his appearance. Sometimes he has even felt feelings of sympathy emanating from her, and to Henriette she has always been as loyal as a daughter. She is almost twelve years old, and was bought by von Below at one of the workhouse auctions.
Again the raven takes off and lands in a tree outside the garden wall. The bird is as sleepless as he is, it has lost something, but can no longer remember what: his mate perhaps . . . or a chick? The moon reappears. Three men are standing outside the garden wall, one of them, oddly enough, has a monkey on his shoulder. But the bird, which has sighted a crust of bread on the ground, isn’t interested in the remarkable group, and at the same moment as it lands before its booty, Hercule too loses interest and returns to the desk.
Death, he thinks, not knowing where the word has cropped up from so suddenly. Henriette, who has instructed him in life’s complicated book of rules, has once told him about the city repository where von Below wants to be taken when he is thought to be dead. It’s to Berlin’s repositories that people suspected of not really being dead are taken, and placed in a mortuary with a bell tied to one foot. Not until they have been there several weeks without once having rung the bell, and are already beginning to smell, are they carted off to the churchyard to be buried in Christian soil. Love’s repository . . . he thinks, but doesn’t pursue the thought, because now, on his extrasensory wavelength, he notices the foreman leave his room. Something has been bothering him for weeks now, but love, which makes Hercule less inclined to rummage about in other people’s minds, causes him to throw caution to the winds. He has quite enough to cope with in the emotional landslide unleashed in him by Henriette and his daughter.
Lowering his pen, he looks around him. Henriette is sleeping her cherubic sleep. She is beauty personified: her long, naturally wavy hair, her smile’s touch of eternity, her noble profile, the triumphant arch of her nose, the almond eyes, her gait – like that of a timid gazelle – the perfect breasts, the profundity of her gaze, the wise feet, the mysterious ears, the sensitive temples, the holy vault of her forehead, the exotic fruit that is her mouth. He closes his eyes to avoid the thought of having to wake her up before dawn breaks, so that she has time to creep back into her own room before the household awakes.
Will their daughter be as beautiful? For several months he had feared the worst, but the girl had been born without any deformities. In his mind’s eye he sees them together in America. Unspeakably happy.
Then still sitting up, he dozes off. It’s been a long week, filled with preparations for their journey. He dreams about a rat. Dressed in a frock coat and wearing a green mitre, the rat hands him a letter, warning him of something terrible about to happen. Then, caught out unprepared on this fateful night, he wakes up in a cold sweat, still seated in the same position he’d fallen asleep in: on the stool by the child-size desk, with a quill pen between his toes.
Henriette moans in her sleep. She needs her sleep, he thinks, soon enough she’ll need all her reserved energy. He puts the pen down, wipes a drop of ink off his toe, walks silently over to the bed, climbs up into it by the steps the foreman has made for him. He strokes her cheek with his foot, and she emits another moan. It must be the moon- and lamplight that are troubling her, he thinks, and with amazing alacrity he takes off his mask and places it on her face to shield her eyes. She is curled on her side, her knees pulled up under her breasts. In this gloomy light, it occurs to him, they could be mistaken for each other.
He returns to the desk, but halts in the shaft of moonlight in the middle of the floor. The revolving antennae of his sixth sense are signalling some kind of movement, he focuses his attention and in his consciousness, so blurred by happiness, appears a single image. The monkey!
The monkey he had seen through the eyes of the raven shortly before was somewhere in the house.
How could it have got in? He doesn’t know. Its mind is that of a child. It sees nothing in the dark and appears to be deeply confused.
He opens the door and walks out into the corridor to see if it’s there. Nothing. All that’s moving is the shadow of some trees lit up from behind by a sentimental moon. He carries on down the stairs, into the main building, coming to a halt outside the wet-nurse’s door. She’s dreaming a complicated dream in which someone keeps repeating the words: “It was on a Tuesday in April.” Next to her, in a cradle, his daughter is sleeping. She, the newborn, is also dreaming, but kaleidoscopically, in blocks of colour mixed on an internal palette. Vague contours, hands maybe, appear out of a red backdrop. The dream is wordless. Suddenly, in her dream, he sees his masked face, perceives the memories she has of the wet-nurse’s heartbeat, the rich flavour of breast milk, which makes her mouth water, and the memory of mother Henriette’s smell.
Such is an infant’s dream, he reflects, a fog in which the world is only very slowly acquiring any contours. No language, no feelings beyond those of hunger and thirst, a sense of well-being disturbed by colic pains. Good and evil are unknown, as are beauty and deformity. All this, life will teach her, little by little, and as always, of course, unasked.
He turns his attentions to those asleep in the opposite wing. Von Below’s sleep, he observes, is tranquillity itself. The baron rarely dreams, and when he does, his dreams are of a practical nature and conform to a clearly defined grammar. But the foreman, where is he? Not in his room.
Perplexed, Hercule turns round.
Where, then, is the foreman?
Suddenly he knows it. By the kitchen door!
And somewhere in the house, in a space he doesn’t recognise at all, is the monkey, together with a stranger. His heart beating wildly, he runs as fast as his dwarf legs will carry him back to the other wing, up the stairs, along the corridor where the trees perform their Indonesian shadow dance along the walls. Trips over the edge of a carpet, bumps into a chest of drawers. Something clumsy is moving about in a corner: one of the bejewelled tortoises.
His little lungs strain asthmatically, in his throat a gurgle rises up, the closest his deformed speech organs can get to letting out a scream, we imagine. The door is open, just as he left it. But the bookshelf, too, is open, exposing the passage leading to a secret stairway he never knew was there. On the bed, still wearing his mask, lies Henriette.
All this he sees in black and white, just as he had through the eyes of the raven, and for the first time in his life a real scream flies out of his throat, so blood-curdling it almost instantly brings the servants to the room. She’s lying there, not moving, curled up into half her size, looking like a masked dwarf.
On the floor lies a razor blade. A monkey, senseless with fear, is climbing up the curtains.
The girl’s throat has been slit to the bone.
VII
CHRISTLISCHER ANZEIGER, Ratibor, January 14, 1837
Tragic suicide or bestial manslaughter?
Over the last week a mysterious death has divided the citizens of this town into two factions and given rise to a furious debate about guilt and crime in our youthful epoch. On Twelfth Night, crofter J. Langenmüller found the corpse of an unknown male hanging from a tree in the churchyard of the neighbo
uring village, Jägerndorf. Deputy parish clerk Langenmüller, highly esteemed for his display of courage in the forest fire last year, summoned Constable Köhler who promptly arrived in the company of the parish dean, Heinemann. They were able to identify the deceased as being S. Moosbrugger, former watchman at the Ratibor lunatic asylum, reported missing by his brother since the day after Christmas.
As our readers know, a postmortem examination was carried out at the local mortuary. Barber-surgeon Jansen determined the cause of death as suffocation by noose, but also detected traces of external violence having been inflicted on the deceased’s body. Before the moment of death, Moosbrugger’s head had received several blows with a blunt instrument, which, however, according to Jansen, had in themselves not caused fatal injuries. Furthermore, his hand had been badly maimed: three fingers had been ripped from their joints, several lumps of molten lead had penetrated the bones of the hand, as also had a link from a heavy chain. Some signs resembling letters, deciphered by the constable as the words “seven years” were engraved into the deceased’s back. The date of death has been determined as around the first of the month.
Constable Köhler initiated a door-to-door search in the immediate vicinity of where the body had been found, but as our readers know, no-one had anything of import to relate. With the aid of the graveyard’s caretaker it was ascertained that the corpse had in all likelihood been hung up from the tree not more than a few hours before being discovered. It had not been there on the previous day when several people from the village had lit candles at the graves.
Because of the Twelfth Night festivities, the brother of the deceased and next of kin, K. Moosbrugger, was not summoned to a hearing at the Royal Gendarmerie until four days later. According to Constable Köhler he acted in such a nervous manner that a decision was made to take him into custody. The hearing was resumed in the presence of County Police Commissioner Brink, to whom Moosbrugger had in person reported his brother as missing at Christmas time.
According to the hearings held with Moosbrugger, the deceased had entertained notions of suicide ever since the brothers had been dismissed from the lunatic asylum last month following an anonymous letter – believed to be from a former inmate – which claimed that they had abused their charges, stolen their food, clothing and firewood, and through such cruel and neglectful treatment caused the deaths of many in their care. This scandal, as our readers may recall, has been reported in the Anzeiger.
On the day after Christmas, when
K. Moosbrugger last saw his brother, the latter was deeply melancholic and had spoken about his imminent suicide. Moosbrugger maintains that he took leave of his brother at an inn before returning home for his supper.
According to sources at the Anzeiger’s disposal, Herr Moosbrugger is as yet not suspected of having committed murder, although certain information indicates that he may have knowledge of the villain’s identity. Although it is quite clear that the body had been moved, the possibility of suicide, according to Constable Köhler, has not yet been excluded. According to the medical examination it is possible the deceased may first have committed suicide, then been maimed and moved to the graveyard by an unknown perpetrator. Meanwhile, the townsfolk are speculating about the motives for both murder and suicide. A sense of oppression has befallen us all. “This new era”, Commissioner Rau is reported as having said shortly before this edition went to press, “brings us not only manufacturers and railways, but also ever more heinous crimes.” The editor and the gendarmerie both welcome any information that may lead to the solution of this most tragic death.
* * *
CHRISTLISCHER ANZEIGER, Ratibor, January 20, 1837
Moosbrugger under arrest
On Friday, County Police Commissioner Brink decided to take 42-yearold Karl Moosbrugger into custody, as reasonably suspected of the murder of his younger brother Stephan. As yet no admission has been forthcoming on the part of the detainee, but according to Anzeiger’s sources, witnesses have come forward with information pointing to Moosbrugger as a suspect. Constable Köhler has made a statement in which he promises to keep the public up to date with any new information that can throw light on the tragedy. A man said to have been in the vicinity of the churchyard on January 6 is being looked for by the district public prosecutor. Should this person be one of the Anzeiger’s readers, we ask him to contact the authorities or our editorial office.
* * *
CHRISTLISCHER ANZEIGER, Ratibor, January 24, 1837
Moosbrugger to be prosecuted
Over the last few weeks there has been much speculation in our town as to whether or not K. Moosbrugger is guilty of his younger brother’s death. According to the sworn statement from the man under arrest, Stephan Moosbrugger took his own life as a result of being dismissed from the lunatic asylum last year. How Herr Moosbrugger can be so confident that this is so is a mystery to the editorial office, since he claims not to have seen his brother since Christmas, when he was alone and patronising one of the local inns.
When the Anzeiger spoke to County Police Commissioner Brink two evenings ago, Karl Moosbrugger had as yet not confessed. He maintains that his brother had entertained notions of suicide ever since the scandal at the asylum came to light. To all appearances this information has been contrived by the suspect in order to obstruct the investigation.
* * *
CHRISTLISCHER ANZEIGER, Ratibor, January 30, 1837
Moosbrugger confesses to murder
After two weeks in custody Karl Moosbrugger has finally confessed to the murder of his younger brother Stephan. According to Police Commissioner Brink, the case is extremely delicate, the deed having displayed a brutality which “seems symptomatic of our times”.
According to the minutes of the inquest, Karl Moosbrugger had, in fact, two days after Christmas looked in with his brother at the Three Anchors in our neighbouring village of Jägerndorf. A new witness recounts that a row had broken out about the thefts of firewood at the Ratibor asylum. At about ten o’clock, so the new witness reports, the brothers left the premises. What happened then was enough to shake any decent citizen in this part of the country. Nearby in a disused smithy Moosbrugger apparently knocked out his brother with a hammer before chaining him to an iron girder. The man under arrest then nailed his brother “through the tongue, to the wall”, as well as melting down a pound of lead and pouring it over the unconscious man so that “he was by now not only nailed to the wall by his tongue, but also fused together by his right hand with the iron girder and chain”. In this abhorrent manner Moosbrugger held his brother prisoner for four days and nights, submitting him to brutal torture, even going so far as to inscribe a “few words” in his back with a chisel. In the end, he strangled him with a noose, and then, under cover of night, carried the body to the nearby churchyard.
The suspect has as yet been unable to give a reasonable explanation for these acts of unprecedented cruelty. According to Constable Köhler he seems utterly confused and maintained throughout the interrogation: “It was the Devil himself who made me do what I did. He told me exactly what to do.”
The admission is confirmed by the depositions of several witnesses. A seamstress of the parish, Fräulein Rachel Mandelbaum, is said to have met the two brothers on the road to the smithy on the evening in question. The innkeeper of the Three Anchors who previously claimed he had no memory of the brothers being there has now changed his evidence. A third witness, a child, probably a boy, who is said to have been seen around the smithy on New Year’s night is still being sought by the prosecutor.
According to Police Commissioner Brink, the Moosbrugger case shows a clear indication of the dangers afflicting our modern era: “Corrupting publications are everywhere readily available, morals are dissolving, the move into cities is leading to divorces and anarchy.”
THE HOUSE WAS built in the Italian style and surrounded by an overgrown garden. A light snowfall had powdered the grounds, but being dressed in furs – a cat’s dense fur, to be
precise – Hercule didn’t feel the cold. More importantly, he was availing himself of the cat’s eyes.
Behind the windowpane the room lay in darkness. He could see so well in the dark that he could make out every detail. Large mahogany shelves filled with books lined the walls. Rows and rows of books like an unending keyboard: treatises, reference books, card indexes and legal documents. Trials and Punishments of Animals, he read on the spine of one tome bound in calf leather. Delinquent Man on another.
The cat’s eyes swept over the English-style armchairs, the grand piano regally placed in the centre of the room, the desk covered with piles of documents. It was all that he could do to keep the animal under control. It was only by the force of his hatred, he thought, which held in its icy grip all other feelings, as if at bayonet point. A hatred which had kept him sleepless through endless nights of self-reproach, a hatred that never gave him a moment’s peace, a hatred that compelled him to act.
At the far end of the room was a cabinet filled with naturalia. Engraved on a brass plate were the words pantera unica, or snow leopard. It was fastened to a plinth which was covered with sawdust that had been dipped in white paint, presumably to represent snow. The animal had been caught in an unnatural leap towards a stuffed Asiatic golden cat: Felis temmincki. A spotted hyena stood over something supposedly representing a carcass.
The Horrific Sufferings Of The Mind-Reading Monster Hercules Barefoot: His Wonderful Love and his Terrible Hatred Page 21
