Borrower of the Night vbm-1

by Elizabeth Peters

  ‘Unless she knows about the shrine.’

  ‘Right.’ We stared at one another in silence. Finally Tony said,

  ‘We don’t want to face it, do we? But it would be naïve of us to assume that we’re the only ones who could have spotted the original clues. Anyone who read that book and who knew Riemenschneider’s life story could have reached the same conclusions we did. And don’t forget the Gräfin may have other information. She could have removed significant family papers from that collection before we saw it.’

  ‘But she hasn’t found the shrine yet. Or has she?’

  ‘No. She wouldn’t tolerate our messing around if she had. Hasn’t it struck you how cooperative the old witch has been? Keys to the crypt, keys to the library, no embarrassing questions about our nocturnal wanderings or even about our outlandish performance this morning. Her restraint is completely out of character, unless – ’

  ‘Unless she is hoping we can find the shrine for her. She may know that it exists; but if she doesn’t know where it is hidden, she might think that we, with our training, stand a better chance of finding it than she would. Has it occurred to you – ’

  ‘That we had better guard our backs if we do locate the shrine? Yes, dear, it occurred to me with a vengeance when that homicidal armour came at me.’

  ‘I don’t think you were in any danger from the armour,’ I said callously. ‘You won’t be in danger until you locate the prize. That was just fun and games, to spur you on. You always think better when you get mad.’

  ‘Fun and games,’ Tony muttered. ‘Somebody has a sick sense of humour.’

  ‘Definitely,’ I agreed, thinking of Irma and the séance.

  ‘Enough of this,’ Tony said. ‘We haven’t enough evidence to make sensible deductions about the living villain. Let’s get back to the dead villain. You do see, I trust, what our discovery this morning has to do with the problem of the shrine?’

  ‘I haven’t had time to think about it. But – my Lord, yes. In that letter of Konstanze’s she said the shrine, and the steward, had not arrived. Now we know he did arrive. And stayed here.’

  ‘Indeed he did. Now,’ said Tony patronizingly, ‘go on. What was old Nicolas doing down there with the count’s dagger between his ribs?’

  ‘Hmm. How about this? The steward was not a faithful hound after all. He stole the shrine for himself, sneaked into the castle – which he knew well – at the dead of night. He was about to hide the shrine in the old count’s tomb when Burckhardt wandered in – to pray, or pay his respects, or something. Seized by rage at the sight of his double-dealing servant, and the shrine – which he assumed had been lost on the way from Rothenburg – Burckhardt stabbed Nicolas, tumbled him into the ready-made grave, and hid the shrine himself. Then he got sick – wait, wait! Remember the testimony of the nurse? The murder must have happened that very night. Burckhardt was already ill, ill and delirious. That’s why he never told anyone where he put the shrine. It’s still hidden!’

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘Not bad! What else could have happened?’

  ‘You have fallen in love with your own theory,’ said Tony severely. ‘A dangerous fault in a scholar. I can think of at least one other possibllity. The count himself came home with the caravan and the shrine. He and the faithful steward hid it, at dead of night, as you so quaintly put it, in the old count’s tomb. Konstanze didn’t know a thing about this. Later the count got to worrying about the safety of the hiding place, and went down, with the steward, to move the shrine. They hid it somewhere else, and then the count stabbed the steward, etcetera, etcetera.’

  ‘I don’t mind making the count the villain,’ I said. ‘I never liked him anyway. But you have a slight credibility gap, bud. Why should Burckhardt hide his own property and kill his faithful retainer?’

  ‘Remember what was supposed to happen to the shrine? Count Harald’s will left it to the church. The countess is definite about that in her letters, and she agrees that it should be done. Suppose Burckhardt didn’t agree. The jewels were worth a pile, you know. Maybe he needed money. He wouldn’t let anyone, especially his pious wife, know he wanted the shrine for himself. When the faithful steward realized what Burckhardt had in mind, he threatened to expose him, and Burckhardt murdered him. That way Konstanze never would know where the shrine was hidden, and Burckhardt wouldn’t be about to tell her.’

  ‘Plausible,’ I admitted. ‘But all the theories are plausible. You’re the one who used to lecture me about the difference between possibility and proof; judging by some of the articles I read in the journals, a lot of historians don’t know the difference. We have no proof, Tony. We can’t even be sure that the shrine was ever here, in the castle, much less in that vault.’

  ‘Oh, yes, we can.’ Tony was so proud of himself he swelled up like a toad. Reaching into his pocket, he carefully withdrew a small object.

  I looked at it as he held it up to the light, and my stomach got a queer queasy feeling. The object was a wing, carved of wood and lightly gilded. In form it was the sort of thing that might have been broken off a phoenix, or a golden bird in flight; but there was a quality about it that eliminated these possibilities and defined it as what it was –

  ‘An angel’s wing,’ I whispered.

  Chapter Eight

  I HELD THE PIECE of wood in both cupped hands. I didn’t speak because, to tell the truth, I was afraid my voice wouldn’t be steady. I mean, that wing really got to me, and not just because it confirmed an almost abandoned hope. For the first time I visualized the thing we were after, not as a prize or a treasure, but as a work of art. I was seeing golden angels.

  When I had suppressed this surprising burst of sentiment, I said with affected coolness, ‘Game and set to you, Tony. You’re way ahead. But you haven’t won the match yet.’ Reluctantly I put the carved wood down on the table. My hand felt oddly empty. ‘Do you realize this is the first solid piece of evidence we’ve found?’

  ‘We’ve been distracted by side issues. I still am,’ Tony admitted. ‘I can’t get that woman out of my mind. I keep seeing her – a girl with Irma’s face – standing in the flames and screaming.’

  ‘Stop it.’

  ‘Sorry. But – ’

  ‘Of course she haunts us,’ I snapped. ‘Who wouldn’t be disturbed by a gruesome story like hers? If it weren’t for her resemblance to Irma, though . . .’

  I let the words trail off, and Tony looked curiously at me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s gone. I almost had an idea there, for a minute . . . Let’s stick to the important question. We know now that the shrine did reach Rothenburg. It has to be here somewhere. Let’s have a look at those maps.’

  We spread them out on the bed. They had been rolled for so many years it was hard to hold them open; they had a tendency to snap back on our hands like teeth. I leaned on two of the corners while Tony flattened the other side.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, after studying them for a moment. ‘This top plan concerns the remodelling of the east wing in seventeen fifty-two. We needn’t worry about that. If there had been anything there, the workmen would have found it.’

  I put the parchment down on the floor. The sheet underneath was yellower and the writing more faded.

  ‘Here we have a general layout done in – early seventeenth century, wouldn’t you say? There’s no date. It’s not detailed enough to be of any use. Same for this . . .’

  I added two more rolls to the one on the floor.

  ‘Now here,’ said Tony, looking with satisfaction at the next maps, ‘we get to red meat. These are plans of the Schloss as it was in the early fifteen-thirties. I’ll bet they were done by Burckhardt’s successor when he took over the title.’

  ‘What a mess,’ I said.

  ‘The new count was no draftsman,’ Tony agreed. ‘And the parchment needs cleaning. But you can make out most of it. Ignore the east wing, which was later demolished. Here’s the wing we are presently occupying – this line of roo
ms. The master bedchamber . . . is the one now inhabited by Schmidt.’

  ‘I suspected as much.’

  ‘Oh, you know everything, don’t you?’

  ‘I said “suspected.” How come Schmidt rated that particular room? Tony, maybe he’s already found the shrine!’

  ‘Think it through,’ Tony said, with maddening superiority. ‘Schmidt is still here, poking and prying and acting suspicious. If he had found the shrine he wouldn’t stick around. Do we then conclude that the shrine is not, after all, concealed somewhere in the chamber that belonged to Burckhardt?’

  ‘We might if we were sure of two things.’

  ‘One, that Schmidt is a good hunter; two, that Schmidt is a hunter, not a weird but innocent bystander. All right, we don’t conclude anything. The room next to his is mine now. According to the plan, it was once two smaller chambers occupied by servants of the noble pair. The next room – yours – belonged to the countess.’

  ‘How modern,’ I said, with a flippancy I did not feel. I wasn’t sure I wanted to have Konstanze that close to me.

  ‘It was unusual for them to have had separate bedchambers.’ Tony squinted at the dirty parchment. ‘Well, the legend is clear. Maybe she used it as boudoir or dressing room. Maybe she liked to sleep with the window open and Burckhardt liked it closed. Maybe he snored. Maybe – ’

  ‘Surely her room would be right next to his. If not . . .’

  Tony grinned.

  ‘They didn’t have our hang-ups about sex. I can see the count stamping down the corridor between rows of genuflecting servants on his way to spend the night with the countess . . . But one of the noble gentlemen was more sensitive – or maybe he was susceptible to draughts. See this line?’

  ‘Between the count and countess’s rooms?’

  ‘Through the wall. I think it’s a passageway. Maybe blocked up now.’

  ‘That’s all we lacked – a secret passage.’

  ‘Nothing unusual about it. This isn’t Cleveland, Ohio; we’re in medieval Europe here. The place is probably riddled with secret passages. When you have walls ten feet thick, you can do all sorts of interesting things. I wish this parchment weren’t so filthy; I can’t make out all the fine lines. But this looks like another passage, from the library to one of the guest chambers. The count probably put his questionable acquaintances in that room, so he could eavesdrop on their conversations.’

  ‘What’s this?’ I pointed to a drawing of something that looked like a thick chimney.

  ‘It would appear to be the count’s concept of an elevation drawing of the tower. Note that there seems to be a hidden stairway in the outer wall.’

  ‘In the tower, eh? Then Irma could have gotten out of her room even with the door locked.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Tony said shortly. He lifted the last parchment and stared at the bedspread. ‘That seems to be all.’

  ‘Seems to me it’s enough.’

  ‘No, there’s something missing. We have two sheets covering the first and second floors of the Schloss. Where’s the plan of the cellars?’

  ‘Right on. There must be a subterranean level, for storage and cooking. Maybe a dungeon or two. The count had to deal with crimes on his own premises; there weren’t any policemen. And I’d expect a well. If the defenders had to retreat within the castle walls, they were gone geese without a water supply – ’

  Someone banged on the door, interrupting my discourse. I kicked the whole collection of maps hastily under the bed.

  ‘Come in,’ Tony said.

  It was George.

  ‘The Gräfin asked me to tell you that the services are this afternoon.’

  ‘How come so fast?’ asked Tony.

  ‘How should I know? Maybe she doesn’t want him lying around.’

  ‘And we’re expected to attend the obsequies?’ I asked.

  George smiled.

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

  I had assumed the service would he held at the Jakobskirche, where Riemenschneider’s altar is the chief attraction, but I was mistaken. I should have known better. There is no more space for the dead inside the town walls. So, following directions, Tony and I crossed the town and went out through the Roedertor to the new cemetery. It really is new; I couldn’t find any graves earlier than 1720.

  For reasons known only to himself, Tony insisted on arriving early, so we wandered around the cemetery for a while. It is a pretty place – if you like cemeteries – well tended, and pretty well filled. A high stone wall encloses it; like the city of the living, it is bright with flowers. We saw several Hausfrauen, with green plastic watering cans, tending the begonias and the miniature pink rose trees which had been planted on the graves.

  The others began to arrive. Miss Burton accompanied the Gräfin. She would come, I thought; dead bodies are just her thing. Blankenhagen was also present, watching Irma with more than professional interest. George watched everybody.

  We filed solemnly into the little church and took seats – all of us except Tony. He marched up the aisle and accosted the pastor, a slight, dreamy-looking little bald man. I couldn’t hear what they said, but I saw some object pass from Tony’s pocket to that of the pastor. He disappeared, and Tony joined me. He was looking smug, but I had no time to question him before the coffin was carried in and the service began. It was short and ambiguous, in keeping with the state of the remains. When it was over, we straggled out into the cemetery behind the two young Rothenburgers who carried the wooden coffin. In a short time only a mound of fresh earth remained to show where the bones had been laid. It looked raw and stark in contrast to the ivy and flower-covered plots around it. No one would plant roses on Nicolas’ grave.

  The Gräfin turned away. Miss Burton joined her, and they went off together. Irma suggested a visit to a cafe, and Blankenhagen was so pleased at her good spirits he neglected to intimate that our presence was not wanted. So we went to The Golden Star, and drank beer, and made conversation, Irma was looking gorgeous. She giggled and flirted, turning from Blankenhagen to Tony with impartial goodwill. I noticed she didn’t bat her eyelashes at George.

  As we were leaving the cafe I grabbed Tony and dragged him to the rear. He struggled some.

  ‘I want to talk to you,’ I said. ‘If you can tear yourself away from Cinderella for a minute.’

  ‘She gets prettier all the time,’ said Tony, watching the threesome which was now some distance ahead.

  I wasn’t jealous. I merely felt he ought to face facts.

  ‘Yes, she does, and I wonder why? How come she’s so relaxed and pleased with life these days?’

  ‘Maybe she’s in love,’ said Tony fatuously.

  ‘And maybe she’s pleased because her plans are working.’

  It took the romantic jerk several seconds to see what I meant.

  ‘Irma?’ he exclaimed, so loudly that I slapped my hand over his mouth. He pulled it off and continued, just as indignantly, but in a lower voice.

  ‘You’re crazy jealous. How could she manipulate all our ghosts?’

  ‘I will pass over your gratuitous and uncouth insult,’ I said, ‘and point out a few solid facts. The profit motive applies just as well to Irma as it does to her aunt. So far as opportunity goes, she has the best of anyone. You saw the hidden stairs on the plans; she could have gotten out of her room and left the door locked. As for the armour, it would take a short man to wear it – or a woman. But the really damning fact is the séance. Unless you believe in possession – which I do not – how do you explain her reference to the fire? She’s lived here all her life, she could have found out about Konstanze’s death the same way you did.’

  ‘I don’t buy the motive,’ Tony said, but he was disturbed. ‘This is a damned roundabout way to get at a hidden treasure. She is the only one who could search openly for the shrine. Why all the ghosties and ghoulies? It’s a crazy way to act.’

  ‘Maybe she is crazy. Maybe she has motives we don’t understand because we don’t know enough abou
t the situation.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘What we do is, you tell me about that mysterious envelope you slipped the minister.’

  ‘Nothing to tell,’ Tony said.

  ‘Let us apply logic,’ I said sarcastically. ‘You want someone to believe you kept something out of the steward’s belongings because there was important information in it – papers, maybe, in the pouch – though how you expect anyone to believe papers would survive . . . You think someone will try to dig up the . . . When, tonight?’

  ‘That is the most ridiculous series of non sequiturs I’ve ever heard!’

  ‘What time do we meet?’

  It was about midnight when we took up our vigil in the cemetery. We had some difficulty finding a place that wasn’t already occupied. It was behind a low wall, shadowed by two funereal trees. We could have been closer to the steward’s grave, but I refused to move. I have few superstitions, but I try to avoid lying on graves when I possibly can.

  After we were settled I glanced uneasily at the sky. The moon was almost full, but the sky to the west was overcast, and from time to time clouds obscured the moon and left the graveyard quite dark. The night was warm, but damp lingered in the earth under the tree, and the blanket I had brought was useful.

  Tony keeps insisting with maddening monotony, that what happened was not his fault. Now I don’t hold him accountable for meteorological phenomena. The dark cloud that hid the moon around 2 a.m. was more or less unexpected and undeniably uncontrollable. But the fact remains that if he had been paying attention . . . I’m perfectly willing to admit I wasn’t paying attention either. All I want him to do is shoulder half the blame.

  It was not until we heard the creak of hinges that we realized what was going on. Even then things might have worked out if Tony had kept his head. Instead of moving slowly and quietly, he leaped to his feet, planting a knee in my stomach in the process. I grunted.

  The scuffle was warning enough for the grave robber. I had only a glimpse of a dark form leaving the grounds at impressive speed. Tony started in pursuit and lost valuable time by falling into the hole that had been excavated. When he realized where he was, he got out with considerable alacrity. The moon was still hidden, and he cursed it fluently, without noticeable results.