Circle of Shadows

by Imogen Robertson

  ‘She had a plain gold cross, with her name engraved on the back. A boy she liked gave it to her many years ago, and I never saw her without it after.’

  The maid curtseyed at the door and Michaels made to follow her. Mrs Padfield offered her hand and Michaels caught the maid’s blink of surprise. No wonder she couldn’t go looking for herself if offering a hand to a man like him made the servants curious. ‘Thank you, Michaels.’

  He nodded, and followed the maid out of the house.

  It was a small and extremely inky child who opened the door. Harriet had elected after their discussion with Krall to find out what she could of the writer Bertram Raben and Krall had directed her to the shopfront in one of the smaller squares of Ulrichsberg where his works had been printed and sold, and where the official newspaper of Maulberg was written and printed. It was suggested that to avoid the sneers of the court, Harriet should take her maid. It irritated her, but when she saw Dido’s delight at an outing, even if it were walking three paces behind her mistress to a newspaper office, she felt more at peace, and a little guilty.

  Harriet asked for Herr Dorf and the inky child jerked his head towards a young man in shirt-sleeves standing behind a desk in the back of the room. It was a crowded space and Harriet had a general impression of paper, noise and tobacco smoke. Four or five men, rather sloppily dressed, shouted instructions or requests back and forth. The man to whom they wished to speak looked up briefly and seemed to be in the process of readying himself to speak to them, when another man of roughly the same age, but double his girth thrust a sheet of paper under his nose. He spoke German, but with such weight on each of his words, Harriet found she could understand him reasonably well.

  ‘Look at this, Dorf! Look! Four Princesses at the Gala and the names of three of them are spelled wrongly! It will have to be altered, or we shall have all of the cats about our ears.’

  ‘Then speak to Flounders, Kurt. And you could learn to write more clearly.’ Dorf’s voice was calm but sounded deeply weary.

  ‘I think you should tell him.’

  ‘I am sure you can express your displeasure strongly enough. Look, we have a guest.’ He crossed towards Harriet and made a bow. He was perhaps the same age as Graves, and had a particularly long face. He reminded Harriet of her favourite saddle-horse at Caveley, a patient beast.

  ‘How may I be of assistance?’

  She bowed her head quickly and spoke in French. ‘I wished to speak to you about Bertram Raben. I understand you knew each other well?’

  Herr Dorf looked a little confused. He moved his hand across his forehead and answered in the same language. ‘Indeed, we were friends. He was one of my best writers. You are Mrs Westerman, are you not?’

  She admitted it and could see the questions forming behind his eyes, but he was too careful to give them voice at once. Instead he turned and fetched his coat from the back of his chair. ‘Let us take a turn around the square. There is no chance at all of us being uninterrupted here.’

  The day was bright. They began walking side by side; Dido took her place behind them and a little separate, looking around her with a wide grin.

  ‘You seem much occupied at the moment,’ Harriet said pleasantly once they had fallen into step.

  ‘The wedding, of course. We are producing lists of all the various attendees, the speeches, and every human who can hold a pen has written some sort of verse for the occasion, it seems.’

  ‘What sort of material did Herr Raben write for you?’

  ‘All manner of things,’ Dorf replied. ‘Odd bits of gossip from the court for the daily news-sheet. Longer pieces of opinion on literature or politics. We did a couple of those as short pamphlets. People knew he had friends at court, so they read what he wrote with interest. They sold quite well. He was a logical thinker and had a fine turn of phrase when he put his mind to it. He seemed to enjoy his life.’

  ‘Yet he committed suicide?’

  Dorf looked up at her sideways. ‘So I believed – until you walked into my office, Mrs Westerman.’ She smiled and they walked a little further in silence.

  ‘Would you know of anyone who would wish to do him harm?’

  ‘No man picks up a pen without making enemies. But no, nothing that would mean—’

  ‘Herr Dorf, forgive me, but you do not seem shocked that I am asking about Raben. Why is that?’

  He came to a halt and Harriet noticed that they were outside his office once more. ‘I wondered if it might be a robbery at first, as his watch was missing – but then there was money untouched and in plain sight in the room. Still I did not think Bertram would have killed himself, Mrs Westerman. I know we can be terribly wrong about our fellows, but I have never been quite able to believe it.’

  Harriet frowned at the earth in front of her. ‘Did he write about the Freemasons? Did he have enemies there?’

  Dorf looked surprised. ‘He was a Freemason. He wrote against some of the Lodges, who he believed had forgotten the central ideas of brotherhood and charity in their search of esoteric mysteries. The Rosicrucians he thought fools, and said so.’

  Harriet pondered this. ‘You would say he had influence in court?’

  ‘He did. He was well-liked there. Do you think that might have been why he was killed? Some intrigue there?’

  ‘I can hardly say.’

  ‘One moment, Mrs Westerman. We were talking about my friend, a prominent writer certainly, but no more. And, I presume, about Lady Martesen …’

  Harriet looked at him; he had the long dark eyelashes that reminded her again of her horse. She suddenly missed Caveley very much. ‘Dieter Fink, Count von Warburg.’

  His eyes widened. ‘You think there is something suspicious in those deaths also?’

  ‘I do,’ she said simply. ‘Well, certainly in Fink’s case. Of Warburg, I do not know as yet. But do you see what I am suggesting? A banker, a writer, a first lady of the court. It begins to look like a campaign, does it not?’

  ‘And you asked about Freemasons because …?’

  ‘Mr Graves heard rumours in London of a group called the Minervals. They were said to have revolutionary aims and to be active in this part of Germany. I wondered if they were conducting a campaign against Maulberg.’

  Herr Dorf gave a little snort and nodded to himself. ‘That is a coincidence. Minervals? One moment. There was a gentleman who wished us to publish some rather wild accusations about an organisation of that name. I thought it was ridiculous, but I may still have the papers. You are in luck, the gentleman wrote in French.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ Harriet asked.

  ‘Disappeared off to Strasbourg in a cloud of indignation, I think. Will you wait a moment while I try to find it?’

  Harriet was happy to do so.

  Michaels found Kupfel’s house easily enough, then lit his pipe and leaned into the shadows to consider. There were two other shopfronts opening onto this particular square. From one drifted the smell of meat cooking, and there was a steady stream of people coming and going from the doorway, their midday meal wrapped in scrap paper, steaming in the cold air as they dispersed again into the streets. When it looked like the rush had died down a bit, Michaels shifted himself out of the shelter of his corner and went in. It was a low room, dark with steam and smelling strongly of onions, but clean enough. There were two or three tables about, and he took a free seat in a corner, ordered liver and onions and made himself comfortable. The girl who fetched and carried from the kitchen gave him a smile, and he touched his forehead to her, but until he had eaten and was alone in the place he made no attempt at conversation. He knew it would come. No one ran an establishment like this unless they had a friendly sort of nature. They would be sighing and stretching now, glad the hardest work of the morning was out of the way and just in the mood to find a stranger interesting.

  ‘Like it?’ the girl said as she took away his plate.

  ‘Just like Mother used to make,’ he replied with a grin.

  She
frowned briefly. ‘Not from round here, are you?’

  ‘You’ve got a good ear, miss! No, I was born and raised in London. My mother was from here though, that’s how I know the language.’

  ‘London!’ The girl sat down at once and put her elbows on the table. ‘I’ve heard of London. Is it true anyone can get rich there and end up in a carriage?’

  ‘Some do, I guess. I’ve got the blunt to pay for one myself now. But I like to ride and my wife would sooner walk.’

  The girl hugged herself. ‘My! How did you get so rich?’

  He scratched his chin. ‘Prize-fighting got me started. After that, horses and their care.’

  She laughed. ‘No good to me then. Horses make me nervous, and I can’t see me fighting for money.’

  An older woman appeared through the door to the kitchens, wiping her hands on her apron, and the girl twisted in her chair. ‘Here, Mum, you’ll never guess. This fella is from London, though he talks just like a real person.’

  Michaels tipped his hat and got a friendly enough nod in return. ‘Thank you for the liver and onions, ma’am.’

  She looked at the empty plate on the table and lifted her chin. ‘Nice to see good cooking appreciated. You look like the sort of man who’s a pleasure to feed.’

  Michaels shrugged and studied the tabletop. ‘Not sure my lady wife would agree with you, ma’am. She says it’s like having a pack of wolves to tend.’

  The cook looked pleased. ‘Sure she doesn’t mean it, Mr …?’

  ‘Michaels, ma’am, just Michaels.’

  ‘We wives love to tease our menfolk almost as much as we like to feed them. I’m Mrs Valentin, and this is my daughter Gurt. Now might you like a little something to settle that in your stomach? I brew a Schnapps that can take the nip out of a fresh morning.’

  ‘That’d be a real treat, ma’am.’ Michaels pushed out the chair and bowed.

  ‘Such nice manners! Gurt, go and fetch the flask and shut the door, then maybe Mr Michaels can tell us how he comes to be in Ulrichsberg.’

  IV.3

  FRAU GRUBER THOUGHT HER excitements for the day were over, and was glad of it, when there was a firm knock at the door and the tall thin figure of Mr Crowther appeared on the step. He reminded her of the priest in the village where she had grown up, with his formal German and the severe glint in his eye. She had hoped that she had got past the age where a man could make her feel nervous, but this one did. He was so unlike her old master, his belly busting out of his waistcoat and his laugh of brandy and tobacco.

  He said he wanted to talk to her a little more, and was invited in. Not wishing to receive him as if she were mistress, but feeling the kitchen would be inappropriate, she ushered him into her master’s study and went to fetch a little of her own stock of sweet sherry. When she returned he had his cane under his arm and was flicking through one of the master’s books. He turned as she came in and went about arranging the liquor and glasses on the table, but remained with the books till she invited him to sit.

  ‘You are most kind, madam,’ he said, and she felt herself blush.

  ‘How may I be of assistance, sir?’ she said as she poured out the wine. Lord she was sounding like her old priest now. If her niece came in and heard her talking so fine she’d laugh her silly head off.

  ‘Will you tell me, madam, anything you can remember of the last day of Mr Fink? I am sorry to discomfort you in any way, but such was our amazement this morning, we did not make detailed enquiries.’

  She sipped her wine a little gingerly. ‘Discomfort’, eh? Might just be his German but it sounded like he’d heard about the whores. Lord save me, she thought. In for a penny.

  ‘His Excellency had breakfast at home, as always was his custom. He then did some work here.’ She pointed at the desk and they both looked at it for a moment.

  ‘Did he receive any visitors at that time?’

  ‘No, sir.’ She nodded and was about to sip her sherry again when she saw her glass was near empty. Mr Crowther saw it too and made to pour her another. He really wasn’t so bad, after all. She noticed his glass was still full, though.

  ‘He went to the palace for a time, then came back about two and had his dinner here.’

  Mr Crowther took a sip of his sherry and gave a look as if he approved of it. Man just needed some feeding up.

  ‘I have heard there were signs that he also had visitors in the evening.’

  Some of the jollity left her. He did know about the whores. ‘He did love his wife, Mr Crowther. But men … I don’t think she minded, really, and he was always very sweet to her when she came home.’

  ‘I do not judge,’ he said.

  She looked at him sideways, taking in the black clothes, the thin face and the still-brimming glass of sherry. Like hell you don’t, she thought.

  ‘I said good night to His Excellency as he went back to court, sir. And before you ask, there was no bandage on his wrist then. I’d have seen it as I helped him on with his overcoat. I go home at ten, and I always leave a little something out. Wine and nuts or the like.’ She felt her eyes fill with tears and fumbled in her pocket for a handkerchief. ‘Then I came in at six the next morning, as ever, to make sure the girl had the fires going. Poor child, she’d gone in and found him there on the bed, half-dressed and blue round the lips. I sent her for the doctor, but it was too late. He was cold. There were two glasses and the decanter by the bed – and the nuts, of course. Poor fellow.’

  He waited and she found herself carrying on talking, just as if he was a priest and a friendly one. ‘Once the doctor had been I cleaned him up and took away the glasses. That’s when I noticed the bandage on his left wrist. He liked his under-shirts long in the arm. That’s why you couldn’t see it at first.’

  ‘Were there any other signs of … activity?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, sir, and that was the other odd thing. He never usually … entertained in that room. That was the bed he shared with his wife, you see. He never … with other women there. Out of respect.’

  She reached for the handkerchief again. By the time she had recovered herself it seemed Mr Crowther was ready to depart. She thought of the little owl fob and wondered if she should mention it. She also wondered if she had made too much of a fool of herself already with her talk and the sherry, but at that moment Mr Crowther happened to smile at her, and thank her for her hospitality.

  ‘There is just one other little thing, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, that’s nice of you! To take trouble after a cousin you’ve never met.’ Mrs Valentin had no family of her own other than Gurt, so she saw a large one as a blessing. Michaels knew there was no point in pretending he hadn’t travelled here with Mrs Westerman, Graves and Crowther. It was only his reasons he twisted a little to help his current ends.

  ‘Your mother’s niece? You think she was here?’

  ‘Last word I had. And that I got by accident. My mother was no writer, nor her sister neither, but her girl Beatrice must have picked up some schooling. She sent a letter to my mother and that got held by the barmaid in the inn we used to live at. She’s a sweet old duck. Known me since I was all scabs and bones. I always go and visit when I’m in London, and when I was up selling horses there last year, she put it into my hands. Didn’t know what to do with it, truth to tell. Not much of an address on it, but when I heard of Mr Clode’s troubles and that Mrs Westerman and Mr Crowther were coming out, seemed like God giving me a push, you know.’

  Mrs Valentin nodded sagely. ‘The ways of providence, Mr Michaels, the ways of providence …’

  ‘What’s she like, your Mrs Westerman?’ Gurt said, leaning forward. ‘I heard she shot a spy!’

  ‘Gurt …’ her mother said.

  ‘What, Mum? Peter said she had a look of a devil about her. He helped carry her luggage yesterday.’

  Michaels looked at her. Her eyes were light blue, and some of her blonde hair had escaped from under her cap. She looked eager as a puppy. ‘Don’t think she shot a s
py,’ he told her. ‘Helped catch some once, and shot another fellow up north. And if she did, I know she had good reason for it. She’s a good woman.’

  ‘And what of this Mr Crowther? He that cuts up dead bodies? Is he an alchemist too? I saw him going into Whistler’s place yesterday.’

  ‘Did you now?’ Michaels said, placing that snippet in his pocket like a windfall. ‘No, Mr Crowther don’t believe in magic. Whatever his business was there, wasn’t that.’

  ‘And this cousin of yours worked for old Whistler?’ Mrs Valentin asked politely.

  ‘Not sure as sure, ma’am. Just said she was working for a man used to be an apothecary. They told me at the palace about this place.’

  ‘There are two others, retired apothecaries still breathing in town. All made a fortune stirring up vats of powder and paint for the court. But I know them. Never had a girl in the house that could read. What age would she have, Mr Michaels?’

  ‘Born well after my mother left for England. No more than twenty-five now. I’d like to help her out if she can be found. I was still poor when my folks died. Be nice to do a bit of good if I can.’

  ‘And Mr Crowther? Does he cut up bodies with his sword-stick?’

  ‘No. Uses a special knife though. He brought it with him.’

  Gurt shivered, delighted. ‘So I hear that maybe the lawyer didn’t do it. What do you say, Mr Michaels?’

  ‘I’d stake my life on it, Miss Valentin. That boy is innocent as you are.’

  ‘Lord, poor fella!’ Gurt said, her eyes wide.

  ‘Could it have been two years ago, Mr Michaels?’

  He nodded. ‘I suppose that was when the letter must have been sent.’

  ‘There was a girl … Gurt, do you remember? Dark-haired little piece. Used to come and get a chop for Whistler every Saturday and charge it to his son. Had that dark blue dress I thought was just the colour for you. Wasn’t her name Beatrice?’

  ‘Oh, that it was!’ Gurt rolled her eyes. ‘What a little bitch she was!’

  ‘Gurt!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mother, but she was so. And I’m sorry for you, Mr Michaels, if that’s your niece. You know, twice I saw her sweetheart a shilling out of one of the fellas to pay for her supper, then she’d charge it to Whistler’s account anyway and walk off with the coin in her pocket and her nose in the air. And the manners on her! She’d make the Empress herself, God rest her soul, look humble.’ Gurt widened her eyes and tilted her head a little to one side. ‘Honest, Mr Michaels, if that’s her, don’t pay her no mind. Sure we can find you another girl to spend your money on if you fancy it?’