Circle of Shadows

by Imogen Robertson

  ‘We are right. The blood flowed, the blood is no longer there. Ergo, it has been removed.’

  She lifted her hand, impatient at the interruption. ‘Then perhaps we are not seeing the ritual, but only a part of it. He is doing something else with the blood.’

  ‘I see.’

  At last she stood and smoothed her skirts.

  ‘I mean to track down this symbol that was on the door, Crowther. And put the order for Daniel’s release into Rachel’s hands.’

  ‘You will tell them of the murder of Countess Dieth?’

  ‘I shall.’

  ‘It is to be given out that Countess Dieth has gone into the country.’

  ‘Naturally. The new Duchess arrives in state tomorrow morning, does she not? Poor child.’ She turned away. ‘I shall leave you to the Countess. I wish I had had the opportunity to speak with her further.’ She bit her lip, then without another word, left him.

  The priest, Huber, opened his door himself, but when he made no move to stand aside, Michaels gave it a firm push and dragged in the blacksmith. The priest stank of brandy, though if they were fumes lingering from the night before or he had started again, Michaels could not say. He saw a simple parlour with a sturdy-looking chair in it, so dropped the blacksmith there.

  Huber looked baffled, and Michaels paused, wondering what explanations he should try and give. Then he simply walked out of the door again. Let them sort it for themselves. It was possible they would come after him, but Michaels had not given his name, and it didn’t look like anyone would be seeking that hard for justice on the blacksmith’s behalf. Still, it would be best not to linger. He walked back up the track again, knowing the rabble would not turn on him now the blacksmith was put away. As he entered the square he saw the young man with the shovel in the forge. It looked as if he and his friends had found the blacksmith’s strongbox, and were trying to break it open. The woman and her child were gone. He went to untie his horse. His mount had felt some of the violence in the air and was blowing hard through her nose. He put a hand on her neck and murmured to her. The words weren’t important, but she needed the touch, the steadying from him. He felt her muscles beginning to relax a little.

  The skinny girl he had seen at the blacksmith’s came running up and slid to a halt at his side. Her eyes were a little vacant and the bones at her collar stuck out like a bird’s.

  ‘They said you were looking for the witch.’

  Michaels continued to stroke his horse. ‘Looking for a girl, bit older than you, might have come through here two years ago.’

  ‘She had black hair. Never seen hair like it. Devil must have spat in it to make it so shiny.’

  ‘You know her then?’

  The girl began to chew at one of her fingernails. ‘She wandered round here from time to time. I saw her. Three times.’ She held up three fingers to show him, her nails bitten and dirty.

  ‘Where was she staying?’

  ‘Dunno. She’s dead. Came with her head held high and no nod or smile for anyone. Time one. She was a witch. Saw her out in the fields. Time two. Then I saw the devil himself burying her. Time three. She’s dead. Just before the first snow.’

  Michaels nodded very slowly. ‘The devil, you say? And where did he bury her?’

  ‘By the waterfall.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  She swung from side to side so her thin skirts swished around her ankles, chewing her thumbnail and staring at him. ‘Path goes up from old Rebecca’s place. You passed it if you came in from the big town. Steep. Your horsey won’t like it. You’ll have to walk.’

  Michaels ran his hand through the horse’s mane. It snorted and shook its head. ‘How come you saw it?’

  She kept swinging from side to side. ‘I like it there. Here is not nice. I only come when I am hungry. Would you like to know what the devil looks like?’

  ‘I think I should.’

  She stopped swinging and gave a little skip, speaking so fast Michaels could hardly keep pace with the sense of it. ‘Like a man! Tall and thin with a long black cloak! I hid in the bushes and watched for a while, then the devil made me sleep, so I never saw him disappear. I liked her hair. I made a wreath for her, even if she was a witch. I am glad the devil buries his servants somewhere pretty. Maybe I should work for him.’

  Michaels slowly took a coin from his pocket and put it out towards her, but she stepped away as if he’d held out something foul. ‘They’ll only beat me for it.’

  He put it back into his pocket then swung himself onto his horse. She watched him.

  ‘He’ll have to go away now.’

  He turned and looked at her with a frown. ‘The blacksmith?’ She nodded. ‘That any hurt to you?’

  ‘No.’ She was chewing her finger again.

  ‘By the waterfall, you say?’

  ‘I think maybe I’d like to be a witch.’

  ‘Even though you see what happens to them? Better learn your prayers.’ She wrinkled her nose and made a tsking note in her throat.

  ‘Do you know where she was going? When she first came through the village?’

  ‘Westways,’ she said, then turned to walk off, now dragging her feet.

  Michaels gently pressed his horse’s flanks with his heels. An hour later he was back with the egg-seller in Oberbach. He tipped his hat to her. ‘What’s your priest like here, sister?’ he asked quietly.

  V.6

  HARRIET DELIVERED THE WARRANT for Clode’s release to Rachel and Graves while they drank their coffee. They were delighted to have it, then shocked into silence by her news of the murder of Countess Dieth. When she explained the symbol to them, Graves mentioned that he had met the gentleman in charge of the library, and offered to accompany her there and give her an introduction before leaving for Castle Grenzhow.

  ‘If you can wait, Rachel,’ he added gently to her. Rachel had taken the order for Clode’s release from the table where Harriet had placed it, and held it tightly between her white hands. She gave a quick nod.

  ‘I think I have a little courage left. Go. I can wait a while longer.’

  Harriet went round the table to sit by her sister and covered her hands with her own. Rachel did not loosen her grip around the order. ‘Rachel. We can leave. We can go now and leave all this behind us. Return to Hartswood. Ask and we shall follow you without question.’

  ‘That letter from the Ambassador. The King of England has asked you to assist Maulberg.’

  ‘Damn the King,’ Harriet replied with a smile and her sister flinched.

  ‘Harriet …’ Rachel closed her eyes for a second. ‘No, Crowther is right. Daniel’s best chance of leaving these horrors lies in finding out the truth. If we run now, they will follow him.’

  ‘They might follow him in any case, my love.’

  She nodded again. ‘They might, but we must try. Work it out, Harry. I know you can, but please, try and work it out as fast as you can. Now go to the library. I shall rest until you are at liberty, Graves.’ She stood and left the room rather quickly. Harriet watched her go.

  The library was not housed in the palace but, to demonstrate that it was available to all respectable people, had been built on one side of the town square. Graves and Harriet left the palace, and found themselves amongst the preparations for the reception of the new Duchess. The stands for the nobility had been completed and were now being dressed. Great bolts of cloth in blue and green hung from their sides, swagged layers of it separated the levels of the stands, and along the upper level ran a forest of flagpoles. Everything glittered.

  ‘What must that material have cost?’ Harriet said, her brightness rather forced. ‘I hope they donate it to the poor afterwards. You could make a new coat for every man in Pulborough with that material.’

  ‘I was thinking the same, though the effect might be a bit strange, don’t you think?’ Graves replied. Harriet smiled, mentally repopulating the market town with blue damask. ‘And now we have shown ourselves to be what we are.’

>   ‘What is that?’

  ‘Not Nobility, Mrs Westerman. We have thought about what things cost and shown ourselves up terribly as a result.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem to bother you greatly, Graves.’

  ‘I’ve never been prouder of being the owner of a shop. And of course, my friend is about to be released. I am ready to forgive myself and the nobility most things.’ He frowned. ‘Lord, should I be so light-hearted with that poor woman lying dead? How quickly we can forget what we don’t wish to think of. Earth in the mouth …’

  ‘Crowther told me not to think about the manner of death more than I have to, and I think I shall do as he suggests, Graves. Our repulsion does her no good.’

  ‘And it is given out she is only sick …’

  ‘I wonder if it will be believed.’

  ‘Most likely people will think she has decided to remove herself from court while the new bride settles herself at the palace, and will praise her delicacy.’ He looked at Harriet with steady attention. ‘I fear, Mrs Westerman, you are on the trail of someone very dangerous. He has killed and covered his tracks with repeated success, and now he has murdered in the palace itself. Part of me feels I should insist we leave for England at once.’

  Harriet saw the Countess’s face in front of her again. ‘Rachel has told us what she thinks, and she can be just as stubborn as I. Nor do I think Clode will be persuaded to leave until we find who made the attempt on him.’

  ‘I understand. Here, we are arrived.’

  ‘It’s a handsome building,’ Harriet said, looking up at the portico.

  ‘And open to every subject of the Duke, whatever their station. Now let us see if we can find Mr Zeller.’

  In fact, Mr Zeller found them almost as soon as they had entered the building. He was a rather round man whose dress would have been regarded as old-fashioned when the library was first built. He walked with his head held forward and tilted down to some degree, and swung it from side to side as he spoke. Harriet was reminded of a turtle in search of green shoots. His eyes were squeezed half-shut throughout their conversation, and he kept his shoulders hunched. Harriet was not sure if it was the atmosphere of the library, or the carriage of the man, but she fell naturally into a low whisper.

  He led them through the main hall of the library into an office lined with books in locked cases and invited them to sit at the library table.

  ‘Our reserved collection,’ he whispered, glancing round as if he feared the books themselves might be listening. ‘The more … rare, esoteric volumes of our collection are held here so we may study those who wish to study them. No one is allowed to consult them without a letter of recommendation from their priest, and one of the Faculty at the university at Leuchtenstadt.’ He shuddered as if delighted. ‘A fascinating collection of texts claiming magical knowledge among them. My friend Adolphus Glucke would say they should all be burned, but then he’s a rationalist. He says they lead men down false paths, and of course, some men do disappear into their shadows. For myself, I value them as history. A record of the attempts of great minds to try to understand our world. Now what is it you have to ask me?’

  Harriet put a piece of paper in front of him. ‘My friend Mr Graves has spoken to me of your erudition, sir. What can you tell me of this symbol – it’s derivation and uses? And also …’ she presented another list, the books taken from the Alchemist’s laboratory, ‘do you have copies of any of these works to hand?’

  He took the sheets from her and gave a satisfied snort. ‘Ah, Mrs Westerman! Fate must have prompted me to lead you into this room! I hope you have some little time at your disposal.’

  Crowther had never performed an examination of this kind under guard before. Krall sat on one of the pews at a safe distance, puffing his pipe and with his back turned. Outside, the two guards remained. Crowther wondered what they had thought of Harriet’s distress. Crowther did not normally cover the face of the corpse as he worked, yet this time he did so. Did the horror of her death mean she merited this particular attention? He wondered who would prepare the body for burial and who would scoop the earth from between her jaws. With a sort of weary acceptance he decided to make that task his own.

  ‘What will happen to the Countess when I am done here, Mr Krall?’

  Krall kept his back turned. ‘This afternoon a carriage will stop at a little out-of-the-way place between here and the Countess’s estate near Leuchtenstadt. A lady, apparently taken very ill with fever on the road, will be carried in. The house will be cleared to save the inhabitants from infection. Her private doctor will attend her, but she will die tomorrow evening. The doctor will insist she completes the journey to her estate in a closed coffin, again to avoid infection, and she will be buried at the parish church the next day.’ Crowther nodded and began his work.

  It was with great sadness he saw earth in the stomach and throat. Of Kupfel’s strange drug of pacification he could find no sign, and no other sign of violence on the corpse other than the wound on the wrist. There was nothing that would speak to him. He noticed that her nails were very short. He could still smell rosewater on her skin.

  ‘There is no need to turn round, Krall,’ he said at last. ‘But could you have water fetched please, and fresh linens.’

  The waterfall was indeed a pretty place. Michaels had led the priest and Georg up the track, having told them his only clue was the word of a simpleton, but they still came readily enough. The priest of Oberbach was a man of about his own age who said at once he thought it his duty to go with them, and Georg was happy to lend his shovels and his sweat for the price of a drink.

  The path to the base of the waterfall was narrow and overgrown. Where it reached the base of the falls it widened out into a flattish space where a small party might watch the waters tumble down in stages, veils of white spume rushing from one stage to the next over granite edges. The banks were thick with bright green moss and bracken beginning to unfold. Spring seemed to be advancing more quickly here.

  The priest sat on a flat rock on the edge of the clearing and removed his glasses to polish the spray off them. ‘This used to be a favoured spot for courting couples when I was a child,’ he said, hooking them back over his ears and squinting up the slope to where the head of the falls was lost among the beech and brambles. ‘After the war it became the fashion for the young people to meet more under their parents’ eye and parade around the square. I wonder why that was?’

  ‘Too many bastards and six-month babies bred in the woods,’ Georg said, yawning. ‘And Gertie, who used to live in the farm by the track before Rebecca, was a bitter woman! No one could walk by without her offering some spiteful comment then running into town to tell everyone who had passed. It became a byword for a girl having a bit of a slip, you know. People used to whisper that she’d been “taken to the falls”.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ the priest said, smiling. ‘Look – Herb-Robert! Spring will come, after all.’

  Michaels paced the edge of the clearing. ‘She said that she left a wreath on the grave.’

  Georg poked at the ground with his shovel. ‘The bank is too steep for burying on the other side. If the girl is here she’s within thirty yards east of this spot. Now the brambles are thick and old, so let’s look for where they ain’t.’

  ‘Shall I …?’ The priest looked up at them.

  ‘No, Father,’ Georg said. ‘You take your rest here and look at your flowers. We’ll call you if we find anything.’ Then he added more quietly to Michaels, ‘You know God loves you when He sends you an honest landlord and a blind priest. You sweep to the right, me to the left.’

  It took some forty minutes before they found it. Michaels had to work hard to focus his eyes as he worked. He wondered if the villagers had betrayed him, murdered the blacksmith and decided it was safer to blame him for the death than pass it off as accidental. He should have abandoned Mrs Padfield’s sister and simply ridden out until he got back to England. To stay so close to that mean little village on the word
of a simpleton and for a stranger … He could have reached the coast and arranged for word to be sent back to Mrs Westerman. What did these deaths mean to any of them? They had enough to spring Clode from prison, and surely that was all that was needed. They could let the court look to its own and head back to where they were wanted. He put his hand to his beard and pulled at it. Not that he had any right now to curse someone for interfering. He had seen that child all bloody and acted because he had a back broad enough, an arm strong enough and all his conviction. Well, Mrs Westerman and Mr Crowther had the learning and the smartness, their way of going about in the world, and they had their convictions too.

  He frowned. There was an old trunk fallen a yard or two away, propped up on its own stump and bleached. Something hung on it, a woven circlet of twigs and reeds with the remains of rotted flowers dotted round it, held like a murderer’s body in the cage to decay in public. Behind it lay a rockfall spotted over with bracken and bramble and new saplings struggling for their chance at light with greedy new leaves. There was something wrong in the way the soil lay. He felt a turn of sadness in his stomach and called Georg to his side.

  ‘What do you think?’

  The man came and fiddled with the scarf around his throat. ‘I’ll fetch the shovels.’

  As soon as they felt the soil with the blades they nodded at each other. The priest had come with Georg, and was knocking the brambles away from his coat with his Bible. He noticed them pause.

  ‘What is it? Have you found something?’

  ‘Not yet, Father,’ Georg said, moving the earth in shallow bites. ‘But we will. The earth here has been dug.’

  They worked slowly, and from their first sight of a snap of fabric, got on to their knees and used the shovels as if they were trowels. Michaels had thought to bring the priest along only because he knew it was right to have some sort of authority in the place as they did this work, but now as the patch of fabric became a dress it was a comfort to hear his voice reading quietly from the Book of Psalms. He was very different from the drunkard in Mittelbach. No smell of brandy on him, but a weary sweetness in his manner that Michaels felt as something like a blessing.