“Her mother is a princess?” Baumgärtner said, his interest perking. “You met her in England? When? Where? Did you get along? Is she pleasing to the eye?”
Tor held up his hand. “Calm yourself. Bronwen would tell you herself she is not suitable duchess material. You can extinguish that glint of hope in your eyes. The lady would rather wander the dales of Northallerton than dine with dukes.”
Baumgärtner looked affronted. Then he frowned again. “Wait, wait. Northallerton? She was there? Do you speak of that…that…waif? The one with the dirty hems?”
Tor leaned back. “The very one.”
“Oh, dear.” Baumgärtner let out a deep, bitter sigh. “Still, there is Lady Dagmar, who pines for your return to Silkeborg.” Baumgärtner looked at him from under his brow. Perhaps he was trying to look coy. The expression did not suit a sixty-year-old man. “She was devastated when you disappeared in Scotland.”
Tor thought of the far-too-slender woman with distaste. “If only she could hold a conversation that lasted longer than two minutes.”
Baumgärtner slapped the desk with the flat of his hand. “One day you must bring yourself to it, your Highness! Putting the duchy at risk in this way is intolerable!”
“I know, Aldous. I know.” Tor sighed.
Baumgärtner opened his portfolio one more time. “I will write back to Borgmester Østergård and make further enquiries about this witch woman.”
“You waste your time,” Tor warned him. “She is a commoner.”
“She is the daughter of a princess,” Baumgärtner said primly.
“She will not consider it. I would not let her,” Tor replied. “She would come to hate my life and everyone in it, even if she were mad enough to agree.”
“She would be mad to refuse you. You are an Archeduke!”
“Her father is a bastard,” Tor replied, slapping Baumgärtner with the bald, unpalatable truth.
Baumgärtner shook his head. “You have turned your back upon every princess Europe has to offer. A ragamuffin is all that is left. At least her blood is blue, which is more than can be said for certain about Lady Dagmar.”
Tor couldn’t help laughing. The puritanical downturn of Baumgärtner’s mouth jolted him into it. “Write your letter, then. Determine for yourself that the Magistrate’s witch is ninety years old and has no teeth left. Then you can marry her yourself.”
Because it could not possibly be Bronwen in Silkeborg. It was impossible, a mere figment of his hope, which Baumgärtner would crush out of existence with the return mail.
Chapter Fourteen
Borgmester Østergård’s coach was an open-topped one, of which he was overtly proud. He ordered the top be folded away while he toured Bronwen, Annalies, Natasha and Elisa about Silkeborg, showing them the little town and discussing his plans to build it into a great city.
As there were only four thousand people living in the town and there had never been more in the long history of the place, it was unlikely Silkeborg would ever grow enough to become a city. However, Bronwen held her tongue and shivered beneath the fur lap blanket.
Østergård was a tall man. Height seemed to be a national trait in Denmark. He was also thin, with sharp angular cheeks and dark circles beneath his eyes. His tall top hat made him look even taller. His mustache drooped at the corners as if it, too, wished to add to the illusion of extra height, instead of growing outward.
He pointed out the row of blacksmiths, the village square, the little artisan shops and the civil buildings, while Bronwen’s mother and Natasha and Elisa looked suitably impressed.
Bronwen’s attention was drawn by a tragic tableau of people sitting at the tables in front of the café, with steaming coffee cups in front of them. Of the five people at the table, three of them were bent and wizened. They sat in postures that spoke of suffering. No one was talking.
As if he had just spoken the words, Bronwen recalled Tor’s voice telling her; My own country suffers. There is a sickness that has gripped it for years. People die. Healthy, young people. Old, frail people. Women, children, men. The sickness does not distinguish who it chooses as its next victim. It can strike anyone and every time the symptoms are different. No expert can tell me what the problem is.
Bronwen turned her head to study the listing people, as the coach passed. She looked back at Østergård.
“They are ill, yes?” she asked him.
“They are.” He was barely audible above the clop of the horse.
“That is why you insisted upon taking us on this excursion, isn’t it?”
He sat back. “You are most astute, Miss Davies. That was the hidden purpose for my invitation. Although I did indeed want to thank you for your kindness toward Magistrate Fisker and show you a little of our town.”
Bronwen trembled. “How many are ill?”
“As of yesterday, apart from the usual sicknesses that visit themselves upon any town, anywhere in the world, Silkeborg has one hundred and fifty-seven people with mysterious symptoms that experts cannot diagnose. They are different, in different people.”
“In a population this small, that is a significant number,” Bronwen’s mother said, from the other side of the coach.
“You think I can do what experts could not?” Bronwen asked, stunned.
Borgmester Østergård’s smile was rueful. “What I have got to lose?”
Bronwen shook her head. “My only expertise is that I have read widely. That is not a skill which can cure what ails your people, Borgmester.”
“Still, I would ask that you try. You have an uncanny knack for coupling odd facts, or so I understand from your explanation of how you cured Magistrate Fisker.”
“I did not cure him,” Bronwen said tiredly. “I only relieved his symptoms. His disease cannot be cured.”
“You gave him respite, when others could not. That is not insignificant.”
Bronwen realized she was wringing her gloved hands together and made them stop. She put her hands beneath the fur once more and shuddered, this time with more than cold.
Elisa sat forward and touched her knee. “What would it hurt to try?” she asked reasonably. “The Borgmester is correct. You do have a gift for putting together stray facts. Perhaps you will stumble upon even part of the truth.”
“You were looking for something to do, were you not?” her mother asked.
Bronwen sighed and looked at Østergård. “I can try,” she said. “That is all I can promise.”
“Very good. Very, very good,” he said. He lifted his voice and called out to the driver, who cracked the whip. The horses picked up the pace.
“Where are we going?” Bronwen asked, as the coach turned out of the market square.
“To visit the ill and the dead,” Østergård said. “While I have your attention, I would use it wisely.”
“May we have the top put up while we do so?” Bronwen asked.
“On a beautiful, warm day like today?” Borgmester Østergård protested.
* * * * *
After the seventh stop at a small, painted cottage, where the hapless owner and his family suffered, Bronwen trudged toward the carriage where her mother and Natasha and Elisa waited—with the top up, now. Borgmester Østergård walked alongside her, keeping pace with his much longer legs.
“The child was barely six years old,” she whispered, distress making her eyes sting.
“Seven, although I’m told he will not see his eighth year,” Østergård replied.
Bronwen stopped in the middle of the neat path, which had been scrupulously cleared of all snow and looked up at him. “I am not sure I can stand to see another, Borgmester Østergård. I am not able to help them. Their illnesses are unknown to me. I have never read of such an odd collection of complaints.”
Borgmester Østergård nodded. “May I add one more to your tally, before you end the day? Then I will take you and the Princess and the two ladies to dine at my house.”
“I suppose, yes, if I must.” Bronwen tri
ed to smile. “I’m afraid I have no appetite now.”
“I understand,” he replied. “I have not had much appetite for several years now.”
Bronwen sighed. “And the last patient?”
“Me,” he said.
Her heart sank. “Oh…”
“It is a growth, I am told. In here.” He touched his belly. “Soon, it will halt the functioning of an important organ and then I will die. In the meantime, though, I work to save those people I can. This is my town, Miss Davies. I have lived here all my life. I have dined with the Archeduke many times…the previous Archeduke, I mean. I am a man of means, yet I am a victim. This malady that smites us is unjust and unfair, choosing the rich, the poor, the young, the old. I would rid Silkeborg of its menace before I die.”
She stared at his middle, as if she might see the tumor he spoke of with her naked eye.
There was a word she had heard used in the more obscure medical texts that described Borgmester Østergård’s condition. “Cancer,” she murmured.
His brow lifted. “That is what one doctor called it.”
“Cancer is not a mysterious illness,” she pointed out. “It is very rare, although it is not mysterious. Doctors have known about it since Hippocrates’ time.”
“Then I am one of the rare people and it is just a coincidence that my illness struck me at the same moment this plague descended upon Silkeborg.”
“Perhaps not. Coincidences can happen. They are rare in nature, though.” She considered him, her thoughts swirling. “You said one hundred and fifty-seven people had mysterious symptoms, while others were sick with normal diseases. What are those diseases?”
“Consumption. Infections.” He shrugged. “I am assured the numbers are normal for a population of this size.”
“What if they are not?” she asked. “What if some of those normal illnesses are caused by the same source that causes the mysterious symptoms?” She stood with her head down, thinking.
Borgmester Østergård stayed silent.
There was something he had just said… She frowned, recalling what he had said, then lifted her head. “You said your illness came upon you at the same time everyone else grew ill. Did you mean that everyone who is ill, became so at the same moment?”
He shook his head and she sighed. “They have occurred across several years,” he added.
Bronwen turned and headed for the coach once more. Then she halted again and spun to look at him. “The same several years? There was nothing before that? What years? When did it start?”
He frowned. “I would need to consult the charts the doctors compiled. The Archeduke insisted upon records being kept.” He shook his head. “They are in the municipal offices, back in the square.”
“Can we consult the charts? Now?” she asked.
“You are still not hungry?” he asked.
“Not until I’ve seen the charts. Please, Borgmester.”
His smile was sad. “Very well. Others have studied them, without success. Although, we are clutching at straws…”
* * * * *
Borgmester Østergård translated her requests, while his clerks hurried, finding chairs for Annalies, Natasha and Elisa, who were more than happy to trail behind and observe. Another clerk, this one an older man with no hair, carried a big leather-bound notebook out from an inner office and placed it on the table in front of Bronwen and bowed. Talking quickly, he turned the heavy cover and flipped pages and pages of notes written in a variety of hands and inks, until he came to the last and tapped it.
Bronwen stepped forward. “Danish, of course,” she said, looking at the page. She glanced up at Østergård. “What is this page?”
“This year’s listings,” Østergård said.
“I would like to see the first year’s listings.”
Østergård conveyed the request and the clerk closed the book with a thump, then opened it and stepped back, bowing again.
Bronwen looked at the first page.
“Shall I translate?” Østergård asked.
She shook her head. “A date is a date in any language.” She ran her finger across an entry and spotted it. “Eighteen fifty-eight. Eight years ago.” She looked at Østergård. “What happened in Silkeborg eight years ago?”
“Others asked that same question.” He shook his head. “The answer is, nothing. Nothing of significance happened.”
Bronwen looked down at the cramped handwriting on the first page. “Nothing you know of,” she murmured. “Diseases like cancer have long periods of silent growth. Years. Consumption can take years to be noticed. The mystery symptoms may have similar diseases at their base that also take years to develop. What has happened in Silkeborg of any significance in the ten years before that?”
Østergård frowned.
“You have lived here all your life,” Bronwen pointed out. “What events do you remember?”
He laughed. “The only event of significance in the last one hundred years, apart from the deaths of three Archedukes, has been the opening of the paper mill.”
Annalies gasped and got to her feet. “There is a paper mill here?” she asked, moving up to the table.
“A modern one,” Borgmester Østergård said, pride back in his voice. “It is located on the river, just around the bend from the town. I planned to take you there to visit, only my excursion was interrupted.” His smile was as small and gentle as his teasing.
Annalies looked at Bronwen. “If it is a new mill, then it most likely uses chlorine to whiten the pulp.” She glanced at Borgmester Østergård. “I read about it,” she explained.
Borgmester Østergård nodded. “I, too, read about the processes. We considered the mill, your Highness. Only, it is not workers at the mill who grow ill. It is anyone in the village, or just outside it. It cannot be the mill that is at fault, for it was here for years before the illnesses began.”
“How many years?” Bronwen asked. “When was it built?”
“Eighteen fifty-five.”
Bronwen stared through the tall man, thinking. Eighteen fifty-five was three years before any symptoms had appeared in the town.
Annalies bit her lip. “Why would villagers fall ill and not mill workers?”
“Not just mill-workers,” Bronwen replied.
“I fear you are following a false lead, your Highness, Miss Davies,” Østergård told them. “The mill is not the source.”
Bronwen put her face in her hands. Something niggled in her mind, something that had looked normal, yet was not. Something she should have noticed.
“Deductive. Inductive. What?” she whispered.
Someone came into the office, sending a cold blast of air across the room, drawing attention to the heat the potbellied stoves were belching out.
“The cold!” Bronwen said, lifting her face from her hands.
Annalies nodded. “What about it?”
“The river wasn’t frozen.” Bronwen gripped her mother’s sleeve. “It’s cold and the river wasn’t frozen.” She turned to Borgmester Østergård. “When was the last time the river froze in winter?”
Borgmester Østergård was no longer smiling. “That is not a record we keep.”
“Ask him,” Bronwen said, nodding at the older clerk, who was standing politely, unable to follow their English. “As your memory is failing.”
“Bronwen…” her mother breathed in warning.
“Please,” Bronwen added, giving Østergård her best smile.
Borgmester Østergård considered her for a long, silent moment. Then he turned to the clerk and rattled out a question in Danish.
The clerk frowned, thinking. Then he spoke, glancing at Bronwen and her mother.
“What did he say?” Bronwen pressed Østergård.
“He said it has been over ten years since they got to skate on the river at Christmas. Before that, the river froze every winter.” Østergård fished out his watch and consulted it. “I must return you to the Magistrate’s house. I have an appointment. Thi
s way, please.”
“But—” Bronwen began, as he attempted to shepherd them through the door.
“I am running very late, I am so sorry,” Østergård insisted.
“There is direct empirical evidence—” Bronwen began.
“Not now,” her mother whispered and guided her toward the door.
Bronwen let herself be led out to the waiting coach and bundled inside. Østergård shut the door on them and peered through the door. “I bid you goodnight, ladies. Axelson will see you home.” He touched his brim and turned away.
The coach moved forward with a jolt, rattling the four of them.
“I don’t understand,” Bronwen said, looking at the other three. “It is clearly the paper mill that is the source of the problem. Mother, mills use a lot of water, yes? That’s why they are always on rivers or lakes.”
“Yes,” Annalies admitted.
“And the river hasn’t frozen since the mill was built,” Bronwen concluded. “They’re putting something in the water. Maybe even the chlorine you mentioned. I don’t know the chemistry for that—”
“It is an acid. A powerful one,” Annalies replied.
“If something like that was in the town’s water, then that is why everyone is falling ill. Borgmester Østergård could see that was what I was about to say, so why did he cut me off?”
“I think you’re missing a vital point,” Natasha said. It was the first time she had spoken for a long while, although her interest in the investigation had been no less than Bronwen’s.
“What would the point be, Natasha?” Elisa asked, with a tone that said she expected to be surprised.
“Politics,” Natasha replied.
Annalies leaned back. “Or economics, depending upon how one considers it.”
“In a town this size, politics and economics are blood brothers,” Elisa added.
Bronwen gripped a fold of her dress. “Borgmester Østergård does not want to know the truth because he fears he will lose his post as Borgmester?” She shook her head. “He cares about the town too much and besides, he’s dying.” She sat up. “No, it is more basic than that. The mill likely employs dozens…hundreds of people.” She looked at the three older ladies. “He is afraid that if the mill is the source and it is shut down, everyone will suffer, not just those who are ill. He is protecting his town.”
Scandalous Scions Two Page 13
