‘Where are you taking me, Herr Koch?’ I asked.
‘To your inn, sir. It’s down on the quayside. It’s out of the way, I admit, but the coach will always be…’
‘An inn?’ I snapped. ‘Like a travelling salesman?’
Was this a further attempt to humiliate me? I had suffered knocks enough that day. First, Rhunken had denied all knowledge of who I was. Then, a meeting by moonlight had been arranged for me with a notorious alchemist, and now I was to be lodged in a low tavern in the company of smugglers and pirates, far from the Fortress and the Court where I ought to have been by rights.
‘I am not in Königsberg for my pleasure, Sergeant,’ I reminded him.
‘My instructions were to bring you here, sir,’ Koch answered bluntly.
Even at that early stage, I began to feel that a precise scheme had been laid out for me. My introduction to Königsberg had all the appearance of an elaborate courtly dance. I was being led deliberately from step to step by Koch, my taciturn dancing-master. But who had called the tune? And for what purpose?
‘I only hope this place is comfortable,’ I muttered to myself as the coach skidded to a stop in front of an ancient red-brick building with a ribbed, uneven roof. A weather-vane of a seagoing ship with her sails puffed by the wind spun furiously above the central chimney. In the gloom, the frosted glass of the bow window flickered with a lively amber glow, which suggested that a large fire was blazing inside. It was the first heartening thing I had seen that day. A wooden sign above the door was so plastered with driven snow that it was impossible to read the name of the inn.
‘The Baltic Whaler, Herr Procurator,’ Koch confided. ‘The food here is excellent. Far better than the Fortress barracks, I believe.’
I ignored this attempt to smooth my temper, the icy cold penetrating my bones as we made for the entrance. Inside, a wave of muggy heat hit me in the face, and I glanced around the room while Sergeant Koch went to speak to a man who was busy stoking the fire. The fireplace itself was so wide as to take up almost the entire wall at the far end of the room. Tables had been laid for dinner. Fresh white linen tablecloths and gleaming silver made a favourable impression. The place seemed clean and inviting enough.
Sergeant Koch returned in the company of a tall, thickset man with an untidy mass of curly grey locks cascading over his forehead, and a brass ring in each ear, who nodded in welcome, then ducked behind the bar-counter. A waxed ponytail tied up with a bright red ribbon added to the impression that he had once been a whaling man. He returned with a large bunch of keys, smiling at me in a manner that was respectful without being obsequious.
‘I am Ulrich Totz, owner of the inn. We’ve been expecting you all day, sir,’ he said in a deep, strong voice which made him sound younger than his grey hair suggested. ‘I’ve sent the groom upstairs to fuel the fire in your room. Now, let me get your bags from the coach.’
I thanked him and glanced around the room again, while Koch stood warming his hands before the blazing fire. There were few other people present at that early hour of the evening. Near to the fireplace, a knot of customers sat on high-backed wooden settles and regarded Koch and myself with undisguised curiosity. Having satisfied themselves that we were nothing more or less than two travelling gentlemen seeking refuge from the snowstorm, they turned back to their beer and pipes and resumed their conversations. Three of the drinkers wore Prussian naval uniforms, while another sported the garb of a Russian hussar with a short green cape and festoons of gold braid stitched like skeletal ribs across the breast of his uniform. The man seated nearest to the fireplace was dark-skinned, and stroked a huge handlebar moustache, a bright red fez sitting lopsidedly on his small head. I guessed him to be a Moroccan or a Turk, most probably a naval officer from a merchant ship. Mediterranean novelties had been arriving in Europe, and even Prussia, for some years now. Indeed, it was widely agreed that if the Egyptians had had the good sense to keep their exotic secrets to themselves, Bonaparte would have left them in peace. But the Emperor loved the fruits of the date-palm tree to distraction, and so he…
Before I had the opportunity to notice more, the innkeeper entered with my luggage. ‘Yours is the second room on the left, first floor. Come up whenever you are ready, sir.’
I joined Koch in front of the fire and warmed my hands.
‘This is a welcome sight,’ I conceded.
Koch murmured agreement, without lifting his eyes from the crackling logs; we remained standing there together in silence for some time, as if bewitched by the dancing flames.
‘We have an hour or so before your appointment with Doctor Vigilantius, Herr Procurator,’ he reminded me.
‘Ah yes, the moon!’ I joked. ‘You’ll keep me company, I hope?’
Koch turned to me, a show of surprise on his face. ‘Sir?’
‘Do you have any other plans tonight?’
‘Oh no, Herr Procurator,’ he enthused. ‘My orders were to make myself useful in any way you might think fit. I wasn’t sure…’
‘That’s settled, then,’ I said with decision. The thought of entering the bleak fortress in Ostmarktplatz and having to do so alone was daunting. Up to that point, my relationship with Sergeant Koch had been neither cordial nor easy, but he was the only person in the city to whom I could turn for aid.
‘As I have had good reason to note today, Koch, you are both efficient and discreet,’ I said, pausing for a moment. ‘Discreet’ was the most tactful word I could find to describe behaviour which had touched a raw nerve more than once. ‘I was wondering…that is, I’d be grateful to benefit from your knowledge of the city. Will you assist me during my stay in Königsberg?’
‘Procurator Rhunken has no need of me at the moment,’ Koch considered, his eyes fixed upon the fire. ‘If I can be of use to you, sir.’
Beneath the detached, austere attitude of Koch I thought I read a hint of willingness to help me in my task.
‘I am Herr Rhunken’s successor,’ I said with relief, making a bluff attempt at humour, ‘so I suppose I inherit you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must write a letter. Can it be delivered this evening?’
‘I’ll take it myself, sir,’ Koch replied promptly.
‘Thank you, Sergeant. Order two large glasses of hot toddy, will you? I won’t be long.’
Upstairs, I found my room without any difficulty. The door was ajar, so I walked straight in. Herr Totz, the innkeeper, was standing next to a boy who was down on his knees working a wooden bellows which caused the fire to roar. Their backs were turned to the door, so neither of them was immediately aware that I had entered the room. I laid my hat on the bed, conscious of the delicious warmth and general neatness of the apartment, noting the low, sagging ceiling with dark, tarred oak beams, the whitewashed plaster, and a carpet that was only slightly worn at the centre. A small desk was placed beneath the window, an oil lamp glowed brightly, while along the opposite wall a large trunk and a matching dresser of walnut stood on either side of a bed hung with curtains which appeared to be fresh and clean. A large blue Dresden ewer and washbowl on the dresser completed the furnishings.
Content with what I had seen, I glanced back in the direction of the innkeeper and his boy to announce my presence. But something in the tableau vivant stopped me. The red-faced boy was still crouching down before the fire, the tall innkeeper hovering over him, hands on his hips. I could see only Totz’s profile, but there was no mistaking the menacing expression on his face. With the roaring of the bellows, the swoosh of flames and the crackling of wood, I could make little sense of what they were saying. Totz was speaking earnestly to the boy, the veins standing out boldly on his neck as if he suppressed a desire to shout.
‘Play with flames, Morik, you’ll burn your fingers!’ he sneered.
‘He certainly does know how to start a fire, Herr Totz,’ I said out loud, taking off my travelling-cloak, and dropping it on the bed. When I turned back to the fireplace once more, I was astonished by the sudden transformation of the sc
ene, the expressions frozen on their faces. Fear was written on the boy’s pinched features like a cornered fox as the hounds close in for the kill, despite his attempt at a welcoming smile. Ulrich Totz, who had been so angry only a moment ago, was now all accommodating smiles and seasoned humility. His left hand rested with a heavy, proprietorial air on the skinny shoulder of his young charge. For all the world, innkeeper Totz looked like a village beagle who had just taken the lad up for thieving.
‘Here’s your room, sir,’ the landlord said with a conspiratorial wink in my direction. ‘Whatever you need, my wife’ll be back from her sister’s this evening. I’m downstairs in the tavern as a rule. This here’s Morik, my nephew.’
The hand on the boy’s shoulder gave a quick, hard nip, and the hollow smile on the boy’s face was shattered by a grimace of pain.
‘That fire is to my liking, Morik,’ I said, measuring my enthusiasm to avoid increasing the animosity of the master in the boy’s regard.
The innkeeper smiled again broadly, though I had the impression that his good humour cost him a great deal of effort when I told him to go, but ordered the boy to remain behind to unpack my bag. The mere fact that the master had been dismissed from the room seemed to put the young servant at his ease. He was a sprightly little lad, bright of eye, his round face as rough and shiny as a golden russet apple, no more than twelve years old. He fell on my valise like a quick little monkey, pulling out the contents, laying out my shirts, stockings and linen on the bed, positioning my combs and hairbrushes with excessive care beside the washbasin, opening and closing drawers. He seemed to take some pleasure in feeling the cut and the quality and the weight of everything he touched. In a word, he was slow.
‘That will do, Morik!’ I stopped him, my patience running short. ‘Just pour some warm water into that bowl, will you? I need to wash before going out again. A gentleman is waiting for me downstairs.’
‘The policeman, sir?’ Morik asked quickly. ‘Is the inn being watched?’
‘All of Königsberg is under strict surveillance,’ I replied vaguely, smiling at this impetuous show of childish curiosity. Then, I sat myself down at the table near the window, laid out my writing necessaire and began to pen a letter that I had never believed I should need to write.
Herr Jachmann,
Circumstances beyond my personal control bring me once more to Königsberg. I have been assigned a Royal Commission of extreme gravity and exceptional importance which I wish to explain to you in person at your earliest convenience. I will call on you at 12 a.m. tomorrow. I hasten to repeat my word as a gentleman that I will avoid any form of contact with Magisterstrasse until I have spoken to you. RSVP. Obsequiously,
Hanno Stiffeniis, Magistrate.
‘Shall I run to the post for you, sir?’
I turned around with a start. The boy was looking over my shoulder. I had been so involved in what I was doing, I had forgotten that he was still in the room.
‘The post? At this time of night? Aren’t you afraid to go out after dark?’ I asked.
‘Oh no, sir!’ the boy replied with vigour. ‘I’ll do anything your Excellency may ask of me.’
‘You’re a brave little fellow,’ I said, pulling a coin from my waistcoat pocket, ‘but a foolish one. There’s murder on the streets of Königsberg at night. You’ll be safer indoors.’
He cast a furtive glance towards the door, then picked the coin from my hand like a thieving magpie. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that, sir,’ he whispered. ‘There’s more danger in this here tavern than on the streets. The water’s ready for you.’
I hardly gave a thought to what the boy had said, dismissing it as infantile braggadocio, as I slipped off my jacket and waistcoat, rolling up my shirtsleeves with a smile.
‘Don’t you believe me, sir?’ he said, stepping closer.
‘Why should I not believe you, Morik?’ I replied, paying little attention to the conversation, my mind on the evening that lay ahead.
‘There are strange things going on in this house, sir,’ he whispered in an even lower voice than before. ‘That’s why you’re here, is it not?’
‘Of course,’ I joked, splashing my face with warm water. ‘What sort of things are you talking about?’
‘A man who was murdered passed his last night here. Jan Konnen…’
A sharp knock at the door interrupted him.
Without waiting to be called, Herr Totz walked in, as I was drying my face.
‘If you’ve finished with the lad, sir,’ the innkeeper said with an air of tight-lipped anger, ‘I need him down in the kitchen. Now!’
Before I could say a word, the boy had skipped around his master, and ducked artfully out of the door.
‘That lad!’ Totz said with a roll of his eyes and a shake of his head. ‘He’s a lying little scamp. An’ workshy with it. With your permission, sir?’
‘He was telling me that Jan Konnen was in your inn the night he was murdered, Totz,’ I said. ‘Is it true?’
Ulrich Totz did not respond immediately. Then, a thin smile appeared, and the reply flowed like warm milk and melted honey. ‘That’s right, sir,’ he said. ‘I have already told the police everything I know. Under oath. Konnen was here one minute, gone the next. I cannot tell you more than that, sir. May I be excused now? We’re very busy downstairs at the moment.’
I nodded, and out he went, closing the door quietly behind him. Had I been drawn into some sort of bizarre labyrinth, or was it mere coincidence that I had been roomed in the inn where the first victim of the murderer had spent his last hours? I decided to search out Ulrich Totz’s statement to the police at the first opportunity. Clearly, there was more documentation regarding the murders than the scant evidence that I had been shown by Koch in the coach.
Down in the saloon Sergeant Koch was seated before the fire, two tall glasses of rum toddy set out on a small table beside him. The inn was busier than before, all animated – two women in loose, red skirts and low-cut blouses were the centre of attention – except for the Russian officer in his extravagant uniform who had fallen sound asleep at his table, his head propped up against the wall, a glass of grog upturned and dripping onto the floor.
‘Koch,’ I said, tapping him on the shoulder.
The sergeant jumped to his feet and slammed his hat on his head, as if I had caught him in a desperate state of undress. ‘The coach is…’
‘Jan Konnen was murdered here,’ I interrupted. ‘Did you know that?’
Koch paused long enough for me to wonder whether he was prevaricating once again. ‘I had no idea, sir. None at all,’ he answered.
‘Is that so?’ I queried. ‘That is strange. All the town must know.’
Koch took a deep breath before he answered. ‘As I told you, sir, the details have been kept a very close secret. I knew, of course, that the man had been killed somewhere near the sea, but not in this very inn.’
‘Outside the inn,’ I corrected him mechanically. ‘You may not know it, but whoever decided to lodge me here most certainly did, Sergeant.’
We stood there for a few moments, face to face in silence, while I felt the cold frost of misunderstanding fall between us once again. I held up the envelope I had been holding. ‘This is the letter I mentioned before,’ I said. ‘It is meant for a gentleman in town. His name is Reinhold Jachmann.’
If Koch had ever heard the name, he gave no sign of it.
‘I’ll deliver it after we’ve been to the Fortress, sir,’ he said with a dutiful nod. ‘I’ll take it there on my way home.’
This generous proposal cast a new light on Koch. I had done little all day, I suddenly realised, but blame him for mounting a conspiracy that I was quite unable to explain to myself. What I had taken to be interference and heavy-handed manipulation on his part might prove to be nothing more than excessive zeal in the execution of a tiresome duty.
‘First thing tomorrow morning will do, Koch,’ I said, relenting a trifle. ‘Herr Jachmann’s house is in Klopstrasse.’<
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‘Do you require anything else, sir?’ he asked.
‘Transport, Koch. The moon should be in its mansion by now, don’t you think?’ I added in an attempt to be more jovial.
A barely perceptible shadow of a smile traced itself out on the sergeant’s lips as we walked towards the door. ‘Indeed, sir. I think it should.’
Outside on the quay, snow lay on the rough cobblestones in swirling piles and massive drifts, though it fell no longer. The wind gusted more fiercely than ever, a biting, hissing whistle of a gale whipping off the sea, which made the teeth chatter and the spirit rebel.
‘God preserve us!’ Koch muttered as he followed me into the coach.
As he shouted to the driver to pull away, I remembered the hot rum toddies we had left untouched on the table in the inn. That night we would both regret the omission.
Chapter 5
Darkness had fallen in Ostmarktplatz. There was not a living soul abroad. Even the sentry-boxes outside the Fortress and the Court House stood empty, the gendarmes having been recalled inside for the night. On either side of the main entrance, flickering firebrands cast weak pools of light and etched deep shadows into the sombre stone facade. As Koch and I stepped down from the coach and approached the gate, the massive building loomed high above us. In the pale light of the rising moon, its towering pinnacles, central keep and watchtowers cast an ominous gloom over the glistening carpet of snow.
HS01 - Critique of Criminal Reason Page 5