Something in her manner of addressing them caught my attention, and I followed her progress across the room, wondering whether she would be equally deferential to all the other customers in the place, but she disappeared into the kitchen without saying a single word to anyone. My interest awakened, I looked around at the assembled company. Beyond those gentlemen with whom Frau Totz had just spoken, closest to the fire, sat the same plump, dark-skinned man wearing the red fez and bright oriental naval garb that I had noticed in the afternoon. He sat peering intently into the darting flames, as if to evoke the warmer lands of his home. In the far corner of the room, a knot of fishermen were drinking strong ale and singing sea shanties. Other less notable customers were scattered around the room in groups of two or three. A couple of women with brightly painted lips and rouged faces sat with a group of foreign navy officials whose uniforms I could not place. The men were drinking and playing cards, the women watching the movement of money around the table with sparkling eyes and animated smiles. There could be little doubt where their interest lay, nor of the means they would employ to procure it. In short, it was the sort of scene one might find anywhere along the Baltic seaboard on a cold, winter night, and I soon grew bored of looking.
I had just unfolded my letter again and primed my pen, when a shadow fell over the page. Surprised at such remarkable alacrity, I glanced up, expecting to find Frau Totz with my dinner. Instead, Morik, the serving-boy, was standing over me, his hands firmly clasped behind his back like a common footsoldier waiting to address a confidence to a superior officer.
‘What can I do for you?’ I asked him.
‘Those men at the next table,’ the youngster hissed out of the side of his mouth. Leaning closer, eyes wide and staring, he added, ‘They meet in the cellar at dead of night, sir. Pretend to order something, or they’ll catch on.’
I attempted to look past him, but the boy was standing hard up against my table, blocking out the prospect. ‘Now, listen here, my lad,’ I began sternly.
‘Please, sir!’ he whispered urgently. ‘Do it loud, or my goose’ll be cooked.’
I sat back, perplexed. Then, in a voice that was calculated to wake the dead, I announced to the inn at large: ‘Bring me another quill, boy. And be quick about it! The point of this one’s ruined, I am unable to finish my letter.’
Morik leapt to attention.
‘Right away, sir,’ he shouted.
He was gone in a flash.
I looked more attentively at the three men seated close by. Each one smoking a long clay pipe and quaffing ale from an ample stein, they were the picture of respectability.
The landlady appeared again from the kitchen, and came bustling across to my table, though there was still no sign of my dinner arriving.
‘Is everything in order, Herr Stiffeniis?’ she enquired, smiling still. ‘Has our Morik been bothering you?’
‘I needed a quill,’ I said. ‘The boy is seeing to it for me.’
‘Oh, you should have asked me, sir,’ she said, wiping the back of her hand across her face. I got the impression that she seemed relieved by what I had just told her. ‘He is such a nuisance, that lad! Can’t be trusted to do a thing! Be sure and tell me if he gets up to any mischief, won’t you, sir?’
‘I most certainly will,’ I assured her.
‘I’ll be a-getting back to the kitchen, then,’ Frau Totz announced, trotting off and nodding silently to the men at the next table as she went.
I put aside my letter, my attention now engaged by the three strangers, my curiosity heightened by this odd exchange with the landlady. Could Morik be telling the truth? There was something decidedly staid and measured in the behaviour of the three guests that was out of place in a quayside tavern. They did not joke, or laugh, and they seemed to speak to each other in unnecessarily hushed tones.
On impulse, I rose from the table and moved towards the blazing fire, as if to warm my hands. As I passed close by their table, I caught a phrase in French. Was that what had tickled the serving-boy’s fancy, the fact that those men spoke the language of Napoleon Bonaparte?
‘Your quills, sir!’ Morik called loudly from my table, holding them up for me and everyone else in the room to see. I returned to the table, recalling what both the landlady and her husband had said of the lad’s untrustworthy nature.
‘I’ve sharpened them to your satisfaction I hope, sir?’ he said out loud. In a whisper he added: ‘Those men are French. They arrived three days ago.’
‘So? What of it?’ I said quietly, taking up one of the quills and trying the point against the paper, playing my part in the charade.
Morik raised his voice again. ‘Right, sir! A sharp knife in case they split again.’
But he made no move to leave me in peace as the landlady passed by, taking four more pints of frothing ale to the fishermen who were merrymaking in the far corner. As soon as she had gone, Morik lowered his voice again. ‘Stop them, sir! Before they strike again.’
I stared hard at the boy. He stood looking around the room, a stiff smile engraved on his lips. I could see quite clearly that he was afraid.
‘Stop who?’ I asked.
‘Those Frenchmen, sir! Two nights ago that man was killed. They’ve been here before, they’ll murder again.’
‘Why should they wish to kill anybody?’ I asked quietly, holding a pen up to the light and examining the point, playing my part with more care now.
‘Let me try, sir,’ Morik said aloud, grabbing the pen from my hand and a scrap of paper from the pile I had placed on the table. He wrote something, his hand shaking as he did so, then glanced up to gauge my reaction.
‘Napoleon intends to invade Prussia,’ I read.
Before I could speak, he picked up the paper, rolled it into a tight ball, strode across to the fire and thrust it deep into the flames. He did not return to my table. Instead, Frau Totz appeared at my side. Morik must have seen her coming.
‘Here’s your dinner, sir,’ she said, laying a large, full plate on the table. ‘I hope I have not made you wait too long?’
Her sharp eyes followed Morik as he moved away from the fire and through a door that led into the kitchen.
‘Did Morik serve you as he ought?’ she asked.
‘He seems a most accommodating fellow.’
‘He always makes a fuss of new guests,’ she explained. ‘But he’s far too nosy for his own good, that lad! Drive my poor sister to her grave, he will. He’s all she’s got. Working here in the inn, with all these sailors passing through, has turned his silly head. He’s interested in everybody’s business but his own. Enjoy your meal, sir.’
Was that the true explanation of the boy’s behaviour? The coincidental fact that the first victim of the unidentified murderer had spent his last night on earth in the bar of The Baltic Whaler might be at the root of the boy’s gossip. But then another aspect of the situation struck me forcibly. If the mysterious person who had had me called to Königsberg had been behind all that had happened so far, had he also decided that I should be lodged at The Baltic Whaler? Did he suspect that something illegal was going on there? And if so, what was I supposed to do about it?
I determined to do two things. I would speak privately to Morik about his absurd accusations. Then, I would question Innkeeper Totz more closely with regard to the statement he had made to Procurator Rhunken. But first of all, I had my empty stomach to care for. I took up my fork and spoon and set to with a will, dining on a rich vegetable broth, roasted chicken and an abundant helping of those tiny turnips that are stored under ice through the winter. The wine was white, a fruity vintage imported from the Nahr region, and it was surprisingly good.
As I ate my dinner, however, I did not lose sight of the three men who had aroused Morik’s suspicions. One of them in particular caught my attention. He was taller, older, more heavily built than his companions. Detached and watchful, seemingly aloof from the general conversation, he appeared to be more alert than the other two concerning wha
t was going on in the inn. Every now and then, he would lower his head and say a quiet word to them in confidence.
French spies conspiring against Prussia? Murdering innocent people in the streets? It took an incredibly wild stretch of the imagination to credit what Morik had said of them. What military objective could such a devilish strategy serve? The victims were men and women of no civic importance. Their deaths would not affect the city and its defences, except, perhaps, by spreading panic. But would the spread of panic help Bonaparte invade Prussia if it was happening in Königsberg alone?
I did not realise until too late that the three foreign gentlemen were looking in my direction. While I had been mentally analysing them, they had been paying more careful physical attention to me. Suddenly, the tallest one – the leader, as I described him in my own mind – rose from his seat and came across to my table.
‘Good evening, sir,’ he began with a polite bow. ‘My name is Guntar Stoltzen. I hope I’m not disturbing you?’
‘Not at all. I have finished my meal, Herr Stoltzen,’ I said, sitting back in my chair and looking up at him. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’
‘My friends and I are jewellers,’ he began, nodding over his shoulder in the direction of his companions. ‘The serving-boy told us yesterday that there have been a number of murders in the city, sir. He said that you are here to investigate them.’
So, Morik had been at work with them as well.
‘Forgive me, sir,’ he continued, ‘I would not have you believe that I am more interested in the affairs of other men than of my own, but we are concerned for our safety. We’ve still a long way to go and…well, you understand, of course. We’re carrying precious gems to Tallinn. What we heard alarmed us. Being robbed is one thing. Being robbed and murdered is quite another!’
I sipped a little wine and gathered my thoughts. Clearly, this Morik was a scandalmonger. He had frightened these innocent travellers, and awakened my own suspicions with ease. Frau Totz was right about him. The boy was definitely a troublemaker.
‘You are French, are you not?’ I asked.
‘German, sir, my companions are French. We have travelled through East Prussia many times before and nothing unpleasant has ever befallen us. But this news is alarming. If these murders were committed by robbers, we might easily be in danger. Do you not agree?’
‘Where did you hear that these crimes had been committed by thieves?’ I enquired, expecting Morik’s name to be raised again.
‘What other reason could there be for killing innocent people?’
‘Why kill, if not for gain? Is that what you mean, sir?’
Herr Stoltzen smiled and nodded his head.
‘Would you be happier to believe that the murders had been committed for political reasons?’ I probed.
‘Politics?’ He frowned, evidently surprised by the suggestion. ‘Is that why these people have been murdered, sir?’
I shook my head. ‘You have formed one opinion, I offer an alternative which would guarantee the safety of you, your companions, and the valuables you are carrying.’
‘A political plot?’ he mused. ‘For what purpose, sir?’
I shrugged my shoulders and put a piece of bread in my mouth, chewing slowly for some moments before I replied.
‘Imagine that someone wished, for reasons still to be determined, to spread terror here in Königsberg. A spate of apparently random murders would do the trick, don’t you think?’
‘If your investigation points that way, I wish you all success. But now, sir, I will leave you to digest your meal in peace,’ he said with a warm smile and a bright twinkle in his eye, as if meaning to return to his own table.
‘A political coup does not worry you, then?’ I said, unwilling to end the conversation.
He stared at me intently. ‘Of course it does, sir, but such an explanation would mean that commercial travellers like myself and my friends could go about our business undeterred. One government is very much like another where trade is concerned.’
‘I am glad if I have set your mind at rest,’ I replied with a smile.
Herr Stoltzen bowed his head and smiled back. ‘My friends and I will toast your good health. With your permission, sir?’
He clicked his heels lightly, returned to his companions and spoke to them quietly. All raised their beer mugs and smiled at me convivially.
I raised my glass to return the courtesy.
I have just interrogated my first suspect, I thought.
I drank my wine to the lees. Then, wishing good night to the three men with a nod of my head, I rose from the table and retired upstairs to my bedroom. The fire had been banked up for the night, a copper jug of water was warming on the hearth. Despite feeling deathly tired, I sat down at the desk to finish the letter to my wife.
Reading over what I have written thus far, my dear, I find that I have failed to report the progress of my investigations. I may have found a trail to follow, and hope that I will not be staying very much longer here in Königsberg. And so, my darling wife, with this good news I wish you a fond farewell.
I added a few tender words of love for the children, then sealed the envelope and set it to one side. Leaving the candle on the table by the window while I put on my night-clothes, I glanced casually out of the window to see if it were still snowing. The sky was a mass of heavy swirling clouds, the moon barely visible. I was just about to turn away and take myself to bed, when a sudden movement in a window on the far side of the courtyard caught my eye. Peering through the misty glass, I observed a dark figure in the far room holding a hooded candle, his head turned to one side as if he were eavesdropping. In the flickering candlelight, the face was grotesque, the eyes two dark, gaping, black holes, the forehead and nose monstrously distorted by the shadows. The figure placed the candleholder on the window ledge, and in that moment, I recognised him. It was Morik.
What was the boy playing at?
He looked up and waved his hand. The lad knew the room in which I was lodging and he appeared to be trying to attract my attention. My thoughts flew to the three travelling merchants. Was he daring to spy on them? The serving-boy truly was a pest. I decided that I had better speak to him about his behaviour the very next morning. Sooner or later, the boy was going to get himself into serious trouble.
I snapped the curtains shut and blotted his figure out, determined to have no more to do with Morik and his foolishness. It had been a long, hard day and I was thoroughly exhausted. Quickly, I washed my face and hands, then I retired to my bed. The crispness of the fresh linen sheets, their heady perfume of blubber soap and starched cleanliness, induced a strong sense of well-being as I nestled down beneath the heavy eiderdown coverlet. Soon, I knew, I would be sound asleep. But in those delicious moments before gentle Morpheus had fully narcotised my senses, I suddenly tensed with fright. Had I dreamt it, or had I actually seen a moving shadow lurking at Morik’s back? A pale apparition glimpsed so fleetingly that my conscious mind had not fully registered it?
I sat up with a start, jumped out of bed, and darted over to the window. Throwing back the curtains, I looked out across the yard. All was dark on the other side of the court. There was nothing left to see.
No candle. No Morik. No sign of man, or ghost.
Chapter 8
The first pallid intimation of the dawn caressed the curtains around my bed, but I had been wide-eyed and awake for an hour already. The ritual nightmare had brought me choking from my sleep, hair plastered to my forehead, limbs rigid, my heart in my mouth. And yet, somehow, the frightful dream had been less painful, less vivid in its gruesomeness than usual. The rock had barely penetrated his skull. The grass had not been red with blood. His glassy eyes had seemed to be less fixed, less accusing than they had been on previous occasions. For the first time, in those dreams that had plagued my sleep for seven years, I had not been frozen with fright. I had moved. I had tried to reach him, skipping down from the towering height of the rock, holding his salvation claspe
d in my hand. I could not be blamed for neglect this time. I had taken the vial from my pocket, the glass cold against my fingers, a flash of sunlight making the contents gleam and glisten like melted amber…
I dismissed the memory as I jumped up from my bed, shivering in the cold as I agitated the grey embers of the fire, adding wood shavings and some larger chips of wood which Morik had left behind for that purpose the previous evening. The first flame crackled into life, and I swung the copper pot over the fire to reheat the water I had used to wash myself the night before. Crossing over to the window, I looked out on the day. There had been more snow during the night, but the pearl-grey sky was free of further threatening clouds. A freezing day to come, I thought, noting the extraordinary length of the icicles that dangled from the guttering of the roof above my room. The window on the far side of the yard where I had seen Morik the night before was dark, reflecting only the gleam from my candle. What had the boy been doing there? Had somebody been watching him, an accomplice, perhaps, or had I imagined the entire scene?
I wrapped the top coverlet from the bed around my shoulders, and sat down at the desk to make a list of all the things I would need to do that day. The name of Lawyer Tifferch was at the top. He had been dead three days already, so the trail was already growing cold. Today my work would start in earnest. I had wasted time enough with the necromancer, Vigilantius, the night before. I had not been long at my task, however, when I heard someone clumping about in the hall outside my door.
‘Morik!’ I thought, rising quickly and striding to the door, intent on catching the little sneak off his guard. The boy was spying again. On me, this time.
With a sudden wrench, I threw the door wide open.
Frau Totz was on her knees in the hallway, staring hard where the keyhole had been but a moment before. She fell backwards onto her large bottom, her legs seesawed into the air, and she let out a yelp of surprise. A second later, raising herself to her normal height again as if nothing untoward had happened, she fixed me with that mincing smile she habitually wore. It appeared to have been painted on her face.
HS01 - Critique of Criminal Reason Page 9