I closed my eyes to block out the memory. Would the image of that moment never leave me in peace? How long would it haunt me? The sight of human blood on the ground. The stench of it in the air.
‘…Paris, January 2nd, 1793,’ Herr Jachmann intoned pedantically.
The scene flashed before my mind’s eye. The bubbling gaiety of the crowd. The condemned man in his soiled finery proudly climbing the steps to the block. The oiled blue triangle of steel shimmering in the early morning light. The sound of grating metal as the blade fell. Then, blood! Oceans of crimson blood, spurting out of that severed neck like water from one of the ornamental fountains that the King had built for himself at Versailles, drenching the faces of the onlookers. Falling like rain on my own face, on my mouth and my tongue…
‘They murdered the King that day.’
A king? A man had been butchered before my eyes. A flick of a lever, and a shadow had been cast upon my soul. A hidden part of myself had risen up with the mob and taken possession of my confused mind.
‘Kant had met others who had been in France,’ Herr Jachmann continued. ‘Others who were involved in those tragic events. He was not upset by what they had to say. But you, Stiffeniis! You brought a malignant plague to his house that day.’
He stared fixedly at me.
‘Whatever happened between the two of you, Stiffeniis, it changed him. It changed him totally. And it all began with that conversation about the effect of electrical storms on human behaviour.’
‘It was not I who raised the subject,’ I spluttered in my own defence. ‘You started it, sir.’
‘But it was you,’ Jachmann replied, his finger pointing accusingly, ‘you, Stiffeniis, who led the discussion in such an unsavoury direction. You froze the blood in my veins!’
He turned his gaze to the fire. ‘How many times have I regretted that odious conversation! Kant was studying the effects of electricity on the nervous system in that period, he was interested in little else. And the night before, there had been a terrible storm.’
Every single detail was still vivid in my mind.
‘Looking out of your window,’ I murmured, ‘you found a stranger in your garden. Careless of the lashing rain, the thunder and lightning, he was staring up at the sky in a trance. You’d been disconcerted by his behaviour, and you asked Kant if static electricity might provide an explanation for it.’
‘And he replied by saying it was not the electrical discharge, it was the unbounded energy of Nature which had fascinated the man,’ Jachmann went on. ‘The destructive power of the elements had mesmerised him. Kant referred to the incantamento horribilis. Human Kind, he said, is fatally attracted by Sublime Terror.’
He sat down heavily in an armchair, his forehead couched in his hand. ‘I was shocked. Unable to believe my ears. Immanuel Kant? The Father of Rationality celebrating the powers of the Unknown? The dark side of the human soul?’
‘I remember, sir. You objected that such power belongs to God alone. That Man is bound by moral ties which he should never question…’
‘Then you spoke up,’ Jachmann interposed, still shading his eyes, avoiding my sight, ‘and suddenly the pleasant young student who had won our respect with his good manners and his sound reasoning appeared in a different light.’
‘I just said…’
He held up his hand for silence. ‘Your words are indelibly printed on my memory. “There is one human experience which may be equal to the unbridled power of Nature,” you said. “The most diabolical of all. Cold-blooded murder. Murder without a motive.” ’
Jachmann stared at me, his eyes narrowed and resentful. I felt as if my body had been stripped away, my soul exposed to view.
‘When Professor Kant shifted the discussion elsewhere,’ he went on, ‘I felt grateful to him. But the ghost that you evoked that day had not been laid to rest. He insisted on taking a turn around the Castle Walk alone with you, though he had not been out of doors all winter, except to go to the university. The fog was dreadful, you remember. But I knew that he would wish to talk with you again.’
‘You are curious to know if we talked further of the same subject. Are you not?’ I asked, on the defensive.
‘You are wrong, Stiffeniis,’ he replied. ‘Totally wrong! I do not wish to know what was said. But let me tell you what happened as a consequence. When Kant returned to the house, I was waiting for him. Long before I saw him through the fog, I heard his footsteps. And what I heard was enough to convince me that something was wrong. Very wrong. Kant was running. Running! But from whom? From what? I rushed out to meet him, and the expression on his face was frightful to behold. Rather, I was frightened by what I saw. His eyes sparkled with nervous energy. I thought he had taken a fever. I expressed my concern, but he announced that he had work to do which could not wait an instant. In short, he sent me about my business! And the very next day, he told me that he had begun to compose a new philosophical treatise.’
I frowned. ‘I have not heard of any new book,’ I said.
Jachmann shook his head dismissively. ‘It has not been published. That is why you’ve never heard of it. No one has read a single line. Indeed, I am inclined to believe that the work does not exist. At that time, he was under great mental strain. Some younger philosophers accused him of ignoring the deeper resources of the soul. Emotion, they suggested, was more powerful than Logic, and Kant was ruined by the bitter controversy. His classes were empty in the last years of his tenure. The young did not want to pay to listen to him.’
‘So I heard,’ I said.
‘It was very sad. He was all but forgotten. “Old-fashioned” is the new-fangled term, I believe. Things had got to such a state that one of his former protégés, a bright young fellow named Fichte – you’ve heard of him, I’m sure – described Kant as the “philosopher of spiritual idleness” in a book which sold very well throughout Europe.’
‘That must have been humiliating.’
‘Remember his legendary timekeeping?’ Jachmann reminisced. He seemed calmer as he recalled the distant past. ‘How the people in Königsberg used to set their clocks by Kant’s coming and going? Well, the new generation of students thought it such a clever joke to interrupt his lessons, coming in one after another, watch in hand, saying, “Late, sir? Me, sir? Your timepiece must have stopped, sir.” It drove Kant to a premature retirement.’
‘I can imagine his distress.’
‘I doubt it!’ Jachmann snapped. He was rambling now with the frantic energy of an old man for a lost cause. ‘But the person who was most distressed was Martin Lampe.’
‘His valet?’ I asked in surprise.
‘I had to dismiss him. After thirty years of faithful service! He’d been the perfect servant. Mental order and discipline may produce fine thoughts, but they do not make for the efficient running of a household. Kant has trouble putting on his own stockings! Lampe looked after him, while the master concentrated on his books.’
‘So why did you send him away?’
‘For Kant’s own good, Stiffeniis!’ He looked at me intently, as if searching for the correct tone of voice with which to say what followed. ‘I no longer trusted Lampe. More to the point, I was afraid of him.’
‘Afraid, sir? What do you mean?’
‘Strange ideas had found their way into Lampe’s mind,’ Herr Jachmann went on. ‘He had begun to behave as if he were Professor Kant. Why, he told me once that there would be no Kantian philosophy if not for him! The new book on which Kant was working, he claimed, was his, not his master’s. When the students started deserting Kant’s lessons, it was Lampe who had the most violent reactions. He became quite vehement, shouting, saying that Kant must show the world what he could do.’
‘He had to go,’ I agreed. ‘But who is looking after the Professor now?’
Jachmann cleared his throat noisily. ‘A young man named Johannes Odum manages the house and he seems to be doing it well enough.’
He fell silent. Indeed, there seemed to be lit
tle left to say, and I stood up, reaching for my hat, preparing to take my leave, having said what I had come to say.
‘Why in the name of heaven did you choose the law of all subjects?’ he asked me quietly.
I paused before replying. I ought to have been insulted, I suppose, but there was a measure of satisfaction in what I was about to tell him. ‘That day I came to Königsberg, Professor Kant himself advised me to become a magistrate.’
‘Did he really?’ Jachmann frowned, evidently puzzled. ‘Given the wild opinions you expressed, I can only wonder at the soundness of his judgement!’
‘It was during our walk around the Fortress after lunch,’ I hurried on, ignoring the sarcastic jibe.
Herr Jachmann shook his head sadly. ‘That walk! Everything seems to have started out there in the…’
There was a sharp rap at the door, and a man in dowdy brown serving-livery poked his head inside without stepping into the room.
‘That person’s here again, sir,’ he announced, surprise writ large on his face, as if his master were unused to receiving visitors, and my own visit had been more than enough for one morning. ‘To speak with Procurator Stiffeniis, he says.’
Koch was waiting out in the hallway, his face ash-white, his expression drawn and tense. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but it’s a question of necessity.’
‘What is it?’
‘The boy at the inn, sir.’
‘Morik?’ I said sharply. ‘What about him?’
‘He’s been found, sir.’
I glared at him for a moment. ‘I am glad of that, Sergeant, but I do not see the urgency…’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Koch interrupted forcefully. ‘Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. The boy is dead, sir. Foul play’s suspected.’
Chapter 11
Wild, angry shouts exploded suddenly all around us.
‘The King! Where’s the King?’
‘Napoleon will slay us, no one seems to care!’
‘Down with the King! To the scaffold! Vive la revolution!’
Our coach rumbled onto the long wooden bridge that spanned the River Pregel, scattering a furious crowd of cat-calling men and screeching women who jostled towards the scene of the crime. In that barrage of noise and derision it was impossible to isolate the individuals who were fomenting the protest. Perhaps there were no leaders in that rabble. I had the unpleasant impression that the coach was a fragile boat forced to run between converging reefs, which threatened to sink us at any moment.
‘They blame the authorities for what is happening,’ I said, as we trundled on and left the raving mob behind us.
‘Their fears feed on each new corpse,’ Koch replied. ‘It’s just as General Katowice feared, sir. Rumour, unruly gatherings, riots. These murders will lead to trouble. Rebellions have a way of spreading.’
‘Terror is what they aim at,’ I said, feeling the enormous burden of the delicate task with which I had been entrusted. ‘But what were you saying before we were interrupted?’
‘About the eel-fisherman, sir. He found the corpse while setting his traps. The troops brought him to the Court House, then they called me. I spoke to him, but he had nothing much to add, beyond the macabre discovery. If you wish to interrogate him, sir, I made a note of his name and address…’
‘We’ll see him later, Koch. How far is The Baltic Whaler from here?’
‘Half a mile, sir. No more.’
I thought back to what Morik had told me the previous night, and to the scene that I had witnessed later from my bedroom window. What further proof did I need that the boy and all the others had been murdered by terrorist infiltrators?
‘Were the landlord and his wife taken into custody?’
‘They were, sir.’
‘As soon as we’ve seen the body,’ I said, ‘I will interrogate them. Then, perhaps, I’ll be in a better position to report my findings to General Katowice.’
The coach slewed and skidded suddenly, rolling and jerking to an uncertain stop at an angle to the bridge-rail.
‘Get back there! Go on, get on with you!’ Soldiers were blocking the way, their muskets pointed in a menacing fashion at our driver. Sergeant Koch jumped down and some minutes later the coach was allowed to pass through the road-block on my authority. For once in my life, I must admit, I felt reassured by the bullying behaviour of the troops.
Having crossed the bridge and turned to the left along the far bank, the vehicle pulled up a hundred metres further on beside a long, slippery flight of slime-covered stone stairs, by means of which we reached the rutted, muddy bank of the river. It was a vile, salt-smelling sort of place. The river was low, the weeds dank and black, flattened by the force of the retreating tidal waters. We hurried on beside the stream to where a knot of soldiers stood braced in a tight circle, facing outwards, firearms at the ready. They waved us away with bayonets fixed to the muzzles of their guns.
‘I am the new Procurator. Make sure that no one else approaches,’ I ordered sharply, glancing across the river as the troops fell back. The far bank was packed with idle onlookers. Half the town had gathered there, as if to see some gruesome public spectacle or welcome a travelling circus. With a feeling of disgust for Mankind in my heart, I turned to my task, but I pulled up suddenly. A figure was down on his knees in the mud, his trademark wig glistening with damp, the corpse of Morik visible only as a shapeless, twisted heap of mud-stained clothes and pale flesh beneath him. Like a wild beast poised to feast on fresh blood and warm flesh, Doctor Vigilantius was sniffing and slobbering over the body.
‘In the name of Heaven!’ I cried.
Vigilantius did not look up. The blasphemous ritual continued unchecked.
‘This is an outrage!’ I erupted. ‘Who called him here?’
‘I did, Stiffeniis.’
The voice at my back was feeble, but I recognised it even before I turned.
‘I sent for Doctor Vigilantius.’
A three-cornered hat sat low on Immanuel Kant’s head, his face almost hidden beneath it. He wore no wig. A fine mesh of silvery-white hair graced his deformed left shoulder. Wrapped up against the weather in a shimmering, waterproof cloak of dark brown material, he held on tightly to the arm of a young man so tall, robust and protective that they might have been a father and his son, age reversing the roles that Nature had assigned them.
His unexpected arrival there on the banks of the river robbed me of the power of speech. Of course, I realised, it was inevitable that I would meet him sooner or later in Königsberg. But not in that place, nor in such doleful circumstances. Who had told him of the finding of the body of Morik? Had Jachmann informed him of my presence in the city, and of the reason for my being there? Herr Jachmann had warned me of the changes advancing age had inflicted on the philosopher, but I could only compare what I saw with what I recalled as we parted that afternoon seven years before, and Kant made his way home alone, limping painfully as the swirling fog swallowed him up. He did not seem a day older.
‘My dear Hanno, how happy I am to see you!’ he said warmly.
My first impulse was to take his hand and press it to my lips, but natural reserve stopped me. ‘I did not expect you, sir,’ I said, attempting to hide my confusion and embarrassment.
‘I expected nothing less of you,’ he returned with a welcoming smile. ‘You made the acquaintance of Doctor Vigilantius last night, did you not?’
He did not wait for me to reply, but shuffled forward, still clutching the arm of his servant, and cast his eyes on the horrid spectacle. ‘He has not wholly finished his examination, I see.’
Vigilantius was on his knees beside the dead boy, grunting like a pig over a mountain of offal. At the sound of his name he looked up quickly, acknowledged Kant with no more than a nod, then returned to his business. The scene was vile, nauseating, revolting, but Professor Kant did not appear to be in the least disturbed by what he saw.
‘I hope the doctor will be able to tell us something useful,’ he confide
d quietly, looking over his shoulder at me. His passionate concern spoke all the louder for a lack of violent animation. The keen intelligence shining from his eyes seemed to suggest that he had lost none of his renowned intellectual powers. ‘You are wondering what he is doing here, are you not?’
Kant remained silent, waiting for me to reply.
‘He is a follower of Swedenborg,’ I said, carefully measuring my criticism. ‘He claims to speak with the dead, sir. You condemned his master as a fake and a cozener.’
‘Oh, that!’ Kant returned with a tinkling laugh. ‘Dreams of a Spirit Seer is the only book of mine for which I have ever apologised. Do you disapprove of my having called on Swedenborg’s spiritual heir in my search for the murderer?’
‘Your search, sir? Indeed, I am puzzled,’ I admitted.
‘Were you not impressed by what he had to show you at the Fortress?’ he asked, a thin smile tracing itself on his pale lips.
I hardly knew how to respond. ‘The séance, sir?’
Kant frowned. ‘Séance? Is that all you saw last night?’
‘What else should I call it, sir? A man asking questions of a dead body, the corpse supposedly speaking back. I left Vigilantius knowing nothing that my own eyes did not tell me when I examined the body.’
‘Ah!’ Kant exclaimed with a smile. ‘You ran out of patience and did not stay until the end. I should have foreseen that possibility,’ he murmured. Then he looked at me attentively. ‘So, you are surprised to see Vigilantius here, but you are not surprised to have been nominated in the place of Rhunken. Am I correct?’
His open irony regarding my appointment struck me like a slap in the face.
‘It seems that I have you to thank for the honour, sir,’ I began, but a louder voice than mine cut in.
‘This death is not like the others, Herr Professor.’
Vigilantius was towering over Morik’s body. ‘This is the work of another killer,’ he said.
‘Another killer?’ I repeated, appealing to Professor Kant. ‘In God’s name, sir, what is he talking about?’
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