HS01 - Critique of Criminal Reason

by Michael Gregorio

  ‘Is he still alive?’ I shouted, as the coach thundered and clattered over the cobblestones, sparks flying from the horses’ hooves.

  Koch did not reply before we had entered the Fortress. As the gates closed behind us, he turned to me. ‘We’ll carry him to the Infirmary. Run across to the guard-house, sir. Call out the soldiers. That witch must be taken!’

  Did I reply? Was I capable of forming a phrase to show that I was still the master of myself? Koch had taken command. He decided, he disposed, giving orders as the coach skidded to a halt and we manhandled Lublinsky down to the ground.

  ‘That way, sir,’ Koch pointed. ‘Over there, Herr Procurator. Tell Stadtschen to send the troopers out.’ He turned back to the coachman, dismissing me. ‘Help me, man!’ he ordered.

  I ran as I had been told to do, advancing blindly through the fog, praying that I was running in the right direction, stumbling forward in the cold, drenching void. And as the edifice loomed up above me out of the swirling mist, a phrase that Koch had used rang loud in my ears.

  ‘You’ve found your killer, sir.’

  I realised that I was clutching the needle tight in my fist. I did not recall picking it up, my fingers sticky with Lublinsky’s blood. All the way from The Pillau to the town, I had held the Devil’s claw clasped in my grip like a talisman of Truth.

  Chapter 19

  I sat in the guard room and sipped a fortifying glass of wine set a-sizzling with a red-hot poker while the officer-of-the-watch was sent for. I was still in a state of physical shock and emotional confusion when Officer Stadtschen came barging in through the door. I told him quickly what had happened, then ordered him to send out armed patrols.

  ‘What does this woman look like, sir?’

  I began to pace slowly up and down the room at his broad back, carefully measuring my words as I recalled what Koch had said earlier that evening about ‘women and rough soldiers’.

  ‘She is tall, Stadtschen. Thirtyish, as regards her age. And she is wearing a…red dress,’ I began slowly, soon stuttering to a halt. Why had I begun with such tiny and secondary details? Why hold back information that would make her immediately recognisable? ‘She…this woman’s name is Rostova,’ I added, reluctantly. ‘She is an albino.’

  ‘A what, sir?’

  ‘She is white, Stadtschen. White all over,’ I explained somewhat foolishly. ‘Her skin, her lips, her hair. White as fresh-milled flour.’

  ‘I know the freak you mean, sir,’ he said with a sly grin. ‘They call her Anna, that one.’

  I did not bother to ask him where or when he had met her. I was able to imagine the circumstances all too easily, and an unwanted vision flashed before my eyes. As it faded, fear took its place. Fear for the chain of unpleasant events that I was about to unleash on the woman. The freak, as he had called her.

  ‘Tell your men not to touch a hair on her head,’ I said sternly. ‘I hold you personally responsible, Stadtschen. Gerta Totz took her own life yesterday after the rough treatment she got from you and your troops. Bring Anna Rostova here unharmed. Without a single mark on her body. Do I make myself clear?’

  Stadtschen stiffened. ‘These things happen, sir. The lads give all the new prisoners a bit of a welcome, so to speak. To soften them up. There’s nothing wrong with that, Herr Procurator. Guilty or innocent, they’ll get another good thrashing before they’re released.’

  I winced at the thought of Anna Rostova falling into their hands.

  ‘Prussia, homeland of the whip and cane!’ she had laughed in my face not two hours before. If the soldiers had been so hard on a creature as submissive and docile as Gerta Totz, how kindly would they react to exotic beauty, a sharp tongue and the certain knowledge that the woman was a common whore?

  ‘…thirty lashes last time. They got excited when my white flesh started bleeding, those animals did.’

  She would provoke them to the worst excesses, I had no doubt.

  Had it been possible to call back the accurate description I had just given to Stadtschen, I would have done so. But it was too late for lies. He knew her. Could I tell him now that I had make a mistake? Would he believe me if I informed him that the woman I was chasing was, in fact, small, dark, fat and very ugly? All I could do to protect Anna Rostova was to lock her up within my own custody, and the sooner, the better.

  ‘I know the barbarous things that go on in Prussian jails,’ I said to him sharply. ‘I do not want anything similar to happen in this case.’

  A half-smile traced itself on Stadtschen’s face. ‘You gave that Gerta Totz a proper welcome yourself, sir. A right good punch, if I may say so.’

  ‘I sincerely regret it,’ I snapped.

  ‘If she died, sir,’ Stadtschen looked down, avoiding my gaze as he spoke, but accusing nonetheless, ‘it was because you gave us no specific instructions.’

  ‘I am giving them now!’ I stressed. ‘I mean to be obeyed. Anna Rostova must not be harmed.’

  Stadtschen clicked his heels to signify that he had understood, though perplexity was written openly on his face. Anna Rostova was a criminal in his eyes. He knew how such people should be handled. I could only envy him for the clarity and the absoluteness of his judgement. The simple fact that she had put an officer’s eye out was all the proof that he needed. In that respect, Stadtschen was transparently honest in his prejudices. I, by comparison, felt far less certain, more inclined to doubt. The fact that I had probably identified the assassin should have been grounds for rejoicing, but I was still without definitive proof.

  ‘One more thing before you go,’ I said, giving the fugitive a few extra seconds to make her escape, as I hoped she would do. ‘A man named Kopka deserted from the regiment some months ago. I want to see his service records.’

  Stadtschen frowned, then cleared his throat noisily. His face betrayed a look of concern that the prospect of hunting down Anna Rostova had not aroused in him. His eyes flashed away from mine, and when his voice came, it was hesistant, halting. He might have been walking barefoot on broken glass.

  ‘I…I’ll need to check the battalion files,’ he said. ‘It might not be easy, sir. You know what deserters are like. They leave few traces behind them. None at all, if they can get away with it. What exactly were you wishing to know about this fellow, Kopka, sir?’

  I peered up into his face. It was large, chubby, as red as raw beef. His small black eyes crossed as he squinted down his nose at me. He appeared to be holding his breath, an effort that brought a flush of white to his rosy cheeks. Did his esprit de corps hold deserters in such contempt, or was he hiding something from me?

  ‘I want to know who he was, and why he ran away,’ I said. ‘And just you remember one thing, Stadtschen. I will report any failure to cooperate here in the fortress of Königsberg to the authorities in Berlin. “Dumb insolence” is the military term for hindrance, I believe. I will report any such behaviour. Names, dates, all the details will be included in my report. I make no exceptions. Now, send your men out after that woman, tell them how they are to behave, and bring me any information which exists regarding Kopka. I’ll be waiting in my lodging. Send Koch up to me the instant he returns. If Anna Rostova is taken, I’m to be informed at once. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Stadtschen barked. He spun on his heel and marched to the door.

  ‘At the double!’ I called after him.

  Out in the corridor I heard him break into a trot.

  I drained my glass of sweet, lukewarm wine, then retired upstairs to my quarters with an oil lamp. I could do no more. As I opened the door, I caught immediate sight of a letter. It was neatly folded, sealed and propped against a candlestick on the table. I recognised the hand that had written it at once. In other circumstances, I would have rushed to break the post-seal with joy in my heart. But that night, I hesitated, blinking like a convalescent who feels the heat of sunlight on his face for the first time after weeks in a sickroom with the shutters tightly closed. I sat down before opening the en
velope.

  Helena had taken it into her head to visit Ruisling. She had left the children with Lotte for the day and taken the morning coach alone. Ruisling was fifteen miles from Lotingen, a journey of a little more than an hour, though we had never made such an excursion together. Her purpose in going, she explained, ‘was to lay an unhappy ghost to rest’. Helena has always been determinedly sentimental. She has a tender nature, as open and sincere as the day is long. Her sensibility to the needs of others, her passionate concern for all creatures, great or small, for myself and for her children, had always made her shine in my eyes. If something had to be said, she said it. If some other thing were to be done, she did not hesitate to do it. I had always loved and admired those sterling qualities. Her heart was her compass.

  Suddenly, this goodness grated on my nerves. I would have preferred to read the vapid letter of a less enterprising wife. The idea of Helena standing before my brother’s tombstone was unbearable. Had she not felt the abyss opening up at her feet? Had she not understood the mystery of the place? That grave was the dark pit in which my own soul was buried.

  ‘I wished to say a prayer over Stefan’s grave,’ she wrote. ‘I wanted to ask him to watch over you in Königsberg. What better way to close with the past, I thought, than to leave a sisterly kiss upon his grave!’

  I knew what followed before I read the words. My father, hat in hand, dressed in black, had been meditating before the monument of a weeping angel which marked the family tomb. He kept a lonely vigil there, rain or shine, every morning from eleven ’til the clock struck noon.

  ‘I guessed it was him the instant I saw him. I went to him directly, told him who I was and why I had come. I told him where you were, and that His Majesty had called you to His service. “You ought to be proud of Hanno,” I said. “Your son has been given a most important commission. He is a feather in your cap, sir.”’

  I stopped reading. I could picture the scene. Sweet animation and simplicity of manner on the one side; on the other, the granite face of the man who had made me, the man who had rejected me for ever, the man who blamed me for the deaths of his dearest wife and his favourite son. My father had listened to Helena’s plea for reconciliation in silence. Then, he had uttered one sentence before he turned and walked away from the graveside.

  ‘ “Leave Hanno while you can,” he said.’

  I stared at the words inscribed on the paper. My father’s voice echoed hard, bitter and unforgiving in my ears.

  ‘I cannot imagine the cause of such hatred in a father,’ she continued. ‘What does he think you have done, Hanno?’

  I screwed the letter into a ball, and dropped it on the table. My heart might have been pickled in vinegar. I did not feel a thing, I am ashamed to say. I seemed unable to find the strength to react to the bitter news. Nor could I answer Helena’s question.

  What does he think you have done…

  My father’s attitude, my brother’s early death, the demise of my mother, Helena herself, our children, all seemed to belong to another life. I knew that I was linked to them, but my memory of them was fading fast. Königsberg was like a rapid-turning kaleidoscope, the glittering images changed from one instant to the next, and it was difficult, nay, impossible, to hold fast to any single one of those coloured pictures.

  I needed rest, restorative sleep, but the dark cell in which I found myself offered little comfort. The bare, stone walls were as cold as ice, the stove unlit in the corner. How I regretted the loss of the blazing fire in The Baltic Whaler, the hot water Morik had provided for my ablutions, the fine cooking of Gerta Totz, the well-stocked cellar that Ulrich Totz had kept. Unlatching my pantaloons, I took advantage of the one facility which was at my disposition, the chamber-pot peeping out from beneath the bed. After relieving myself, I took the Devil’s claw from my pocket, unwrapped the filthy rag and laid it on the table next to the lamp. I must have sat there for quite some time, unable to remove my eyes from that object, questions rolling around my brain like echoing thunder in a fjord. What was it? Where had it come from? Why had the killer chosen such an unusual weapon? And all the time, like lightning breaching the dark clouds, the voice of Sergeant Koch rang in my ears: ‘You’ve found the killer, sir.’

  Was Anna Rostova that person? If she truly were the murderer, then Königsberg’s troubles and my own would soon be over. I ached to discover the culprit, of course, but I did not ache half so much to catch Anna Rostova. Totz and his wife had died, and the fault was surely mine. Stadtschen had defended the actions of his men, as any officer must. It was true, too true, I had not protected the prisoners as I ought. I should have guessed the inevitable consequences of such slackness. Koch had warned me of the danger of indifference, but I had chosen to ignore his wisdom. The soldiers had pushed Ulrich Totz over the edge, and his wife had followed him faithfully off the cliff. And now I had set the same hounds loose on Anna Rostova. Wherever I turned – I thought of Morik, of Lublinsky, of my father, mother and brother – I had brought devastation.

  Just like the murderer I was hunting…

  I saw the albino woman in my mind’s eye. Her wild silken tresses, her skin as white as frost, the lights in her eyes as she spoke, the sensuality of her full lips. The way she caressed herself so openly, running her fingers wantonly down into the deep, warm chasm between her ample breasts. Those same fingers had seized the Devil’s claw and drawn Lublinsky’s blood. I had struck her, I had touched her flesh. And with what pleasure of coy delight she had accepted my show of anger! There was perilous beauty in her. Anna Rostova…there was even something magical in the name. Evil and attraction, equally mixed. I sank down onto my bed, images of her coming thick and fast. And I was aroused by them. My pulse was quick, my breathing quicker. Struggling to wipe this alien invasion from my senses, I tried to conjure up the face of Helena – I was caressing her, she returned my love, my life, my darling wife…But the Devil’s claw lay there on the table. What had Anna said? Shall I stroke it for you, sir? I turned on my face, willing myself to see Helena’s hair, to smell my wife’s skin and feel her mouth on mine. But other carnal images raged within my troubled mind and poisoned my soul.

  I sat up suddenly and pressed my knuckles hard against my eyelids. Anna Rostova was evil. Evil! Lublinsky claimed that she was a witch. Was that it? Had she enchanted me? Why else would I wish to protect her?

  ‘Proof,’ I said the word out loud, over and over again. Proof was what was needed. Proof of her guilt. Until I had such proof, no harm should come to her.

  I went across to the table, sat down, and began to pen a letter to Helena. I have no clear memory of what I wrote, nevertheless I wrote with a frenzy. As if by doing so, I could unburden my mind of the restlessness that troubled me. My hand shook as it moved over the page. That hand might have belonged to another man. I signed the letter, sealed it, then opened the door and called to the guard on duty at the end of the corridor. He came running and halted in front of me. The hands holding his gun were blue with cold, his green eyes watered with the wind which whistled out in the passageway.

  ‘Orders, sir?’

  I nodded and held out the letter. ‘This message must be delivered to Lotingen. It is urgent.’

  Was it, really? I wanted to reassure Helena, to tell her that the investigation was making progress, that I would soon be home with her and the children, that everything would be back to normal again, the slate wiped clean. That there would be no more murders, Königsberg a memory, Vigilantius and his jars of human heads, Lublinsky…all a dream, all left far behind. And what of Anna Rostova? If she truly were the murderer, I would sign her death sentence with a happy heart.

  If, if, if…

  ‘Sir?’

  The soldier was staring at me. How long had I kept him waiting, the letter held out in my hand, his fingers gripping it, pulling gently against my reluctance to let it go?

  ‘This message is very urgent,’ I repeated, and relinquished the letter.

  I watched him walk to the end
of the corridor, then I closed the door and lay down on the bed again. But still sleep would not come. My mind was troubled and sore. Despite what Lublinsky had told me, despite what the woman had done to him, despite the weapon in her possession, I was less than certain that she was the killer. Anna Rostova was no fool. Lublinsky might believe that the Devil’s claw would cure his ills, but did she? She was too worldly-wise and knowing. An abortionist, a harlot, a creature of the Underworld, Anna lived by manipulating the gullible. Why kill the hen that laid the golden egg? She made her living from the likes of Lublinsky, from child-getting, child murder. A murderer will often kill for gain, rarely at a loss. Would spreading terror on the streets of Königsberg serve her purpose?

  And if it did, what might that purpose be?

  Koch had suggested human sacrifice as a motive, trading lives with the Devil for power and wealth. But superstition, charms and magic were the tools of Anna’s trade, she made money from them. Death would not profit her directly. If gold were not the cause, I concluded, only Evil remained to explain her behaviour, and I would just have to face up to the fact. I would be required to publicly accuse her of consorting with Satan. I would be cast in the odious role of a Springer, or an Institoris. I had read their Malleus maleficarum. In the Dark Ages, those two blinkered magistrates had condemned numberless women to the trials of the ducking-stool, and sent them to the flames in public squares in the hallowed name of Religion. I would be obliged to do the same in the name of the Prussian State. Would I be immortalised to future time as ‘Stiffeniis, the witch-hunter of the Age of Enlightenment?’

  A knock shook the door, and an immediate sensation of relief swept over me. At that moment, any distraction was better than the leaden weight of my own thoughts.

  Chapter 20