‘Thank you,’ I said, turning away and stepping into the hut.
I placed the glimmering light on the carpet of pebbles, and knelt down beside the body. It was, I reflected, the first time that I had ever been alone with Anna Rostova. Closing my eyes, I instantly recalled her house in The Pillau. The darkness in that hut was heavy with nauseous unfamiliar smells, the space full of strange objects cast up on the shore, like those that she had draped upon the walls of her house. It was the sort of out-of-the-way place, I guessed, that she had often visited in pursuance of her trade.
I opened my eyes and looked down. A shudder of sadness and regret shook my body. Had it not been for Anna’s silvery hair, I doubt that I would ever have recognised her. Her once-beautiful face was puffed and bloated. Jagged cuts and a thousand scratches scarred her fine features. The abrasive motion of the waves against the rocky, pebbled shore had removed the skin from her chin, nose and forehead. The whiteness of the skull-bone was a fraction paler than the natural pallor of her complexion. The crabs of the Pregel had done their scavenging well. Her eyes were gone, leaving two raw, black holes in their place. Those piercing lights would frighten Officer Lublinsky no more. Nor tempt myself, or any other vulnerable man, with their unspoken promises of lust and luxury. Seaweed draped her throat and her breasts, and other strands of the same rubbery stuff still clung to her legs and naked feet. I brushed away a sea-slug, then carefully unwound the straggling weeds that were matted around her bare throat. Dull, brown bruises stained the sides of her neck. I studied those marks for quite some time, aware only of the steady pounding of my heart as I turned my attention to her breasts and legs, and took her hands in mine to examine the nails, which were ragged, torn and ripped. Now that she could not reproach me, I held those cold hands for longer than I ought…
‘She’s been strangled, sir.’
Koch was at my shoulder. I had not heard him enter. Nor had I expected him to do so.
‘So it would seem,’ I said, gently setting down the dead woman’s hand and standing up. I flexed my stiff knees, and gazed down at her. ‘Turn her body over, Koch, would you?’
I was reluctant to touch her again in front of him. And yet, I had no other choice if I wished to examine the base of her skull. That important detail could not be avoided. The woman’s body squelched, flopped, then lolled and settled, as Koch made himself useful.
‘There you are, sir,’ he said, shaking water from his hands.
Dropping down again on one knee, I removed the heavy wet hair from her alabaster neck, and felt the clammy coldness of her lifeless flesh. I ran my finger up along the knobbly vertebrae of her spine from the shoulder-blades to the start of the hairline. There was no sign of the Devil’s claw. ‘Whoever killed her,’ I said, ‘it is not the person we are looking for. We’ll never know if she was the intruder in Professor Kant’s garden unless her shoes…’
‘Sir,’ a voice called from the door.
Glinka entered, and in his outstretched hand he held a shoe.
A glass of iced water offered to a man who had just crossed a desert on foot would not have been more welcome. I sprang forward eagerly, and took hold of it with both hands.
‘It was further down the shoreline,’ he added. ‘The other one must be somewhere near as well.’
‘This is more than enough,’ I replied, turning it over quickly, examining the shoe, the left one of a pair. My heart, which had soared not a moment before, now sank like a stone. The sole was as smooth and as worn as a pebble that had been washed and wearied by the tireless sea for a million years. There was no sign of the distinctive cross-cut that Officer Lublinsky had drawn at the scene of the first murder.
‘It wasn’t her,’ I said, my feeling of disappointment and confusion growing.
‘Do you think she may have had another pair, sir?’ Koch suggested.
‘I doubt it, Sergeant.’
We remained in silence, looking first at the shoe in my hand, then at the lifeless body on the ground, finally at one another.
‘What now, Herr Procurator?’ he asked, his voice subdued, distant, respectful. My investigation had come unstuck, and Koch knew it.
I thought for some moments before replying.
‘I wish to go across to that tiny port on the far bank,’ I said. ‘She may have been seen over there last night.’
‘But, sir!’ Koch protested. ‘This woman’s death is not relevant to the case. It’s a matter for the civil police…’
‘Can you find a rowing boat to take us?’ I insisted.
Koch’s eyes widened at this suggestion.
‘There’s a footbridge down the way, sir. We can walk there and back in less than half an hour!’
I had to smile, despite the seriousness of our business. Suddenly, I realised just how much Koch’s salt-of-the-earth common sense comforted me. I needed his presence, the dullness of his blinkered point-of-view provided a vital counterbalance to my own excitable nature. He never dared to ask me why, he only asked me how. For the same reason, I did not tell him truly why I wished to travel to the other side of the estuary. The fact was that I hoped to collar the person who had murdered her, and see him hang.
I stepped to the door and called in the gendarmes.
‘Cover her up,’ I said, though nothing better could be found after a great deal of raising dust than some dirty, stinking sacks and a tattered roll of netting.
I turned my head away as they carried her out, though I did not withdraw my hand when her damp curls brushed against my fingers. Koch and I followed them out, watching while the soldiers lifted her body onto a ramshackle cart they had found behind the hut.
Would Anna Rostova find peace beneath the earth? Or would she become one of those ghouls that country folk believe in, hovering between life and death, feeding on the blood of the living by the light of the Moon?
I dismissed these childish whimsies from my mind.
‘Are you ready, Koch?’
Without another word, the sergeant clasped his hat more tightly to his head to keep it from blowing away in the roaring wind and the driving sprays of sleet, then he turned in the direction of a chain bridge which spanned the estuary, and marched away.
I had to run to catch up with him.
Chapter 24
‘We’re taking a bit of a risk going in here, sir,’ Sergeant Koch warned, his hand on the door. The rough-hewn timber glistened black, stained here and there with salt, as if some miscreant had attempted to burn the place down, and someone else had put out the flames with sea-water. ‘Do you want me to call up some of the squaddies?’
Hardly the Gates of Hell, I thought, as we stood before the low entrance.
‘That won’t be necessary, Sergeant,’ I said boldly, but I began to catch his drift as soon as we entered the place. I had to halt for some moments while my eyes adjusted to the smoke and gloom, my lungs contracting at the rancid stench of unwashed humanity that fouled the air. Koch had ennobled the place when he called it a tavern. We were in an abandoned warehouse where some enterprising soul was plying small ale and strong spirits to lost souls with no better refuge.
The lingering sweetness of malt suggested that the edifice had once been a grain store. Rough stone walls had been raised directly on the quay, the cobbled floor within impregnated with mud and mulch. An open fire in the centre of the room softened the bitter cold, the wood-smoke drifting up to a ragged hole in the raftered ceiling, where it fought a losing battle to get out, then settled in a suffocating cloud upon the occupants. Despite the bonfire, everything was slick with damp, which ran down the walls in rivulets. A solitary hanging lantern gave light enough to enter, hardly enough to leave, though no one gave the impression of wishing to go anywhere. There were forty men at a guess, lost to drink, sprawling on the floor or huddled together along the walls. A circle of them had gathered around the blazing bonfire. So many people, so close together, yet barely a word was said. The silence was sullen, oppressive, resentful. Eyes flashed nervously in our dir
ection, as if they were expecting somebody. One quick glance supplied the answer to a question that no one had voiced aloud. They looked away, sank their faces in their ale, or turned back to their mute vigil beside the dancing flames. In a moment, we were forgotten.
‘Over there, sir,’ Koch murmured by my ear, nodding towards the wall on the left. Eight men were crowded shoulder to shoulder on a bench, like sparrows perching on a garden fence. I could not see the chain that tied them ankle to ankle, but a rattle and a clink as we moved in their direction gave the game away. Each prisoner wore a grey blanket around his shoulders. One man nursed a bandaged stump, his right hand had been amputated, probably for repeated thieving. Their heads were scraped bare to the scalp, with the exception of one felon, who wore a strange fur coat and cap of the same material that he appeared to have fashioned for himself, a mass of uncured pelts sewn roughly together. At either end of the bench sat a guard in a soiled white uniform and cap with a red-and-blue cockade, a musket erect between his knees. One of the soldiers appeared to be sleeping, his head low on his chest.
‘They’ve been hanging about since yesterday, sir,’ Koch murmured. ‘The ship for Narva hasn’t landed yet. There’s some concern about its fate.’
The night before, in Rhunken’s office, I had carelessly signed the order for this batch of deportees. The most dangerous men in Prussia were being herded together in Narva on the Baltic coast of Finland. A forced march across the frozen continent to the Mongolia-Manchuria border, six thousand miles distant, was planned to commence at the first sign of a thaw. Alexander Romanov had reduced the price of the grain he exported to Prussia in exchange for the men. ‘Sold into Slavery’, one Berlin paper had controversially reported the agreement, adding that their new owner was keen to make the most of his bargain. ‘There is infinite labour for idle hands in the silver mines of Nerchinsk,’ the new Tsar was reputed to have said with a smile, having inherited the agreement from the father he had murdered.
‘We must find the landlord,’ I said.
‘I doubt there is one,’ Koch replied. ‘That’s contraband they’re selling. Strong liquor is the only cure for cold in The Pillau. God knows what those devils will do when they reach Siberia!’
‘Indeed,’ I said, calculating whether I might be able to purchase the confidence of one of the condemned men, or their guards. I had money enough in my purse to buy a barrel of gin to stave off the most violent ague.
But I had barely taken two steps towards the bench, when the soldier at the far end jumped up and swung his musket in my direction, clicking the flintlock into place. His companion followed suit, one eye wide with surprise, the other closed in a permanent palsied wink. His musket came to rest an inch from my heart.
‘Hold fast!’ he cried, his eyelid tremoring. ‘One step, you’re dead!’
I raised my hands in surrender.
‘I am an Investigating Magistrate of the Crown,’ I said loftily, attempting to maintain some semblance of dignity by means of my voice alone, for my posture was ridiculous. ‘A woman has been found dead in the river. I wish to know if you or your prisoners saw her last night.’
The lazy-eyed soldier moved his musket down a trifle, no longer menacing my heart, now threatening to blow a large hole in my stomach. He was an ugly brute, his jaw a curving, monstrous thing, such as I had seen around in the woods around Magdeburg, where the peasants are allowed to marry their cousins. The other one, a tall, thin man with a corporal’s tab on his sleeve, raised his musket level with his shoulder and sighted along the muzzle into Koch’s face.
‘An’ you?’ he said with a snarl.
‘The Procurator’s assistant,’ the sergeant replied. He slowly raised his forefinger like a pistol and pointed it at the guard. ‘You are obstructing Herr Stiffeniis in the pursuance of his duties!’
Warily, they shifted the direction of their muskets.
‘Did you see any women here last night?’ Koch insisted.
‘There were lots of folk,’ the Magdeburger began uncertainly. ‘The cold was bone-shaking…’
‘Were there any women?’ I snapped.
‘This ain’t no chapel, sir,’ the man replied, resting the stock of his musket on the ground and stroking his jaw thoughtfully. ‘We do what we can to keep the prisoners apart, but the night is long. The sooner they get on board the transport, the better. There’ll be trouble if we have to hang around much longer…’
‘I am interested in an albino woman,’ I said, pointedly ignoring his laments. ‘White hair, white skin, eyes as clear as…’
A startled look flashed between them.
‘Was the woman alone?’ I asked.
‘It…well, a few hours after we got here, sir, that woman came in. Made her way to the fire. Shivering fit to crumble, she were. No coat, just a dress…’
Another glance passed between the guards. They were evidently gauging what to admit, what to deny.
‘I am not interested in how you go about your duties,’ I said energetically. ‘I want to know who that woman was with, nothing more.’
‘General Katowice will have your names within the hour,’ Koch threatened. ‘Speak out!’
‘That’ll serve ya!’ one of the prisoners snarled at the guards.
‘Well?’ I said to the corporal.
‘She were alone, sir,’ he admitted. ‘Stuck out like a parakeet, the colour of her. Soon as this lot saw her, the cat-calling started.’
‘Did they know her?’ I asked, my hopes rising.
The soldier shook his head. ‘I doubt it. That red dress made them sit up smartish, though. They ain’t seen a wench in months. Jailbirds all of ’em, sir. An’ she weren’t one to look the other way, know what I mean?’
It was not difficult to visualise the scene. Anna Rostova had been the only bright thing in the gloomy darkness of that den. The sight of her must have warmed the hearts and wakened the hopes of every man in the place, including the two guards.
‘Did you speak with her?’
Both men shook their heads in violent denial.
‘What about the prisoners?’
Furtively, they looked again from one to the other.
‘You’ll find yourself in irons aboard the ship carrying this lot to their fate,’ I menaced, taking a step closer.
‘She wanted to go a-ship herself,’ the Magdeburger muttered. ‘When no one was looking. To stow away, she said.’
He dropped his eyes to the ground.
‘Did she offer to pay?’ I asked. I had no need to guess what Anna Rostova would offer in exchange for help in getting away from Königsberg.
‘I…I told you, sir. An’ I told her too. There was no ship. We’d no idea how long we’d have to hang around. I couldn’t, well, like, promise anything…’
‘You used her, didn’t you?’ I tried to quell my mounting anger.
‘No one forced her,’ the Magdeburger objected. ‘She was up for it, sir. Been a-ship before, she had. Worked her passage, was what she said. Passage. There was no mistaking what she…’
Wild shouts and bloodcurdling screams erupted behind us. Instinctively, the soldiers raised their firearms and pointed them into the ruck of people who had fallen to their knees in a tight circle gathered around two large grey rats, the bonfire forgotten at their backs. The rodents were light grey in colour, as large as cats, with curving front teeth, not unlike the massive pantegane I had seen creeping in their thousands along the alleys and the water’s edge in the foul-smelling sewer that was Venice. These rats were battling for their lives, ripping and tearing at each other, raising wilder and louder cries from the spectators with each successful attack. No sooner had the fight begun than it was over. One man raised the loser by its tail, showing it off to the crowd. He whizzed it round and round his head in a wide circle splattering the crowd with blood, which brought more angry cries and protests, then suddenly he let the rodent go. It flew across the room, crashing against the stone wall with a sickening slap and a spray of blood.
Th
e noise grew louder, with ear-splitting shouts of triumph as money changed hands; a brief scuffle broke out, then one man came hurrying over to the bench where the prisoners sat chained, and handed some coins to the felon I had noticed previously, the one who wore the strange fur garments.
‘Who is that man?’ I asked.
‘Helmut Schuppe, sir,’ the corporal ventured with a smirk. ‘Bound for Siberia. If not for that, he’d be a lucky beggar. Been betting half the night, an’ winning too. He spoke to her, though spoke is hardly the word I’d use for what ‘e done…’
His voice trailed away.
‘His crime?’ I asked, studying the prisoner as he pulled out a fur pouch from inside his shirt, and put away his winnings. Though short in height, Helmut Schuppe was as heavy as a bear, and looked well able to defend himself if any man should think to rob him.
The corporal pulled a soiled sheet of paper from his pocket. ‘Here we are,’ he said, reading off what followed with great difficulty. ‘Murdered his brother. In cold blood. Then ate his liver. Raw.’
So, I thought, this is the monster I had read about the night before.
‘Free him of his chains,’ I ordered, as the commotion started up again. More rats had been found, and another fierce argument was going on regarding their fighting qualities. I turned my back, unwilling to watch, though my ears were not deaf to the squealing and whistling of the rodents as their patrons held them up and taunted their opponents.
‘Free him, sir?’ the corporal answered insolently.
‘You heard me,’ I said.
He slouched to the bench, dropped on one knee, pulled a key from his pocket, and began to unlock the man’s shackles. In a minute, Helmut Schuppe was free, but by no means liberated. The Magdeburger stood close behind him, his musket pushing into the prisoner’s back, urging him in my direction.
Schuppe was not so tall as I, but his fur coat made him seem fatter than he was. With high cheekbones, narrow slits for eyes, a large nose and thin, sensual mouth, I took him to be a Laplander, despite his name. The leaping flames of the fire illuminated the livid brands he bore on his cheeks. A large letter ‘M’.
HS01 - Critique of Criminal Reason Page 28