Circle of Shadows caw-4

by Imogen Robertson

  ‘It severed the artery,’ he replied, without referring to the report.

  ‘Surely a wound like that would have bled profusely? And it would have taken some minutes before she even fainted away. If she had struggled or fought after it was sliced, there should have been blood spattered everywhere, and all around her.’ She noticed that Graves had put his head in his hands.

  ‘If it were administered while she was alive, then yes,’ Crowther said. ‘If she had been killed, and the wound made afterwards, it would only leak a little.’ He examined the papers in his hand once more. ‘That is the conclusion they seem to have reached. No bruises to show she was throttled. Hyoid bone intact. They suggest she was smothered.’

  ‘Is that possible? To smother someone and leave no bruises?’ Harriet frowned, concentrating.

  ‘Yes,’ Crowther said simply.

  ‘She did not defend herself at all?’

  ‘If so, it left no mark on her or on Daniel.’

  ‘Of course Daniel had no mark on him,’ Graves said. ‘He didn’t kill that woman.’

  ‘He was deranged when they found him, Graves,’ Crowther said. ‘And he is a strong man, he could have smothered her quite easily.’

  ‘I did not know you had come all this way to help put his head in a noose.’

  ‘He has killed before.’

  ‘In defence of my wards, in a fair fight! Good God, Crowther, if you were a younger man, I would call you out.’

  ‘Do not let my age hinder you, Graves.’

  ‘Gentlemen!’ Harriet said. ‘Peace, please. Graves, you know perfectly well Crowther believes Clode to be a victim of some evil here, just as Lady Martesen was. And Crowther, please, have some humanity. What of the wounds on Clode’s wrists?’

  Crowther shook his head. ‘Nothing to suggest they were not self-inflicted, other than the fact they make no mention of hesitation marks.’

  ‘How could he have been in such a state that he would let someone slice his wrists! Even if he were dead drunk.’ Harriet bit her lip. ‘And do not say that perhaps he did do it himself or Graves will fly at you again.’ Crowther preserved a diplomatic silence. Harriet’s fingers rapped against her dress. ‘You said there was something strange here.’

  ‘Clode spoke about dreaming of water, did he not, in his first meeting with Krall?’

  Graves breathed deeply and calmly replied, ‘Yes, he dreamed he was drowning. Then dreamed this devil creature was slicing his wrists. They do not believe him. They think he was driven suddenly mad by guilt and somehow magicked a razor into the air and slit his own wrists. They think this devil is his conscience.’

  Crowther said softly, ‘A pinkish foam around the mouth is indicative of death by drowning.’

  ‘Drowning?’ Harriet said. ‘In a locked room?’

  ‘Colonel Padfield said in his letter that the key was not in the lock when he broke down the door. If a door does not fit well in its frame, it is easy enough to lock it from the outside, then slide the key back in under the bottom edge. I experimented with the door to the dining room in Caveley while you were bullying your maid, Mrs Westerman.’

  ‘There is a terrible draught in that room. I wondered why Mrs Heathcote was looking at you so severely.’

  There was a rustling from Graves. ‘Mr Crowther, is this foam conclusive proof of drowning?’

  Harriet watched Gabriel as he replied, and began to see how much the journey had tired him. There was a greyness in his skin. She had not realised how much she had asked of him. ‘No, not conclusive. There are a couple of other telling phrases in Krall’s description of the autopsy, his comments on the appearance of the lungs and so on. I think it was not his own drowning Daniel dreamed of, but hers.’

  ‘But how?’ Harriet exclaimed.

  ‘I do not know,’ Crowther said slowly. ‘It is possible to drown in a gutter, of course.’

  ‘I saw some who died like that, during the riots in eighty,’ Graves said. ‘But she would have been soaked to the skin, or at least her hair would have been wet if she had been held in even a basin of water.’

  Harriet straightened the papers on her lap and struggled to think clearly. ‘Suppose she were placed in the chair, her head tilted back, water poured down her throat in that position?’

  ‘Possible,’ Crowther said, ‘but she would have resisted. Her hair and clothes would be soaked as she tried to avoid inhaling the water. She would have exerted herself against the necessary restraints … It is in our nature to fight death. She would have to have been unconscious, but there is no mention of a head wound, no smell of alcohol or sign of opiates here. Yet, the foam, the shape of the lungs … The report does not realise it tells us she died by inhaling water, but I believe it does.’

  ‘Dear God, what a foul death,’ Harriet said, and they were all silent for a while, until Graves cleared his throat.

  ‘But what could have caused this strange confusion in Clode? He sounds as if he was seeing visions.’

  ‘That I cannot say,’ Crowther replied. ‘He must have been drugged in some way, but the effects are not like anything with which I am familiar.’ Harriet watched him out of the corner of her eye. She suspected from the manner in which he held himself that his shoulder was paining him, but knew better than to enquire.

  ‘Still. At least we have made a beginning,’ she said determinedly. ‘Where did this razor come from? If we can demonstrate that she drowned, who would believe that a man, as stumbling and confused as they testify Daniel was, could manage such a thing? They cannot hang him with us asking these questions.’

  ‘They would probably behead him,’ Crowther said. His shoulder was definitely troubling him.

  ‘They will do neither, Mrs Westerman,’ Graves said. ‘We have money, we have reputation, and we have the support of King George. We will not lose him.’

  The horses slowed to a walk and the company arrived at Ulrichsberg just as the church bells were ringing midday.

  II.2

  The same day, the Old Lecture Hall, Leuchtenstadt, Maulberg

  A century of chalk-dust rather than incense, the silted spirits of many years of intense intellectual strain rather than devoted prayer, but the Old Lecture Hall did have the atmosphere of a cathedral, that reverential attention of the congregation listening while a single voice unfolded mysteries in Latin — though these mysteries were mathematical rather than metaphysical. It was usually silent, so when someone yawned very loudly then returned to gnawing the last flesh off his apple core, the sound echoed out like someone singing bawdy ballads at Communion. The Professor’s chalk ceased to move across the board. He abandoned Monsieur Clairaut’s explanation of the motion of the apsis to turn slowly towards the auditorium of students.

  It was quickly obvious who the offender was. The significant glances of his more cowardly pupils guided the Professor’s gaze towards the centre of the room where a youth sat — no, not sat, lolled — core in hand and staring up at the plain, whitewashed ceiling above him. The Professor stared his famous Medusa-like stare until the boy, apparently aware that the low drone of his voice had ceased, turned towards him and grinned. He spoke in German, like a shopkeeper.

  ‘Sorry, Professor, do carry on. I think you were still on the second order effects, weren’t you?’ The youth yawned again, and the Professor found himself on the receiving end of what could only be described as an encouraging wink.

  The boy who delivered it could not be more than twenty. His light brown hair was unpowdered and the eyes somewhere between grey and blue. It was not a very handsome face; the nose was snub and its expression was rather foolish, or rather innocent to the point of foolishness. He looked, the Professor’s mind rummaged through its clutter of equations and Latin maxims for the right word … fresh.

  The silence in the room that followed this remark deepened as forty young men of good family and high expectations drew in their breath and waited for the explosion.

  ‘I would hate to think I am boring you, Mr …?’

&nb
sp; ‘Pegel, Herr Professor, Jacob Pegel at your service.’ He waved the remnants of his breakfast. ‘No, not boring me exactly, but this is all quite basic stuff, isn’t it? Good old Clairaut.’ He looked about him at the white, awe-struck faces of his fellow students, the same foolish grin on his face.

  The Professor had been at pains to impress upon his students, in awful tones that made them tremble as if they found themselves at the Gates of Hell, that only the occasional mathematical genius among them might hope to come to a true understanding of the three-body problem. The rest must be left to wail in the limbo of mathematical ignorance. He had had them in the palm of his wrinkled hand, terrified and obedient, and now this boy appeared, blowing raspberries at him. This new boy. The Professor recognised the name only too well. The Head of the University had had a quiet word with him about letting this snub-nosed little whelp attend his lectures. He had no title, no apparent wealth, but still the Dean had asked that the doors of the Old Lecture Theatre be opened to him, and eventually, after a series of deep sighs and shakings of his head, the Herr Professor had agreed that this boy would be allowed to attend his lectures without the usual qualifications and stipulations. It had obviously been a mistake.

  The tension of hearing the great learning of Clairaut spoken of in such a way was too much for one young man in the back row. He giggled, then attempted to disappear behind his companions while simultaneously stuffing his handkerchief into his mouth.

  The Professor smiled, a thin evil smile. Those who had feared an explosion of his temper now almost wished for it. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘Herr Pegel, you would like to continue the lecture, in that case. Do educate us poor provincial half-wits.’

  Forty pairs of eyes swung back to Pegel. He must apologise now, surely, then the great rage of the Professor would tear forth in rush and thunder and fall upon him like the waters of the Red Sea closing over Pharaoh’s troops.

  ‘Righty-ho then!’ Pegel said cheerfully, swinging himself upright and trotting down the stairs. ‘But you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself, really. I know this sort of thing was all the go thirty odd years ago.’ He sprang up onto the dais and put his hand out for the chalk. The Professor, beginning to suspect he had not woken up this morning after all, handed it over.

  Pegel stood back from the board a moment, then picking up a duster wiped the slate clean. The gasp this time was audible. He paused again, then, whistling, began to write, occasionally interrupting himself to tap his chalk and bark an explanation of his terms. In five minutes the board was filled once more. Pegel made a final underlining and stepped back. ‘And here we are! Spherical harmonics, you see? Track that little beggar through and there’s your explanation of the great inequality of Jupiter and Saturn.’

  He turned to his audience. Thirty-nine pairs of eyes stared back at him over thirty-nine open mouths, but in the front row one youth was scribbling furiously, glancing up to the board and back down. ‘That’s a good lad,’ Pegel said softly to himself.

  If the Professor heard him, he gave no sign. He was staring at the board and murmuring under his breath, ‘It can’t be that simple. No, surely not, you’d have to … then …’

  Pegel clapped his hands together to knock the chalk-dust off them. ‘Lord, there’s the hour up already. Off you go, chaps.’ Looking as if they had been collectively stunned, the students began to file out silently from the room. Pegel watched them go affably enough, but as the scribbler of the front row passed him, his face was briefly lit by a slower, more genuine smile. He heard the clatter of conversation in the hall, then turned back to the Professor.

  ‘Sorry about that! Good, solid work you’ve been doing here. Just it’s nice to put on a show when you’re new in town. Sure you understand, Herr Professor.’ He clapped him on the shoulder, causing a haze of ancient chalk to lift from his gown. Pegel’s eyes watered and he coughed.

  The Professor did not seem to notice. His eyes were still tracking back and forth across the calculations on the board.

  Pegel picked up the duster again. ‘Shall I rub this all off for you then, sir? Leave it nice and clean for your next group?’ The Professor’s thin hand clamped suddenly around Pegel’s wrist.

  ‘Do. Not. Touch. It.’

  ‘All right, governor.’ Pegel was released and started to shake the blood back into his fingers, stepping back a pace as he did.

  ‘Righty-ho then, as you like, Herr Professor! Any points you want clearing up I shall be knocking about the university for a few weeks, I suppose.’

  The Professor spun towards him. His eyes really were red. ‘Tonight. Come tonight.’

  Pegel began to back away slowly. ‘Sorry, not possible. Busy. Very busy. Can’t work all the time. Tomorrow, or the day after maybe. But soon, certainly soon. Promise.’

  The Professor hissed and turned back to the equation, leaving Pegel to escape with a skipping step into the corridor. He was not surprised to find the blond scribbler waiting for him. He put his hand out to Pegel and blushed.

  ‘My name is Florian zu Frenzel — Lord, actually. I wanted to ask-’

  Pegel took the hand offered him and put his free arm around Florian’s shoulders.

  ‘Course you must, Your Holy Graceness. But I’ve got a question too. Where does a fellow get a drink round here?’

  Frenzel stuttered a little. ‘I w-would be very glad if you w-would be my guest at-’

  ‘Then be glad!’ Jacob interrupted, giving his shoulder a squeeze. ‘Lead on, and tell me where we’re going only when we get there. I love to be surprised.’

  Pegel had taken rooms in Leuchtenstadt on 3 February, and in the three months since then had grown very fond of the little town, its medieval buildings all tumbling down in cheerful disorder to the river. The university held its classes in halls and buildings scattered all round the town, which meant the roadways were constantly filled with young men making their way from lecture to lecture, spending their money in the taverns or their youth bent over their books depending on their abilities, rank and proclivities. The Professors stalked the streets like little Kings, nodding each to each and scowling at the young men. Pegel watched, listened, heard and followed. He mapped the streets in his mind, till he could make his way through them blindfold. He handed out pennies to children, flirted with housemaids, and made a lot of notes in a pocketbook that never left his side. He had a healthy supply of gold sewn into the lining of his coat, but lived frugally. When the proper time came and his plans were laid he presented himself to the Head of the University and handed him a letter. The Head of the University read the letter and went rather pale. The boy in front of him was so unremarkable. The letter was remarkable and deeply upsetting. It mentioned his mistress, his gaming debts and some rather unfortunate remarks he had made about two of his senior colleagues. The Head of the University offered Mr Pegel whatever assistance he required. Pegel took the letter back and asked to be admitted to the Higher Maths Lectures, then reassured the Head of the University that he would not return. Pegel left, whistling.

  Pegel’s first talent was mathematics. It came to him as naturally as speech and before he was eight years old he had leaped ahead of his parish schoolmaster. The schoolmaster, rather amazed, handed the child book after book, but when he realised Jacob had managed to teach himself passable French and better Latin to read further, he acknowledged that he could do no more and appealed to the Bishop. Pegel was removed to the Bishop’s Palace at ten and fed sweetmeats and the contents of the Bishop’s library. It was just after his fourteenth birthday that the old Empress paid the Bishop a visit and Pegel’s life became rather more interesting. She carried back the little prodigy to Vienna, and there Pegel began work breaking codes to read a great deal of European diplomatic correspondence. When he was eighteen he met a man who suggested he might prefer a line of work, less confined to a desk. Life got a lot more interesting again. He had developed several other talents in the last few years, but numbers were still his closest friends. Some said God was an architect, but
Pegel had seen too many mis-shaped beings in the world to believe that. No, for Pegel, God was a mathematician. Numbers worked. It had been a delight then to learn, within a week of following him home with his two older friends, that Florian was regarded as gifted in that science, and was a slightly shy, lonely young man among the duellists and drinkers who made up the greater part of the student body. He was perfect. Pegel went, for the first and only time, to class. Then, on Florian’s arm, to the tavern.

  II.3

  The clouds parted to let the sun smile on the long frontage of the Palace of Ulrichsberg. The butter-coloured walls glowed and the windows flashed even as the sky behind it remained dark slate and stormy. The vast curving wings of the palace that faced the city were like the wings of an eagle. In front of its high central portico, a company of soldiers in blue and gold were performing the complicated choreography of the changing of the guard, dwarfed by the architecture they protected. The steel on their pikes glimmered, as did the polish on their high boots. Their commander’s sharp, barked instructions echoed off the walls.

  Between the palace and the road lay an extensive, open formal garden of sculpted hedgerows and a series of fountains, each sending great plumes of water into the air. There were perhaps a dozen men at work here, clearing any leaf or weed that dared to litter the lawns, all dwarfed by the ranks of clipped yew trees that extended from each side of the garden. Some looked up as the jangle of the Hussars’ spurs reached them, to watch the oil-black horses and their straight-backed riders pass by, then turn north along Eugene Strasse, leading the carriages they accompanied towards the rear of the palace. None of the gardeners recognised the coat-of-arms on the carriage doors.

  District Officer von Krall, seated on a bench in the market square on the other side of the road, did recognise it. The crest of the Earl of Sussex. So they had arrived. He tapped out his pipe and stuck it into his pocket, then rubbed at his forehead with his gnarled fingers. After nearly two months of laborious work, Krall had found himself awaiting the arrival of Mrs Westerman and Mr Crowther a confused and frustrated man. Mr Clode still had only a fragmentary memory of the Carnival. He was no longer the rather deranged creature that Krall had first encountered, however. He had spent almost the entirety of his first two days of confinement asleep, then woken weak, but with his senses restored. Krall crossed his ankles and glowered at the cobbles, thinking of the young man in the tower like something out of a fairy story. Clode could recall preparing for the parade with perfect clarity, but sometime after his party had joined the crowd he seemed to have lost his mind. He admitted to Krall, haltingly, that he had started to see not men and women in costumes, but actual demons and gods. Spirits that whispered to him. One memory that seemed horribly clear was the look of disgust and shame on his young wife’s face when he tried to dance with her at the ball. Then there was this man in the black mask who promised to look after him. Of his time in the room with Lady Martesen he seemed to recall nothing but his own fear, his dream of drowning and pain.