Crowther picked up one of the volumes from her pile and began to turn the pages as he spoke. ‘A performance, but a private performance; a ritual, but it has some purpose. The removal of the blood …’
‘Blood has great significance in all these volumes, it seems to me. Though they normally ask that the magician use his own. There then follows a great deal of chanting.’
‘Of course blood is significant,’ he said. ‘Every child knows blood somehow contains the spark of life, and that if we lose enough of it we cease to be. But what led you into these paths, Mrs Westerman? This symbol?’
‘And your list of what was pilfered from Herr Kupfel. The librarian, Zeller, was intrigued by our little design. He says it is an emblem of alchemy.’ She took one of the volumes from behind her, opened it and turned it to face him. The picture was a complex one, filled with figures and symbols. A crown, a salamander, a bearded face, but the central form of a seven-spoked wheel placed over a triangle seemed identical to the design chalked on the door to the room where Dieth was murdered.
‘It seems very like.’
‘It is, isn’t it? And it appears in one of the books stolen from Kupfel. Shall I explain the symbolism of the original to you?’
‘I don’t think that is necessary,’ Crowther said, studying it. ‘The spokes are the seven stages of alchemy, each also related to one of the seven heavenly bodies; here are the four elements; the three points of the triangle are labelled body, spirit and soul. It is like one of Mrs Bligh’s fortune-telling cards, full of great, but somewhat imprecise meanings. What is it, Mrs Westerman?’
‘Just that I was at some pains to commit to memory the seven stages of alchemy.’
He smiled.
‘Seven stages, just as there were seven glasses,’ she added. ‘Now what else, seven ages of man, days in the weeks …’
‘Celestial bodies, as I said. By the old count.’
‘A number of some significance then?’
‘Most of them are.’
She leaned back in her chair. Crowther noticed for the first time the remains of a meal amongst the books. He hoped the books would be returned to Herr Zeller unstained.
‘But do you not think, Crowther, you would have to hate someone very much, to kill them in this way? These people were not chosen at random. It feels … like revenge.’ She twisted her mourning band on her finger, thinking of Manzerotti.
‘Mrs Westerman, give me your hand.’ Crowther spoke quite sharply, so she put it out to him at once. He took it between his own and twisted up the mourning band to the knuckle. In the three years she had worn it, the ring had made itself part of her. The space below was a little paler than the rest of her finger and slightly indented. Crowther’s touch was dry and cool. ‘I am a fool,’ he said.
‘Probably. May I have my hand back?’
‘Hmm … yes, of course. Countess Dieth wore no rings. Necklace, eardrops, yes, but no rings when I examined her, yet she had a band on her flesh like yours.’
‘So she did wear one.’
‘Habitually, as you do that mourning band for Captain Westerman. Yet it was not on the body.’
‘So the killer might have taken something more than blood?’
‘Perhaps.’
Harriet rapped her fingers on the veneer of her desk. ‘Could you make out the shape of the ring?’
‘Thicker than your band.’
‘I wonder if the Duke will see me,’ Harriet murmured. Crowther had raised his eyebrows at her. ‘He was often in company with Dieth. Perhaps he remembers it, and in any case I have the desire to know our host better.’
‘Be careful, madam.’
‘There is food in the parlour, Crowther. Eat.’
Harriet was forced to wait some minutes in the anteroom and was wondering if perhaps she was wasting her time, given the number of gentlemen in court dress who also seemed to be waiting to see their sovereign, but it was not long before the door to the Duke’s study was opened again, and a gentleman almost smothered by the splendour of his cravat beckoned her inside.
Though the room in which she found herself was far too grand for anyone but an Absolute Ruler to call it a study, it was a far more domestic space than any other she had seen in the palace. The colours were the brown and green of leather volumes, and the space was broken up with small groups of chairs and tables. The Duke was bent over his desk while Swann hovered behind him, placing one document after another in front of him for signature. Christoph Ludwig looked up as she entered, then beckoned her forward. She heard a movement behind her and saw that Manzerotti was present, curled in the armchair like a cat. She remembered the Duke’s request for music as he worked the previous day and wondered if Manzerotti had been required to serenade his present patron’s signatures.
‘Mrs Westerman!’ the Duke greeted her. ‘I thought you would be on your way to Castle Grenzhow by this time.’
‘My sister and Mr Graves have left to collect Mr Clode.’
The Duke did not look up. ‘I feel like a pharaoh in Egypt, such a plague seems to have struck my advisers. I hope that releasing Clode will lift the curse. Did she suffer?’
‘I am sorry to say it, sire. But yes, she did.’
The Duke was silent, staring at the page in front of him. He was absolutely still for some moments, then, as if he had been suddenly reanimated, lifted his head.
‘Ah, here is an uncomfortable case, Mrs Westerman. I’d be delighted to have your opinion on it.’ Harriet wondered, not for the first time, if she should have listened to Crowther. ‘A young woman is accused of killing her husband. From the accounts the lawyers have prepared it sounds rather as if he deserved it. He was a known drunk, a bully, and she was often seen bruised in the village.’
‘What does she say, Your Highness?’
‘That he was beating her, she used her cooking pot to defend herself, and down he went.’
‘Your subjects surely have the right to defend themselves against attack.’
‘That depends on who is attacking them, Mrs Westerman. A man rules his wife, as I rule my people. If the people disagreed with the way I ruled them, would you say they had the right to rise up against me?’
‘You, sire, are neither a drunk nor a bully.’
‘You are a loss to your diplomatic service, Mrs Westerman.’ Harriet smiled, wondering with what disbelief her husband would have heard that opinion. She thought of Manzerotti behind her and touched her mourning ring again like a talisman. ‘The District Officer of the area — not Krall, my dear, I have thirty-four — the Law Faculty at Leuchtenstadt and my Privy Council all recommend execution. Surely if I only imprison her for a year or two that will be seen as weakness on my part?’
‘Mercy, sire.’
He blinked at her. ‘Swann, the lovely Mrs Westerman recommends mercy. Is your heart still of stone?’
Harriet saw a flash of irritation cross Swann’s face. ‘A crime against a husband is a manner of treason, sire. If you will be merciful, do not agree to her breaking on the wheel, but she must certainly die.’
The Duke smiled lazily. ‘One would think after all these years, Swann, you would have learned not to say “must” to me. We have failed to protect our friend Countess Dieth, so this is our penance. We will be merciful to this girl. A compliment to the fairer sex. An indulgence.’
He passed the paper back to Swann unsigned then pushed himself away from the desk a little.
‘The gentleman at the door said you have something to ask me, Mrs Westerman. Ask it.’
‘Thank you. Did Countess Dieth wear a ring, sire? There seemed to be a mark left on her hand to show she did, but there is no sign of it.’
He frowned briefly. ‘She did, a sort of signet ring engraved with an owl. I never saw her without it. How strange that it is missing.’ His long-fingered hands went to his neck. ‘Lady Martesen also had a similar device — a jewel she wore at her neck. Swanny, do you remember?’
‘No, sire.’
‘I teased her abo
ut it when I first saw it. They were cousins, you know. I asked them if it was some family emblem.’
Harriet heard a stir of silk behind her as Manzerotti shifted in his seat. ‘Did she explain it at all?’
‘I don’t remember. It made her blush, you see, Mrs Westerman, when I asked, and Aggie always looked so beautiful when she blushed.’ His smile faded and he put up his hand to take another paper from Swann. The Chancellor did not notice for a moment, and it was not until the Duke had clicked his fingers that a fresh sheet was offered to him. The Duke began to read.
‘Your Highness?’
‘Yes, madam?’
‘Might these attacks be aimed at you, sir? This loss of people … of importance to you.’
He put down his paper and watched her for a few moments. ‘If an assassin can kill Countess Dieth, he could kill me. He has not done so. Therefore I am not a target. No one in court, other than myself, is ever indispensable, but in two days Maulberg will be more secure than it has been for years, and in all likelihood better advised. Do not bridle, Swanny, you know I think the world of you, but we need fresh blood, fresh thinking.’
Harriet dropped her eyes and curtsied.
‘Thank you, Mrs Westerman. Glance to your right as you leave. There is a little Caravaggio of St Catherine there of which I am quite fond. Find who is responsible for the deaths of the women, and it is yours.’
The doors were opened for her, and she paused in the anteroom for a moment, realising her breathing was uncomfortably rapid. She wondered if the Duke had been teasing her when he called her a diplomat. She had just lifted her chin again when the door behind her opened and closed once more and Chancellor Swann emerged. Without preamble he took hold of her elbow and led her into a quieter corner of the room. The waiting gentlemen harrumphed into their collars and stared about them.
‘Chancellor Swann?’
‘Krall has spoken to me of the Major,’ he said simply. Harriet looked up into his face; he seemed to have aged in the last days. There were shadows under his eyes, and they flicked from side to side as he spoke. ‘It is my habit to take a walk in the garden between the hours of four and five o’clock. Perhaps you and Mr Crowther would like to meet me there.’
His manner surprised her, but she nodded. ‘Certainly, Chancellor.’
He hesitated as if about to say something more, then retreated once again into the Duke’s audience chamber.
Harriet found that Crowther had taken her advice, had served himself from the warming plates and begun to eat. He had been joined by Krall. The contrast between the two men made her smile. Crowther took no pleasure in his food, and whatever was put in front of him seemed to regard it as a necessary inconvenience. Krall had filled his plate and was busy trying to empty it again. Harriet waved them back to their seats as she entered. Crowther looked at her, but she only slightly shook her head. Krall had already returned to his food.
‘The District Officer has spoken to Major Auwerk,’ Crowther said.
‘Meetings were held in the room from time to time,’ Krall said, dabbing at his mouth, ‘between some friends of the Duke who wished to meet away from the public gaze. However, the Major never attended himself. Countess Dieth would ask him to leave the room unlocked, and clean it afterwards. He was willing to hold the key, but must have thought the cleaning below him, so employed Wimpf and put in a good word for him from time to time.’
‘What friends?’
Krall pushed away his plate. ‘The Major says he did not know, but that he trusted the Countess absolutely.’
‘And do you believe him, Herr District Officer?’
‘I do. I sense he would have loved to know who met there with the Countess — ’
‘Seven glasses,’ Harriet said. Krall ignored the interruption.
‘- but that he did not. He was glad to hold the key though. The Countess had great influence and I am sure she helped his rise through the ranks. He is young to be a Major. I have called on the Countess’s servants in town. They did not seem altogether surprised that she had decided to spend some time at her country estate. Her maid said they expected as much when she returned to the palace last night. She told them a servant had arrived with a summons. She then instructed Auwerk to leave the door unlocked after supper.’ He stood. ‘Forgive me. I must make the arrangements I spoke of earlier. I fear I shall be of no use to you for some hours.’
They watched him go and Crowther told her how the murder of the Countess was to be concealed. She wrinkled her nose, but said nothing. ‘What news from the Duke, Mrs Westerman?’
‘The Countess wore a ring with an owl on it. Lady Agatha wore a necklace with one too. And Chancellor Swann wishes to speak to us. What is it, Crowther?’
‘The owl. Fink had a fob with an owl design — it went missing when he died.’
Harriet frowned. ‘Good Lord. Can it be coincidence?’
Crowther shook his head. ‘I doubt it, Mrs Westerman.’
V.8
By early afternoon frustration and hunger had driven Pegel down the stairs and out into the streets of Leuchtenstadt, leaning heavily on a staff his diminutive manservant had filched for him from one of the neighbours’ woodpiles. He was beginning to doubt his ability to break the code. Pegel was used to excelling, and had come to enjoy it. If he left now with the names he had collected, his belief that the man in green, Dunktal, was Spartacus, leader of the Minervals he had come to hunt, then he would be praised and rewarded. If he rode into Ulrichsberg with the coded messages made readable he would impress a man thought unimpressible. He would be able to ask anything. But he was not sure he could do it. He kicked at a pebble and it danced into one of the gutters that ran along the street.
He stared into the water; it was one of the many channels that ran along the streets of Leuchtenstadt. It was an aspect of the old town that appealed to him, these little rivers flowing in the gutters. He was told by his landlady, with a wink, that if he stepped in one he’d marry a Leuchtenstadt girl. He doubted it. He chewed a pastry still warm from the oven and, to avoid seasoning his food with his disappointment over the coded messages, he began wondering idly if it would be possible to describe the motion of water in the language of mathematics. A thing so simple, that was also so complex — was there a key? A way to unlock? His thoughts became wordless and he looked up from the water to the cathedral spire. Dark red, yet so light, so apparently delicate was the structure, it seemed to lift away from the earth and take the body of the cathedral with it into the air. Pegel liked the earthy sense of humour of the stonemasons who had carved the waterspouts around the flying buttresses, the frogs and demons, the spitting woman and hanging arse, what private revenges or jokes had they built into the stone? Was the woman the wife of the man who carved her? His mother-in-law? Pegel was sure that no one could resist folding themselves into their work. It was another reason he preferred mathematics to literature. Less personal. He dusted the last of the pastry from his hands then became still. Surely it could not be so simple? Would they use a phrase so readily bandied about as a key? It was certainly memorable. In his excitement he leaned on his right ankle, and the joy of inspiration gave way to a stream of curses.
Swann was waiting for them by a shallow pond, surrounded with high beech hedges. In its centre stood a statue of a young boy, one stone leg bent, pouring water from a giant conch into the pool below. Harriet was glad of her cloak. The naked statue made her feel cold. She thought of the new Duchess, wondered what her life had been up to now, which of these many statues would become her favourites, or if she would claim the right of a new bride and have them replaced with her own fancies.
Swann did not greet them. He had been seated on a stone bench examining the boy, and now he stood slowly and came towards them.
‘The Duke has enjoyed this winter,’ he said as he joined them. ‘There was an ice fair once a week, with skating on the grand lake, and each of these little garden rooms was made into a grotto where the guests could retire to warm themselves. W
e burned enough fuel each evening to warm a village for a month.’
Harriet frowned. The straight-backed servant of the Duke had never spoken to them in this way before, and there was something strange in his tone. Something lost and floating. A sheen of sweat lay on his brow.
‘Chancellor, do you know of this group who met in the secret chamber?’ Crowther’s voice was quiet. He sensed something out of joint here too. Swann was carrying a cane. He placed it in front of him and leaned on it, swaying a little forward and back. His eyes were unfocused, looking up over the fresh-clothed beech hedge into the solid grey sky.
‘The last summer was cruel, this winter worse. We will need guidance. Help. And my sovereign thinks only of how he loves to skate.’
Harriet examined his profile. He seemed to see something other than the world they saw. She had only just heard the Duke talking of the need for fresh blood among his advisers. He had arranged an advantageous marriage. These did not seem the actions of a man who thought only of skating. ‘Your Excellency?’ He turned his hooked nose slowly towards her, and she thought of a man sleeping, trying to wake. ‘Chancellor Swann? Were you one of the seven people who met in that room? Was Lady Agatha another? Was Fink?’
Swann frowned and waved his hand. ‘We have done much good. Now we are hunted.’
He staggered slightly; the cane slipped away from him and twisted on the gravel. Harriet reached out to put a hand under his elbow and guided him back to his seat on the bench. He sat rather heavily and a silver flask clattered from the folds of his cloak.
‘Crowther! He is unwell. Help me.’
He sat on the other side of the Chancellor and lifted the man’s chin. ‘Swann! Swann — can you hear me?’ The man’s eyes were half-closed and his hands were beginning to twitch. ‘Who is being hunted?’
He blinked and managed to turn his head in Crowther’s direction, looking at him as he might a particularly stupid child. ‘It is all for the greater good. We shoulder the burden of control for the greater good.’ A thin thread of saliva hung from his lip.
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