Borrower of the Night vbm-1

by Elizabeth Peters

  The candle needed trimming. The room was noticeably darker. The other faces were dim white blurs. I rubbed my elbows, and wondered how much practise it would take to manipulate a planchette unobtrusively. It could be done. It had been done, in thousands of fake séances. Maybe it didn’t require practise. I mused, ignorantly, on the eccentricities of the subconscious.

  ‘This is a very strange thing,’ Schmidt began, and then gasped. ‘Look – the young countess!’

  Irma had fallen back in her chair, arms dangling at her sides. I could hear her breathing in low, deep sighs. It was a horrible sound.

  Blankenhagen got to his feet.

  ‘Don’t touch her!’ Miss Burton’s voice stopped the doctor as he reached for Irma’s wrist. ‘She is in trance. If you try to waken her, it could be disastrous. Let me handle this. Irma – can you hear me?’

  There was no answer. The doctor looked from Miss Burton to the unconscious girl. Miss Burton took a deep breath and said distinctly, ‘Who are you?’

  For a few seconds there was only silence. Then, from the sleeping girl’s mouth, came a voice speaking a strange garble of words. It sounded like German, but it was a form of the language I had never heard. Or . . . had I? It sounded vaguely familiar.

  Then, for the first time, my hair literally bristled. I had heard the language before, when a visiting professor of Germanic literature read some of the Meistergesang of the sixteenth century in their original form. Irma was speaking Frühneuhochdeutsch – the earliest form of modern German, the language used by Martin Luther and his contemporaries.

  Miss Burton scribbled like a maniac, taking the speech down in phonetic symbols. Her cold-blooded competence was repulsive.

  The voice – I couldn’t think of it as Irma’s – stopped.

  ‘Why have you come?’ Miss Burton asked. This time, prepared, I caught some of the answer. I didn’t like what I heard. Tony understood, too; his breath caught angrily, and he pushed his chair back.

  ‘This has gone far enough,’ he began, and was cut short by the scream that ripped from Irma’s throat. The next words were horribly clear.

  ‘Das Feuer! Das Feuer!’ She shrieked, and slid sideways out of her chair.

  Blankenhagen caught her before she hit the floor.

  That broke up the séance. Miss Burton moved about lighting candles. Her eyes glittered. Blankenhagen knelt by Irma, and the rest of us huddled in a group near the door.

  ‘What did it mean?’ George hissed. ‘That last word?’

  ‘Fire,’ said Tony uneasily. ‘Fire.’

  ‘What fire?’ George demanded. ‘Is she trying to tell us the Schloss is going to burn?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  Miss Burton came back to the table.

  ‘Did anyone recognize the language?’ she asked briskly.

  I gave her a hostile, unbelieving stare, which didn’t disturb her in the slightest, and turned to Blankenhagen.

  ‘How is Irma?’

  ‘She recovers,’ the doctor said shortly.

  ‘She will feel no ill effects, except for great weariness,’ Miss Burton said complacently. ‘I have seen deep trance before. My dear Elfrida, how fortunate. You told me the girl was susceptible, but I had no idea!’

  The countess hadn’t moved from her chair. She didn’t look at Irma.

  ‘Now, the language,’ Miss Burton went on. ‘A form of German, I believe. Professor Lawrence?’

  ‘Not now!’ Tony said angrily.

  ‘Professor Schmidt? Really, this is too important – ’

  Schmidt was too shaken to argue. I felt a touch of sympathy for the little guy when I saw his twitching face; he was like a man who goes out hunting for a lost pussycat, and meets a tiger. With a despairing shrug he took the paper Miss Burton thrust at him.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he muttered. ‘It is the early form of modern High German. “I am the Gräfin Konstanze von Drachenstein; from the sunny land of Spain I came, to die in this place of cold winters and colder hearts.”’

  ‘Lousy prose,’ George said critically.

  Schmidt hurried on.

  ‘Then, it is something like this: “There is danger everywhere. I cannot rest. I cannot sleep, here in the cold of eternity. Let me see the sun again, let me feel warmth, breathe the air. Give me life. She has so much; let her share life and breath with me. Let me have – ”’

  The sobbing cry might have been the ghost’s own addition to Schmidt’s translation. It was Irma’s voice, though. Supported by Blankenhagen, she had raised herself to a sitting position. As we turned, guilty and surprised, she slumped back with closed eyes.

  ‘Idiot,’ said the doctor furiously. ‘It is criminal, what you do! To put such insane ideas into the girl’s mind – ’

  ‘It is you who are insane, to deny the evidence of your own senses!’ Miss Burton was as angry as Blankenhagen. Two febrile spots of colour burned on her sallow cheeks. ‘You heard her; you must know it was not Irma who said those words. Possession by the spirits of the dead is a well-documented fact; only a bigoted scientist would deny – ’

  ‘Herr Gott in Himmel,’ bellowed Blankenhagen. ‘Will no one stop that cursed woman’s mouth?’

  He surged to his feet, lifting Irma as if she were a child. Miss Burton’s colour faded; she fell back a step as the irate doctor advanced on her. I decided it was time to intervene.

  ‘I’ll stop it,’ I said. ‘If she says another word, I’ll gag her. Come on, Doctor. You’d better get Irma out of here.’

  Miss Burton gave me a long, measuring look, and decided I was not only willing to carry out my threat, but capable of enforcing it. The Gräfin smiled like Andersen’s Snow Queen. George was smiling too, but he looked rather thoughtful. Tony didn’t say a word; he just moved up behind me and put a steadying hand on my shoulder. Of the whole group, the one who was most upset was little Herr Schmidt. His face was puckered like that of a baby about to cry.

  ‘Furchtbar,’ he muttered. ‘I am ashamed; I did not know she heard. I did not realize – ’

  George gave him a slap on the back.

  ‘Don’t kick yourself, Schmidt. It wasn’t your fault. Well, ladies, I guess it’s time to break up the party. Thanks for an interesting evening. Not much fun, but interesting.’

  The light touch was inappropriate. Blankenhagen bared his teeth at George and stamped towards the door. I started to follow, since it was clear that the Gräfin didn’t intend to go with her stricken niece, but Tony’s hand held me back.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘Gräfin, you once said I might explore any part of the Schloss. I want the keys to the crypt, please.’

  ‘The crypt?’ The Gräfin laughed musically. ‘You are thinking of going there now? I admire your courage, mein Herr, it is an uncanny spot by night, even for a sceptic. But if you are determined, come to my room and I will give you the keys.’

  I caught up with Blankenhagen in the hall.

  ‘I’ll show you where Irma’s room is,’ I said. ‘You may need some help.’

  His rocky face relaxed a little.

  ‘You are good,’ he said formally.

  The only thing he needed me for was to undress Irma and put her to bed. I wondered at his modesty; a doctor shouldn’t be embarrassed about female bodies, even bodies as gorgeous as Irma’s. Then it occurred to me that maybe he was thinking of her as something other than a patient.

  The girl didn’t stir as I wrestled her into one of her hideous nightgowns and tucked her in. She was a little thing; it wasn’t hard for me to handle her. But I didn’t like the flaccidity of her muscles, or the depth of her trance. As soon as I had her in bed, Blankenhagen took over. After a few minutes she began to mutter and stir.

  In the silence I heard footsteps outside – Tony and the old witch, going after the keys. The footsteps didn’t stop, they went on up the stairs. The cold-blooded female hadn’t even looked in.

  I moved closer to the bed and took Irma’s hand, which was groping desperately, as if in search of so
mething. Blankenhagen gave me a faint smile of approval. I felt absurdly complimented. The smile made him look almost handsome.

  Finally Irma’s eyes opened, and I gave a sigh of relief. Blankenhagen leaned over her, murmuring in German – repeated reassurances, comforting and semi-hypnotic. The technique seemed to work; her face remained calm. Then she turned her head and saw me.

  ‘It is the Fräulein Doktor, come to sit with you,’ said Blankenhagen quietly. ‘She will stay – all night, if you wish . . . ?’

  The question was meant for me as well as for Irma. I answered with a prompt affirmative, and patted the kid’s hand.

  Gently but decisively it was withdrawn.

  ‘Thank you. You are good. But I would like my aunt.’

  ‘But – ’ the doctor began.

  ‘My aunt! I must have her, she alone can help me . . . Herr Doktor, please!’

  Her voice rose. I recognized the sign of incipient hysteria as well as Blankenhagen did. Our eyes met, and he shrugged.

  ‘Yes, of course you shall have her. I will fetch her.’

  Irma’s eyes closed.

  ‘I’ll get the Gräfin,’ I said in a low voice. ‘You’d better stay here. If Irma changes her mind I’ll come, any time.’

  ‘Sehr gut.’ He got up from his chair with an anxious glance at the girl, who lay unmoving. He opened the door for me, and as I was about to go out he moved with a quick grace I hadn’t expected in such a stocky, solid man. He kissed my hand.

  ‘You are a good woman,’ said Blankenhagen, in a burst of Germanic sentimentality. ‘I thank you for your help . . . I apologize for what I thought . . .’

  I didn’t know what he had been thinking about me, and I didn’t particularly want to know. He was still holding my hand – his hands were big and warm and hard – when Tony appeared on the stairs that led to the next floor. He stopped, with a corny theatrical start, when he saw us. Blankenhagen released my hand, and Tony came on down slowly, his eyes fixed on me.

  ‘Got the keys?’ I inquired.

  ‘Huh? Yeah. How’s Irma?’

  ‘Not good. She wants Auntie. God knows why.’

  Auntie chose that moment to make her appearance. I think she heard me. She gave me a mocking, ice-blue stare, and spoke to Blankenhagen.

  ‘I will stay with my niece tonight. Thank you, Doctor.’

  ‘But I – ’

  ‘I will call you if there is need. But I think you may sleep undisturbed. I know how to deal with this. It has happened before.’

  The door closed on our staring faces, but not before we had seen Irma’s face turn towards the old woman, and heard her breathless greeting.

  Blankenhagen made a movement towards the closed door, but I grabbed his arm.

  ‘Better not,’ I said. ‘She’ll throw you out of the hotel if you interfere. She has the right.’

  ‘And I have none,’ Blankenhagen muttered.

  ‘No,’ Tony agreed. He glanced at me. The glance was friendly; he had concluded that the doctor was falling for Irma and was therefore safe from my predatory clutches. ‘Better go to bed. See you all in the morning.’

  I observed the awkward angle of the arm Tony was hiding behind his back, and I remembered why I had come to Rothenburg. I had not come to rescue oppressed damsels. Let the boys take care of that.

  ‘Go to bed, while you explore the crypt?’ I demanded. ‘You’ve got the keys behind your back right now. I’m coming with you.’

  ‘The crypt?’ Blankenhagen repeated. ‘Why in the devil’s name do you want to go there?’

  ‘Why not?’ I said flippantly. ‘Maybe we’ll meet Konstanze. That’s where she – er – lives, isn’t it?’

  ‘I should not go with you,’ Blankenhagen muttered. ‘If I am needed – ’

  ‘You weren’t invited to come,’ Tony said indignantly.

  ‘I invited myself,’ said the doctor, with an unexpected gleam of sardonic humour. ‘I do not know what you are doing, but if I were in your shoes, I would not mind a companion. There are forces abroad in this place which are not good, though they are not supernatural. For safety it is best to travel in groups.’

  ‘I agree,’ I said, before Tony could object. ‘The countess won’t call you, Doctor; she made that pretty clear.’

  Blankenhagen nodded.

  ‘Come, then. I understand none of this; but some of it I must understand if I am to help that girl. She has need of help, I think.’

  We went down the stairs, through the Hall, and out into the night-shrouded court. There was enough moonlight to let us see the arched door of the chapel in the north wing. Tony’s first key fitted the lock.

  The interior was a blaze of tarnished gilt in the rays of Tony’s flashlight. I blinked, and mentally discarded one possible hiding place. The chapel had been redecorated in the baroque period; twisted marble columns, sunbursts of gold plaster, and stucco cherubs by the cartload filled the long, narrow room. The remodellers would have found any treasure here.

  ‘The entrance to the crypt should be near the altar,’ I said.

  Blankenhagen hesitated.

  ‘I am wondering – should we not wait until daylight?’

  ‘You aren’t scared, are you?’ Tony grinned weakly.

  ‘The dead are dead,’ said Blankenhagen.

  In broad daylight it might have sounded sententious. In the baroque gloom, with the memory of the séance fresh in our minds, it had the ring of a credo.

  ‘Thanks for reminding me,’ said Tony. ‘This way.’

  The entrance was behind the altar. It was barred by a grilled iron gate, which yielded to Tony’s second key. He turned the flashlight down into the black pit of the stairs, and he wasn’t the only one who hesitated just a bit before starting to descend.

  The crypt extended the full length of the chapel. Rough square stone pillars supported the vaulted roof. There was none of the dampness I had expected, but the air had a musty smell that struck at the nostrils, and the imagination.

  Across the floor, row on row, lay the tombstones of the Drachensteins. Those nearest the stair were simple marble or bronze slabs, with a name and a date: Graf Conrad von u. zu Drachenstein, 1804–1888; Gräfin Elisabeth, seine Frau, 1812–1884.

  ‘That must be Irma’s father,’ said Tony, pointing to a bronze plaque bearing the dates 1886–1952. ‘He was succeeded by his younger brother.’

  ‘They are a long-lived family,’ said Blankenhagen thoughtfully.

  We moved forward.

  Graf Wolfgang. Gräfin Berthe. 1756–1814. 1705–1770.

  As we approached the far end of the crypt, the simple stones were replaced by more elaborate ones. Tony flashed his light on a sculptured form clad in armour, with hands clasped on its breast and the remains of a four-footed beast under its feet.

  ‘The first of the effigies,’ he said in a low voice. ‘We’re getting there.’

  Against the wall we found the sixteenth-century markers.

  Graf Harald von und zu Drachenstein, Burckhardt’s father, looked in grey marble much as he might have looked in life. His face, framed in stiff stone ringlets, was stern and dignified. The hardness of stone suited his harsh features. His left hand rested on his sword, and his right held the banner of his house, with its crest of a dragon on a stone. Beside him lay his countess, her face set in a pious simper, her hands palm to palm under her chin. The ample folds of her best court gown were frozen for all eternity.

  Tony moved to the next monument. Upon it also lay a knight in armour, encircled by a long epitaph in twisted Gothic script. It had been carelessly carved. The letters were not deeply incised. But there was no traffic or weather here to wear them down. Tony translated the essential data.

  ‘Graf Burckhardt von und zu Drachenstein. Geboren fourteen ninety-five. Tot fifteen twenty-five.’

  ‘Thirty years old,’ I said.

  There was an empty space next to Count Burckhardt, presumably because the old family had died out with him. The stones of the cadet line began beyond th
e next pillar.

  Tony returned to Burckhardt’s effigy and waved his flashlight wildly about.

  ‘What is it?’ Blankenhagen asked. ‘What do you search for?’

  ‘Don’t you see? All the counts have their wives laid out beside them – in rows, when they wore them out too fast. There’s room for her there by his side. Where is the Countess Konstanze?’

  Chapter Six

  THE COUNTESS KONSTANZE was defnitely not in the crypt. Tony checked every stone, stalking up and down the dim aisles like an avenging fury. Blankenhagen saw some of the implications; when we finally left the chapel, he burst out.

  ‘What is the meaning of this folly? Do you suggest that because this dead woman is not in the crypt, she is . . . Ach, Gott! You are encouraging this madness! No wonder the child believes . . . What does she believe?’

  Tony scowled malevolently at a smirking plaster cherub, and then slammed and locked the door of the chapel.

  ‘Three guesses,’ he said. ‘And I’ll bet you’re right the first time.’

  We crossed the moonlit court in a silence that could be felt. No one spoke till we reached our rooms.

  ‘Gute Nacht,’ said Blankenhagen stiffly.

  ‘Hah,’ said Tony.

  I waited till I heard the other doors close. Then I waited a little longer. I had no intention of going to bed. Sleep would have been difficult, after our bizarre discovery, and anyhow I had work to do. The dead countess was turning out to be as distracting as the two living females of the Drachenstein blood; I was spending too much time on them, and not enough on the shrine. But I carefully avoided Konstanze’s painted gaze as I found my flashlight and slipped out of the door. My journey along the dark halls was not a pleasant experience. I went straight to the library and opened the Schrank.

  The roll of maps was gone.

  Locks and keys were no hindrance to the unknown creature that walked the halls of the Schloss by night. I had the Gräfin’s set of keys to the Schrank and the library. There might be other sets of keys; but in the midnight hush of the room I found myself remembering ghoulish legends instead of facts. ‘Open, locks, to the dead man’s hand . . .’ How did the poem go? The necromantic night-light, made of the severed hand of an executed murderer whose fingertips bore candles concocted of human fat, was popularly supposed to open barred doors, and induce slumber on the inhabitants of a house. Not a happy thought . . . Tony had told me that story, blast him.