Borrower of the Night vbm-1

by Elizabeth Peters

  ‘Blankenhagen?’ I croaked, rubbing eyes that felt as if they were glued shut.

  ‘He’s still breathing, but he won’t be for long. if we don’t get out of here soon, none of us will be.’

  I insisted on taking his place in the hole. The air was foul in that narrow space, even worse than it was in the tunnel, and he had been breathing it for some time.

  I felt as if I were working under water. Each movement had the languid deliberation of a swimmer’s arm-stroke. I could see nothing. Eyes can adjust to a tiny amount of light, but there was no light at all in that stinking hole. My senses were foggy; I couldn’t hear anything except the echo of my own hoarse breathing. After a time the only sense remaining to me was that of touch, the only reality the gritty yielding substance under my bleeding fingers. Occasionally I backed out of the hole to breathe the slightly less noxious mixture that passed for air out in the tunnel. I found Tony flat on the floor the second time I did this, and dragged him out of the way so the dirt wouldn’t cover his face. Then I crawled back in, and worked till I started to see flames dance against the darkness.

  Finally I waited too long. When I tried to back out, I couldn’t move.

  My hands went to my throat, as if to tear away the thing that was blocking my lungs. No use . . . Blankenhagen and Tony were dying, maybe dead. And I was dying too. I would fall down in this awful dirty hole and never wake up. It was almost a relief to feel the pain of my labouring lungs fade as I fell forward into blackness no more absolute than that which already surrounded me.

  When I came to, I was breathing. The shock of this discovery woke me completely.

  I had been on the verge of breaking through the earth fall when my last convulsion threw me against the thin shell of soil remaining. I was lying with my head and shoulders on a downhill slope of dirt. The rest of my body was still in the hole. By a miracle, it hadn’t caved in.

  I went back through my little tunnel as fast as I dared. Tony was already stirring as the fresh air from beyond reached him. Ruthlessly I slapped him awake. We didn’t waste time feeling Blankenhagen’s pulse or handling him gently. I backed through the tunnel dragging him by the shoulder, with Tony pushing from the other end. Tony barely made it. The ceiling began to subside as his head came out of the hole, and he had to pull his legs through solid dirt.

  The first thing I did was light a match. The feeble flame was a beautiful sight. I’ve had a slight phobia about darkness ever since that night.

  To our surprise and relief, Blankenhagen was still breathing. That was all we bothered to find out. Tony was on his feet, swaying dizzily, but driven; I followed, lighting matches with reckless abandon.

  The tunnel went straight on without bending. It ended in a flight of wooden stairs.

  I let Tony go up. The stairs looked solid, but there was no point in risking a double weight. If only the stone I could see at the top was movable . . .

  When Tony came down, his face was grey. He didn’t need to speak. He just shook his head.

  The match went out. Holding hands, we stumbled back to where we had left Blankenhagen. He had not moved. We curled up, one on either side of him. Tony was mumbling about shock, and keeping the patient warm, and it all made very good sense to me at the time, but I didn’t really care. All I wanted to do was rest.

  When I finally awoke I knew I had slept for hours. All my bruises had solidified, and I was as stiff as Blankenhagen’s splinted arm. Otherwise I didn’t feel too bad. The first thing I did was take a deep breath. The air was still fresh. No problem there.

  With that vital matter settled, I started to take stock. I could hear Tony snoring; it was loud enough to wake the dead. So I knew he was okay. Blankenhagen . . .

  At least he was warm. I was in a good position to know. Somehow his one usable arm had gotten around me and my head was on his shoulder. His heart sounded a little fast.

  I extricated myself, sat up, and lit a match. Blankenhagen’s eyes were open.

  The shreds of my blouse were wrapped around his left arm. I wasn’t embarrassed. I wear less on the beach, and anyhow I was covered by a coating of dirt

  ‘Sorry for leaning on you,’ I said. ‘Did I hurt you?’

  ‘Hurt me? You have saved my life – you and he.’ But he didn’t look at Tony. ‘You are an amazing woman.’

  ‘And you,’ I said, returning his du, ‘are quite a guy. How do you feel?’

  ‘Quite well.’ He smiled at me.

  It was a silly question, and a ridiculous answer. He felt terrible. His face was flushed and his eyes had the glassy glitter of fever. The hand that reached for mine was dry and hot. But the smile was as attractive as ever. One thing you had to say about Blankenhagen: his emotions were wholehearted and consistent. When he disapproved of something, the very air turned icy. When he approved . . . Clearly he now approved of me. All of me.

  The match went out. I felt sort of silly sitting there in the dark, so when he pulled at my hand, I lay down.

  I’m not sure what would have happened next if Tony hadn’t woken up.

  Every time I heard him go through this process I decided that, if I was ever weak-minded enough to marry the guy, I would insist on separate bedrooms. He snorted, choked, gargled, and flailed around. By the time he was fully awake, Blankenhagen was clucking with alarm and I was sitting detached, wrapped in my dirt and my dignity.

  Since we were undistracted by details such as breakfast and baths, we got right to work. I don’t suppose Tony’s hopes were any higher than mine; but we had been too tired to examine the exit closely, and after all – what else could we do but try? Sitting in peaceful silence waiting to die of starvation wasn’t in keeping with any of our characters.

  Blankenhagen could walk, but not much. Tony towed him to the foot of the stairs and propped him up, remarking, ‘Sit and watch. Criticize, complain, cheer politely now and then to encourage us – ’

  ‘And think,’ I interrupted. ‘We could use a few ideas.’

  Tony went up the stairs. The first time he had banged and shoved and given up. This time he just looked. We were running low on matches, so he used pages from his notebook, twisted into tight little spills. Then he came down.

  ‘There’s a chance,’ he said. He was trying to sound matter-of-fact, but his voice shook slightly.

  ‘You can lift the stone?’

  ‘No.’ Tony dropped to the floor and took out his cigarettes. Those nice cancer-producing cigarettes . . . Without that vicious habit we wouldn’t have had any matches. ‘No, there’s something barring the trapdoor – metal, by the feel of it. I jabbed it with my pocketknife. But I’ve had an inspiration. Look at the way this place is built. We’re sitting at the bottom of a narrow shaft. This tunnel, and the shaft, are faced with stones bonded with mortar. They’re old. The mortar is crumbling.’

  He dug at a section with his knife blade and dislodged an impressive chunk of plaster.

  ‘Gently,’ muttered Blankenhagen. ‘One landslide is enough.’

  ‘Okay, Okay. Now the stone that blocks the shaft is a monolith, must weigh hundreds of pounds, like the stones used to build the Wachtturm. I figure that’s where we are – under the floor of the keep. The stones here in the shaft are much smaller. Behind them is – plain dirt. If I can remove part of the wall of the shaft, and dig out enough dirt to expose the floor slab next to the trapdoor, I can remove it. Either it will push up, or I can chisel out the mortar and let it drop down.’

  ‘Can’t you let the trap drop down?’ I asked.

  ‘Stupid question. Trapdoors are designed not to drop down. This one is held up by a rim of stone and some solid metal hinges. We’d have seen it the other day, Vicky, if the floor of the keep weren’t so overgrown. No, the side stone is the only chance.’

  The old mortar crumbled under Tony’s vigorous knife. When the first wall stone came out, it was followed by a shower of dirt that got into our eyes and made me wonder whether he was about to start another avalanche. It trickled out, however, and
he went on working. When four stones had been removed, there was enough space to allow a man’s body to pass. Tony began to shovel out the dirt. He remarked, ‘I have a feeling I’m never going to want a garden.’

  I didn’t answer. My eyes were glued on that gap on the wall, which I was illuminating by means of another homemade torch. By this time we could see the end of the floor slab, and there was a considerable pile of dirt on the stairs.

  In less than an hour Tony had cleared the lower surface of the stone. He began to chip out the mortar. This was the trickiest part of the job; we ended up replacing some of the dirt Tony had laboriously removed, in order to support one end of the slab so it wouldn’t give way all at once and mash Tony. After a couple of heart-stopping scrapes, he finally managed to do what he had set out to do. There was an opening a couple of feet square in the wall of the shaft.

  Tony turned.

  ‘I think we can make it now.’

  But for several seconds none of us moved. We stared at one another with the white-faced incredulity of shipwrecked sailors who finally see a sail on the horizon.

  ‘Better let me go first,’ I said. ‘I’m the thinnest.’

  At the expense of a few square inches of skin, I got through. A push from Tony and I was out, gooseflesh popping out on my bare arms as the heavenly coolness of the night air hit them. My coat was still down below, and so far as I was concerned, it could stay there. Nothing, not even the shrine, could have gotten me back into that hole.

  At first I just lay there on the floor and admired the view through the open door. As Tony had predicted, I was on the ground floor of the keep, and the moonlight scene without was exquisite. A desert would have looked good to me just then if it had a sky over it.

  The sight of the silvery moonlight reminded me of a minor discomfort that had been overridden by more pressing worries. Suddenly I was dying of thirst. Leaning over the hole I croaked out, ‘Put out the torch and come on.’

  Getting Blankenhagen out wasn’t easy. Only fortitude and hope had kept him conscious; he was a dead weight, and even with Tony pushing from below and me pulling from above we had a hard time. When we finally extracted him, he collapsed at full length on the floor and lay there without moving.

  Tony followed, breathing hard and looking as if he was going to be sick. We were both flat on the floor, just breathing, when the beautiful silver moonlight was blotted out by a shape in the doorway.

  The figure crossed the room without a glance at the shadows where we were sprawled, and disappeared.

  I applied grubby knuckles to my eyes. I knew the stairs leading up to the next floor had provided the means of exit for that incredible apparition, but I couldn’t believe I had really seen it – a tall figure, cloaked and hooded, wearing boots that rang metallically on the stone floor – and carrying in its arms the white-robed figure of a woman.

  Tony stared speechlessly. Blankenhagen sat up. He had no voice left; but the air came out of his lungs in an explosive whisper that broke my paralysis like a dash of cold water.

  ‘Irma!’

  Chapter Twelve

  I HAD NOT RECOGNIZED Irma. I wouldn’t have known my own mother under those confusing conditions (especially my mother, under those conditions). But I was willing to take Blankenhagen’s word for it. I couldn’t figure out what Irma was doing there, but I decided maybe I had better go up and find out.

  Tony beat me to the stairs. Blankenhagen was behind me, but not for long; I heard him stumble and fall after a few steps.

  We kept going up – all the way up. I don’t know what I expected to find up there. I wasn’t thinking coherently. But I felt a mild shock when I came out of the opening onto the roofless top storey, and saw what was happening.

  The character in the cloak stood at the edge of the platform, with not even a ridge of stone between him and the ground some sixty feet below. Irma lay at his feet. She was drugged or unconscious – probably the former, because her face was quite peaceful and she was breathing heavily through her nose. If the poignancy of the moment had not raised my mind above ordinary cattiness, I would have said she was snoring.

  The man who had brought her there was wearing riding breeches and boots. The hood of his dark-grey loden cloak was thrown back, so that his fiery head gleamed in the moonlight. His gun gleamed too. It was big and shiny and it was pointed straight at Tony’s stomach.

  ‘So it was you,’ I said unoriginally.

  ‘In part. No, Tony, don’t try anything. A bullet hole in you wouldn’t spoil my plans at all. As soon as I’m finished here, you two go back where you came from. Where’s Blankenhagen?’

  Tony sat down, yawning. I couldn’t help admiring his nonchalance. He didn’t even look surprised . . .

  ‘You knew,’ I said to him. ‘You knew it was George.’

  ‘I knew George was one of the villains. Unfortunately, he isn’t the only one.’ Tony looked at the villain. ‘Blankenhagen? He’s down there someplace. Broke his arm when the staircase gave way.’

  ‘I admire your tenacity,’ George said, baring his teeth in one of those toothpaste-ad grins. ‘I didn’t think you could get out.’

  ‘I’m a little tired,’ Tony admitted. He yawned again. ‘Can I sit over there, against the parapet, without your shooting me?’

  ‘Just don’t stand up.’

  Tony obeyed literally; and George raised his eyebrows politely at me. I shook my head. I didn’t want to sit down. I had a feeling I would be lying down only too soon, and permanently.

  ‘Found the shrine yet?’ Tony asked.

  ‘Oh, yes. I followed you last night and overheard Vicky telling Konstanze’s life story. It wasn’t hard to figure out what it meant, so far as the hiding place of the shrine was concerned. I had prepared the tunnel with no specific plan in mind – an emergency reserve, you might say – but I had to get you down there right away, before you could use your information. I had plenty of time after that to search.’

  ‘I hope you haven’t told anyone else where it is,’ Tony said.

  I wished George would stop grinning. He looked like an Aztec death mask – the kind that is half teeth.

  ‘I’m not such a fool as that.’

  Tony wasn’t as calm as he seemed. I could see the tension of bunched-up muscles in his legs and shoulders. I kept very still and watched him. He was leading up to something and I wanted to be ready to back him up, whatever he did.

  ‘I don’t know, Nolan,’ he said. ‘I find your position somewhat shaky. What are you going to do with Irma?’

  ‘Somnambulists are accident-prone, old son. They even have fatal accidents.’

  ‘And you can always go down after you throw her off and make sure.’

  ‘What’s one more?’ said George.

  It took me a couple of seconds to understand what he meant.

  ‘Now, wait,’ I said energetically. ‘Let’s not be hasty. You haven’t killed anybody yet. We can’t even accuse you of attempted murder; shutting us up in that hole was just a boyish prank, right? Why kill anybody? Just take the shrine and split. We haven’t any proof.’

  ‘Wouldn’t work,’ said George promptly. He waved the gun at Tony, who tried not to cringe. ‘He’s been too nosy. Sending cables all over the place.’

  ‘You’ve been reading my mail!’ Tony said angrily.

  ‘Only the cables that arrived today. You know too much about the state of my finances, brother. And you were too inquisitive about Herr Schmidt.’

  ‘You crook,’ I said to Tony. ‘Were those the cables you sent that day it rained? How did you know where to inquire about Schmidt? Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘You have a lot of nerve talking about cheating,’ Tony shouted. ‘Squatting like a setting hen on all those little tidbits you dug up – ’

  ‘Sssh!’ George danced irritably up and down. ‘Somebody will hear you!’

  I expected Tony to jump him then; I braced myself, ready to move. There was a nasty cold lump at the pit of my stomach. I had neve
r seen a gun from quite that angle. It is a disconcerting sight, and I had no desire to see it any closer. But we had to do something; I didn’t intend to let myself be herded back into that hellish tunnel without putting up a fight. We would be in a better position to attack if we waited till George had us on the stairs. But we couldn’t wait. He was going to kill Irma first.

  Tony settled back.

  ‘Does Schmidt really have a degree from Leipzig?’ he inquired conversationally. ‘I haven’t had a chance to read my mail, you know.’

  George laughed.

  ‘I think you’ll be surprised when you find out who Schmidt is. He was using his own name. Not his fault if it’s a common name.’

  ‘One thing I already know,’ said Tony. ‘He was the one who engineered the armour and the séance. What is he, an amateur hypnotist, or just a common garden-variety fortune teller?’

  ‘Both. He hypnotized Irma with some crazy idea that she might have ancestral memories he could tap. Until the great séance he didn’t realize that what he was doing could hurt the wench.’

  The gun barrel dropped, casually, to indicate the girl’s motionless form, and my heart skipped a beat.

  ‘Why don’t you shoot her, if that’s what you’re going to do?’ Tony said, between his teeth. ‘Get it over with.’

  ‘No bullet holes in Irma. That would spoil the illusion.’

  Tony was rapidly losing his calm. He glanced at me. Then, following his eyes, I finally realized what he was up to. He was trying not to look at the square opening of the stairwell, which was now, thanks to his manoeuver, out of George’s direct line of vision. I didn’t share his optimism. Blankenhagen might come, but I doubted it. The man wasn’t superhuman.

  ‘So Schmidt hypnotized Irma,’ I said. ‘He was the one who prompted her with all that stuff about fires and possession.’

  ‘He had help. The old lady has been workmg on the kid for years.’

  ‘She would,’ Tony muttered. ‘Just for fun.’

  ‘It came in handy, after Schmidt appeared at the Schloss with his questions about the shrine. He didn’t realize Irma was the heiress. He went straight to Elfrida and they started searching. He was no match for the old witch; he did just what she told him to.’