HS02 - Days of Atonement

by Michael Gregorio

  I was certain of one thing alone. Dittersdorf found himself in an impossible position. Though District Governor of the North Marches in name, he could do not a thing without the approval of the French. Indeed, it appeared to me, in this instance, he had been told exactly what to do. The needs of Lieutenant Mutiez and Colonel Lavedrine, criminologist, were overriding. Count Dittersdorf was authorised to smooth the way for them. Jena had robbed every Prussian of the freedom to decide. He, and I, had orders to follow, and those orders were French.

  ‘Am I to understand that Colonel Lavedrine is in the same position of ignorance as myself?’

  ‘If you wish to see it as a contest,’ Lavedrine replied sharply, ‘I can hardly stop you. But that was not my intention. I suggested your name as the only magistrate that I know. If a Prussian must be involved, then you are the man.’

  He relaxed visibly as I nodded my agreement.

  ‘I could have gone ahead without you,’ he continued, ‘but it would be neither fitting, nor useful. Four eyes will be more useful than two, two brains better than one. Your experience will counterbalance my own.’

  ‘Excellent!’ Dittersdorf enthused, evidently relieved that a tricky situation had been succinctly explained by Lavedrine. ‘I will say no more of the political implications, but the need to cooperate is of the first importance. The situation is explosive. And not in Lotingen alone. There are subversive elements on both sides who would only too happily exploit any divisions. They must not be given the opportunity. Now, sirs, if you have any questions, this is the moment. Lieutenant Mutiez and I will answer, if we are able. I urge you to be brief.’

  Lavedrine and I regarded each other for an instant, then the Frenchman bowed his head and smiled down at the carriage floor. It was a minor victory, but a significant one. Clearly, sharing an investigation with the Frenchman would not be an easy task. Would our questions come naturally, or must each of us always defer to the other, before daring to open our mouths?

  My eyes fixed on Lavedrine, I began: ‘May I ask what has happened?’

  ‘I’ll answer that,’ Mutiez replied. Despite this bold declaration, he stopped and turned to Dittersdorf, waiting for his assent. ‘Just after one o’clock, a man was taken into custody by a patrol on the outskirts of town. Obviously, he was in defiance of the curfew. He was brought to my office at a quarter to two. As a rule, anyone breaching the curfew is held in the cells until morning, but this man demanded to see an officer. He had news, he said, which he could reveal to no one of a lower rank. It is a common excuse. All curfew offenders have some ‘urgent business’ which is more important than staying at home. But rules are rules, I was obliged to see him. He was a most . . . well, a peculiar-looking creature. More beast than man, I would say. His name is Franz Durskeitner. He sells game to the company cook. He reported seeing something out of the ordinary in a house down there—’ Mutiez nodded over his shoulder.

  ‘Who is in the house? Frenchmen, or Prussians?’ Lavedrine snapped.

  Mutiez turned to Dittersdorf again.

  I was perplexed by their reticence. Why would neither man say what he had seen until Lavedrine and I had seen the same thing? What was waiting to be discovered that was so unusual?

  ‘That is not the problem,’ Dittersdorf mumbled.

  ‘Durskeitner passed near the house yesterday afternoon,’ Mutiez went on. ‘He says that he saw nothing out of the ordinary. But when he returned around midnight . . .’

  ‘So late?’ I intervened.

  ‘He sets his traps in the afternoon, and empties them at night. That is his method, though it defies the curfew. Something odd attracted his attention . . .’

  ‘Can you be more exact?’ Lavedrine declared with a flurry of exasperation. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary? Something odd? Did this witness tell you nothing more factual?’

  ‘It was windy tonight, as you know . . .’

  ‘Is that strictly relevant, Henri?’

  Mutiez stared back at Lavedrine. ‘It is a matter of some importance, sir. The hunter was perplexed by the noise the wooden shutters made. Loud enough to wake the dead, he said. But no one had troubled to close them. There was a strong wind yesterday afternoon, too, but all had seemed in order then. He crept up to the window and looked inside. When he saw no one in the kitchen, he entered the house, thinking that something was wrong. He was on his way to town to report the news, so he says, when they arrested him.’

  ‘Where is this man being held?’

  ‘Bitternau fortress,’ Mutiez replied. ‘He was questioned there, but I believe he knows more than he admitted to me.’

  ‘What exactly did he tell you?’ I demanded.

  Mutiez glanced at me, then back at Lavedrine. ‘You must see for yourselves,’ he replied. ‘Unless you have any other questions.’

  Lavedrine did not wait for my reply, but threw open the carriage door.

  ‘I have none,’ he said, jumping down to the ground.

  As Lieutenant Mutiez followed him out of the vehicle, Count Dittersdorf laid his hand on my sleeve, and held me back.

  ‘Hanno, do not disappoint me!’ he hissed.

  5

  THE COTTAGE WAS secluded behind a thicket of trees and bushes. It would have been hard to find even if one came looking for it, address in hand. I had passed along the Pieniezno highway on many occasions, but had never been aware of a dwelling there, nor seen any sign of the inhabitants.

  A pathway penetrated the dense vegetation like a tunnel, so narrow that we were obliged to pass in single file, holding up our hands to protect ourselves from the overhanging branches. No attempt had been made to cut back the thorns and bushes, which slashed dangerously at our eyes. Mutiez held up his lantern and led us on. Dittersdorf followed, muffled up in a heavy cloak of dark-green wool. Lavedrine wore the ankle-length leather cape that he had worn to the autumn feast. He had embellished this bizarre black outfit with a woollen shawl of the same colour, wearing it over his head to protect his ears from the cold. I came last, my travelling mantle wrapped twice around my shoulders in the Pomeranian fashion. Had it not been for Mutiez’s uniform, we might have been mistaken for a band of thieves.

  The dark shape of the house loomed into view.

  Mutiez halted in his tracks.

  ‘I thought you left a squad to secure the place?’ Dittersdorf whispered, his voice fading away as he spoke. There was no suggestion of criticism in this question. Only fear and apprehension.

  ‘So I did!’ Mutiez replied sharply.

  In that instant, four soldiers appeared from the side of the house. A groan escaped from the lips of Mutiez. There was something ridiculous in their manner of guarding the place. They were formed up in a tight square. One of the two in front held up a lantern, the other clasping his musket to his chest. The two men behind held muskets also, but they were facing in the opposite direction. All four moved forward awkwardly, back to back, as if they feared an attack from every side, and were prepared to return the enemy fire. As the two in front caught sight of our lantern, a general cry went up and all four men twirled round to face us, lining up their arms, clicking their flintlocks into the firing position, the leader dropping onto one knee, setting his lamp on the ground, sighting along his musket barrel.

  ‘Fermez!’ Mutiez shouted, stepping forward. ‘What are you playing at? Walking back to back like idiots! Whose idea was this?’

  The men stood up hastily and shuffled to attention, bringing their muskets up to ‘present arms’ before the lantern-bearer spoke.

  ‘There were noises in the woods. We, er . . . thought it was the safest way. Best to be careful, sir!’

  ‘Report what you found,’ Mutiez snapped.

  ‘A boar rooting for acorns,’ the lantern-bearer replied, the red pom-pom quivering on his helmet. ‘No one has been here since you left, Monsieur ‘tenant.’

  ‘Very good,’ muttered Mutiez, turning to face us. ‘Count Dittersdorf has been inside, and so have I. That’s it, with the exception of Franz Durskeitner,
the man who discovered the crime, and these fellows . . .’

  ‘Good God, Henri!’ Lavedrine exploded. ‘Do you mean to say that half the French army has been traipsing through the scene of a crime?’

  Before Mutiez could answer, Dittersdorf spoke out.

  ‘I can assure you, sir, we were very careful.’

  Lavedrine cursed aloud before the old man could finish. ‘Henri, can you find a couple of lanterns for myself and Procurator Stiffeniis? If we are to examine the house properly, we will need plenty of light.’ He turned to me. ‘I believe I speak for both of us?’

  I nodded. ‘I have a further request to make.’

  ‘Name it, sir,’ Mutiez replied with a sigh of resignation. He must have found himself in a most irregular, embarrassing position, subject to the whims and the wishes of a Prussian with whom he had clashed.

  ‘I will need some paper and something to draw with. I was carried from home with no hint of where I was being taken, or why.’

  Bewilderment flashed upon the face of Mutiez, but he turned to his men, and sent one of them running off to obey his orders.

  ‘Voilà! Our methods differ before we start, Stiffeniis!’ This observation seemed to amuse Lavedrine. ‘Am I to suppose that you always make sketches and notes at the scene of a crime?’

  I took a deep breath, trying to suppress my irritation, then I stepped closer to the light with what was, I hoped, a dismissive smile on my face. I wanted the Frenchman to understand that I would not be subjected to sarcasm, or to any presumption of superiority on his part. We were equals. I would allow him to make his decisions only on condition that my own were not forced into second place.

  ‘I was privileged to work with Herr Professor Kant,’ I said, conscious of the power this statement would have over him. ‘He believed in recording the mechanics of a crime. Faithful reproduction of footprints and other physical evidence played a central part in the interpretation of those murders in Königsberg. I sketch what I see. I will be intrigued, sir, to discover at first hand which method you use to analyse the locus crimini.’

  Lavedrine did not reply immediately, though all eyes turned on him. With a smile on his face, he raised his right hand, the middle fingers folded into his gloved palm, the index and little finger outstretched to form a pair of horns. He pointed these two fingers at his eyes. ‘I use these,’ he said. Then his little finger closed and he touched the side of his nose with his forefinger: ‘And this.’ Finally, he closed his fist and thumped gently on his broad brow. ‘And when I have gathered together what my senses tell me, this. The brain can cope with more than fragmentary, disconnected details.’ His fingers spread wide, hovering over the broad expanse of his forehead, as if to suggest the immensity of the organ contained therein.

  This singular display was interrupted by the soldiers bearing lanterns, together with the paper and graphite I had requested. I glanced at Lavedrine.

  ‘When you are ready, monsieur,’ I said with an exaggerated show of deference.

  He turned to Mutiez and Dittersdorf. ‘You lead, sirs, we will follow.’

  ‘I’ll wait here, if you don’t mind,’ Dittersdorf declared, stepping aside. ‘All the gold of Peru would not tempt me to enter the house again! You’ll have no further need of me, I’m certain.’

  With a curt nod, Mutiez turned away, and stepped over the threshold.

  Lavedrine followed him into the house, and I brought up the rear. I expected to enter the hall, but we found ourselves in a small kitchen. My heart was racing as we huddled by the door. I was excited, nervous, having no exact idea what to expect. What evidence should I record as vital and important? Which elements could I safely ignore? Dittersdorf expected great things of me, and I was determined not to let him down. But my most immediate concern was to impress the Frenchman with my professional expertise.

  We raised our lanterns and looked around the room.

  The scene had all the appearance of a theatre, the actors having just left the stage. An oil lamp had been suspended from a rusty hook above the kitchen table, providing a dim, gloomy sort of illumination. The wick had burned right down for lack of trimming, thin wisps of smoke curling upwards into the darkness above.

  Lavedrine turned to me. ‘What are your first impressions?’

  Mutiez stood off to the side, as if he had no wish to interfere. I had the feeling that he would have preferred to wait outside with Dittersdorf.

  The room was cramped, but everything seemed to be in order. There was little to see, with the exception of a blackwood dresser, a stone sink and a long-handled pump in one corner. A rickety wooden ramp of stairs ranged at a steep angle along the far wall disappeared upwards through a hole in the ceiling. The table in the centre of the room had been set for four persons. The chairs were carelessly arranged, pushed back slightly from the table. Four rough-hewn wooden bowls, spoons, and cups were laid out for dinner. A tall glass jug stood in the middle of the table. Almost empty, it appeared to contain mere dregs of milk. A large wedge of black bread had been broken, then sliced on a cutting-board. A long, bone-handled knife lay among the crusts and crumbs. A few red and black berries were scattered on the table-top. An untouched roundel of cheese sat stoutly on a pewter plate, the meagre remains of a ham bone on another.

  ‘It’s the sort of scene that you might find in any cottage in the neighbourhood, monsieur,’ I said, more nervous about saying too little than too much.

  Lavedrine walked twice around the table, holding up his lantern as if it were a compass.

  ‘They sat down to eat,’ he confirmed, taking up the dishes, one after the other, raising them to his nose. ‘But I’d swear that this bowl was never used.’

  Setting down the bowl, he pointed to the nearby cup.

  ‘And neither was this vessel. There is liquid in the others, while this one is empty. Can you see?’

  He stood with his lantern tilted above the cup, inviting me to step close and share his discovery. I looked around the room instead, noting a small ramshackle cupboard, an ancient armchair next to the fireplace, a shelf above it, holding cups and plates. It was a country cottage, rough and ready, but well kept in its way.

  ‘The man who reported the discovery,’ I said. ‘What did you say his name was, Mutiez?’

  ‘Durskeitner, sir,’ the lieutenant replied.

  ‘Did he find nothing more than this?’

  ‘Upstairs, sir,’ the lieutenant murmured, glancing at the ceiling. ‘In the bedroom.’

  He made for the staircase in the far corner of the room, which creaked as he placed his weight on it and began to climb.

  Lavedrine got there before me, and began to follow him.

  Halfway up, he turned and looked down at me. ‘You will observe,’ he said, ‘that there are no unsightly marks, no mud, no scuffs, on these stairs.’

  I looked at the wood before my face. Each plane was varnished black at either extreme, well worn, almost white in the centre. Even in the poor light, it was easy to see that the stairs were clean.

  Lavedrine reached the top. He stood in silence, as if he were waiting for me before he stepped up into the bedroom. Thinking that it was a gesture of unexpected courtesy, I hurried to reach him. But when I did so, he made no effort to move on, or make space for me. He was standing frozen, as if a large hound had appeared in the upstairs room and threatened to bite his head off. Even so, I heard the creaking of the boards as Mutiez moved around in the room.

  ‘Lavedrine?’ I questioned, inciting him to move forward.

  Without a word, he edged up to the wall, making way for me.

  I stood by his side, and looked into the bedroom.

  A broad marriage-bed with a white counterpane dominated the room, the ample carved-oak headboard pushed up against the far wall. Next to the bed, on the right, stood a small bedside table. On the left, a double casement window took up half the wall. The curtains had been left open all night. A single chair was placed at the foot of the bed. Lavedrine had set his lantern on the floor,
lighting up the bare wooden boards, and the stains.

  The light was of such an unnatural pearly hue that morning that everything seemed unreal. My mind was pulled and torn in every direction. The paper slipped from my hand, the stick of graphite rattled and broke as it fell down the stairs.

  Three lifeless bodies had been laid out on the double bed.

  Not end to end, as one usually sleeps, with the feet aiming at where we were standing, but side by side across the mattress, the heads aligned along the right-hand edge.

  ‘Dear God!’ I gasped. ‘Children!’

  6

  LAVEDRINE PICKED HIS way to the bed with infinite care.

  ‘Who are they?’ he whispered across the void, as if his voice might wake them up. The Grande Armée could have marched in at the casement window and exited down the staircase, trumpets blasting, fifes a-piping, drummer-boys beating their hearts out, without any risk of disturbing those three tiny corpses.

  I heard Mutiez rummaging in his satchel, then the crackle of paper being unfolded. Every sound seemed to be abnormally magnified.