HS02 - Days of Atonement

by Michael Gregorio

  I knocked again, wondering whether General Katowice would be taken in by Dittersdorf’s damaged door.

  ‘What do you want?’ a voice cried from beyond the splintered panelling.

  There was such a pitiful tone to it, I asked myself once more if something terrible had happened while I had been so far away from home. In a rising panic, I shouted my name and struck the eagle against the door again.

  Bolts were drawn and chains rattled. The door opened a trifle, and a pale servant looked out. I raised my lamp to show my face.

  ‘I must speak with the count,’ I demanded.

  A shadow cut across the rhombus of pale yellow light that fell on the tiled floor of the entrance hall. Someone was watching from the doorway of the reception room.

  ‘Let him in, Hans.’

  I recognised the voice, but when I stepped inside, crossed the hall, and found myself face to face with the man himself, I was shocked. He was, in truth, the haggard ghost of the Count Dittersdorf that I had left in Lotingen six nights before. He looked more like a wrinkled bloodhound than ever—his long, jowly face was lined, tense and drawn, his eyes sagging, red-rimmed, as if he had not been able to sleep for one single instant since the day that I set out for Kamenetz.

  ‘I did not expect you so soon,’ he said, crossing the hall to meet me. Then, remembering himself and what he was, he retreated into his habitual shell of formal hospitality. ‘I am pleased to see you safe and well, Hanno.’

  ‘What has happened, sir?’ I demanded, fearful of the reply.

  ‘Shouldn’t I be asking you?’ he replied, taking my arm, leading me towards the lighted room. Suddenly, he smiled timidly and turned to me. ‘I know what you intend, of course. Much has happened while you’ve been away. None of it is good, but at least no more innocents have been murdered.’

  ‘Thank the Lord for that!’

  Those words did not come from my mouth. Nor did the doleful sigh that accompanied them. Count Dittersdorf and I had barely set foot inside a large room illuminated by a single candle in a brass mount. It flickered above the mantlepiece, where a log fire crackled and blazed, throwing up a shower of sparks. A large, winged armchair was set squarely in front of the fire, as if whoever was sitting there was unwilling to share the warmth and light with any other person.

  ‘Indeed, my dear,’ Count Dittersdorf replied, bowing in that direction, as his wife peered out from behind the high back of the leather chair. She was wearing a large woollen bed-bonnet, and held a white handkerchief to her eyes, as if she had just been weeping.

  ‘I apologise for disturbing you, ma’am,’ I said with a tilt of my head. ‘I have just returned to town. I thought it best to inform the count.’

  The countess made no answer, but raised the linen square to her eyes again to stifle a sob as she turned back to face the fire.

  I glanced at Dittersdorf, hoping that he might offer some explanation for his wife’s state, but all I received was a raising of his bushy eyebrows and a sagging of the bags beneath his eyes. Like a bloodhound that had lost the scent. ‘There, there,’ he cooed, in what was meant to be a soothing manner. ‘Why don’t you go up to bed, my love? I won’t be long, I promise you. Hans will stand outside the door until I come to you. I must speak to Procurator Stiffeniis. It should take, what . . . five minutes, no more.’

  Dittersdorf went to the door and called for his servant. I stood watching in respectful silence while the lady was escorted from the room. The instant the door was closed and we were alone, Dittersdorf blew out a loud sigh.

  ‘These are troubled times,’ he said. ‘Lotingen is a city under siege.’

  ‘Have the French insisted on a blackout, too?’ I asked.

  ‘They didn’t have to,’ he replied with a shake of his head. ‘No one wants to give the impression that he’s a sitting target. They fear that lighted windows may bring the plague crashing down upon them. There’s been nothing like it since the day the French swarmed through the town last year.’

  Pushing his lady’s armchair to one side, he dragged a straight-backed chair close to the grate. ‘Come here and sit by the fire,’ he said. ‘You’ve had a terrible journey, I think. Such dreadful weather! ’Tis a foul wind, as the English say.’

  He crossed to a magnificent rococo carved side-table with lion’s legs and a marble top, and poured two glasses of something from a pewter jug.

  ‘Tell me what has happened, sir.’ I was almost reduced to pleading.

  ‘Spiced wine,’ Count Dittersdorf announced with a gleam in his eyes as he brought me a crystal goblet containing liquid of a dark mulberry colour. He sat down heavily, and took a sip from his own glass, which carried off half the contents. He had been drinking. ‘Mmm, that will take the chill off your bones. Taste the cinnamon! Now, Hanno, I want to know your news. I can hardly wait to hear it.’

  I looked at him fixedly, but he sank his nose inside his glass and glanced away.

  ‘Count Dittersdorf,’ I said, like a father quizzing his son about where all the sugared almonds had gone, ‘I want to know what has happened during my absence.’

  ‘Nothing, Hanno,’ he assured me blandly. ‘That’s just the trouble. The missing woman has not been found. Nor has the murderer been caught. Each day that passes weighs on us like an imminent death sentence. No one knows when the axe will fall. Nobody knows if it is his neck that will take the blow. Until the death-stroke comes, we live in fear, afraid of our friends and neighbours.’

  ‘But no one else has died?’ I insisted.

  He raised his forefinger. ‘Not yet,’ he replied darkly.

  I was tempted to echo Countess Dittersdorf’s ‘Thank the Lord’, but I did not. I told him the little that I had been able to discover in Kamenetz. The sooner it was done, the quicker I would be able to excuse myself and hurry home to Helena and the children. But the fact that Bruno Gottewald was dead occasioned many questions, and even more pressing demands were to follow as I informed the count that General Katowice was training boy soldiers in defiance of the French. The old man appeared to sober up quickly as I complained of the lack of assistance I had faced from the commander of the fortress. I told him of the help I had been given by Doctor Korna, but also of the gruesome contents of those vats that the physician had chosen to show me.

  ‘These things . . . I do not need to tell you. They must never go beyond these walls,’ Dittersdorf insisted. ‘That’s why you had to go alone. The French must never know. I had heard rumours of atrocities, but what you have described . . .’

  He stood up, lifted the tails of his jacket, and turned his backside to the warmth of the fire, bracing his knees for some moments.

  Suddenly, he looked down at me.

  ‘You believe that the death of Gottewald, the massacre of his children, and the disappearance of his wife are all related facts. That is what you are thinking, isn’t it?’ he enquired.

  ‘It is difficult to think otherwise, sir.’

  He trundled across to the side-dresser and refilled his glass.

  ‘I have serious doubts,’ he said as he returned to the fire. ‘Let us say, for the sake of supposition, that Gottewald was murdered, and that the killer is still at large in Kamenetz. What motive could drive that same person, or his accomplices, to strike the family of the victim here in Lotingen? To murder three children? I can find no logical justification for your assumptions.’

  He had put his finger on a problem which had racked my mind from Kamenetz to Lotingen. This was a trial run for the opposition I would meet from Lavedrine. He walked from the fire to the window, shifted the damask curtains, peered out into the darkness for some moments, then let the heavy material fall back into place.

  ‘You cannot ignore those pieces that do not fit,’ he chided me.

  ‘Nor can I ignore what I discovered there,’ I replied, sipping my wine, which was stone-cold. Even so, I felt it hit home as it reached my stomach. The little that I had drunk had certainly rescued me from the cold torpor that had worked its way deep in
to my bones with every frozen mile of the journey. ‘If Doctor Korna is a reliable witness, and I have no reason to doubt his veracity, Gottewald was killed in the most unlikely circumstances. But the men who found his body are “conveniently” unavailable, either dead, discharged or absent from the fort. All these inconsistencies, in the unchallengeable opinion of the commanding officer, are “normal”. But my instinct tells me that they are suspicious coincidences. Gottewald was the first, but not the last, victim, and I believe that more than one person in Kamenetz is involved.’

  ‘A plot?’ he spluttered.

  Now that I was safe in Lotingen, distanced from the people and events that had made such a strong impression on my mind, Kamenetz seemed to be a closed and dangerous world. I had barely scraped the surface, but I had felt the strength and unity of purpose that held those men so tightly together. They were clenched in the fist of a single-minded maniac whose only concern was the liberation of his country. General Katowice would allow nobody to stand in his path.

  ‘Lavedrine has not found the woman, then,’ I murmured, uncertain whether to be relieved that the Frenchman had not succeeded in my absence, or worried that the investigation had ground to a halt.

  ‘The search goes on,’ Dittersdorf said. ‘At least, I hope it does. I have not seen him since the day you left, and have no idea where his investigations may have taken him. Rumours are rife: they make them up by day, then take them apart by night, like Penelope’s tapestry. If Frau Gottewald had been found, of course, I’d know of it. He is probably questioning Durskeitner . . .’ He broke off, and peered at me. ‘I mean to say, he is still the prime suspect, isn’t he?’

  Every time that I attempted to put all the fragments into order and make some sense of the whole, I had managed to weave the deformed hunter into my scheme. Sometimes the presence of Durskeitner reinforced the tale, but just as often it unwove the stitches that I had so carefully bonded together.

  ‘Unless Lavedrine has been able to squeeze something incriminating out of him, he is the man who found the bodies. Nothing more. There is no evidence against him,’ I said, rubbing my hands, which were still very cold. ‘He may even be the perpetrator of the massacre, but following instructions given by others. The butcher’s boy, let’s say, given the brutal manner in which the children were murdered, and the crude facility with which he uses his blade on the beasts that he captures.’

  ‘An executioner in Lotingen obeying orders from Kamenetz, is that what you suggest?’

  I nodded.

  ‘But what could be the cause?’ he asked, a puzzled frown on his careworn face. ‘What motive could there be for such hatred of the father?’

  ‘The only opinions I have been able to sound suggest that Gottewald was considered a coward for his inability to carry out a field exercise. But the taint of betrayal and cowardice had already been cast on his character. I heard this rumour from the mouth of a boy. I am plagued by suspicions I cannot prove, or shake off.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked cautiously.

  ‘The French have chosen to ignore the existence of Kamenetz,’ I replied, ‘but the troops in the garrison live as if they expect to be attacked at any moment. They fear betrayal. Katowice warned me off. The doctor told me of the danger. The officers and men refused to speak to me. Baptista von Schill advised me that he would kill me if I did or said anything that would put the fortress at risk.’

  ‘Major von Schill?’ Dittersdorf gasped.

  ‘The same,’ I nodded. ‘Did Gottewald undermine the safety of the garrison? Did his wife share the responsibility? Did someone kill him, then come to Lotingen for her? The murder of the children might be smoke blown in our eyes to throw us off the trail. If one crime provides the key to the others, I believe it is the first in the series.’

  Dittersdorf did not reply for some moments. He stroked his chin and seemed to consider the possibilities. Suddenly, he let out a sort of wild groan, and shook his forefinger at me. ‘I am worried, Hanno. Extremely worried. If you voice such opinions to Lavedrine or to Mutiez, you may do exactly as Katowice and von Schill have warned you not to do. You will paint Kamenetz in the darkest colours, and the consequences may be dire. For the whole of Prussia. Just think, not only do you depict the men as vile, scheming rebels, you also make them out to be cowards of the worst sort, men who lack the nerve to carry out their crimes, delegating the responsibility to that . . . that creature from the woods.’

  ‘I see no other path to follow,’ I said. ‘Unless Lavedrine can come up with something more promising.’

  I set my wine glass down, and sat up straighter in my chair.

  ‘I need to know more about Gottewald’s career, sir. Where he enrolled, where he served, and so on. Anything that might be useful. Regiments, battles, barracks, and above all, what he was doing in Lotingen. And why he went so soon to Kamenetz. Anything that Prussian efficiency can reveal.’ I took a deep breath, worried that I might be about to offend him. ‘My only hope, sir, is to receive more help from you than I received in Kamenetz. Can I depend on you?’

  Dittersdorf stiffened, his head pulled back, and two red spots appeared on his cheeks, as if he had just been slapped with a pair of leather gloves and challenged to defend his name and his honour.

  ‘You’ll have everything I can obtain,’ he replied as civilly as if I had just asked for another glass of mulled wine. ‘In exchange, I insist on two inviolable conditions. Will you hear them?’

  I made a condescending gesture.

  ‘First,’ he continued, ‘keep Lavedrine away from any dangerous information until you are certain what to do with it. Once the crime is solved, we will tell the French what we want them to know, and nothing more.’

  Not tell Lavedrine? Work on the case in secret? It would be difficult, but not impossible. ‘Agreed,’ I said, like a man forced to make a hard bargain. ‘What is the other thing?’

  Count Dittersdorf drained his glass.

  ‘Hit the Jews, Hanno. Hit them hard.’

  I was taken by surprise.

  ‘All this talk of babes whose throats have been slashed,’ he continued rapidly. ‘Ritual mutilation. Christian blood being used to defile the communion host. Rumours that the blood was drunk in the course of a Hebrew orgy. Word is spreading through the province, there’s no halting it.’ He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. ‘The scribblers are heaping fuel on the fire. Just yesterday one of them wrote that the Jews are guilty, and he claimed that the French are covering up for them, manipulating Jewish insurgents into murdering their Prussian enemies. Berlin fears a revolt against the foreign troops. I received a despatch this morning. They want to see the matter cleared up without delay. Peaceful coexistence must continue. At any price. Do I make myself clear?’

  He sat back in his chair, waiting for me. But I did not reply.

  ‘If you have no juicier bone to offer the mob, give them one that they are already chewing on. The French must be kept out of it.’

  He stared at me in silence for some moments.

  When he spoke again, his voice was low and emphatic. ‘The Jews, Hanno. The Jews alone must carry the blame. Speak with Lavedrine about the course of action that you intend to take.’

  ‘I’ll speak with him first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Morning?’ he spluttered, jumping forward, his face inches away from my own. I felt the spray of spittle settle on my skin, inhaled the strong fumes of the spiced wine that he appeared to have consumed in ample quantities that day. ‘Perhaps I have not made the state of affairs in Lotingen clear? We are sitting on a powder keg which could explode at any moment. You must speak to him tonight! He must tell you what he has discovered, the opinion he has formed of this massacre. If no other expedient presents itself, swoop on Judenstrasse. A gate has been erected. The Jews are prisoners, more or less. The bigger the fuss, the better effect it will have on public opinion. The townspeople must see that repressive action is being taken. It must be made clear that that is where the blam
e lies. Convince Lavedrine if necessary, while I . . .’ He paused—for breath, but also, I thought, to measure out his promises, thus limiting his own responsibility for the consequences. ‘I will provide you with every fact that I can discover about the life of Bruno Gottewald. If you can find a better answer, so be it. Until then, the Jews will take the blame. Have I made myself clear?’

  I nodded reluctantly. Instead of going home to my wife, who was probably terrified by the tales circulating in town, I would have to go looking for the elusive Frenchman.

  Dittersdorf accompanied me to the door. Standing there in the shadows, he suddenly clasped me to his chest, like an ancient warrior sending a younger one off to battle, knowing that the novice might be slaughtered. I realised that there was nothing affectionate in the gesture.

  It was the kiss of Judas, sealing our complicity.

  As the bolts closed behind me, and the chains rattled into place, I turned to coachman Eis and informed him that we would not be going immediately to our beds.

  An expression of resentful confusion appeared on the coachman’s face.

  I must have looked at Dittersdorf in a similar fashion when he chose to thwart my own homecoming.

  18

  I CLIMBED ABOARD the coach, but gave no order to the driver.

  I had no idea where Lavedrine might be. I had met him only twice. On both occasions he had strutted onto the scene like an actor who has important lines to speak. Having delivered them, he had turned and walked off the lighted stage, disappearing into the dark wings from whence he had come.

  I gave a vague order to Egon Eis to set the carriage wheels rolling in the direction of the town centre. We passed achingly close to my home once again, but my thoughts were so fully occupied in trying to work out where Lavedrine might be hiding that the house was gone in a flash. The Frenchman was not a soldier in any true sense of the word. He held the honorary rank of colonel, but he had told me himself that his role was to monitor criminal behaviour by the emperor’s troops, while collecting data for his criminological studies. If he had an office, it might be anywhere in town. And as for his private lodging, that was anyone’s guess.