My throat was sore with cold. It ached with every lie that I told him. Still, I kept my promise to Dittersdorf. As I described it, Kamenetz fortress was a forgotten enclave that could be cancelled out at the drop of the emperor’s crown. General Juri Katowice, commander of that lonely outpost, was an ancient relic, a tottering invalid with an amputated hand, content to steer clear of trouble until his pension was granted. His troops were a defeated and demoralised band of melancholy failures. Of boys training for a future war against the French, I said not a thing. Baptista von Schill was another phantom not worth mentioning. And, of course, those French heads pickled in vinegar had ceased to exist.
‘They are an innocuous, inoffensive lot in Kamenetz,’ I concluded.
‘But Gottewald died there,’ Lavedrine insisted, pushing a glass of dark red wine across the table, inviting me to drink with them.
‘His death was recorded as an accident,’ I replied. ‘He fell from a cliff while out on a routine training exercise, and broke every bone in his body, including his neck. Herr General Katowice insists that the massacre in Lotingen is nothing but a strange coincidence.’
Lavedrine glanced away with a heavy sigh, while Putipù followed every shift and movement that the Frenchman made. My tale was of no interest to her. Nothing seemed to interest her, except for Serge Lavedrine.
‘It happened before the children died. Before Gottewald’s wife disappeared.’ I took a gulp of wine, and felt a soothing warmth. ‘There must be some connection, I am certain. How can there not be? I managed to speak with a number of Katowice’s officers, and with some of his men. They all believe that Gottewald was a traitor. A coward. That was the impression I got. They hated him for some reason. Which brings me to the point. Why would his colleagues believe that Major Gottewald had betrayed them? He was a career soldier, a typical product of our military cadre. He must have done something extraordinary to jeopardise that position.’
Lavedrine stared back, then pulled an ugly face. ‘What do you suspect?’
The nonchalance with which he greeted me had given way to concentration.
‘I have no idea yet,’ I admitted.
Lavedrine set his glass down on the table-top and refilled it. With a tilt of the bottle, he invited Putipù to join him. The creature smiled. Was there a hint of a shadow under all that paint and powder, the suggestion of closely shaven hair on the upper lip and the jaw? Women from the Mediterranean shore were darker of skin, more careless about their bodies. I had seen hair exposed on the arms and the legs of fisherwomen in Genoa that any decent Nordic woman would have hidden beneath long sleeves and extravagant flounces. Putipù sipped at the wine with a careless grace that was, I thought, exaggerated, stretching forth her chin unnaturally far, pursing her lips to meet the rim.
As her Adam’s apple bobbed, over-large, all my doubts returned.
‘The situation you have described,’ Lavedrine continued, waving his glass in the air, ‘may explain the death of Gottewald in the fortress. But does it explain the murder of his children?’
‘If we knew why he had been murdered,’ I said, ‘many things might appear in a clearer light.’
Lavedrine sat up suddenly. His eyes flared into mine. His breath was hot with wine, but his sarcastic temper was more inflamed. ‘Are you suggesting that someone came all the way from Kamenetz to Lotingen to kill those children, and carry off the mother?’ he challenged. ‘The inhuman ferocity of Prussian soldiers does not surprise me. They are renowned for it. On the field of battle they are merciless. But I can make no sense of the notion that a battle-trained soldier would slit the throats of children, then mutilate their corpses. How might this relate to Prussian military honour?’
He sat back heavily, his eyes dull and bleary.
‘The final punishment may not have been administered by a soldier,’ I replied.
Lavedrine’s eyes flashed in the candlelight. ‘Who, in that case?’
‘Someone who raises no suspicion in Lotingen. Someone who can be discarded, sacrificed, if it comes to that.’ I paused for effect. ‘Franz Durskeitner, for example. A man who knows the local terrain. A man who possesses skill with a knife. A man who can be easily browbeaten,’ I added, remembering the ease with which Lavedrine had insinuated himself into the woodsman’s favour. ‘The perfect instrument for the perfect murder. Durskeitner will have to be interrogated again.’
Lavedrine held up his hand to stop the flow.
‘That man is also dead,’ he said, staring deep into his wine glass. ‘They found him the day after you left. Inflammation of the lungs was the doctor’s diagnosis. You’ll recall how cold it was when we questioned him. A prison cell was not the best place for him. Not in that condition.’
A living image of the woodsman flashed before my eyes. The monstrosity of that half-formed body. The knotted muscles in his arms and shoulders, the fragility of all the rest. I recalled the discoloured wounds on his chest which had been doused with acid, then cruelly probed by the French soldiers.
‘Surely you spoke to him again?’ I quizzed. ‘You’d won his confidence. He must have told you more about Frau Gottewald.’
I did not underestimate the Frenchman. He was capable of keeping the best news until the last, if only to confute my theories and exalt his own investigative abilities. But Lavedrine slowly shook his head again.
‘The only interrogation he underwent was the one that you conducted,’ he said.
I sat in silence absorbing this announcement.
I had gone to Kamenetz to find the father. Lavedrine had stayed in Lotingen to search for the mother. Neither of us had been successful. And now, the last man to see the woman and her children alive was dead.
He raised his eyes and stared at me, drumming on his lower lip with his fingers. ‘The morning after your departure,’ he murmured, ‘I went back to the cottage alone. We were under too much pressure that night. We . . . That is, I was distracted,’ he corrected himself. ‘Despite my familiarity with murder and violence, I was shocked. The sight of those children . . .’
As he spoke, his expression changed. His gaze was fixed on the surface of the table, though I do not think he saw it. He was in that room again.
‘There is something in that house. Some element,’ he said, ‘that I am unable to put my finger on. I should be able to see it, but I cannot.’
He raised his forefinger and twirled it emptily in the air.
‘It is there. I know it. Right before my eyes. But I cannot focus properly.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I suppose it is because I am a foreigner,’ he said. ‘It’s like the German language. I understand it well enough, but sometimes a particular nuance of meaning escapes me. In a French house, it would be different . . .’
He tapped his fist on his forehead.
‘Those stains of blood on the wall beneath the window, for instance,’ he mused.
I thought back to those traces. We had puzzled over them together that night. But then, we had been distracted by the horror of the scene in that bedroom, caught up in the frantic search for the missing woman.
‘Have you made any sense of them?’ I asked.
He raised his eyes and stared at me, again drumming on his lower lip with his fingers.
‘They are distant from the bed, where the bodies were found. Yet, they are distinct, thick, dripping with blood. It’s almost as if they had been daubed there.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
Lavedrine did not answer at once. I thought he had not heard me, or that he did not care to answer.
‘Let me sum up the situation,’ he replied in a monotone, refilling his glass. He turned to Putipù and refilled her glass. Then, he poured more wine for me. It glistened like rubies in the candlelight.
‘Durskeitner is dead. If he was hiding Frau Gottewald, she is also dead by now. I failed to find her. She will have starved, or frozen to death in the six days that have passed. The town, coast, and woods have all been searched. There is no sign of her. So, we are inves
tigating four murders. According to you, the solution to this mystery lies within the ranks of the Prussian army in a far-off fortress. But then . . .’—he paused for effect—‘you spoke of treason.’
I drained my glass.
‘Whatever Bruno Gottewald did,’ I said, ‘the Prussians will never tell us.’
I paused, looking Lavedrine squarely in the eye before I continued.
‘If he were a French spy inside the walls of Kamenetz, the French authorities will know the details. There must be records of his treachery, correspondence, payments made in his name.’ My voice was low, my heart was hammering, as I forced on to my conclusion. ‘I was not able to breach the Prussian wall of silence,’ I said, ‘but you may have more luck on the French side. That is the pact.’
‘You want me to tell you French military secrets?’ he said with a chuckle.
‘That is exactly what I want,’ I replied. ‘For what it’s worth, I’ve told you everything regarding the secrets of a Prussian fortress,’ I insisted, fearing that he might see the light of the lie in my eyes. ‘Now, you must do the same.’
He stared silently into the depths of his wine glass.
‘Bruno Gottewald would not be the first Prussian soldier to change sides,’ I pressed him. ‘Thousands of Prussians have fled to Russia since the French arrived, and others have thrown in their lot with France.’
‘A turncoat?’ he queried, looking up. ‘Is that what you are thinking? A Prussian who has declared his allegiance to France? And for this, he and his family have all been murdered?’
‘This is what I suspect,’ I said with a nod.
Lavedrine considered the idea, then stretched out his hand impulsively to touch my sleeve. ‘I am a loyal subject of the emperor,’ he said. ‘But above all else, I am a criminologist. I want to solve this case as much as you do, Stiffeniis.’
I sat back more comfortably in my seat as we drank a silent toast to success.
‘Now, I’ll tell you what I have been doing in your absence,’ he continued in the same confiding fashion. ‘I have not been idle, I can assure you.’
‘I am all ears,’ I replied, raising my glass.
‘In the first place,’ he began, ‘I have discovered the name of the person who rented that cottage to Gottewald.’
‘Excellent,’ I said, encouraging him to continue. ‘Who is he?’
Lavedrine shrugged his shoulders, as if to diminish the importance of the fact. ‘A man named Leon Biswanger. I had him brought in to the General Quarters for questioning, of course, but . . .’ He hesitated, as if considering how best to express what he wanted to say. ‘He is a local man. I think that we ought to speak to him together.’
‘Do you believe that he is hiding something?’ I asked.
‘He doesn’t like being seen in the company of Frenchmen,’ Lavedrine replied. ‘Threats had been scrawled on his wall the last time he was obliged to visit the General Quarters. He has been targeted by Prussian nationalists, he says. He fears them more . . .’
He paused and waved his hand in the air.
‘More than the French?’ I asked, completing the phrase for him.
Lavedrine smiled and nodded. He rested his elbow on the table, propped up his chin with his hand, and stared at me without saying another word. I was worn out after the rigours of the journey. All I wanted was to go home and sleep. My leaden Prussian humour was no match for the wit that darted like mercury through the Frenchman’s veins.
‘I planned to visit him tomorrow morning,’ he continued. ‘At his own home this time. I had no word of your imminent arrival, but I would consider it an honour if you accompanied me. Together we may set Herr Biswanger’s anxious mind at rest. What do you say? Is nine o’clock too early for you?’
Before I could do more than nod, he went on: ‘I meant to make the most of this short divertissement from work this evening. But you, Stiffeniis, have brought the work to me. Which means I’ll have some catching up to do when you have gone.’ He smiled gallantly in the direction of his companion. Putipù smiled warmly back. ‘I’ll be late to bed tonight. So, let’s say ten o’clock. You’ve still to see your wife, I imagine. Here’s to the sacred duty of the marriage bed!’
He raised his glass to toast this intimate allusion.
‘Ten o’clock,’ I murmured coldly, wondering how he dared to think of Helena in the same vulgar terms that he applied to his painted harlot. ‘Where?’
‘The Bull’s Eye?’ he replied, with unaffected ease. ‘They make the most delicious cakes. I do love sweets,’ he added, waving his hand in the direction of the platter of figs and Putipù, like a glutton feasting his eyes before sitting down to gorge himself.
‘The morning I left you at your home,’ he continued, ‘I had some posters made and distributed around the town. Nailed to trees, left in shops and taverns. The usual thing. Asking for information about Frau Gottewald. The quickest way to test the waters, I thought. Enlist the help of the local populace.’ He slapped his hand on the table-top. ‘Too late!’ he exclaimed. ‘An Arctic blizzard might have swept through Lotingen, carrying the news from house to house. They knew already. Every single person in town knew exactly what had happened.’
He lingered over the last few words, then smiled at me brightly.
I returned it, unaware that I was exposing my flank to the dagger poised beneath the cloak of friendliness.
‘A surprising number of people came forward with information,’ he said.
This bland statement made me sit up. Had he led me on, inviting me to tell him the little that I had been prepared to tell him about Kamenetz and General Katowice, only to reveal that he had made more important discoveries in my absence?
‘Anything useful?’ I asked.
‘Gossip, hearsay,’ he replied with a dismissive shrug. ‘Frau Gottewald seems to have been blessed with powers of ubiquity. A number of people report seeing her in various places at one and the same time. Unfortunately, they never described the same person twice!’ He pursed his lips, then continued: ‘One man said that she was tall and blonde. The next that she was short and stout with a pockmarked face. She was seen on the streets of Lotingen one minute, wandering through the woods ten leagues away the next! Some people swore she had one child alone, others said two, three or even more. An innkeeper reported seeing her drinking gin in the company of soldiers. She drank them under the table, by all accounts. Nothing emerged that might be taken seriously.’
He raised his head and stared at me, that quizzical smile playing at the corners of his mouth. It ought to have put me on my guard, but I failed to see the danger.
‘With one exception,’ he announced.
A look of contentment appeared on his face, like a cat who had caught a mouse.
‘A person who was terribly frightened by the news of the massacre. A person who felt obliged to speak from a pressing sense of duty. A person we should enlist in our enquiry. A most credible and reliable witness, I would say.’
‘This is wonderful news,’ I exclaimed, surprised by the sudden intensity that had taken possession of Lavedrine. The mirth had gone from his face. He sat back in his chair, his eyes fixed on mine, saying nothing.
‘Who is this person?’ I asked. ‘Shouldn’t we speak with him straight away? Even before we speak to Biswanger?’
‘There shouldn’t really be any problem,’ Lavedrine replied. ‘Of course, it all depends on you.’
‘On me?’ I asked with a puzzled smile.
‘Oh, yes,’ he said, nodding his head thoughtfully. ‘The name of the witness is Helena Stiffeniis.’
20
I SAID GOODBYE to Egon Eis.
As the coach pulled away, I lingered by the garden gate, wondering how to greet my wife. She had spoken to Lavedrine. She knew what I had tried to hide from her. But Helena left me little time for thinking. Perhaps she had heard the slamming of the door, the pounding of departing hooves. The front door of the house flew open, and there she stood on the step, holding up a lantern.
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‘Hanno? Is that you?’
Her voice quavered as she called out. Her light made no impression on the dark space of the long garden that divided us.
I froze on the spot.
Helena could not see me, though I saw her well enough by the feeble lantern-light. She seemed more frail and slender than when I left, an impression that was fortified by the heavy shadows and the darkness. Her cotton nightdress clung to her slim figure, her hair a wild, restless halo enclosing that dear, pale, frightened face.
Her hair . . .
Unbound, free, the way it was the day I left home. ‘À la Sturm und Drang,’ Lavedrine had said, mixing French and German in an elaborate compliment. The odd expression had taken both of us by surprise, but Helena had been flattered by it. As any woman would. Serge Lavedrine was a Frenchman, he was one of the enemy, but I was no fool. The wit, the charm, and the brash eccentricity of that man would make a favourable impression on any woman who found herself the object of his attentions.
My resentment flared up like a bonfire. Against him. But also against her.
As she took a few hesitant steps towards me, I wondered whether she had let her hair run wild and free ever since the day that I departed. Did she show herself carelessly now to anyone, in that untended and spectacular fashion? Had she gone to visit Lavedrine in that state?
A picture flashed across my mind: Helena sitting close to the Frenchman, speaking with animation, telling him what she knew about the murders, while her hair danced before his gawping eyes with a vitality all its own.
Jealousy stabbed at my heart like a murderous assassin.
‘Helena,’ I managed to say, stepping forward to meet the light before she could discover me lurking in the dark.
The wind howled in the trees. She did not hear my voice. And yet she came on bravely, holding up her lantern defiantly, as if it warded off wolves.
‘Who goes there?’ she challenged.
Instinctively, I moved forward to meet her.
‘Hanno!’ she cried, taking a step backwards. ‘Why did you not answer me?’
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