Borrower of the Night: The First Vicky Bliss Mystery (16 page)

“And we’re expected to attend the obsequies?” I asked.

George smiled.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

I had assumed the service would he held at the Jakobskirche, where Riemenschneider’s altar is the chief attraction, but I was mistaken. I should have known better. There is no more space for the dead inside the town walls. So, following directions, Tony and I crossed the town and went out through the Roedertor to the new cemetery. It really is new; I couldn’t find any graves earlier than 1720.

For reasons known only to himself, Tony insisted on arriving early, so we wandered around the cemetery for a while. It is a pretty place—if you like cemeteries—well tended, and pretty well filled. A high stone wall encloses it; like the city of the living, it is bright with flowers. We saw several
Hausfrauen
, with green plastic watering cans, tending the begonias and the miniature pink rose trees which had been planted on the graves.

The others began to arrive. Miss Burton accompanied the
Gräfin
. She would come, I thought; dead bodies are just her thing. Blankenhagen was also present, watching Irma with more than professional interest. George watched everybody.

We filed solemnly into the little church and took seats—all of us except Tony. He marched up the aisle and accosted the pastor, a slight, dreamy-looking little bald man. I couldn’t hear what they said, but I saw some object pass from Tony’s pocket to that of the pastor. He disappeared, and Tony joined me. He was looking smug, but I had no time to question him before the coffin was carried in and the service began. It was short and ambiguous, in keeping with the state of the remains. When it was over, we straggled out into the cemetery behind the two young Rothenburgers who carried the wooden coffin. In a short time only a mound of fresh earth remained to show where the bones had been laid. It looked raw and stark in contrast to the ivy and flower-covered plots around it. No one would plant roses on Nicolas’ grave.

The
Gräfin
turned away. Miss Burton joined her, and they went off together. Irma suggested a visit to a café, and Blankenhagen was so pleased at her good spirits he neglected to intimate that our presence was not wanted. So we went to The Golden Star, and drank beer, and made conversation. Irma was looking gorgeous. She giggled and flirted, turning from Blankenhagen to Tony with impartial goodwill. I noticed she didn’t bat her eyelashes at George.

As we were leaving the café I grabbed Tony and dragged him to the rear. He struggled some.

“I want to talk to you,” I said. “If you can tear yourself away from Cinderella for a minute.”

“She gets prettier all the time,” said Tony, watching the threesome which was now some distance ahead.

I wasn’t jealous. I merely felt he ought to face facts.

“Yes, she does, and I wonder why? How come she’s so relaxed and pleased with life these days?”

“Maybe she’s in love,” said Tony fatuously.

“And maybe she’s pleased because her plans are working.”

It took the romantic jerk several seconds to see what I meant.

“Irma?” he exclaimed, so loudly that I slapped my hand over his mouth. He pulled it off and continued, just as indignantly, but in a lower voice.

“You’re crazy jealous. How could she manipulate all our ghosts?”

“I will pass over your gratuitous and uncouth insult,” I said, “and point out a few solid facts. The profit motive applies just as well to Irma as it does to her aunt. So far as opportunity goes, she has the best of anyone. You saw the hidden stairs on the plans; she could have gotten out of her room and left the door locked. As for the armor, it would take a short man to wear it—
or a woman
. But the really damning fact is the séance. Unless you believe in possession—which I do not—how do you explain her reference to the fire? She’s lived here all her life, she could have found out about Konstanze’s death the same way you did.”

“I don’t buy the motive,” Tony said, but he was disturbed. “This is a damned roundabout way to get at a hidden treasure. She is the only one who could search openly for the shrine. Why all the ghosties and ghoulies? It’s a crazy way to act.”

“Maybe she is crazy. Maybe she has motives we don’t understand because we don’t know enough about the situation.”

“So what do we do now?”

“What we do is, you tell me about that mysterious envelope you slipped the minister.”

“Nothing to tell,” Tony said.

“Let us apply logic,” I said sarcastically. “You want someone to believe you kept something out of the steward’s belongings because there was important information in it—papers, maybe, in the pouch—though how you expect anyone to believe papers would survive… You think someone will try to dig up the…When, tonight?”

“That is the most ridiculous series of non sequiturs I’ve ever heard!”

“What time do we meet?”

It was about midnight when we took up our vigil in the cemetery. We had some difficulty finding a place that wasn’t already occupied. It was behind a low wall, shadowed by two funereal trees. We could have been closer to the steward’s grave, but I refused to move. I have few superstitions, but I try to avoid lying on graves when I possibly can.

After we were settled I glanced uneasily at the sky. The moon was almost full, but the sky to the west was overcast, and from time to time clouds obscured the moon and left the graveyard quite dark. The night was warm, but damp lingered in the earth under the tree, and the blanket I had brought was useful.

Tony keeps insisting, with maddening monotony, that what happened was not his fault. Now I don’t hold him accountable for meteorological phenomena. The dark cloud that hid the moon around 2 A.M. was more or less unexpected and undeniably uncontrollable. But the fact remains that if he had been paying attention…I’m perfectly willing to admit I wasn’t paying attention either. All I want him to do is shoulder half the blame.

It was not until we heard the creak of hinges that we realized what was going on. Even then things might have worked out if Tony had kept his head. Instead of moving slowly and quietly, he leaped to his feet, planting a knee in my stomach in the process. I grunted.

The scuffle was warning enough for the grave robber. I had only a glimpse of a dark form leaving the grounds at impressive speed. Tony started in pursuit and lost valuable time by falling into the hole that had been excavated. When he realized where he was, he got out with considerable alacrity. The moon was still hidden, and he cursed it fluently, without noticeable results.

I had caught up with him by that time, having recovered my breath while he was floundering around in the open grave.

“Hurry,” I yelled. “Street outside is lighted… we can see…”

We couldn’t see our quarry, but we could hear him. Cemeteries are notoriously quiet places, especially in the middle of the night. From the sounds, the man seemed to be heading for the gate on Ansbacher Strasse.

As we had already ascertained, the gate was locked. I didn’t expect it to detain our agile adversary for long, however. He was over the gate before we reached the spot. Our progress had been frustratingly slow; even if I had had no qualms about stepping on graves, the stones were close together and the paths were winding. We got over the gate, in our turn, leaving a piece of my slacks on the spikes.

The street outside curves and is lined with trees. There was no one in sight. Assuming that the grave robber would head for the inner city, and the
Schloss
, we took that direction. As we neared the open area in front of the city gate, we were finally rewarded by a glimpse of the man we were after. One glimpse was enough for Tony, who staggered and stopped, for a vital couple of seconds, before he got a grip on his nerves and began running again.

I couldn’t blame him for hesitating. The figure was that of a tall Black Man, enveloped in a cloak that swooped out around his body like giant dark wings. The head appeared to be a featureless lump.

The monstrosity disappeared under the stone arch of the Roedertor. I admit, without shame, that I felt a healthy reluctance as we followed, running into darkness and into the enclosing walls that had been designed to hold back entire armies.

If you have never seen a medieval city gate you may picture it as a pair of wooden doors, plus a portcullis or two. Not so. This particular gate, which is more properly called a bastion, consists of a series of massive walls and narrow passages, designed so that a defending force could clobber the attackers at several points. Once past the first gate, an invader found himself in a circular area hemmed in by high stone walls with enclosed galleries, from which various missiles could be propelled onto his head. The only way out of this area was over a moat, whose drawbridge could of course be raised. Beyond the drawbridge a high tower defended the inner part of the bastion.

The gates are gone nowadays, and the drawbridge has been replaced by solid pavement. All the same, my shoulders hunched apprehensively as we entered the circular court. Pounding along the brick-paved street that crosses the moat and goes through the narrow tunnel under the tower, I felt a wave of sympathy for the soldier who had had to attack the place—not for the arrogant knight, safely encased in steel, but for the conscripted peasant in his leather jerkin, clutching his pike in a sweaty hand and hoping to God he’d never have to use it. I half expected an arrow to whistle over my head and rattle on the pavement. It was the sort of humorous gesture our adversary seemed to enjoy.

We got through the tunnel without incident, however, and came to a baffled halt in the street beyond the bastion. The tall houses of the old city loomed dark and silent on either side. We hadn’t made enough noise to awaken the inhabitants, since we were both wearing rubber-soled sneakers. The loudest sound was Tony’s heavy breathing.

I was pretty sure we had lost our man. There were a dozen hiding places in that crowded, narrow way, half a dozen alleyways and side streets he might have taken. Yet I still felt vulnerable and exposed, as if someone were watching me.

I glanced up over my shoulder. The town walls were shadowy bulwarks, cutting off the sky. A single lonely streetlight did little to lighten their darkness.

Up above, on the balustraded walkway, something moved. It looked like a black sleeve, flapping.

I clutched at Tony, who was staring stupidly down the Schmeidgasse. He let out a yelp.

“For God’s sake, don’t do that!”

“He’s up there,” I gasped. “On the wall. Tony—I think he waved at me.”

“You would think that,” Tony said bitterly. He pulled away from me and ran toward the flight of stone stairs that led up to the ramparts.

There may be worse places in which to pursue a crazy grave robber, but offhand I can’t think of many. The stairs are composed of the same rough brownish stone that constitutes the walls. They are steep, narrow, and very uneven. The walkway is stone-floored too; it is actually the top of the rampart, with a thin outer wall on one side. On the other side, only a waist-high wooden railing stands between the wall-walker and the paved street twenty feet below. There are lights at infrequent intervals; they are suspended from the houses that face the wall across a wide alley, and they do not illumine the stone underfoot, which is rough and full of unexpected dips and bumps. Tony took the stairs three at a time and went roaring down the narrow walkway like a mad bull.

I went after him, though I would have preferred not to do so. The pursuit was pointless now, and potentially dangerous. Our quarry could easily elude us; the fact that he had not already done so in the Schmeidgasse made me highly suspicious of his present route. But there is no arguing with Tony when he gets in one of his rages; I couldn’t even get close enough to talk to him, much less reason with him. So I followed. I had left him in the lurch once before, and I didn’t enjoy the memory of that moment of cowardice.

It’s a wonder we both didn’t break our necks. I kept stumbling; once I caught my foot in a concavity and ricocheted off the railing with a force that made that insufficient barricade quiver. Tony was some distance ahead, running like an Olympic champ. He kept vanishing and reappearing as the stretches of darkness between the streetlights swallowed and then disgorged his fleeting form. The effect was quite unnerving.

The worst places were the towers that break the wall at intervals. The walkway goes through them, and the enclosed chambers are extremely dark. Preoccupied as I was by more vital matters, I couldn’t help noticing the stench as we passed through these tower rooms, and I wondered what primitive instinct moves some members of the so-called human race to relieve themselves in every secluded corner, as dogs do.

All at once I heard a rackety din ahead. We had been running noiselessly till then; I recognized the new sound and a chill stiffened my knees. I ran faster, but it was useless; I couldn’t catch up with Tony. He had already reached the wooden flooring.

That was the cause of the rumbling noise—heavy feet, no longer on stone, but on thin wooden planks. One stretch of the walkway had this surface underfoot; I suppose it replaced a broken section of stone. I glanced over the railing to my right and saw that my memory of the topography was accurate. The alley was gone; steep tiled roofs crowded up to the very rail. And that meant we were approaching a critical spot.

The walls of Rothenburg have many towers, but only six or seven main gateways. We had ascended at one of these gateways and were now approaching the next, at a rate that spelled trouble. The inner chambers of the towers are brightly lighted compared with the complicated inner structure of the bastions. Still running, I tried to remember how the next one was designed. It was the Spitalstor, if my memory served me, and it was a wonderful place for an ambush.

In a desperate burst of speed I closed up on Tony, who was getting winded. I was close enough to see what happened, but not close enough to prevent it.

The rock missed his head. It must have meant to miss it, because it was as big as a skull and it came whizzing out of the pitch-black entrance to the Spitalstor when Tony was less than six feet away. It landed on his bad shoulder, and it knocked him flat.