Borrower of the Night: The First Vicky Bliss Mystery (9 page)

Looking like innocent tourists—which three of us certainly were not—we wandered clear across town to the old hospital area, while Schmidt spouted statistics about every building we passed. There are some lovely old buildings in the big hospital court; some of them are now used as a youth hostel. After the rather oppressive antiquity of the
Schloss
and its somber inhabitants, I enjoyed seeing the kids swarming around, weighted down by their backpacks but having a marvelous time anyhow. Sure, most of them were pretty dirty by the time they got halfway across Europe; cleanliness is a luxury when you are short on money and even shorter on time. Like any other mixed group, they had their share of no-goods, but most of them were nice kids seeing the world—pilgrims, of a kind. As we stood there, a pair of them emerged from the unadorned facade of the early Gothic church. I admit it was hard to determine their sex; but with their long locks and faded clothes they didn’t look as incongruous as one might have expected.

Outside the hospital stands one of the more formidable of the city gates. George, who was visiting Rothenburg for the first time, seemed fascinated by the fortifications. He nodded approvingly at the sections of wall that stretched out from both sides of the gate.

“They wouldn’t stand up against artillery, but I’d hate to attack the place with anything less. A roofed walkway all around for the defenders—arrow slits, I suppose, on the outer wall…?”

“That is correct,” Schmidt said. “They are proud of their wall, it is one of the best preserved in Europe.”

“Can you walk along it?”

It was a stupid question; we could see at least a dozen people up above, walking or leaning over the wooden rail that fenced the walkway on the town side. But Schmidt answered seriously, “To be sure you can. The walk is kept in repair.”

“But not now,” Tony said. “Where’s this restaurant? I’m starved.”

We had an excellent lunch, which included one glass of beer too many for me. Schmidt was glassy-eyed; he had eaten everything he could get his hands on, including a couple of extra platters of heavy dark bread. He announced his intention of taking a nap, and I had to admit it sounded like a good idea.

“I’m going to walk some more,” said Tony, with a meaningful glance at me. “See you later.”

He intended, of course, to search out the town archives. I really meant to look for the library, to keep my part of our bargain. But it was a hot day, and my stone-walled room was nice and cool, and the bed was soft. I didn’t wake up till Tony banged on the door, and I discovered I had just time enough to assume my best bib and tucker for the tea party.

My first sight of the
Gräfin
’s room at the top of the tower took my breath away. It was full of treasures; there was no sign here of the genteel shabbiness that marked the rest of the
Schloss
. An eighteenth-century
Kabinett
, with panels of painted silk, might have been designed by Cuvilliés. Next to it was a writing desk, French by the look of it, that had beautiful brass inlays over its leather surface. The sofa and chairs dated from Ludwig I; crimson brocade seats bore the Drachenstein arms in gold, and the wood was gilded. The
Gräfin
had a weakness for gilt, but she tolerated crasser metals; the massive silver tea service on the table looked like Huguenot craftsmanship. I have seen poorer work behind glass in several museums. The place was rather like a museum, a selection of the best of Schloss Drachenstein. Only the hangings at the window were new. They were expensive looking, made of crimson fabric as heavy as felt, embroidered with — you guessed it — gold threads.

I have been told, by critics, that I have a nasty suspicious mind. The sight of that collection brought out my worst suspicions. If these pieces were representative of the original furnishings of the
Schloss
, then what had happened to the rest of the furniture and ornaments? And why were the surviving goodies all gathered here in the
Gräfin
’s lair? She might at least share them with her neice, to whom they probably belonged legally. I have seen maids’ rooms better furnished than Irma’s shabby quarters.

I turned from my appraisal to meet the
Gräfin
’s ironical eye. If she knew what I was thinking — and I wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that she could read minds — she made no comment. She indicated the tall Englishwoman, who was perched on the sofa beside the tea service.

“My dear friend, Miss Burton.”

Miss Burton shook hands with us. Tony’s eyes widened when her bony fist clamped over his. Thus warned, and uninhibited by his archaic notions of courtesy, I was able to give Miss Burton a worthy grip when she tried to squash my fingers. She gasped. When she sat down again, her cheekbones were an ugly rust color, and Tony shook his head at me. He was right; we should keep on amicable terms with the
Gräfin
as long as possible, and antagonizing her dear friend wouldn’t help. But the two women, who were unappealing separately, gave me the creeps when I saw them together. They only needed a third to qualify for the blasted heath bit in
Macbeth
. Somebody had to keep them in line, and that somebody wouldn’t be Tony. He’s incapable of talking back to any female over forty. They hypnotize him.

As I expected, Tony was a ready victim for the
Gräfin
. He stammered like a schoolboy when she spoke to him. Irma fluttered around, speechless and servile, offering plates of cookies. George sat and smiled. Schmidt’s small dark eyes darted from one face to the next in open curiosity. I was waiting for a chance to ask the
Gräfin
about the
Schloss
library. I had a valid excuse for being interested in historical records, and the less sneaking I had to do, the less chance there was of being caught in a place I had no business being in. But before I found my opening, Miss Burton, who had been eyeing Tony like a hungry tiger, interrupted her friend in the middle of a long speech about the antiquity, nobility, and all-around virtue of the House of Drachenstein.

“Elfrida, I believe this young man is a sensitive. Perhaps we should make use of him to-night.”

Tony, who didn’t know what the woman meant, and who thought the worst, looked horrified. The
Gräfin
smiled.

“Miss Burton is a student of the occult,” she explained.

“Oh. Oh, God,” said Tony, looking, if possible, even more aghast. “Look here — I mean, I’m no sensitive, if that’s what you call it. In fact — in fact—”

He looked hopefully at me.

I contemplated the ceiling. I knew his views on spiritualism and the occult; they are profane. He has a morbid passion for ghost stories of all kinds, but only because he can suspend his disbelief for the purpose of entertainment. Torn between the requirements of courtesy and a thorough distaste, Tony looked in vain for rescue. He wasn’t going to get any help from me. It was high time he learned to stand up for himself.

“In fact,” Tony mumbled servilely, “I’m pretty ignorant about the whole subject.”

“Ignorance is not uncommon,” said Miss Burton, with a sigh. “Dreadful, when one considers the urgency…. But I feel sure, Professor, that you are mediumistic. Look, Elfrida, at his hands… his eyes… There is a certain delicacy….”

Tony was beet-red.

“But,” he croaked.

“Many mediums are unaware of their gift until they try,” said Miss Burton, giving him a severe look.

There was a hideous pause. George, shaking with suppressed laughter, gave me a look that invited me to share his amusement. Schmidt was sitting bolt upright, his teacup in one hand, a half-eaten cookie in the other. He caught my eye; and to my surprise, he said seriously, “The
Schloss
is an admirable place for such research,
Fräulein Doktor
. There is a strong residue of psychic matter in a spot where so many have lived and died, loved and hated.”

“You are a psychic researcher?” I asked.

“Only as an amateur.”

Miss Burton broke in.

“If we can obtain only a moderate degree of cooperation from Professor Lawrence, the least one might expect from a gentleman and a—”

I knew she was going to say it, and I knew I would laugh out loud if she did. It was time for me to be ingratiating; all this was leading up to something, and Schmidt’s attitude made me very curious indeed.

“I’m sure Tony will be glad to help,” I said, before Miss Burton could say “scholar.” “We all will. Don’t you need a certain number of people to make up a circle?”

The countess turned to look at me.

“How kind,” she murmured.

“Not at all,” I murmured back. “I’ve always been fascinated by the occult.”

Tony made an uncouth noise which I ignored. I swept on, “One seldom finds an opportunity to hold a séance in such ideal surroundings. An old castle…a very old family…”

“The Drachensteins trace their lineage unbroken to the ninth century,” said the countess. “In 1525 the original line died out, but the title was assumed by a cousin.”

“Died out? What happened to Count Burckhardt’s daughter?”

Tony’s question was followed by a silence which gave me time to think of all the things I was going to do to him for letting his big mouth loose again. In my opinion it was too early in the game to let the
Gräfin
know the full extent of our knowledge of, and interest in, the family of Graf Burckhardt. But since the damage was done, I decided to make the most of it.

“As a prominent American historian of the Reformation,” I said pompously, “Professor Lawrence is particularly interested in the sixteenth century.”

“Ah, of course.” You couldn’t call the gleam in the
Gräfin
’s eye a twinkle, but she was definitely amused. I found that expression even less attractive than her normal look. “No doubt you, too, are a prominent historian of the Reformation, Miss Bliss? It is a pleasure to find foreign scholars so well informed about our local history.

“As for Graf Burckhardt, he did indeed leave an infant daughter. She was taken into the family of her second cousin, who became Graf Georg. She later married his eldest son.”

So that, I thought, was the physical link between Konstanze and Irma, who was the direct descendant of Graf George and his wife. Funny thing, genetics….

“You said fifteen hundred twenty-five?” Tony tried to look casual. “That was the time of the Peasants’ Revolt. Was Graf Burckhardt killed in the fighting?”

“How strange that you should not know that, with your interest in the family,” the
Gräfin
said. “No, he was not, although he fought valiantly in Würzburg for his liege, the bishop. He died of a virulent fever, it is said, soon after his return home.”

George leaned forward in his chair.

“What happened to Burckhardt’s wife?”

The
Gräfin
grinned at him. It was a full-fledged grin, not a smile, and it was a singularly ugly expression.

“Of course you would be interested in her—after last night.”

Miss Burton gasped.

“Elfrida! Why didn’t you tell me? Has the countess returned again?”

Five

I HAD FORGOTTEN ABOUT IRMA. SHE ATTRACTED my attention by dropping the tray she was holding. It made a splendid crash. We swung around, as one man — to use a male chauvinist formula — and when I saw the girl’s face, I leaped out of my chair. I thought she was going to faint. All my half-formed suspicions about the relationship between aunt and niece came into focus, and without stopping to think I said rudely,

“If you’re talking about Konstanze, she hasn’t returned, and she isn’t about to. The dead don’t come back. Anyone who believes that rot is weak in the head.”

Miss Burton’s nostrils flared. “You said you believed!”

“I said I was interested. I am willing to admit the possibility of contacting those who have passed beyond….” That was an exaggeration, but I didn’t want to be excluded from the seance. “…but ghosts, clanking chains in the halls? Ha, ha, ha.”

My laugh was a bit artificial, but it affected Irma as I hoped it would. A faint touch of color came back to her cheeks, and for the first time since I’d met her she looked at me with something less than active dislike. I didn’t blame the girl for resenting me; to her, I represented the freedom and independence she conspicuously lacked. I didn’t resent
her
, even if she did have all the physical qualities
I
lacked. I felt sorry for her, and whether she cared for me or not, I wasn’t going to stand around and let the two witches bully her. Not with that kind of half-baked stupidity, anyhow.

Tony had also been studying Irma with concern. He chimed in. “I agree. I’m willing to go along with your theories up to a point, ladies, but let’s not get distracted by fairy tales.”

“Do you call Konstanze’s portrait a fairy tale?” The
Gräfin
had stopped grinning. She wasn’t used to back talk from inferiors, and it angered her.

“These chance resemblances are fascinating, genetically,” Tony said smoothly. “I remember once seeing a row of portraits in a French château. Two of the faces might have belonged to identical twins. But one man wore medieval armor, and the other the uniform of Napoleon’s Guards.”

Irma had forgotten my kindly intervention. She was staring at Tony the way what’s-her-name must have looked at Saint George, when he killed the dragon. Tony’s chest expanded to twice its normal size. He was so busy exchanging amorous glances with Irma he didn’t notice the
Gräfin
; but I did, and an unpremeditated shiver ran down my back.

“How fascinating,” she said, through clenched teeth. “You are indeed a confirmed skeptic, Professor Lawrence. Some day you might like to visit our crypt. I think you will find it interesting, in spite of your rational explanations.”

“Oh, there is a crypt?” For a moment Tony forgot to leer at Irma. This was his opening.

“Yes, there is a crypt. Ask me for the keys whenever you like. I do not allow casual guests to go there, but in your case…”

“Perhaps I may also take advantage of your generosity,
Gräfin
,” I said. “Is there a library in the
Schloss
? I am something of an expert on old books and manuscripts. If you have never had the library examined by someone who knows books you may discover there are objects of value that could be sold.”

“How kind you are.” The old bat gave me one of those smiles that make nervous people want to hide under the nearest piece of furniture. “I fear we have already disposed of most of our treasures. But of course you are welcome to look. Let me give you the keys now.”

I accepted the keys, and with them my
congé
, as Emily Post might say. The exodus was a mass affair; the tea party had not been a social success. It was primarily my fault, and I was delighted to take the responsibility. But I wasn’t sure the good guys had come out ahead.

At least we had the keys to the library. I tossed them, jingling, as we went down the stairs. George patted me on the back.

“Nice work, Vicky. But you’re wasting your time.”

“Hush your mouth,” said Tony, with some vague idea that he was speaking a kind of code. Schmidt, who was ahead of me, turned to give us a bewildered look.

“You will inspect the library?” he asked.

“Yes. Why not?”

“Oh, of course, of course. I only meant to ask — I too am an antiquarian. An amateur, of course!”

“Of course,” I said. We had reached the corridor leading to our rooms, and I gave the little man a very hard stare. He beamed ingratiatingly.

“It would be a privilege to assist you,” he said.

“She has an assistant,” Tony said. “Me.”

“Then as a favor to an old man?”

I didn’t see how I could refuse without giving the whole business an aura of secrecy, which was the last thing I wanted. In the unlikely event that I found a useful clue, I believed myself capable of distracting Schmidt’s attention from it.

“Sure,” I said. “The more the merrier. How about you, George?”

“No, thanks. It’s not in the library. I’ve already looked.”

He ought to have been on the stage. He didn’t even look back as he walked off down the corridor, humming softly to himself.

“It?” said Schmidt, with a frown.

“Crazy American,” said Tony wildly. “You know how they are.”

“If he doesn’t,” I said, sighing, “he’s finding out now. Come on. Where is the blasted library, anyhow?”

It was on the same floor as the Great Hall, off a corridor to the south. When the door swung open, I couldn’t hold back a groan. The room had once been handsome. The fireplace was of marble, with stiff Gothic figures of saints supporting the mantel; there wasn’t a nose or chin left among the holy crew, and the stone was pitted, as if by acid. Tapestries covered the walls, but they were cobwebby masses of decay; behind them, small things scuttled and squeaked, disturbed by our entry. The bookshelves sagged; the books were crumbling piles of leather and paper.

At some time, the library had been stripped of most of its contents. The remaining volumes were either valueless or decayed beyond hope of repair.

Then, by the dust-coated windows, I saw something that looked more interesting. It was a tall cupboard, or
Schrank
, black with age, but still sound. It was locked. I tried the keys the countess had given me, and found one that worked.

The
Schrank
contained several books, a metal box, and a roll of parchments. I took the last object first and carried it to a table. Tony and Schmidt looked on as I unrolled it.

The parchments were all plans of the castle and its grounds. They were very old.

I let the sheets roll themselves up again, and twisted them out of Tony’s clutching hand.

“Naughty, naughty,” I said gaily. “We don’t care about these old things, do we? Nothing valuable here. Let’s see what else there is.”

The books were three in number—heavy volumes, bound in leather, with metal clasps and studs. I wondered why they had not been sold with the other valuables, for they could be considered rare books. When I tried to open one, I understood. Hardly a page remained legible. Water, mildew, worms and rats had all taken their toll.

“Amazing,” said Tony, breathing heavily over my shoulder.

“Rather peculiar volumes to find here,” I agreed, picking up the next book. It was in equally poor condition.

“What is it?” Schmidt asked.

“You might call them books of philosophical speculation. In their day, they verged on the heretical. I’m surprised to find them here because the Counts of Drachenstein don’t strike me as intellectuals. This is Trithemius; this one is Albert of Cologne, better known as Albertus Magnus—”

“The great magician!” Schmidt exclaimed. “Fascinating! May I please—”

I handed him the book. He glanced at it, and shook his head.

“I cannot make it out. You two perhaps understand?”

“I read medieval Latin,” Tony said. Schmidt let him have the volume, and he opened it.

I was too distracted to indulge in my usual bragging. Of course I read Latin, classical and medieval, as well as most of the European languages. I had a feeling Schmidt did, too. Whatever his other talents, he had no gift for dissimulation. In other words, he was a lousy liar. When he said he couldn’t read the book, his eyes shifted and he changed color, the way Matthew Finch did back in fifth grade when he was trying to psych the teacher.

I left Tony deep in the heresies of Trithemius, and turned to the object that interested me most. If papers could survive for four centuries, it would be in just such a metal box.

The box was locked, but the key proved to be on the countess’s ring. I tackled lock and top cautiously; air, admitted to a formerly sealed container, can be destructive to items within. But it was clear that this box had been opened in the recent past. The lock had been oiled, and the lid lifted easily.

After a minute I turned to Schmidt, who was hovering.

“Nothing much,” I said, as casually as I was able. “A couple of old diaries and some account lists.”

Tony’s head came up. His nose was quivering.

“I’ll have a close look at them some other time,” I said, before he could speak. “Must be almost time for dinner. Shall we?”

I hated to put that box back in the
Schrank
. I didn’t trust Schmidt as far as I could throw him. Not nearly as far—I could have thrown him quite a distance. His shifty looks and inconsistent behavior were not proof of guilt; but whether he was witting or ignorant, my safest attitude was one of indifference to anything I found. I felt sure the metal box had once contained the letters which had been reprinted in
The Peasants’ Revolt
. Therefore someone had already searched its contents. And the box was as safe in the
Schrank
, under lock and key, as it was anywhere.

Having reached that conclusion, I was able to meet George’s smiling curiosity at dinner with relative calm. We fenced through the meal, with innuendoes falling thick and fast, and Tony glaring, and Blankenhagen watching all three of us as if he suspected our sanity. We had reached the coffee stage when Irma came to the table. As soon as I looked at her, I knew something was up.

“My aunt asks that you spend an hour with her this evening,” she said, addressing Tony.

“This evening? Sure… Is there any particular… I mean, why does she…?”

The girl’s face got even paler.

“I cannot say,
Herr Professor
. It is not for me…She asks the others to come also.
Fräulein
, Herr Nolan, and you, Herr Doktor Blankenhagen.”

Blankenhagen was watching her curiously.

“The
Gräfin
has not honored me before,” he said. “I think this is not a social occasion. I will come; but I too ask you, why?”

The repetition of the question was too much for Irma. She shook her head speechlessly and turned away.

“I think I know why,” I said coyly, as Blankenhagen, still on his feet, stared after her slim form.

“So do I,” said Tony, with a dismal groan.

We were correct in our assumption; but I was surprised when Irma led us to one of the guest rooms instead of the
Gräfin
’s aerie in the tower. The room was the one occupied by Schmidt. He stood modestly to one side while Miss Burton bustled about, arranging the setting for a séance. A heavy round table had been pulled out into the center of the room and a pack of alphabet cards was arranged in a circle on its top. In the center of the circle, looking as menacing and squatty as a toad, was a planchette.

The
Gräfin
was seated in a high carved chair. Hands folded in her lap, face and hair lacquered into mask-hardness, she had the air of a high priestess waiting for a ceremony. Seeing our surprise, she condescended to explain.

“Herr Schmidt kindly allows us to use his room. It has a particularly interesting aura.”

If Schmidt had any misgivings about the proceedings, he didn’t show them; beaming, bobbing up and down on his toes, rubbing his hands together, he seemed quite pleased about the whole thing. It was the first time I had seen his room, and as I studied it I could understand why it might be appropriate for a séance. It was by far the largest of the guest rooms, and was the only one still furnished with antiques. The walls retained their paneling—dark, worm-eaten wood, atmospheric as all get out. The windows were heavily draped.

I caught Tony’s eye, and knew what he was thinking as surely as if he had spoken aloud. Was this the master bedchamber, the room once occupied by Count Burckhardt himself? Some of the furniture might have belonged to him—the great canopied bed with its carved dragon posts, for instance.

George cleared his throat.

“Ladies, I want to warn you that I’m not a believer.”

“So long as your attitude is not positively hostile…” said Miss Burton.

“No.” George looked sober. “I’ve seen a few things in my travels…. Well, what about it, Doctor?”

Blankenhagen’s face was a sight for skeptics. If he had been able to voice his real feelings, they would have come out in a howl of outraged rationalism. But something made him strangle his protests, and when I saw Irma, standing white-faced in a corner, I thought I knew what the something was.

“I remain,” said Blankenhagen, after a moment.

We took our places at the table. I sat between George and Tony. The two Germans flanked Irma.

“Miss Burton prefers to sit to one side, in order to take notes,” said the
Gräfin
, as Tony, always the little gent, glanced inquiringly at that lady before seating himself.

“And you?”

“I never participate,” said the
Gräfin
, with an unpleasant smile.

Miss Burton extinguished the lamps, leaving only a single candle at the end of the table.

“Now,” she said, “put only the tips of your fingers upon the edges of the planchette. You all understand the procedure? If we are able to make contact, the discarnate will spell out its answers to our questions, using the alphabet cards. Do not resist the movement of the planchette. And let me ask the questions.”

She sat down behind Tony, holding a pencil and a pad of paper. His shadow hid all of her except her hands. They looked like the claws of a scavenger bird as they clutched the writing implements with feverish intensity. I wondered what sick desire had driven Miss Burton to spiritualism. The best psychic investigators approach the subject in a spirit of genuine inquiry and endeavor to maintain scientific controls. Not Miss Burton; the bony, clawlike hands betrayed her. The room had an “aura,” all right—not the psychic residue of past centuries, but the projected emotions of the living. The flickering candlelight left people’s bodies in darkness, casting ugly shadows on faces that seemed to hover disembodied in air.