HS02 - Days of Atonement (26 page)

‘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 investigating 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.

‘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?’

She did not rush to my arms. Nor did I throw them wide in welcome.

Slowly, the lantern sank to rest at her side. She came towards me, advancing step after step along the path, murmuring all the while like a prayer, ‘Thank the Lord! Thank the dear Lord!’

She stood before me, like a child in a trance. Her head fell forward slowly, and came to rest on my shoulder.

‘You are home,’ she whispered close to my ear.

I set my hand gently upon the crown of her hair, my fingers burrowing down through the thicket until I felt the warmth of her skin. ‘Come,’ I said. ‘Let’s go in before the cold puts paid to us both.’

I could find no other words to say.

As we entered the house, Lotte leant over the balcony in front of the children’s room.

‘Welcome home, Herr Procurator!’ she cried in a bright whisper. She was still wearing her apron and day-cap, and must have just finished putting the children to bed. ‘Shall I bring the babies down to greet you, sir?’

I waved my hand to prevent her.

‘Manni won’t forgive you,’ Helena said, as we passed into the parlour. ‘He said that you would return this night. I promised to bake a strudel if he was correct.’

The apples from our orchard were stored in a barrel in the attic. Helena thought of them as her secret treasure. Every day she would check that all was well, removing fruits that showed any sign of bruising. If fit to eat, they were eaten after lunch. If not, they were used for baking.

‘He was correct in his estimations,’ I said.

‘Then I must sacrifice my precious apples,’ she replied.

There was nothing playful in the tone of her speech.

I stood in my parlour in outdoor clothes, like a stranger who had lost his way and come knocking at the first door that he happened to find. The room was warm, though the fire in the grate was almost extinguished for the night.
Already stiff with cold, my fingers trembled with inner tension as I tried without success to unhook the clasp and shrug off my travelling mantle.