HS03 - A Visible Darkness (15 page)

‘What are . . . they?’ I could not find a suitable word.

There was a strong perfume of wax in the room, as if he spent long hours in there, reading or writing by candlelight, perhaps.

Dr Heinrich took two crystal thimbles and a matching decanter from a circular table. ‘I have long been fascinated by human engineering,’ he said, filling the glasses to the brim, pointing me to a horse-hair armchair. ‘I fashion replacement limbs. There has always been a need for them here on the coast. That is what the French require of me. I am not merely a physician.’

He raised his glass in a toast, though he did not sit down.

‘Have you been here long, sir?’ I asked.

‘I was born in this house,’ he said. ‘The practice was my father’s. The Heinrich family of Nordcopp goes back a long way.’

‘You must know the area well,’ I said, intending to make the best advantage of his local knowledge.

‘Better than most.’

He drained the contents of his glass in a single draught.

‘It is fortunate for me,’ I assured him. ‘Local assistance is what I need. Your professional view of this case will be invaluable to me. I read your report, of course, but one thing puzzled me. You offered no opinion regarding the cause of death.’

Dr Heinrich raised his shoulders and blew out air.

‘It could have been . . . well, just about anything at all,’ he said. ‘She was struck on the temple with a heavy object. A cudgel, a stone. Who knows? The blow stunned her, but it certainly did not carry off her jaw. I only hope that she was dead when the cutting started.’

‘Indeed, the missing jaw.’

I paused, waiting in vain for him to offer some hypothesis.

‘Not just the lower jaw,’ I went on, breaking the heavy silence, ‘the upper teeth as well. Why would anyone want to steal a jaw and a set of teeth? What purpose could such things serve?’

I could hear the note of pleading in my own voice.

He looked up at me. ‘Like you, I have seen that stark barbarity
and I can find no explanation for it.’ He hesitated a moment, as if debating with himself. ‘There is only one thing that any man wants in Nordcopp,’ he said in a calm penetrating voice. ‘Amber.’

He sank once more into silence.

I did not help him. I sipped from my glass and waited.

‘It may not help you much,’ he added some moments later, ‘but this I can say. Her death was not an accident. It was nothing like the dreadful mishaps that take me down to the beach more often than I like.’

I grasped at this conversational straw. ‘This morning on my way to Nordcopp,’ I said, ‘I saw a girl with her face blown away . . .’

His eyebrows shifted. ‘Works for Pastoris in Nordbarn?’

‘That’s her.’

‘Hilde Bruckner,’ he confirmed. ‘Now, that
was
an accident. Brought it on herself, the foolish wench! I was stuck with the task of trying to patch her up. She’ll die if she comes down with so much as a cold.’

He had made a start, but he stopped again abruptly.

‘That mutilation was caused by gunpowder,’ I persisted. ‘The person who told me also mentioned that a French soldier probably supplied it.’

‘Really?’ he said, busying himself again with the decanter.

That was it. He had nothing more to say. I had learnt twice as much from Grillet. And yet, I could not believe that Dr Heinrich was so detached, so apparently unconcerned about what was happening in Nordcopp.

I tried a different route.

‘I suppose you see a lot of accidents,’ I said, nodding at the casts on the wall.

‘Farm accidents, like that man in the other room,’ he replied. ‘Industrial accidents since the French arrived. The girls in Nordbarn sometimes manage to slice off a finger on those grinding-machines, having already lost a foot or a leg in the sea. Aye, that’s the major part: the girls on the shore. Gangrene is as common as an ingrown toenail. Occasional explosions, loss of a hand or an eye. I do what I can, but it amounts to little more than chopping.’

‘I heard another rumour coming here,’ I said.

‘You did?’ he asked, as my silence stretched out.

I looked hard into his eyes.

They did not flinch away, as I expected. And yet, there was something flinty and fixed about the way he returned my gaze, as if he resented the fact that I obliged him to be sociable. As if he had decided for reasons of his own to say as little to me as possible.

‘I heard that other girls have disappeared. Girls who harvest the amber. It is thought that they may have run away . . .’

‘Oh, it’s quite likely,’ he said. ‘They run away all the time.’

I sat forward in my chair, edging closer to him.

‘They also say,’ I lowered my voice, as if to confide in him, ‘that human remains have been found along the seashore. And that bones have been found in the sand-dunes. Have you heard such rumours, doctor?’

To my surprise, he smiled. It was the first time he had done so since I entered the house. ‘Human bones are often found in this area,’ he answered promptly. ‘I have a small collection of my own.’

My heart seemed to leap inside my ribcage.

‘May I see them?’ I asked.

He went across to a large black dresser with carved panels, curly spindles and a dozen shallow drawers. ‘I keep them here in my Cabinet of Curiosities,’ he said, sliding out one of the drawers. It was six or seven feet long, a yard deep. It had been divided up into twenty-odd smaller spaces, none of which was shaped quite like any other, by an ingenious system of interlacing struts. The exhibits were of differing sizes: some quite tiny, others relatively large. I recognised a tibia.

‘Did you find them all yourself?’ I asked.

‘I have bought one or two of proven local origin, but the others were found in the area by my father, or myself. A natural philosopher, he started off this collection more than fifty years ago. He discovered this skull in the dunes out beyond Nordbarn.’ He ran his finger around the rim of a large hole in the brow. ‘It was made by a stone axe, I’d say. I have a decent watercolour of such a weapon
somewhere in my print collection. Our ancestors lived by hunting and fishing. Sometimes, when food was short, I suspect that they may have eaten one another.’

‘How old are these bones, then?’

Dr Heinrich smiled. ‘There you have it, sir,’ he said. ‘
Exactly
, I cannot say. Accurate dating is the great curse of modern antiquarianism. My father used to make an educated guess, but that is hardly scientific, as I’m certain you would agree. There is a lively academic debate going on at the moment. There is no known method for judging the age of ancient bones. Being so resistant to decay, they are usually dated by association. If we find, say, a small skeleton in a tomb along with a round Roman shield and a short sword, we may safely assume that the contents, including the bones, date from Roman times.’

‘And in the absence of such evidence?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

I took a deep breath. ‘How many of these exhibits can be reliably dated?’

Heinrich lifted up the tibia and held it in his hands. ‘I know what are thinking, sir. You are asking yourself whether this bone, and others like it, might belong to women who have died more recently on the coast.’

‘You are correct,’ I admitted.

‘And you are
wrong
,’ he said with the measured authority of a collector. ‘The bones found by my father and I have all been carefully documented. Regarding exactly where and when they were found, that is. Each one bears a label, and is carefully entered in the Heinrich catalogue. There is little room for doubt.’

He picked up a small hollow bone, held it to his eye and stared at me through the hole. ‘This one, for example. It is very well-documented, sir. A
vertebra
amulet. It came from the crypt of the local church three years ago. The coast of Prussia has always been a violent place. Pagan tribes, Vikings, brigands, the Teutonic Order, all of them seeking amber. Then, the Poles, the Lithuanians, the Russians. Now, the French . . .’

‘You mention amber,’ I said. ‘As a collector . . .’

‘Not of amber, sir, I assure you. It costs too much for my humble means.’

‘Still, you must have an opinion,’ I insisted. ‘For instance, regarding the creatures, flies and so on, that are sometimes found in amber. Were there men on Earth when those insects ruled the air?’

Dr Heinrich fixed me with an inquisitive stare.

‘The Bible says that it was so,’ he replied at last.

Hand in jacket pocket, my fingers caressed the nugget that Kati Rodendahl had been carrying. I marvelled again at its airy lightness, the smooth surface of the stone, the warmth that it seemed to emanate as I closed it in my palm. As it must have done inside the girl when she was living. It would have cooled down after her death. It was as if the amber had lived and died with her.

I pulled it from my pocket and held it out to him. ‘I removed this from the corpse,’ I said. ‘Is this what the killer was looking for, do you think?’

The way Dr Heinrich swept it from my palm reminded me of Erika’s hawk-like swoop at the honey-coloured bauble. He turned it over in his fingers, held it to the light from the window, shifted it from hand to hand as if to gauge its weight.

‘A marvellous piece,’ he said at last. Having opened his mouth, he seemed unable to stop. ‘The colour, the size, the form itself, a perfect lozenge. Yet that is not all,’ he said, looking up quickly. I had not seen such undisguised animation on a human face in quite some time. ‘The insertion is absolutely unique. You may find wasps today, sir, but you’ll not find one like this in God’s Creation. They were drowned in the Flood. I myself believe that these creatures are far, far older. Older than mankind, in fact, despite what the Bible, that is, what Biblical scholars, say . . .’

He did not finish. His brow creased, he raised one eyebrow, and peered at me intently. ‘When found, the corpse was naked, according to Colonel les Halles,’ he said, his eyes fixed on mine. ‘Evidently you have found her clothes, Herr Procurator.’

Had he been more open with me from the start, I might have told him. We were both obliged to work for the French, but that
fact had not made us allies. We seemed, instead, to be standing on opposite banks of a very wide river, calling to each other from afar.

‘Let’s say, I found the secret hiding-place,’ I said laconically.

‘And the killer did not,’ he concluded. ‘Might that be why he vented his anger on the victim’s face?’

Helena dearest,

I arrived safely on the coast and have now started work. I seem already to be making progress with my investigation, and I dare to hope that I will not be delayed here long. The French colonel in charge of the camp is doing everything in his power to assist me. And the local inhabitants appear to be more at ease knowing that a Prussian magistrate is asking the questions, and that he has their concerns at heart.

How goes it all with you at home? Is Lotte helping you, as she ought? And what about the children? Are they behaving themselves? I only pray that they are not too troublesome. They were so excited at the thought of a new baby brother. It will be a great relief for all of us–and most of all, for you!–when the child is born.

I miss you all, and Lotingen, too.

Has the situation improved . . .

I had never been good at writing letters to Helena on those rare occasions when I was away from home. I asked her only what I did
not need to know, or knew already, and I lacked the courage to ask her what I really should have asked.

I wanted to say so much, instead I said very little.

I added a few lines regarding the general aspect of the coast and the state of the French camp where I found myself, assuring Helena once again that I would not delay my homecoming by so much as one single minute.

What more was there to tell that would put her at ease?

The door flew back on its hinges, crashing loudly against the wall of the cabin.

I looked up with a start.

A stubby forefinger was poking aggressively at my face.

‘To night we’ll dine together, Stiffeniis,’ said Colonel les Halles. ‘You can tell me what you have been doing all day.’

I had not heard him knock. Which is not to say that he had bothered to announce his arrival. Before he came, the only sound had been the muffled rumble of the sea upon the shingle shore below, the lesser rustle of a million pebbles as the retreating water tried to suck some back. If any knuckles had beaten against the door, I could not have failed to hear them. He barged in with the air of a superior officer who is inclined to see what his inferiors are getting up to in the privacy of their quarters.

And yet, it was difficult to think of him as my superior in any respect. His dark blue jacket was creased and crumpled. A pale tuft of lining sprouted from a jagged rip at the shoulder seam. His once-white trousers were stained, scuffed and filthy. His boots appeared to be sopping wet; he left a trail of sandy clots behind him as he entered the room. His face was wet with sweat. It had trickled down his temples and neck, and left white dribbles on his dusty skin. He might have come from some inhuman struggle which had wrung every single drop of every possible fluid from his body. Traces of fatigue were layered over his person. Oil, sweat, dirt and sand spoke out loud in spots and patches which dotted his skin and marked his clothes.

But the smell of him was worse. The damp, salty sea air, which
had filled the hut before he polluted it, seemed like all the balms of the East in comparison. If the breeze had fought to get in through the cracks, I could easily believe that it redoubled the fight to get out and escape from him. The odour of his unwashed body inundated the atmosphere. And yet, clearly, he was pleased with himself. The expression on his face declared that a day spent mounting a new engine was a day well spent.

On my own face, I knew, a less happy expression reigned.

‘I must finish writing . . .’ I began to say.

Les Halles waved his hand dismissively.

‘Finish it later,’ he snapped, then conceded with brusque magnanimity: ‘If it’s on my desk by tomorrow evening, that will satisfy me.’