The Left-Handed God (22 page)

Augusta had listened in horror. “You can’t, Mama,” she said. “Think of what it will cost. And what will we do when we get there? I’m sure a city like Mannheim will be much more expensive than Lindau. You know we must manage our money, especially now that we have to pay wages.”

“Tralala!” sang her mother, picking up a heavy purse from among her purchases and shaking it so that Augusta could hear the clinking of coins. “We have plenty of money. One hundred
gulden
.”

“One hu…‌how did you get that?”

“Look around you, girl. I’m a property owner. I borrowed the gold on the house. Quite easy.”

“Oh, Mama! What will Franz say? Oh, you shouldn’t have done that.”

“And why not? The house is mine. I can do with it as I wish. I cannot imagine why I didn’t think of it before.”

“But Mama, how will we pay back the money?”

“Don’t be silly. We won’t have to.”

Augusta tried again. “Mama, it is a loan. You have to pay back the money. With interest. How will you do that?”

Her mother laughed. “Foolish girl. Once we get to Mannheim, we’ll find you a rich husband. Someone of good birth and with a position at court. Someone who will help Franz with his career and see to it that I’m taken care of.”

Augusta was aghast. “What makes you think some stranger in Mannheim will want to marry me?”

Her mother cocked her head and eyed her speculatively. “You’re not bad looking, you know,” she said, astonishing Augusta who had never heard her mother say anything of the sort and thought herself plain. “With the right clothes and hair style you’ll look charming. Franz must seek
entrée
among the best people at court and introduce you to his friends. Nothing could be simpler.” She laughed and raised the fat purse again, shaking the gold inside. “We’ll order new gowns to be made in the latest fashion and have our hair done once we get to Mannheim. Now go and pack your best dress and enough shifts and stockings for a week. You can wear your second best in the coach.”

It was mad. And awkward. And somewhat laughable. Here she was, secretly betrothed to Jakob, a man as wealthy as even her mother could wish, but she would be snatched away from him and paraded in Mannheim as if she were a heifer at a cattle market because her mother was piqued that Jakob had preferred her daughter.

Of course, she had no choice but to make this foolish trip. If she refused, her mother would go by herself, and Augusta was afraid of what would happen then.

She would have to let Jakob know of her mother’s plan, but there was little chance of slipping away while Mama was organizing her madcap journey. In her room Augusta sat down and wrote to him, her first love letter. It did not read like any love letter she had ever read in books, and after rereading the matter-of-fact statements about her imminent departure (she did not mention her mother’s intentions of finding her a husband), she added, “I shall miss being near you, dear Jakob, but surely it won’t be long until I may see you again.” It was true, even if it lacked the warmth of desire expressed by Angelus Silesius. She sealed the missive and, still feeling it inadequate, she kissed it, though Jakob would not know that she had done so. Then she put it in the pocket of her apron and went in search of Elsbeth.

But Elsbeth was busy with her mother. They were sorting through her mother’s wardrobe and gathering a large pile of skirts, shifts, caps, and kerchiefs that Frau von Langsdorff wanted mended, taken in, washed, pressed, or otherwise improved before their departure.

Elsbeth was not a safe messenger in any case. The girl could not keep her mouth shut. Augusta looked for Max instead and found him stacking firewood behind the shed.

“Max,” she said, blushing a little, “would you take this note to Herr Seutter for me? Be sure to give it into his own hand. It seems we are to go on a journey tomorrow and neither Mama nor I have time to see him before we leave.”

Max took the letter, but he looked angry. Perhaps he did not like being sent about like her errand boy. “I’m sorry, Max,” she said. “I wouldn’t ask this favor if I had another way to send the message.”

“You should not go running off to Mannheim like that,” Max said. “It’s not safe for two females to travel on their own. It’s especially not safe when one is taking quite a lot of money.”

So her mother had already shared the news with her servants. What else had she shared? That she planned to find a husband for her daughter? Augusta said, “We won’t be gone long, and my brother is in Mannheim. But I thank you for your concern. We shall be careful.”

*

The assassin had made up his mind to murder the old man only because he had no choice. What happened at Freiberg had been easy and safe, but this was different. He nearly panicked several times and was in a state of nerves all the way to Schwetzingen, his hands so wet with perspiration that he could hardly hold the reins.

Thank God, horses were sure-footed creatures in the dark, or he might have taken an awkward tumble. His mind was not on the road but on what he was about to do.

He was very comfortable with a gun, a marksman of distinction, but a gun would not serve this time. This must look like a natural death. He was neither a burglar, nor could he claim any experience with the
garrote
, but that was what he carried in his pocket. He thought to string the body up by a noose afterward, somewhere near a toppled chair to make it look as though the old man had hanged himself out of grief over the loss of his only son.

But strangling a man required getting close enough to the victim to lay hands on him. What if he did not cooperate and raised an outcry? And even if he was quiet, what of having to hold him as he choked to death? He felt nausea rising from his stomach and swallowed down bile.

He pictured the bulging eyes, a mouth wide open in a silent scream, a swollen tongue pushing out like some slimy creature. He imagined the choking, rasping sound coming from a collapsed windpipe, the smell of sour old age, the weak struggle faltering, and the worn-out body sagging in his arms. To come so close to the moment of death should never have been part of his service to the great man’s cause.

And there was the danger. He might be caught. Even if he was not caught, he might not be able to do it. He hardly dared to think what another failure would mean. The old one knew far too much to be allowed to live.

The manor lay quiet in the moonlight. Not even a dog barked.

Trembling a little with nerves, he left his horse out of sight from the road and walked cautiously toward the main house. All was silent and peaceful. He had prepared an explanation, should he be stopped, but no one stopped him. The baron shared the house with an elderly couple, who occupied the top floor, while he had his rooms downstairs. Old people sleep soundly, he thought, trying to give himself courage.

The baron’s rooms were in the back. He walked around the building into the small, formal garden and was momentarily unnerved by the black shapes of trimmed bushes, standing there like so many strategically placed sentries. He stopped to calm his breathing. Somewhere water trickled‌—‌a fountain. The gravel crunched softly under his soles, and he moved off the path and onto the dirt of a bed of late roses that shone ghostly white in the moonlight. The scent of roses was in the air, and somewhere an owl hooted.

The rooms on the lower floor opened by glass doors onto the terrace. He tried the doors one by one. Somewhat to his surprise, the door to the old man’s room was unlatched. Very careless, thought the assassin and was suddenly filled with confidence.

He eased open one wing. It squeaked a little, and he stopped to put his ear to the opening: nothing but a soft snoring sound. The old were deaf, but what if there was a servant sleeping nearby? His information about the inhabitants of the house might be faulty. He bit his lip and slowly opened the door a little more until it was stopped by heavy velvet draperies. A thin line of light showed between them. Pushing the curtain aside, he slipped into the room. The draft caused a candle to flicker beside the curtained bed, but the sleeper still snored.

No sign of a servant, and the door to the adjoining room was closed.

Inside the bed curtains, he could make out the form of the sleeper. A book he had been reading when he fell asleep lay open on the turkey carpet next to a pair of slippers. A chamber pot peeked out from under the bed. On the small table beside the candle stood a brown medicine bottle and an empty glass with a spoon in it. A sleeping potion, the assassin hoped.

He crept up to the bed and peered at his victim. The old man slept on his back, his mouth slack under the white mustache, a trail of saliva trickling on the pillow.

Disgusting. The old had no business clinging to their miserable lives. The assassin felt for the
garrote
in his pocket when he saw the large bolster beside the sleeper. Perhaps it had propped up the old man’s back earlier while he was reading.

Holding his breath, he reached across, his eyes on the sleeping man’s face. The snoring sound changed, became more guttural, then stopped. The assassin snatched the bolster, pushed it down over his victim’s head, and pressed.

A hoarse cry, followed by a mewling sound, came from under the pillow, then the old man’s sticklike arms came up to push and tear at the pillow and flail about. His legs pulled up and kicked at the cover. His body arched.

Damn! The old bastard was stronger than he had expected and making more noise than was desirable. Climbing onto the bed, the assassin straddled the heaving, twisting body and forced his weight down hard on the bolster. The arms flailed more violently and one caught the glass. It fell with a clatter of the spoon but did not break. Nearly frantic now, the assassin lay down bodily on top of the old man to stop his thrashing. He pinned down the old man’s legs with his, caught the flailing arm, and held the bolster in place with his weight, pressing his face down on it.

As he lay thus, feeling the convulsions of the other body beneath his, he thought that this murder was astonishingly similar to rape. The struggle against his body felt just like having an unwilling woman under him, an exciting experience he had savored several times in his life. He felt himself grow hard. At first this reaction shocked him and he tried to control it, but the urge was too powerful and the stimulus too insistent. He came just as all movement ceased under him.

He staggered off the corpse and out of the room, hardly aware of what he was doing. Not until he was well clear of the estate, galloping back to Mannheim as fast as he could make his horse go, did he regain some mental equilibrium.

He had ridden like this on moonlit nights after spending a night with a woman. Not all those times had involved rapes, of course, but several of the women had been married, and the excitement of secrecy and danger had been similar. And so was the feeling of physical well-being, of satisfaction, of pleasure consumed. In fact, murder had been more exhilarating, had brought such a rush of energy and such an orgasm that it exceeded all sexual encounters in his life.

*

Max was angry. How dare the old biddy pack up his angel and depart for Mannheim to find her a husband. Someone should keep an eye on silly females. And she had that great bag of money with her. A very tempting bag of money. He had been tempted himself.

His first instinct was to follow them, but he could not go to Mannheim. Koehl was there and had paid him to kill his angel’s brother.

That did not mean that he intended to deliver her letter. After having seen the ladies and their bags and trunks safely stowed in the post coach, he returned to the house. In the empty kitchen, he took the letter from his pocket and kissed it. He thought he still detected a trace of her scent, though he had slept with it under his cheek all night. He wanted to keep it, knew it was much safer not to, but in the end he tucked it back in his pocket.

Then he went out to dig over the vegetable garden. Elsbeth was there, bent over to pour some milk into a bowl for the cat. The wind lifted her skirts and petticoat, revealing sturdy legs and thighs. The white wool stockings stopped above the knee. Max eyed the firm rosy flesh appreciatively. Perhaps waiting for their employers’ return would not be without its compensations.

*

Of course, Frau von Langsdorff was incapable of keeping her plans and her ample purse to herself on the journey. Augusta tried warning glances, squeezing her mother’s arm, and even interrupting her chatter. Nothing stopped her. Two female passengers‌—‌an old lady traveling with her companion‌—‌became her confidantes. The other passenger, a clergyman in black, glanced her way disapprovingly from his corner, then turned his back on them and opened his Bible.

Other travelers came and went. Augusta examined them all anxiously for signs of moral turpitude, but none showed particular interest in them or their money. She began to relax a little and even took some consolation from the fact that her mother’s excitement saved her from silent ill temper or renewed accusations.

They reached Ulm without mishap but had to spend the night because there was no connecting coach to Mannheim until the next morning. Frau von Langsdorff had not counted on this and complained bitterly about the inconveniences of the postal system. Yet she ate well and slept like the dead, while Augusta, who had pushed a chair under the door handle, barely closed an eye.

The night passed without interruptions, as did the next day and night. The company in the coach on the final leg of the journey looked harmless enough: a well dressed young woman with two small girls and the disapproving parson who had spent the previous days’ journeys reading his Bible. There were also two young men, apprentices by their looks, who rode outside, but they only went as far as the next town.

Her mother instantly struck up a conversation with the parson, greeting him like an old friend. He listened to her reminiscences about being a minister’s wife and her dear husband’s sterling qualities and saintly character but said little himself. Eventually, she gave up and drew the young woman into a conversation. Augusta looked out of the window at the passing scenery, and having been deprived of sleep, dozed off. She woke to the same chatter, except that her mother was once again embarked on her plans for Augusta’s marriage. The parson had returned to his Bible study.