The Left-Handed God (24 page)

Franz felt a slow horror creep up his spine. This time,
he
turned to check if they were being followed. “He didn’t tell me anything. I swear it,” he said weakly.

“I know, my boy, I know.” Stiebel patted Franz’s knee. “Franz, I have a confession to make. I’m ashamed to tell you that I did open the letter. I beg your pardon for doing so, but my lawyer’s mind would not let me deal with the case without having all the evidence. After my office was searched and you were attacked, I was afraid for your life.”

Franz gaped. “But it was still sealed.”

“In my profession one learns all sorts of useful tricks. A hot knife blade inserted behind the seal allows it to be lifted without breaking it.”

“You know what was in the letter?”

Stiebel nodded.

“Well, what did it say?” Franz did not know whether to be angry or glad.

“I didn’t understand all of it. The young man was careful to use some sort of code, pseudonyms instead of names. Apparently he and his father were in the habit of referring to acquaintances in that manner. It may be possible to ascertain who some of them are, if we can gain knowledge of the court and the various players in this conspiracy.

“Conspiracy?”

“I think the captain warned his father that someone close to the Kurfürst was a danger to the monarch. As I told you, Karl Theodor’s wife is by birth the direct heir. Her grandfather, the previous elector, wished to see a male on the throne and arranged the marriage. It is by all accounts unhappy. Add to this that Karl Theodor has enemies because he supports the Catholic cause and opposes powerful factions of libertarians and masons, and I worry about an assassination. Whoever is involved in this is playing a very dangerous game.”

“All that was in the captain’s letter?” Franz asked dubiously.

“Oh, no. The letter seemed just what you would expect: a son’s affectionate recounting of his experiences in that frustrating war and assurances that he was well and expected to be safe during the upcoming battle. He was
aide de camp
to Fieldmarshal Prince Stolberg , a position that apparently involves only the carrying of messages from Stolberg to commanding officers during a battle.”

Franz nodded. “Yes. That’s what he was doing when he was shot. It was just as the action started.” The memory of that gray, chilly morning returned to him with shocking clarity. As yet innocent of the bloody deeds he would witness and commit, he had watched the general staff discussing the enemy’s position. There had been those white puffs of smoke in the valley below as the first Prussian skirmishers fired, and then Captain von Loe had galloped across his field of vision and been struck by a bullet. In the back. Franz swallowed and said, “Oh!” He remembered that he had turned his head at the sound of that shot because it had come from the woods behind him. Horrified, he said, “He was shot by someone on our side. I didn’t realize it then, but that’s what happened.”

“Yes. He was murdered because he knew something.”

“Dear God! Did he know his danger?”

“I doubt it. Perhaps he didn’t even realize it after he was wounded. The letter didn’t tell of any fears for himself. But he mentions an overheard a conversation in camp one evening when he took a note from Prince Stolberg to Count von Meyern. That was where he suddenly referred to people by names taken from the Ancients. He spoke of Spartacus and Cato, and Minos and Ptolemy, and several others I do not now recall.”

“But how are we to know who they are? Both father and son are dead.”

“We know a few things about the political situation here, and those names are very much in the style used by certain prohibited groups to hide their identities. Some of these groups are opposed to rulers and support the overthrow of governments.”

“You mean like the Illuminati? They are masons, I think.”

Stiebel nodded. “Yes, perhaps. I happen to know some very powerful and respectable men who are associated with the masons, but there are splinter groups that are quite fanatical, and Karl Theodor is known to hate freemasonry for its attacks on what they call the ‘despotism of princes’.”

“So you think someone is planning to assassinate Karl Theodor?”

“Whatever is going on, it’s serious enough for someone to kill von Loe and attack you because they fear that the dying son passed on some dangerous knowledge.”

“Oh, God,” said Franz, “and I have drawn you into this! You must go back to Lindau immediately. You must be seen to have nothing more to do with me. Dear heaven, I hope it’s not too late.”

This amused Stiebel because he chuckled. “Of course it’s too late. But it’s certainly not your doing. I pushed myself into this affair. No, don’t concern yourself about me. I’ve had a very satisfactory life. You’re the one who is still on its threshold.”

“That’s a ridiculous way of looking at it,” snapped Franz, then recalled himself. “Sorry, sir, but you must know I couldn’t bear to lose you over something that I have done…‌or lose you at all.”

Stiebel reached for a large handkerchief and blew his nose. “Thank you, Franz,” he said a little unsteadily. “That means a great deal to a lonely old man.”

An embarrassed silence fell. They had reached the outskirts of Mannheim when Stiebel said with a sigh, “I think we have no choice but to find out what is going on and who is behind it. It is our duty as human beings. Besides, neither of us will be safe unless we stop these blackguards.”

“The danger will surely be greater if we stay and ask questions.”

“Oh, certainly. But we will be on our guard, and I confess it has put me on my mettle.” Stiebel chuckled. “You know, it makes me feel quite young again and ready to risk everything. Surely you would not deprive an old man of his second childhood?”

Franz laughed. “You’re being very foolish, you know,” he said affectionately, but the truth was that he, too, hoped for an adventure.

“Very well then.” Stiebel rubbed his hands. “Here’s what we’ll do.”

*

Murdering the old man had changed the assassin. It had been that enormous sense of power at the moment of his sexual release. Nothing like it had happened when he had shot the old man’s son on the Freiberg battlefield. At best, he had been satisfied with his marksmanship in hitting a moving target at precisely the correct moment.

Now he felt his fortunes were finally changing and he need never put himself at the command of the great man again or take risks for rewards that were both slow in coming and uncertain. As a gentleman by birth and education, he resented too bitterly the reprimands and threats, and the odious comparisons with that pickpocket Reinhard.

Besides, a certain person had spoken to him lately with a warmth that promised more. Women were easily captivated by his good looks and manner. Should he succeed in that direction, then the tables would be turned, and he would be the one to give the orders.

Meanwhile, there were still the cripple and his companion, and much depended on what they would do next, but he was perfectly capable of dealing with any threat from that direction. He felt lucky.

The assassin did not bother to report to the great man. Feeling vindicated as a man of action and ability, he took care of personal business.

On his way to the palace that evening, he checked on the visitors from Lindau and learned that they had returned from Schwetzingen, paid their bill, and ordered a post chaise to take them home. Excellent news. He had harbored a niggling worry that the crippled lieutenant knew more than was good for him. Their rapid departure proved otherwise. He decided to forget about them.

That night he spent most pleasantly at court, so well received by his lady that he engaged her in outrageous flirtation. Convinced of his own invincibility, he murmured his devotion to the woman who might hold his future in her soft white hands.

She took it amazingly well; so well in fact that it confirmed him in his decision to break with his unsavory past and devote himself entirely to his official duties. They offered a far more secure future than the dangerous schemes of the great man. Who knew, he might even some day step into the great man’s shoes.

*

Stiebel paid their bill in Mannheim and ordered a post chaise, telling the inn’s clerk they were returning home. Then he asked what had happened to the very accommodating man who had welcomed them on their arrival.

The clerk was dumfounded. “I assumed the fellow was the gentleman’s servant, sir. I hope nothing untoward happened? The world’s full of trickery these days.”

Stiebel agreed.

As soon as they left the city behind, Stiebel told the coachman they had changed their minds and wanted to go to Schwetzingen.

While the coachman enjoyed the food and beer at the Schwetzingen inn, Franz and Stiebel returned to the baron’s house, passing through streets that seemed filled with music and song. A female voice warbled some operatic aria in one house, while sounds of flutes and oboes came from another.

“What is happening here?” Franz asked in wonder, his eyes on an upper story window where a young man was playing the violin to a flower box crammed with scarlet geraniums.

Stiebel looked up. “Yes, charming,” he muttered. “It must be the court’s arrival. None of our business, I’m afraid.”

By the time they reached the baron’s house, the gayety of the town was forgotten and thoughts of death and danger were with them again.

“We’ll be too late to get a look at the poor dead gentleman,” said Stiebel, “but that was always unlikely. I have hopes of talking to that housekeeper, though.”

The chickens were gone, the front door stood open, and the house already had an empty, dead feeling. The housekeeper and her husband were sitting hand in hand on the oak bench in the hall. They looked as if their world had crumbled around them and there was little point in doing anything about it. When they saw Stiebel and Franz, the husband got to his feet with the slowness of painful joints. Franz wondered again why the baron had not provided himself with sturdier servants.

“Yes?” the old man asked. “How may we be of service?”

His wife got up more quickly and came to peer at them in the dimness of the hall. “It’s the gentlemen from this morning, Walter,” she said. “The ones that came about the young master.”

Stiebel nodded to her and extended his hand to her husband. “Please forgive the intrusion. I’m very sorry to trouble you again in your grief, but we have traveled a long way, my young friend and I. We came to speak to your master about his son’s death, and we couldn’t leave without talking to you. I expect you both knew young Captain Christian von Loe?”

She said, “Of course we did, and a better boy there never was. It was like the world had come to an end when we got the news. The master was like a madman at first. He paid off all his servants, sold his horses and carriages, and came here to be alone with just the two of us.” She paused and put a hand to her mouth. “Mary, Mother of God! What’s to become of us now?”

Franz said quickly, “I’m afraid I didn’t know his son, but I can tell you that he died bravely in the service of his country and with his father’s name on his lips.”

She pulled herself together. “God bless you, sir. It’s sad that the master could not hear you say that, but God’s will be done.” She glanced at Franz’s crippled leg. “War’s a terrible thing.” Her husband nodded and murmured something unintelligible.

After a brief, mournful silence, Stiebel said, “We’re both troubled by the baron’s sudden death, especially when you hadn’t expected it.”

She sighed. “He was as hale and hearty yesterday as any day before. We thought he was getting over his boy’s death. His Grace wanted him to come back to court. I blame myself.” She cast a glance at the bowed figure of her husband and began to weep again.

He patted her shoulder awkwardly and found speech. “The master walked in the garden every day and fed his chickens. He loved them. Very fancy chickens, they are. What will be done with them now?”

“I’m sure provisions have been made for you and the house and its contents,” Stiebel said.

“It’s that nephew will get everything,” he muttered. “The master never did like him. He’s a cruel and tight-fisted man who’s already come to put a price on everything while the master was still alive. We’ll be turned out, and the chickens will go into the pot.”

“Never mind that now, Walter,” his wife said. “We should ask the gentlemen in. They’ve come a long way to pay their respects. The master would’ve wanted it.”

Franz and Stiebel found themselves seated in a pretty salon where Frau Schaller served them coffee and small cakes from delicate painted porcelain.

“He loved these cups and plates,” she said. “They’re from the Frankenthal manufacture. His Grace and my master started the factory to give people work and bring some money to the country.”

Stiebel raised his cup to the light. “They’re as fine as the Sèvres ware I saw in Paris. I thought it was a secret process.”

“They have the way of it in Meissen, your honor. His Grace brought back the receipt from there.”

Franz, impatient with chatter about cups, asked, “Was there no illness to account for your master’s death? We were told that the loss of his son had affected his mind and body and he’d become too ill to work.”

She gave a snort and said darkly, “There are those that tell lies because it suits them. It’s true he wasn’t in his right mind at first, and it’s also true that grief made him harsh with people. But he was as bright a man as ever. It’s because they turned against him that he wanted to leave and be in peace.”

“You must have been a blessing to him in his loneliness,” said Stiebel soothingly. “Did visitors to trouble him often?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head emphatically. “Nobody’s been here for months except the nephew and the doctor. Yesterday was like any other day. He walked a bit, fed his birds, worked on his accounts and gave me some money for shopping, had his rest, and then he spent the afternoon in his library, sorting through old papers. He was writing a history about his work under Prince Karl Theodor. I called him to dinner at seven. A roast of veal with mushrooms, roasted potatoes, and a salad. He ate well. He always did like my cooking.” Her eyes welled over again, and she brushed the tears away with her sleeve. “He went to bed at nine with a book. I made sure he had his sleeping draft, and then Walter locked up, and we went to bed.”