The Ludwig Conspiracy (47 page)

“What are you going to do, for God’s sake?” asked Dr. Loewenfeld in surprise.

“I am at least going to pay the king my last respects,” he said firmly. “And if you gentlemen have a spark of good feeling in you, you’ll do the same.”

Kaulbach disappeared into the rain outside, and after a little while the rest of us followed him. Only the baron still sat by the fire in a melancholy mood, watching the fire slowly burn down. His face was hard and gray as rock.

I
T WAS JUST
after midnight when we finally returned to Berg. Bright lights blazed everywhere in the castle and the park; people were running around in agitation, many of them weeping or embracing; gendarmes hurried through the wood like restless spirits. The bodies of Ludwig and Dr. Gudden had been found only about an hour before. They had drifted north from the original scene of the crime. We suspected that the dead Carl von Strelitz had already been taken away by police officers who knew his intentions.

In the general turmoil, it was easy for us to gain access to the castle. After all, Dr. Loewenfeld had been the king’s personal physician, although he had seen less and less of him in recent years. It was Dr. Loewenfeld, too, who made it possible for us to pay our condolences to the body of the dead king.

Contrary to our expectations, His Excellency had not yet been taken to Berg Castle but was lying in the boathouse with Dr. Gudden. They had been covered up to the throat with cloths, but in the general atmosphere of haste, no one had thought of washing Ludwig’s face. His mouth was open as if in a silent scream, and a thin line of dried blood stuck to his cheek.

“Do you see all that blood on the floor?” Dr. Loewenfeld whispered to me. “I’d assume that came from your Prussian agent before he was spirited away from here in secret. Either from him or from Ludwig himself. In any event, they’ll have to clean this boathouse thoroughly to get rid of all the traces.”

The four of us took off our hats and stood in silence before our king, whom we had wanted to save, and who was now taken from us forever. I felt the sense of something ending. The fairy tales disappeared with Ludwig, as did the last spirit of an epoch that had once teemed with fabulous creatures, strong warriors, elves and dwarves. They would be succeeded by pragmatists, by bureaucrats.

All at once I heard a faint rustling, and I saw Hermann Kaulbach bring out a sketchpad, damp from the rain, from under his coat. With quick movements, he captured the image of the dead king on paper. He also did little portrait sketches of Richard Hornig and Dr. Schleiss von Loewenfeld.

“Even if they fake everything else, there will be a record of this moment,” said Kaulbach quietly. He looked at the door of the boathouse, which was only half closed. The gendarme on duty had just gone out for a cigarette.

“Let us promise not to forget all this. We owe His Majesty that.”

We nodded gravely and murmured our promise.

Only a moment later, a thought flashed through my mind. Kaulbach’s words had reminded me of something. I, too, owed a duty to Ludwig.

The king’s letter!

Hadn’t Ludwig himself called it the most important missive he had ever written? I had promised to deliver it to some person unknown at Linderhof. And in all the turmoil, I had forgotten about it.

I felt for my left-hand vest pocket, finding the letter, and the note bearing the name of its recipient. Who might that recipient be? Who could be important enough to receive the last letter of Ludwig’s life?

I had been told not to discover the recipient until I reached Linderhof. But time was short. And maybe it was too late anyway, now that the king was dead. So I took out the little note, unfolded it, and read the name.

At that moment, I understood.

“H
EY, WE WERE RIGHT
! We really were right!”

Sara’s voice brought Steven out of his thoughts. He was so absorbed in reading the book that her words came through to him muted.

“What . . . what do you mean?”

Sara pointed to the monitor of her laptop. “The lines of poetry and the roman numerals. They really do spell out a sentence. See for yourself.”

Steven looked at her and at the screen, on which a greenish table was shimmering.

In the king’s fourth castle a scion shows the dearest of his treasures.

The bookseller frowned. “What in the world . . .” he began.

“
Fluch
really did stand for Ludwig Uhland’s poem
‘Des Sängers Fluch,’
‘The Singer’s Curse,’ just as you suspected,” Sara said. “
‘Legende’
and
‘Ballade’
are two not very well-known poems by Goethe. The most difficult ones to track down were
Thal
and
Winsperg.
But thank goodness, there are also a few ballads now rightly forgotten in that little old book.” Sara triumphantly held up Zöller’s volume of poetry. “
Thal
is
Der Graf von Thal,
The Count von Thal, by Annette von Droste-Hülshoff, and
Winsperg
refers to a rather boring poem by Adalbert von Chamisso called
‘Die Weiber von Winsperg,’
‘The Women of Winsperg.’ Taken together with the roman numerals for lines and words, we get this sentence . . .” She emphasized every single word. “
In the king’s fourth castle a scion shows the dearest of his treasures.
We’ve finally solved the puzzle. That’s the place that crazy Luise was blathering on about.”

Sara gave a V for victory sign, grinning broadly. “Now we just have to go to the king’s fourth castle and . . .”

Steven raised his eyebrows. “Fourth castle? As far as I know, Ludwig built only three castles. Linderhof, Herrenchiemsee, and this one, Neuschwanstein.”

Sara bit her lip. “Damn it, you’re right,” she said quietly. “There’s something wrong.” She frowned. “How about Ludwig’s hunting lodge on the Schachen, in the Wetterstein mountains? Or Berg, maybe? It’s a castle, after all, even if Ludwig didn’t build it himself. Could that be it?”

“I don’t know. It strikes me as illogical. All that trouble, just to lead us to Berg. We might as well start at the Residence Palace in Munich itself.” Steven sighed. “Whatever we do, we have to do it fast.” He glanced at Albert Zöller, who was still lying on the cold mosaic floor. His large paunch rose and fell like a pair of bellows, sweat poured over his face, which was white as a sheet, and he was breathing heavily. “Uncle Lu isn’t going to last much longer.”

“Do the last pages of the diary maybe give any information about this fourth castle?” Sara asked, nervously crumpling up her cigarette pack.

“Not so far.” Steven opened the diary again. There was only one last entry to read. “But at least I think I now know what’s driving our dear friend Luise, and what that treasure really is.”

“You know . . . ?” Sara stared at him, wide-eyed. “Come on, then, what is it? Gold? A crown? The truth about Ludwig’s death?”

Steven shook his head. “That’s just what we’re supposed to think. Yes, Marot tells us how the king lost his life. But that’s not Ludwig’s greatest secret, not by a long shot.”

“Then what is?”

“Solving the puzzle has already given us the first clue,” replied Steven. He ran his fingers over Marot’s closely written lines. “But suppose you give me another five minutes to read this, out loud if you like. Then we’ll know the whole truth.”

I
reached Linderhof castle late that morning. The meadows were wet with rain and dew, and the morning heat of the summer’s day made the moisture rise as mist. The whole park was embedded in white clouds. It was like a dream world through which I trudged, weary and feverish, in search of my beloved.

I found Maria by the linden tree where we had first met. She was playing with her son, Leopold. The boy, laughing, was running away from his mother, who had tied a white scarf around her eyes and was groping about in a circle like a dancing bear. Quietly, I stole up behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Ludwig, is that you?” she whispered. “Have you come back from Neuschwanstein at last? We’ve missed you.”

I took her blindfold off and turned her firmly to face me. Her eyes looked at me in confusion as she blinked in the sudden bright light.

“You? But . . . ?”

“Ludwig is dead,” I said quietly. “His pursuers killed him.” I gave her the sealed letter. “He asked me to give you this. Maria, why didn’t you tell me that . . .”

My voice died away as her eyes told me that I had been right. Seeing the pain in her face hurt me almost more than the loss of my beloved king.

She took the envelope in silence, incapable of any movement. In a few brief words, I finally told her what had happened. Then we stood beside the linden tree for a long time without a word, until I saw that tears were falling on the letter.

Maria was weeping.

“I knew this would happen someday,” she whispered. “His enemies were too powerful. I think that at heart it was what he wanted. He simply did not fit into this day and age.”

“Mother, what’s the matter? Why are you crying?”

Leopold was standing beside us. He stroked Maria’s apron with his slender hand. Only now did his likeness to his father strike me. The black curls, the grave expression, the tall stature. He would be a handsome man, as handsome as his father had once been. Would he also inherit his father’s deep grief, his world-weariness, and all his little eccentricities?

“It’s nothing, Leopold,” said Maria, forcing herself to smile. “Go and play, and I’ll be with you in a moment.”

The boy went away, with a slightly sulky look, and Maria’s glance was serious again. “How long have you known?”

“About you and Ludwig? Not until I saw who was to be given this letter.” I heaved a deep sigh. “For months I thought that Leopold’s father was a married man from Oberammergau. I followed you there, Maria. Forgive me, I was sick with jealousy. I . . . I’m so sorry.” Ashamed, I put my face in my hands. “I was watching you from the house on the outskirts of the village of Oberammergau, I saw the embroidery things on the bench . . . I was sure that Leopold was a child born out of wedlock to you and that . . . that farmer.”

“You idiot.” Her face wore a melancholy smile. “That farmer is a woodcarver and, as it happens, my elder brother. Now and then I go to see him, taking Leopold so that my child will have at least a little family life. And after that I always feel most strongly how much I miss having a strong man at my side, a father for Leopold . . .” Once again, tears came to her eyes. “But the king needed me so much. I couldn’t leave him alone. I . . . after all, I was one of the few who understood him . . .” Her voice failed her, and we were silent for a moment.

After some time, I went on, hesitantly. “The way Ludwig treated you. That jealous scene in Herrenchiemsee . . . I should have guessed it far sooner. I thought he was jealous of you, but he was jealous of
me.
Because he loved
you.
And how about you?” I felt my throat constrict. “Did you love him, too?”

“Oh, Theodor. There are so many kinds of love. Love for a child, for parents, for a brother, a lover . . .” I breathed a sigh of relief; it did me good to see her smile, as she went on. “The king could never really show his love. And it was only a single night at his hunting lodge on the Schachen, and he was as shy as a schoolboy. Even then, he was a child at heart, often a dreamy child. And sometimes very angry.”

“‘He’ll kill me
.
’ That’s what you said on the island at Herrenchiemsee.” I was almost inclined to laugh. “I thought for so long that you meant Carl von Strelitz, but it was Ludwig you meant.”

“He could be insanely jealous. Of men as well as women. When he was disappointed in someone, it was as if something in him broke.”

“I found that out for myself.” With some hesitation, I pointed to the letter in her hand. “Don’t you want to open it?”

“I think I know what’s in it.” She folded the letter and tucked it into her bodice. “It will be a . . . what is it called . . . ?” She searched for the right word. “A . . . a statutory declaration. Ludwig always promised me that someday he would acknowledge Leopold as his son. But whenever I brought it up, he withdrew. A bastard in the house of the Wittelbachs, a liaison with a simple maidservant. It would have been only one more reason for them to have him declared insane.” Her face clouded over. “Well, the letter will do Leopold no good now in any case. On the contrary, if those wretches in Munich learn about him, they’ll probably have him assassinated. As Ludwig’s only son, he would have a claim to the throne, wouldn’t he?”

“Not if the statutory declaration was made by a madman. Ludwig’s adversaries would presumably base their arguments on that.” Thoughtfully, I nodded. “But you’re right; that gang can be credited with any vile act. We must keep the secret. If necessary even beyond our own deaths. Who knows . . .” I smiled mysteriously. “Who knows, maybe someday the truth will come to light. And people will recognize that Ludwig was not insane and did not commit suicide. Then, to be sure, his son could lay claim to the throne.”