Borrower of the Night vbm-1 Page 8

  ‘As for Graf Burckhardt, he did indeed leave an infant daughter. She was taken into the family of her second cousin, who became Graf Georg. She later married his eldest son.’

  So that, I thought, was the physical link between Konstanze and Irma, who was the direct descendant of Graf George and his wife. Funny thing, genetics . . .

  ‘You said fifteen twenty-five?’ Tony tried to look casual. ‘That was the time of the Peasants’ Revolt. Was Graf Burckhardt killed in the fighting?’

  ‘How strange that you should not know that, with your interest in the family,’ the Gräfin said. ‘No, he was not, although he fought valiantly in Würzburg for his liege, the bishop. He died of a virulent fever, it is said, soon after his return home.’

  George leaned forward in his chair.

  ‘What happened to Burckhardt’s wife?’

  The Gräfin grinned at him. It was a full-fledged grin, not a smile, and it was a singularly ugly expression.

  ‘Of course you would be interested in her – after last night.’

  Miss Burton gasped.

  ‘Elfrida! Why didn’t you tell me? Has the countess returned again?’

  Chapter Five

  I HAD FORGOTTEN about Irma. She attracted my attention by dropping the tray she was holding. It made a splendid crash. We swung around, as one man – to use a male chauvinlst formula – and when I saw the girl’s face, I leaped out of my chair. I thought she was going to faint. All my half-formed suspicions about the relationship between aunt and niece came into focus, and without stopping to think I said rudely, ‘If you’re talking about Konstanze, she hasn’t returned, and she isn’t about to. The dead don’t come back. Anyone who believes that rot is weak in the head.’

  Miss Burton’s nostrils flared. ‘You said you believed!’

  ‘I said I was interested. I am willing to admit the possibility of contacting those who have passed beyond . . .’ That was an exaggeration, but I didn’t want to be excluded from the séance ‘. . . but ghosts, clanking chains in the halls? Ha, ha, ha.’

  My laugh was a bit artificial, but it affected Irma as I hoped it would. A faint touch of colour came back to her cheeks, and for the first time since I’d met her she looked at me with something less than active dislike. I didn’t blame the girl for resenting me; to her, I represented the freedom and independence she conspicuously lacked. I didn’t resent her, even if she did have all the physical qualities I lacked. I felt sorry for her, and whether she cared for me or not, I wasn’t going to stand around and let the two witches bully her. Not with that kind of half-baked stupidity, anyhow.

  Tony had also been studying Irma with concern. He chimed in. ‘I agree. I’m willing to go along with your theories up to a point, ladies, but let’s not get distracted by fairy tales.’

  ‘Do you call Konstanze’s portrait a fairy tale?’ The Gräfin had stopped grinning. She wasn’t used to back talk from inferiors, and it angered her.

  ‘These chance resemblances are fascinating, genetically,’ Tony said smoothly. ‘I remember once seeing a row of portraits in a French château. Two of the faces might have belonged to identical twins. But one man wore medieval armour, and the other the uniform of Napoleon’s Guards.’

  Irma had forgotten my kindly intervention. She was staring at Tony the way what’s-her-name must have looked at Saint George, when he killed the dragon. Tony’s chest expanded to twice its normal size. He was so busy exchanging amorous glances with Irma he didn’t notice the Gräfin; but I did, and an unpremeditated shiver ran down my back.

  ‘How fascinating,’ she said, through clenched teeth. ‘You are indeed a confirmed sceptic, Professor Lawrence. Some day you might like to visit our crypt. I think you will find it interesting, in spite of your rational explanations.’

  ‘Oh, there is a crypt?’ For a moment Tony forgot to leer at Irma. This was his opening.

  ‘Yes, there is a crypt. Ask me for the keys whenever you like. I do not allow casual guests to go there, but in your case . . .’

  ‘Perhaps I may also take advantage of your generosity, Gräfin,’ I said. ‘Is there a library in the Schloss? I am something of an expert on old books and manuscripts. If you have never had the library examined by someone who knows books you may discover there are objects of value that could be sold.’

  ‘How kind you are.’ The old bat gave me one of those smiles that make nervous people want to hide under the nearest piece of furniture. ‘I fear we have already disposed of most of our treasures. But of course you are welcome to look. Let me give you the keys now.’

  I accepted the keys, and with them my congé, as Emily Post might say. The exodus was a mass affair; the tea party had not been a social success. It was primarily my fault, and I was delighted to take the responsibility. But I wasn’t sure the good guys had come out ahead.

  At least we had the keys to the library. I tossed them, jingling, as we went down the stairs. George patted me on the back.

  ‘Nice work, Vicky. But you’re wasting your time.’

  ‘Hush your mouth,’ said Tony, with some vague idea that he was speaking a kind of code. Schmidt, who was ahead of me, turned to give us a bewildered look.

  ‘You will inspect the library?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Why not?’

  ‘Oh, of course, of course. I only meant to ask – I too am an antiquarian. An amateur, of course!’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. We had reached the corridor leading to our rooms, and I gave the little man a very hard stare. He beamed ingratiatingly.

  ‘It would be a privilege to assist you,’ he said.

  ‘She has an assistant,’ Tony said. ‘Me.’

  ‘Then as a favour to an old man?’

  I didn’t see how I could refuse without giving the whole business an aura of secrecy, which was the last thing I wanted. In the unlikely event that I found a useful clue, I believed myself capable of distracting Schmidt’s attention from it.

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘The more the merrier. How about you, George?’

  ‘No, thanks. It’s not in the library. I’ve already looked.’

  He ought to have been on the stage. He didn’t even look back as he walked off down the corridor, humming softly to himself.

  ‘It?’ said Schmidt, with a frown.

  ‘Crazy American,’ said Tony wildly. ‘You know how they are.’

  ‘If he doesn’t,’ I said, sighing, ‘he’s finding out now. Come on. Where is the blasted library, anyhow?’

  It was on the same floor as the Great Hall, off a corridor to the south. When the door swung open, I couldn’t hold back a groan. The room had once been handsome. The fireplace was of marble, with stiff Gothic figures of saints supporting the mantel; there wasn’t a nose or chin left among the holy crew, and the stone was pitted, as if by acid. Tapestries covered the walls, but they were cobwebby masses of decay; behind them, small things scuttled and squeaked, disturbed by our entry. The bookshelves sagged; the books were crumbling piles of leather and paper.

  At some time, the library had been stripped of most of its contents. The remaining volumes were either valueless or decayed beyond hope of repair.

  Then, by the dust-coated windows, I saw something that looked more interesting. It was a tall cupboard, or Schrank, black with age, but still sound. It was locked. I tried the keys the countess had given me, and found one that worked.

  The Schrank contained several books, a metal box, and a roll of parchments. I took the last object first and carried it to a table. Tony and Schmidt looked on as I unrolled it.

  The parchments were all plans of the castle and its grounds. They were very old.

  I let the sheets roll themselves up again, and twisted them out of Tony’s clutching hand.

  ‘Naughty, naughty,’ I said gaily. ‘We don’t care about these old things, do we? Nothing valuable here. Let’s see what else there is.’

  The books were three in number – heavy volumes, bound in leather, with metal clasps and studs. I wondered why they had no
t been sold with the other valuables, for they could be considered rare books. When I tried to open one, I understood. Hardly a page remained legible. Water, mildew, worms and rats had all taken their toll.

  ‘Amazing,’ said Tony, breathing heavily over my shoulder.

  ‘Rather peculiar volumes to find here,’ I agreed, picking up the next book. It was in equally poor condition.

  ‘What is it?’ Schmidt asked.

  ‘You might call them books of philosophical speculation. In their day, they verged on the heretical. I’m surprised to find them here because the Counts of Drachenstein don’t strike me as intellectuals. This is Trithemius; this one is Albert of Cologne, better known as Albertus Magnus – ’

  ‘The great magician!’ Schmidt exclaimed. ‘Fascinating! May I please – ’

  I handed him the book. He glanced at it, and shook his head.

  ‘I cannot make it out. You two perhaps understand?’

  ‘I read medieval Latin,’ Tony said. Schmidt let him have the volume, and he opened it.

  I was too distracted to indulge in my usual bragging. Of course I read Latin, classical and medieval, as well as most of the European languages. I had a feeling Schmidt did, too. Whatever his other talents, he had no gift for dissimulation. In other words, he was a lousy liar. When he said he couldn’t read the book, his eyes shifted and he changed colour, the way Matthew Finch did back in fifth grade when he was trying to psych the teacher.

  I left Tony deep in the heresies of Trithemius, and turned to the object that interested me most. If papers could survive for four centuries, it would be in just such a metal box.

  The box was locked, but the key proved to be on the countess’s ring. I tackled lock and top cautiously; air, admitted to a formerly sealed container, can be destructive to items within. But it was clear that this box had been opened in the recent past The lock had been oiled, and the lid lifted easily.

  After a minute I turned to Schmidt, who was hovering.

  ‘Nothing much,’ I said, as casually as I was able. ‘A couple of old diaries and some account lists.’

  Tony’s head came up. His nose was quivering.

  ‘I’ll have a close look at them some other time,’ I said, before he could speak. ‘Must be almost time for dinner. Shall we?’

  I hated to put that box back in the Schrank. I didn’t trust Schmidt as far as I could throw him. Not nearly as far – I could have thrown him quite a distance. His shifty looks and inconsistent behaviour were not proof of guilt; but whether he was witting or ignorant, my safest attitude was one of indifference to anything I found. I felt sure the metal box had once contained the letters which had been reprinted in The Peasants’ Revolt. Therefore someone had already searched its contents. And the box was as safe in the Schrank, under lock and key, as it was anywhere.

  Having reached that conclusion, I was able to meet George’s smiling curiosity at dinner with relative calm. We fenced through the meal, with innuendoes falling thick and fast, and Tony glaring, and Blankenhagen watching all three of us as if he suspected our sanity. We had reached the coffee stage when Irma came to the table. As soon as I looked at her, I knew something was up.

  ‘My aunt asks that you spend an hour with her this evening,’ she said, addressing Tony.

  ‘This evening? Sure . . . Is there any particular . . . I mean, why does she . . . ?’

  The girl’s face got even paler.

  ‘I cannot say, Herr Professor. It is not for me . . . She asks the others to come also. Fräulein, Herr Nolan, and you, Herr Doktor Blankenhagen.’

  Blankenhagen was watching her curiously.

  ‘The Gräfin has not honoured me before,’ he said. ‘I think this is not a social occasion. I will come; but I too ask you, why?’

  The repetition of the question was too much for Irma. She shook her head speechlessly and turned away.

  ‘I think I know why,’ I said coyly, as Blankenhagen, still on his feet, stared after her slim form.

  ‘So do I,’ said Tony, with a dismal groan.

  We were correct in our assumption; but I was surprised when Irma led us to one of the guest rooms instead of the Gräfin’s eyrie in the tower. The room was the one occupied by Schmidt. He stood modestly to one side while Miss Burton bustled about, arranging the setting for a séance. A heavy round table had been pulled out into the centre of the room and a pack of alphabet cards was arranged in a circle on its top. In the centre of the circle, looking as menacing and squatty as a toad, was a planchette.

  The Gräfin was seated in a high carved chair. Hands folded in her lap, face and hair lacquered into mask-hardness, she had the air of a high priestess waiting for a ceremony. Seeing our surprise, she condescended to explain.

  ‘Herr Schmidt kindly allows us to use his room. It has a particularly interesting aura.’

  If Schmidt had any misgivings about the proceedings, he didn’t show them; beaming, bobbing up and down on his toes, rubbing his hands together, he seemed quite pleased about the whole thing. It was the first time I had seen his room, and as I studied it I could understand why it might be appropriate for a séance. It was by far the largest of the guest rooms, and was the only one still furnished with antiques. The walls retained their panelling – dark, worm-eaten wood, atmospheric as all get out. The windows were heavily draped.

  I caught Tony’s eye, and knew what he was thinking as surely as if he had spoken aloud. Was this the master bedchamber, the room once occupied by Count Burckhardt himself? Some of the furniture might have belonged to him – the great canopied bed with its carved dragon posts, for instance.

  George cleared his throat.

  ‘Ladies, I want to warn you that I’m not a believer.’

  ‘So long as your attitude is not positively hostile . . .’ said Miss Burton.

  ‘No.’ George looked sober. ‘I’ve seen a few things in my travels . . . Well, what about it, Doctor?’

  Blankenhagen’s face was a sight for sceptics. If he had been able to voice his real feelings, they would have come out in a howl of outraged rationalism. But something made him strangle his protests, and when I saw Irma, standing white-faced in a corner, I thought I knew what the something was.

  ‘I remain,’ said Blankenhagen, after a moment.

  We took our places at the table. I sat between George and Tony. The two Germans flanked Irma.

  ‘Miss Burton prefers to sit to one side, in order to take notes,’ said the Gräfin, as Tony, always the little gent, glanced inquiringly at that lady before seating himself.

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I never participate,’ said the Gräfin, with an unpleasant smile.

  Miss Burton extinguished the lamps, leaving only a single candle at the end of the table.

  ‘Now,’ she said, ‘put only the tips of your fingers upon the edges of the planchette. You all understand the procedure? If we are able to make contact, the discarnate will spell out its answers to our questions, using the alphabet cards. Do not resist the movement of the planchette. And let me ask the questions.’

  She sat down behind Tony, holding a pencil and a pad of paper. His shadow hid all of her except her hands. They looked like the claws of a scavenger bird as they clutched the writing implements with feverish intensity. I wondered what sick desire had driven Miss Burton to spiritualism. The best psychic investigators approach the subject in a spirit of genuine inquiry and endeavour to maintain scientific controls. Not Miss Burton; the bony, clawlike hands betrayed her. The room had an ‘aura,’ all right – not the psychic residue of past centuries, but the projected emotions of the living. The flickering candlelight left people’s bodies in darkness, casting ugly shadows on faces that seemed to hover disembodied in air.

  The room grew very silent. A rustle of the draperies, at a sudden breath of wind, made us all jump. Gradually the stillness spread again. I found myself staring dreamily at the bright shape of the candle flame. It took some effort to wrench my eyes away; the whole business was a perfect example of hypnoti
c technique, and it was damnably effective. The silence was not the absence of sound; it was a positive force that seemed to grow and strengthen. Silence, concentration, and a single point of moving light in darkness . . . Yes, very effective. It was hard to keep my mind critical and controlled.

  A prickle ran down my back. The planchette had moved.

  I lifted my hands until my fingertips barely brushed the planchette. So far as I could determine, the others had done the same. I could have sworn no one in the circle was exerting enough pressure on the planchette to move it.

  It moved again. Rocking unsteadily, it shifted towards the side of the circle.

  Miss Burton’s voice was hoarse with excitement.

  ‘Is there a spirit present?’

  At opposite sides of the circle of alphabet cards were two cards bearing the words ‘yes’ and ‘no.’ The planchette sidled across the table and nudged the ‘yes’ card.

  Someone gave a little gasp.

  ‘Quiet!’ hissed Miss Burton. ‘Do you wish to communicate with someone here?’

  The planchette edged coyly away, and then, with a swoop, again pushed the ‘yes’ card.

  ‘What is your name?’

  The diabolical little wooden triangle teetered out into the centre of the table. It hesitated. Then it moved purposefully around the alphabet cards.

  ‘K-O-N––’

  My elbows ached. I watched the animated chunk of wood with horrid fascination as it bobbed and dipped around the ‘N’ card, scraping back and forth in painful little jerks. I realized that I was mentally describing its actions with words I would have used for a living creature. It seemed to be alive, to be directed by a guiding intelligence.

  After an uncanny suggestion of struggle, the planchette slid slowly towards the ‘no’ card. ‘No’ – then ‘no’ again – then it gave a violent heave – upwards, against six sets of fingertips. It fell over and lay still. I felt as if something had died.

  ‘What the hell,’ George began.

  ‘Hush,’ said Miss Burton solemnly. ‘There is conflict – a hostile entity . . .’