Critique Of Criminal Reason Part 8

The rigid smile materialised once more like the horrid grimace on the face of an Etruscan figurine. 'He certainly will, Herr Stiffeniis,' she replied, and instantly bowed her head. For a moment, I thought that she was about to cry. But with a shrug, she turned and disappeared through the door to the kitchen.

Out in the street, we turned away from the ice-bound port and set off up the long rise of Konigstra.s.se hill, Sergeant Koch walking in dutiful silence at my side. Shops here and there on either side of the thoroughfare were beginning to open their shutters for the day's business, though there was no one in the street apart from ourselves, and a boy with ringlets and a white skullcap whom we met halfway up the hill. He was kneeling with a bucket and cloth, attempting to sc.r.a.pe the paint off a wall, where some night-creeper had daubed the Star of David and a slogan in large letters using whitewash: Blame the sons of Israel!

I looked away, not daring to think what might happen if bigoted hotheads chose to take that accusation seriously, as had happened in Bremen three years before. Twenty-seven Jews had lost their lives there, and thousands more had been forced to flee.

'Since these murders began, sir,' Koch confided, 'there's been no lack of threats against the Hebrews. Hostile pastors openly blame the Jews for murdering Our Saviour. The killing of a churchgoer in Konigsberg might provoke a bloodbath...'

He fell silent as we approached a tobacco shop.

The owner, a tall, thin man wearing a soiled brown ap.r.o.n and black skullcap, was idling against the door-post, smoking what must have been his first pipe of the morning, studying us attentively, nodding in an inviting sort of manner. He let out an audible growl of contempt as we walked on past his emporium without so much as stopping. Glancing in at the dusty window, the sort of trade that he attracted was evident. Twists of dusty, rough, black tobacco-s.h.a.g dangled from hooks; short cob-pipes, and even shorter ones of white clay, yellow with age, lay scattered in a heap beside a pile of mouldy cheese roundels. Situated so close to the port, I chose to speculate, the sort of customer who frequented the area was rough and ready, neither choosy nor particularly extravagant in his tastes. They would be sailors for the most part, or soldiers from the garrison, men in search of cheap, strong smoke and the sort of pipe that would suffer any number of hard knocks.

Jackets made of stiff canvas hung suspended on rails outside the next shop. They were ugly garments stained with sea-salt and clearly second-hand. Koch's pea-coat, I noted, was of heavy grey wool, and it was almost new, while my own black mantle of imported English wool fas.h.i.+oned by Helena on the occasion of an invitation two months earlier to a Christmas dinner at the home of Baron von Stiwalski, whose estate of Suchingern was less than a mile from Lotingen was a trifle light for the season, perhaps, but no one could possibly doubt the quality of the material. Even so, the owner came running out onto the pavement, bowing and inviting us to step inside and try on waterproofs 'guaranteed to resist the rigour of the very coldest seas,' as he proclaimed with a certain pomp. We might have been the only customers he had seen in a month or more.

I smiled, and said: 'Thank you, no.'

'Half-price to you, sirs!' the man called after us.

'Business does not seem to be booming,' I said to Sergeant Koch, as we continued on our way, our progress continually monitored by the shopkeepers all along the street.

'It's a problem, sir. Not just here, almost everywhere in town. The shops open first thing in the morning,' he replied, 'then close by three o'clock, most of them. No one goes out after dark. The vegetable market near the cathedral has a bit of a crowd around midday, the fish market down in Sturtenstra.s.se is still pretty busy, depending on the state of the tides, but not the way it used to be. Just look, sir!' Sergeant Koch observed with a sweep of his hand as we turned the corner into a broad cobbled street marked 'Baltijskstra.s.se'.

I noted two well-dressed gentleman fifty yards ahead, walking in the same direction as ourselves. On the other side of the street, a maid in a linen cap and a red-and-white striped ap.r.o.n was furiously sweeping the snow from the steps of an elegant town-house. Another maid in a similar garb, carrying a covered basket under her arm, hurried into a house further down the row, slamming the door at her back. Otherwise, the street was empty. No horses, carts or carriages disturbed the peace. There was nothing remarkable to be seen.

'What do you mean?' I asked.

'Baltijskstra.s.se was the busiest street in Konigsberg, sir,' he said excitedly. 'A year ago, you couldn't take here a step without b.u.mping into someone.'

'Where have all the people gone?'

'They're barricaded in their homes, sir,' Koch replied. 'Waiting for the killer to be caught.'

'You may be right,' I allowed with a sigh of discomfort. I had never imagined that accepting the investigation would require me to re-establish normal life in Konigsberg, and safeguard the lives of potential sacrificial goats.

'What news is there this morning, Koch?' I asked, suddenly aware how silent, how aloof, I must have appeared to my a.s.sistant.

'All men under the age of thirty-five with military experience have been recalled to active service by General Katowice, Herr Stiffeniis,' Koch replied with his usual vigour. 'That's another reason why the town's so empty. The general wants a close watch to be kept on all known agitators, foreign residents and other aliens.'

'Is there a list, Koch?'

'I suppose there must be, sir.'

'Can you get a copy of the names for me?'

'I'll try, sir. G.o.d knows how complete it will be. The hotels will be easy enough to check' Koch panted with the pace I was setting, letting out little puffs of steam as he spoke 'but the dock area is another matter. You'll have noticed that yourself, sir. There's much coming and going, but if they made you sign the visitors' book at The Baltic Whaler, it's only because they know who you are.'

'I want the names of all visitors who have slept in the city in the past two weeks, Sergeant,' I returned with force. 'And The Baltic Whaler would make an excellent place to start the hunt for the killer. There are two Frenchmen and their German companion travelling salesmen, they call themselves. I would like to know more about them.'

Koch said nothing for some moments.

'Do you want them interrogated, sir?' he asked gravely, as if he thought he might be putting into words what I had lacked the courage to say.

'For G.o.d's sake, no!' I exclaimed. 'I share General Katowice's fear of the mob. We must exercise control without being heavy-handed. If these crimes are politically motivated, the important thing is to lull the terrorists into a false sense of security. Interrogate anyone and the whole city will know what we are about. When I say check on them, I mean by talking to the hotel owners in a confidential manner. Sound out their suspicions, ask them if anything out of the ordinary has happened. The police are capable of that sort of strategy, are they not?'

'Is that the line you mean to take in these investigations, sir?'

'What do you mean, Koch?'

'Politics, Herr Stiffeniis. The mere thought of invasion by French cut-throats is enough to frighten the life out of anyone living here in Konigsberg. If such a possibility exists, General Katowice should be informed at once. The King too...'

I pulled up short and turned to him. 'What can we tell them, Koch? We have nothing to communicate. Bonaparte has not chosen to show himself as yet. Local agents may be at work to undermine the government, using the tactics of terrorism to scare the populace, but this hypothesis needs to be verified. There may well be other alternatives.'

Koch blew into his handkerchief. 'May I ask what other alternatives, sir?'

The question caught me off guard. What alternatives, indeed?

'Well, Sergeant,' I began, walking on, 'you voiced one yourself just yesterday in the coach.'

'Did I really, sir?'

'You mentioned the Devil.'

'And you, sir, laughed at the suggestion,' Koch objected, scrutinising my face as if uncertain whether I might be joking.

'I cannot afford to exclude any avenue, Koch,' I smiled. 'No matter how abhorrent the idea may be to me personally.'

We walked on in silence, Koch occasionally indicating the geography of the place as we went along. 'This is Kliesterstra.s.se,' he announced at last. 'Which house are we looking for, sir?'

I did not reply, but began to walk along the dark, narrow alley of uneven cobblestones. Dwellings of different shapes and heights were cl.u.s.tered on either side of a shallow sewage ditch which ran stinking down the centre of the street. Some of the houses were fas.h.i.+oned out of faded wood-and-wattle daub, while others dotted here and there among the leaning terraces were of ancient wind-worn sandstone. They might have been put there to hold the frailer buildings steady in their places. The upper floors on either side seemed almost to touch, closing out the grey sky. Leaded windows, like a honeycomb of stacked wine bottles, gave light, but prevented the curious from looking into the ground-floor rooms. There was a listing, drifting, slanting air about the place, as if a violent puff of wind might bring the whole lot cras.h.i.+ng down.

'Procurator Rhunken left his work unfinished at this point, Sergeant,' I explained. 'Let us see if we are able to discover what the man we examined last night on that anatomical table has left behind to help us solve his murder.'

A bronze plate was fixed to the door: JERONIMUS TIFFERCH, NOTARY AT LAW & RECORDER OF OATHS.

Chapter 9.

The door swung open framing a diminutive stunted figure in the entrance. Her face and hair were hidden by a lace cloth of the same sombre hue as her plain black gown. 'Office closed,' the woman chimed in a high-pitched, sing-song voice. 'Herr Tifferch is no more.'

'Frau Tifferch?' I asked, jamming the door with my foot as it began to close again in our faces.

Suddenly, the door flew back, the veil began to nod from side to side, then jerked as a cackling whoop escaped from the woman's lips. 'Ooh, no! Do you wish to see my lady? Expression of sympathy, is it?' Throwing the shroud back over her head as she spoke, the ancient exposed a lantern jaw of singular extension as she glared up at Koch and myself. Two yellow fangs protruded from the centre of her shrunken gums like the ravaged teeth of an aged buck-rabbit.

'This is not a social visit, ma'am,' I corrected her. 'My name is Hanno Stiffeniis. I am an investigating magistrate and I wish to speak to your mistress about her late husband.'

The woman cackled again, and said quite plainly, 'You won't have much luck there!'

She did not seem put out by the fact that her master had been murdered, her mistress widowed. Despite the mourning weeds, her att.i.tude was most irreverent in the circ.u.mstances. 'What d'you want to see her for?' she asked.

'I need to look through Herr Tifferch's things,' I said.

'Help yourself,' she shrugged. 'What's stopping you?'

'I wish to ask permission of your mistress first.'

The maid stepped back, and waved us in, nodding towards a closed door on the right of the entrance hall. 'Her ladys.h.i.+p's in there. In all her glory! Ask her all you want.'

I was puzzled by this cryptic description. Her Ladys.h.i.+p? Was Frau Tifferch a member of the Junker aristocracy? Certainly, the surname she had acquired by marriage had nothing n.o.ble-sounding about it. Before I had the chance to ask, however, the maid had slammed the door to the street, and taken herself off along a dark corridor to the left without another word, her pattens clacking noisily on the floor tiles as she went away.

'Not the sort of maid I'd have in my house,' I muttered, remembering my father's terrified domestics and our own compliant Lotte, as I tapped my knuckles gently on the sitting-room door.

'Go on in!' the maid screeched from the end of the corridor. 'She'll not answer, though you wait all bloomin' day.'

Koch pushed the door open, and I followed him into the room. It was dark and gloomy, more like a funeral parlour than a suburban sitting room. Wide black swathes of ribbon had been tied to all the candlestick holders, and the tapers were lit. Black shrouds glistened everywhere, hiding the furniture, the fittings, and even the pictures on the walls, though a plaster statue standing almost three feet high on a table in the far corner had not been covered from view. It represented Jesus Christ. A sort of shrine reigned over there. Red votive lamps burned beside His pierced and naked feet, and Our Saviour held His vestments open wide in a most unseemly fas.h.i.+on, His heart exposed for the careless world to see. This organ was crowned with golden tongues of flame, bright red, pulsing with blood. I looked at Sergeant Koch. And Koch held my gaze. We had entered Roman territory. In the centre of the room sat a woman in a high-backed chair. Dressed like the maid in black from head to toe, her finery was of an earlier generation, richer by far, costly silk with trimmed flounces and ribbed fustian. She wore a magnificent jet necklace which covered her breast, while matching jet bracelets weighed down her slender wrists. Death seemed to have figured prominently in this woman's history.

'Frau Tifferch?' I asked, advancing across the room. 'May I offer my most sincere condolences on your unfortunate loss?'

The woman looked at me. That is, she lifted her face at the sound of my voice. Bright pinpoints seemed to glint at me from beneath the veil, but no word of greeting or grat.i.tude issued from her lips.

'Your husband, ma'am,' I hinted, pausing to hear the sound of her voice.

Frau Tifferch did not move. She appeared not to breathe.

'I am leading the enquiry into the circ.u.mstances regarding his murder,' I was obliged to continue. 'I must ask you some questions about your husband. I'm interested in any business he might have been engaged upon when he was killed. He was out of doors after dark, it seems...'

The woman reached out a hand. Her bracelets tinkled as she took a black handkerchief from a small table at her side, carried it beneath her veil, and began to sob.

'Frau Tifferch?' I pressed gently.

Silence answered.

'Frau Tifferch?' I repeated.

Koch crossed the room on tiptoe and stood behind the lady's chair. Leaning forward, he whispered in her ear, 'Frau Tifferch?'

Standing to his full height at the woman's back, he raised his forefinger, touched himself twice on the temple, then shook his head.

'Call the maid back in,' I said, waiting in silence until the servant traipsed noisily into the room a minute later, followed by Sergeant Koch.

'What do you want?' she muttered. Her ill disposition had not softened in the least in the interval.

'Is your mistress feeling unwell?' I asked.

'You could call it that,' she said. 'Out of her wits. That's what I would say. Frau Tifferch's in a world of her own. Never says nowt, she don't.'

'What's wrong with her?'

She shrugged. 'I've no idea. No one told me, did they? I'm just the nursemaid. It happened four or five years ago, I believe. I wasn't working in this house then. But this I was told by the neighbours. It happened out of the blue. She was strong and active before.' She pointed at her charge and shook her head. 'It must have been something fearful, that's all I can say.'

I frowned. 'What do you mean?'

She shrugged again. 'You don't become a turnip for no good reason, do you?'

I stiffened, fighting off the sudden overlapping of images in my mind. I saw my own mother sitting there before me in the place of that heavily veiled widow, her eyes fixing themselves on mine while she asked a question for which there was no simple answer: 'How could you do it, Hanno?' That was the last coherent sentence she had ever uttered. A spasm had wracked her body and she collapsed apparently lifeless at my feet. Her tomblike silence endured for days. The doctors were called, but no remedy could be found. The pastor came to pray, and stayed to read the Last Rites. And all that time, my father said not a single word to me. But in his gaze I saw my mother's question. 'How could you, Hanno? Why did you do it?'

I closed my eyes to free myself from those painful memories, and opened them again on the gaping lantern jaw of the housemaid.

'What is your name?' I asked.

'Agneta Susterich.'

'How long have you been working here, Agneta?'

'Too long.'

There was nothing subservient about the old woman. Words like 'sir', phrases such as 'by your leave', did not figure in her already limited vocabulary. She was brusque to the point of rudeness. Had Lawyer Tifferch never taken the surly drudge to task for her foul manners?

'Be more precise!' I insisted.

'Two years,' she replied in a forced fas.h.i.+on. 'An' curse the day I came! Once this lot's over, I'll be on my way. I should have left him to it...'

'Does your mistress have anyone else? Sons or daughters?' I pressed on.

'No one,' the woman replied. 'No relatives. I never seen a soul all the time I been a-staying here. No one visits this house. No one...'

She paused significantly, as if inviting me to complete the sentence.

'Except for whom?' I said.

'Priests!' she flared. 'Catholic priests! Blasphemous vermin! An' now, the police messing around...'

'You are not of that religion, I take it?'

The maid's eyes narrowed, as if I had just accused her of the most heinous crime under the sun. 'I am a Pietist!' she protested. 'Everyone in Konigsberg's a Pietist. I goes to my Bible reading every night to cleanse my Christian lungs of the foul Catholic air I am forced to breathe in this house. I told the master. Told him straight, I did. I goes to Bible meetings, Herr Tifferch, I said, or else. But now there's no one to look after her. What am I going to do?'

'Did you light all those candles?' I intervened, trying to stop the angry flow before it became a raging flood.

'I had to, didn't I?' the woman muttered. 'Only way to keep her quiet. She likes her candles. All them Catholics do. Heathen rubbish, I say!'

'What are your duties here?' I asked with all the patience I could muster.

'Everything.' She started ticking items off on her fingers as she spoke. 'Wash her, clean her, dress her, comb her, feed her. I decked her out in black in case one of them bloodsuckers came.'