Imogen Robertson - Circle of Shadows

‘I think you should tell him.’

‘I am sure you can express your displeasure strongly enough. Look, we have a guest.’ He crossed towards Harriet and made a bow. He was perhaps the same age as Graves, and had a particularly long face. He reminded Harriet of her favourite saddle-horse at Caveley, a patient beast.

‘How may I be of assistance?’

She bowed her head quickly and spoke in French. ‘I wished to speak to you about Bertram Raben. I understand you knew each other well?’

Herr Dorf looked a little confused. He moved his hand across his forehead and answered in the same language. ‘Indeed, we were friends. He was one of my best writers. You are Mrs Westerman, are you not?’

She admitted it and could see the questions forming behind his eyes, but he was too careful to give them voice at once. Instead he turned and fetched his coat from the back of his chair. ‘Let us take a turn around the square. There is no chance at all of us being uninterrupted here.’

The day was bright. They began walking side by side; Dido took her place behind them and a little separate, looking around her with a wide grin.

‘You seem much occupied at the moment,’ Harriet said pleasantly once they had fallen into step.

‘The wedding, of course. We are producing lists of all the various attendees, the speeches, and every human who can hold a pen has written some sort of verse for the occasion, it seems.’

‘What sort of material did Herr Raben write for you?’

‘All manner of things,’ Dorf replied. ‘Odd bits of gossip from the court for the daily news-sheet. Longer pieces of opinion on literature or politics. We did a couple of those as short pamphlets. People knew he had friends at court, so they read what he wrote with interest. They sold quite well. He was a logical thinker and had a fine turn of phrase when he put his mind to it. He seemed to enjoy his life.’

‘Yet he committed suicide?’

Dorf looked up at her sideways. ‘So I believed — until you walked into my office, Mrs Westerman.’ She smiled and they walked a little further in silence.

‘Would you know of anyone who would wish to do him harm?’

‘No man picks up a pen without making enemies. But no, nothing that would mean-’

‘Herr Dorf, forgive me, but you do not seem shocked that I am asking about Raben. Why is that?’

He came to a halt and Harriet noticed that they were outside his office once more. ‘I wondered if it might be a robbery at first, as his watch was missing — but then there was money untouched and in plain sight in the room. Still I did not think Bertram would have killed himself, Mrs Westerman. I know we can be terribly wrong about our fellows, but I have never been quite able to believe it.’

Harriet frowned at the earth in front of her. ‘Did he write about the Freemasons? Did he have enemies there?’

Dorf looked surprised. ‘He was a Freemason. He wrote against some of the Lodges, who he believed had forgotten the central ideas of brotherhood and charity in their search of esoteric mysteries. The Rosicrucians he thought fools, and said so.’

Harriet pondered this. ‘You would say he had influence in court?’

‘He did. He was well-liked there. Do you think that might have been why he was killed? Some intrigue there?’

‘I can hardly say.’

‘One moment, Mrs Westerman. We were talking about my friend, a prominent writer certainly, but no more. And, I presume, about Lady Martesen …’

Harriet looked at him; he had the long dark eyelashes that reminded her again of her horse. She suddenly missed Caveley very much. ‘Dieter Fink, Count von Warburg.’

His eyes widened. ‘You think there is something suspicious in those deaths also?’

‘I do,’ she said simply. ‘Well, certainly in Fink’s case. Of Warburg, I do not know as yet. But do you see what I am suggesting? A banker, a writer, a first lady of the court. It begins to look like a campaign, does it not?’

‘And you asked about Freemasons because …?’

‘Mr Graves heard rumours in London of a group called the Minervals. They were said to have revolutionary aims and to be active in this part of Germany. I wondered if they were conducting a campaign against Maulberg.’

Herr Dorf gave a little snort and nodded to himself. ‘That is a coincidence. Minervals? One moment. There was a gentleman who wished us to publish some rather wild accusations about an organisation of that name. I thought it was ridiculous, but I may still have the papers. You are in luck, the gentleman wrote in French.’

‘What happened to him?’ Harriet asked.

‘Disappeared off to Strasbourg in a cloud of indignation, I think. Will you wait a moment while I try to find it?’

Harriet was happy to do so.

Michaels found Kupfel’s house easily enough, then lit his pipe and leaned into the shadows to consider. There were two other shopfronts opening onto this particular square. From one drifted the smell of meat cooking, and there was a steady stream of people coming and going from the doorway, their midday meal wrapped in scrap paper, steaming in the cold air as they dispersed again into the streets. When it looked like the rush had died down a bit, Michaels shifted himself out of the shelter of his corner and went in. It was a low room, dark with steam and smelling strongly of onions, but clean enough. There were two or three tables about, and he took a free seat in a corner, ordered liver and onions and made himself comfortable. The girl who fetched and carried from the kitchen gave him a smile, and he touched his forehead to her, but until he had eaten and was alone in the place he made no attempt at conversation. He knew it would come. No one ran an establishment like this unless they had a friendly sort of nature. They would be sighing and stretching now, glad the hardest work of the morning was out of the way and just in the mood to find a stranger interesting.

‘Like it?’ the girl said as she took away his plate.

‘Just like Mother used to make,’ he replied with a grin.

She frowned briefly. ‘Not from round here, are you?’

‘You’ve got a good ear, miss! No, I was born and raised in London. My mother was from here though, that’s how I know the language.’

‘London!’ The girl sat down at once and put her elbows on the table. ‘I’ve heard of London. Is it true anyone can get rich there and end up in a carriage?’

‘Some do, I guess. I’ve got the blunt to pay for one myself now. But I like to ride and my wife would sooner walk.’

The girl hugged herself. ‘My! How did you get so rich?’

He scratched his chin. ‘Prize-fighting got me started. After that, horses and their care.’

She laughed. ‘No good to me then. Horses make me nervous, and I can’t see me fighting for money.’

An older woman appeared through the door to the kitchens, wiping her hands on her apron, and the girl twisted in her chair. ‘Here, Mum, you’ll never guess. This fella is from London, though he talks just like a real person.’

Michaels tipped his hat and got a friendly enough nod in return. ‘Thank you for the liver and onions, ma’am.’

She looked at the empty plate on the table and lifted her chin. ‘Nice to see good cooking appreciated. You look like the sort of man who’s a pleasure to feed.’

Michaels shrugged and studied the tabletop. ‘Not sure my lady wife would agree with you, ma’am. She says it’s like having a pack of wolves to tend.’

The cook looked pleased. ‘Sure she doesn’t mean it, Mr …?’

‘Michaels, ma’am, just Michaels.’

‘We wives love to tease our menfolk almost as much as we like to feed them. I’m Mrs Valentin, and this is my daughter Gurt. Now might you like a little something to settle that in your stomach? I brew a Schnapps that can take the nip out of a fresh morning.’