Imogen Robertson - Circle of Shadows

‘It is the same,’ he said.

She was standing by the window.

‘The killer must have come and gone through the garden,’ she replied after a pause. ‘I wonder why Glucke let him in.’

‘Someone he knew, must be,’ Krall said.

‘Someone he did not think could be a threat,’ Harriet added. ‘Crowther, could you close the door?’

He moved away from the body to do so, and the cat on the body’s lap settled again and began to knead the thigh of the corpse, purring. The same symbol was chalked on the white paint of the door. Triangle, circle of seven spokes.

‘He has done it,’ Crowther said. ‘Unless Swann survives. Seven wine glasses, seven spokes. Seven victims. His work is done.’

‘Or she,’ Harriet said softly. ‘But Swann has not been bled.’

Krall looked around the room, following the progress of another of the cats over the top of the mantelpiece. ‘I shall have a look along the path. Perhaps the killer dropped a visiting card, though more like I shall just find the key to the garden door thrown into the shrubbery.’

Crowther heard the hopelessness in the man’s voice. ‘We will find who did this, Krall. He will make a mistake, leave a mark behind he doesn’t mean to.’

‘Perhaps. But this … A disgusting, humiliating way to die.’

Crowther had no comfort to offer. ‘Were you acquainted with Glucke?’

‘A little. I believe he recommended me as District Officer in Oberbach when I handed my business on to my son-in-law.’

His tone suggested he had no more to say on that. Instead he ran his hand through his hair. ‘It all comes too fast. I must speak to Colonel Padfield and Count Frenzel immediately.’

‘But first we must go straight to Kupfel and discover why he was so angry this morning,’ Crowther said.

‘In time. For the good of Maulberg, and the Duke, this crime must be concealed.’

‘The Duke?’ Harriet said. ‘Why should this be concealed just to protect him from embarrassment?’

Krall turned on her. ‘The Duke is a good man, appointed by God to guide us. He shall be protected.’

‘From whence this enthusiasm, Krall? Until this morning you have been rigorous in your honesty, your pursuit of the truth,’ Crowther said. ‘You questioned the Duke in our presence.’

Krall’s face flushed red. ‘Twice a month the gates of the palace are opened, and anyone — anyone who wishes it — may petition the Duke in person. He greets the people as his children and cares for them. He listens to what they say and he acts. It drives his advisers mad half the time. But he does it.’

‘But the palace, the Opera House,’ Harriet objected. ‘All the luxury of the court … the Duke does nothing but indulge himself!’

‘How long have you been here, Mrs Westerman? Three days? Four? But you think …’ He turned away for a moment, then spoke again, more slowly. ‘Do not be fooled by the manner in which the Duke presents himself to the world. There is not an inch of ground under his authority he does not know. And the land under his authority flourishes. He will not be made vulnerable, not by the actions of some madman. The extravagance of the court is the gilding on something real. Something of value.’

There was no sound in the room other than the low rumble of the cats purring.

Harriet crouched down to stroke one which had decided to rub up against her. As she put her hand out to it, she noticed it had dried blood streaked across its white back, and she recoiled slightly. ‘Forgive me if I spoke hastily, Mr Krall. You are right, we know little of Maulberg. Conceal the murder if you must, but surely, for the good of the Duke, you must find who is responsible. May I have the map of the secret chamber that Wimpf drew? Perhaps there is something useful there. We will be discreet.’

The District Officer hesitated, then drew a paper from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘Agreed. But you will continue to act with some discretion or I will have you and your party thrown out of Maulberg. I have my arrangements to make.’ He left the room, and in a moment they could hear his voice upstairs barking out commands.

Harriet examined the paper in her hands as she spoke. ‘I had no idea he was so devoted to the Duke.’

Crowther was watching the door through which Krall had disappeared. ‘I think it may have come as a surprise to Krall himself.’

Harriet placed the paper in her pocket. ‘Go to Kupfel. I shall examine the secret chamber.’

Crowther looked concerned. ‘I shall go to Kupfel, but Mrs Westerman, you cannot go looking for the chamber alone.’

‘Why on earth not?’

‘I hate to state the obvious, but there is a killer at court.’

‘I begin to suspect there are several of different sorts. I shall take Graves.’

‘And now, Mrs Westerman, you are forcing me to sound like your sister. You cannot wander the palace at night alone with Mr Graves. Though I know your sister has courage, she cannot be a sufficient guard. Clode himself is still weak — and in any case, they must guard Swann.’

Harriet might control her temper with Krall, but she did not with Crowther. ‘Then what would you have me do?’

He closed his eyes for a moment and leaned his weight onto his cane.

‘Take Manzerotti.’

Pegel sat back in his chair. He was uncomfortable. Normally when he looked up from his work he linked his hands behind his head, crossed his ankles and thought about what he wanted to eat next, but tonight he stood slowly and looked down at his notes with great unease. He took a step away then returned and swept the papers into one of the drawers, slammed it shut and turned the lock. Then he headed towards the main door of his room to release himself. His momentum carried him until he had the key in the lock, but then he turned back, gathered up the papers once more and folded them into his coatpocket. There were three places in the room he had prepared for papers to be concealed, but now the messages were translated into plain language, none of these places seemed sufficiently secure. He was almost angry with Florian and his little group for making their codes simple enough for him to unpick. He didn’t want to know all those names, whatever profit it might bring him. The thought of the money stilled him for a little while. Money of his own. It would be enough for him to establish himself somewhere with a decent university. He could stay there, in one place, teach mathematics and pursue his own studies. He might even be able to make a friend he could keep.

As soon as the idea formed he thought it nonsense. He was not the sort of man who could afford to lead a settled existence. Better to dance through people’s lives, blow smoke in their faces and disappear while their eyes were still smarting. Damn these papers! It was no good. It was simply too dangerous to leave them lying about as they were. He must burn them, take the originals and translate them once more in front of his master. He unfolded the pages and looked at the names. He had watched some of them, and thought them good men. Fools, of course, idealists too protected by their position to see how the world really worked, their eyes so fixed on some distant lofty goal they probably hadn’t even noticed when they stepped off the edge and into the abyss. The papers burned and curled in the grate and he prodded the ashes into nothing. He wondered what would happen to them. Some of the smoke got into his eyes on this occasion. He would ride out as soon as it was light.

There was a light knock at the door and Harriet opened it to find Manzerotti leaning on the frame, a candle in his hand.

‘I received your note, as you see, Mrs Westerman. I do hope you haven’t reconsidered your decision not to shoot me dead.’