Elizabeth Peters - Borrower of the Night

All of us looked at that astounding portrait. ‘Damn it,’ Tony muttered. ‘The resemblance is uncanny.’

‘Not really.’ I lifted the portrait off the wall. I had had plenty of time to study it, and I wasn’t proud of myself for seeing the truth. It should not have taken me so long. ‘The Gräfin didn’t miss a trick. See how faded the rest of the picture is, compared to the face? Someone has touched it up.’

‘You mean – that is not how she looked?’ Irma gasped.

‘No one will ever know what she looked like.’ I tossed the portrait carelessly onto the bed. ‘When your aunt mentioned that she had studied painting . . .’ I shrugged. ‘If you doubt me, have an expert examine this thing. Even I can see that it is modern work.’

‘It started so long ago,’ Irma said, pressing her hands to her face in another of those pretty, fragile gestures. ‘Even before my uncle died, she hated me. Then, later, she started to tell me stories – terrible stories about the crimes of the Drachensteins and the burning of Konstanze. I had not noticed the portrait till she showed it to me; there are so many faded pictures here.’

‘She had to keep you off balance so she could steal your belongings,’ Tony said.

‘She sold even the locks from the doors. She said there was no money from my uncle, that we had to live.’

‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘Everybody has a few rotten apples on the family tree. We all have the same family tree, if you go back far enough. I have a little surprise for you that should take your mind off your troubles.’

‘I hope,’ said Blankenhagen apprehensively, ‘that you do not want any stones moved?’

‘I’m no more anxious to move stones than you are. George has already been here, so it shouldn’t be necessary.’

Mortar had been cleared from around four stones that formed a door. It yielded easily to the pressure of my hand, exposing a dark cavity in the wall. The space was almost filled by a big wooden box. Everyone rushed forwards to help me get it out onto the table. I brushed off some of the encrusted dirt and broke the corroded hasp with a twist of my hands. The front of the box fell away.

Against a Gothic tracery of carved vines and flowers sat the Virgin, her unbound hair flowing over her blue robe, her hands lightly touching the Child on her knee. Above them, cunningly supported by sections of the vine, hovered two angels, slender youths with austere young faces and lifted golden wings. One of the wings was missing.

The three kings knelt at Mary’s feet, and for a disgraceful interlude my eyes forgot the beauty of the carving and lingered greedily on the stones set in the sculptured forms. Balthasar was dressed in crimson; on his head, framed in gold, was an emerald whose depths caught the sunlight and flung it back in a thousand green reflections. Melchoir, behind him, wore a turban set with a great baroque pearl. The third king, balancing the group on the right, lifted his gift in both hands: a golden bowl, holding a globe of scarlet fire.

Irma’s eyes were as round as saucers.

‘Mine?’ she said, in a childish squeak.

‘Yep,’ I said.

She was staring at the stones, not the figures. Her open mouth was pink and pretty and wet and greedy. And then, just as I was enjoying my contempt for her, she did something that cut the ground out from under my feet.

‘No, it is yours,’ she said suddenly. ‘Three gems, for the three who saved my life. Do they measure any value compared to that?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Blankenhagen; and ‘My God, no,’ said Tony.

They could afford to be noble. Whoever married Irma – and I figured they had an equal chance, she was ready to fall into the arms of any man who asked her – got all three stones. I felt old and wise and rather sad. She was corny, but she was a good kid. I think she really meant it – for about a minute and a half.

‘Aw,’ I said, ‘shucks. Forget it, Irma.’

‘But I mean it!’

‘Sure you do. But we can’t accept anything like that.’

‘But – but what can I do with it?’ Irma asked helplessly.

‘The National museum, I think,’ said Blankenhagen. ‘It is the richest in Germany; it will offer a fair price.’

‘The Met, or some foreign museum, might offer more,’ said Tony. Irma looked at him.

‘No,’ said Blankenhagen firmly. Irma looked at him. ‘It is fitting that such a treasure should remain in Germany.’

‘Hmmm,’ I said. ‘Tell you one thing. If I were you, I’d take those jewels out and sell them separately. Nobody can afford to buy the shrine as it is; and the jewels will attract every crook on two continents. You can substitute paste copies without affecting the beauty of the workmanship; and isn’t that the important thing?’

‘Are you always right?’ asked Blankenhagen, looking at me severely. ‘You are too clever. That is a very annoying quality. How did you know the shrine was here, in this room?’

‘Oh, well,’ I said modestly; ‘that was easy. You told Irma about the arsenic, and Burckhardt’s murder? But don’t you see, that was the clue we were looking for. Many of the details will never be known; but I think I can reconstruct the outlines of the story now.

‘Konstanze was young, seventeen or eighteen, when Burckhardt married her and brought her here. Yet even then she must have been deeply involved in the witch cult; they started young, usually at puberty. It isn’t surprising that she should have learned to despise her oafish husband. Maybe she turned to Nicolas because he was available, and corrupted him. Maybe he didn’t need corrupting. A man of his ability must have hated the social system that labelled him inferior, and the ignorant clod who exemplified that system.

‘Anyhow, I’m sure the two became lovers before the Revolt broke out. Konstanze had been poisoning her husband for some time; it takes several months for arsenic to work its way through the body and show up in the hair and nails. And there were all those references to Burckhardt’s queasy stomach, remember?

‘Burckhardt’s call to arms must have pleased her. She wouldn’t have shed any tears if he had been killed in battle. Then the matter of the shrine came up, and that was a real bonus. I can see Konstanze drooling over those jewels and cursing the old count for giving them to the church.

‘At first, everything seemed to be working out for the lovers. Burckhardt practically handed the shrine over to them by sending it to Rothenburg in Nicolas’ charge. Nicolas murdered or bribed the guards and brought the shrine to the Schloss alone. He and Konstanze hid it in the tomb of the old count. Then Konstanze wrote that letter to her husband saying that the expedition had never arrived.’

‘He kept her letters,’ Tony muttered. ‘Carried them around with him, brought them here . . .’

‘He was a stupid sentimentalist,’ said Blankenhagen, looking contemptuously at Tony. ‘Stupid not to suspect such a story . . .’

‘We didn’t suspect it,’ I said wryly. ‘And he was deeply in love with her; love has a very dulling effect on the brain. There was no reason why anyone should have been suspicious. Even when we found Nicolas’ body, and the wing that had been broken off the shrine, there was no evidence to show that Konstanze knew anything about it.

‘After that night, when Nicolas appeared as the Black Man, he went into hiding. He couldn’t be seen hanging about; Konstanze meant to kill her husband, if he wasn’t killed in battle, but until he was dead she couldn’t let him get suspicious. And he wasn’t the only one who had to be deceived. The bishop was after the shrine and he was giving Konstanze a hard time. I’ll bet her reputation was already shaky. The mere fact that she read authors like Albertus Magnus and Trithemius would be enough to start nasty gossip.