I pointed my finger at Malaport’s note.
‘My name is written here,’ I insisted.
‘If that’s the case,’ he replied, flicking at the letters in the pile, using the filthy blade of his knife to turn them over one by one, ‘a message came for you this afternoon.’
Suddenly, he jabbed hard, and held a letter dangling on the point of his blade.
‘Here we are,’ he said, jerking it away as I reached out to take it. ‘We don’t get much mail with Prussian names on. Fear of the censor, I suppose. All too busy plotting, aren’t you?’
I could have seized the knife, and rammed it down his throat.
I struggled to control my temper. Every contact with the French was a trial. Daily humiliation of this sort rankled most of all. The more lowly the soldiers were, the greater their pride, the worse their disdain for us. That a clerk could be so arrogant to a Prussian magistrate acting on behalf of a French general was beyond belief.
He let the letter drop on the counter.
‘Thank you,’ I said, snatching it up, turning away.
I expected a note from Helena, but I recognised the plain upright hand of Johannes Gurten instead. Could this be his reply? Already? I had consigned the letters to Rickert just the evening
before. I felt a rush of anxiety. Had something happened in Lotingen?
I broke the seal.
Herr Stiffeniis,
I arrived safely, and can report that your wife and children are in good health, according to your clerk, Herr Knutzen. He found me decent lodgings at an inn close by your office, and directed me to the estate of Count Dittersdorf. That gentleman placed his library at my disposal, as you requested, and I began to examine the collected editions of the various French journals which are in his possession.
So far as I can tell, there is nothing published which relates to Erika Linder, nor any description of a medical condition similar to hers, but there is a great deal written on the subject of Baltic amber!
Until three years ago, there was little mention of it in the French papers. Almost none, indeed. But since the invasion, articles have been appearing regularly in the most important Parisian scientific publications, i.e.
Le Moniteur des sciences,
and
Le Journal pour l’encouragement des industries.
This seems to support my conjecture that there is serious scientific interest in amber in French universities, and suggests that restrictions on the exportation of Prussian amber containing insects are being widely flouted.French scientists are particularly interested in the creatures contained in amber because they play an important role in two conflicting theories, as regards the laws of the Natural World and its Ancient History. As everyone knows, the debate centres on the contrasting opinions of the Swedish naturalist, Linnaeus, and the Frenchman, Lamarck, concerning the classification of animal species.
Amber has assumed a central role in the proofs and counter-proofs since Baltic amber first came flooding into France in 1806. Clearly, large amounts are now being smuggled into France. This we knew. What we did not know is: a) the extent of the trade; b) the precise nature of the amber being actively sought; c) the vast amount of money which is available for the purchase of any amber specimen
which seems to provide another link in what they call ‘the Chain of Creation.’And now we come to Dr Heinrich.
I turned the page.
Johannes Gurten had made himself master of the complex world of French science, as he had promised, while never losing sight of his objective, which was to find the proof that Dr Heinrich had killed the women on the coast. I had been reluctant to follow his reasoning. We had both been right and wrong, I thought. Gurten had been right to point an accusing finger at Heinrich, wrong in suggesting why he might have killed. In Königsberg I had found the true motive. What would Gurten say when I told him that Heinrich was not in league with the French, but with our own Prussian nationalists?
I read on:
A fair number of the best-illustrated articles about amber in
Le Moniteur
appear to have been submitted by an unidentified expert. The editor employs the term ‘our correspondent in Prussia’ to identify the mystery writer. In one instance, referring specifically to amber as a fertility symbol, the writer mentions the town of Nordcopp as a place where the ceremonial blessing of the swollen womb of a pregnant woman with an amber insert has been carried on for centuries. If this fact is commonly known, I have never heard it. And who more likely than a doctor in Nordcopp would have discovered this pagan practice? And in the next issue, the same writer mentions the use of amber containing animal insertions by ‘wise women’ to induce the spontaneous abortion of an unwanted foetus. In the very same geographical location! I would swear that one of the illustrations in
Le Moniteur
(19.01.1807) is the very same piece of amber that we observed together in the surgery of Herr Doctor Heinrich.I have finished my work here, sir, and will immediately return to Nordcopp–I believe that I may safely anticipate your instructions–where I will keep the doctor under sureveillance.
I will be staying in my old room at the Pietist convent.
In faith, Johannes Gurten.
My heart was in my throat. Gurten had returned to Nordcopp. He might be in danger. I was well aware of his impetuous nature. At the same time, I was glad that somebody in Nordcopp knew about Heinrich, and what he was up to. When the case was concluded, my official report would reflect the facts. I would not decry Gurten’s merits in order to exalt my own more feeble achievements. He would be given all due credit for his labour.
‘I need that despatch form,’ I snapped.
The clerk frowned resentfully, and put down his bread and sausage. His fingers were slick with grease as he pushed a paper, pen and a cob of red wax across the counter. That note for Gurten would be tainted with the stink of pork and garlic.
‘
Vulpius is the name that Dr Heinrich uses here in Königsberg,’
I wrote quickly. ‘
Do not alert him to our suspicions. I will come to you on the coast at the very earliest opportunity.
’
I read again what I had written.
For a moment a wave of doubts washed over me again. I was doing exactly what the French expected me to do: I was handing them a guilty Prussian. I had searched the room of Vulpius. I had seen his drawings, the obscene transformations that his graphite had worked on animals and men alike. I saw again the contents of the storage jars, the organs and other appendages floating in a sea of yellow spirit. He was fascinated by all monstrous forms, and had studied Nature for no other purpose. I shuddered to think of the laboratory of DeWitz, and the gruesome work that Vulpius had been doing there. Had I seen anything in Königsberg that I had not already seen in Dr Heinrich’s house in Nordcopp?
Before I closed the despatch, I added three words to Gurten.
‘
Prudence—prudence—prudence!
’
Had there been more space, I would have written more along the same lines. But I was afraid of communicating the fact to Gurten that I was not in complete control of the situation.
I melted wax in the flame of the candle next to the inkwell, and sealed the note.
‘This must be delivered by the first transport going west,’ I ordered sternly. ‘If it arrives quickly,’ I added, ‘General Malaport will
not be told of the reek of your breath, or the deplorable state of your jacket. You are a disgrace to the colours that you wear.’
The man threw me a startled look.
‘It will leave in twenty minutes, sir,’ he said in a subdued whisper.
As he began to brush the crumbs from his chest, and wipe his greasy hands on his trousers, I turned away. At last, there was a man who appreciated the power of General Malaport. But it was a hollow victory. I regretted the erosion of my own authority as a Prussian magistrate, and resented the need to rely on the fear which only a French name could inspire.
The bells of the city churches were ringing the hour of seven. The light was fading. The days were darkening rapidly as August drew towards its close. And yet, my heart felt lighter. With so few days remaining before the delivery of the baby, I could hope to be there at Helena’s side, as I had promised her.
Within hours, I intended to consign my findings and the name of the murderer to General Malaport. But there was still one thing that I had to do in Königsberg first.
Dr Rickert.
He appeared to be a sort of recruiter of nationalistic lost souls. He picked them out at the Albertina University, then redirected them to the sanctuary of the Kantstudiensaal, where they would meet other like-minded individuals.
I turned towards ‘the Graves,’ and began to walk quickly along the quay.
Early that morning, I had heard Rickert moving about in his sitting-room. Before leaving the house, he had called through the greasy curtain: ‘Until this evening, then, Herr Procurator. Bread and broth will be served at seven-thirty prompt.’
His honeyed voice was servile, ingratiating.
I replied with nothing more than a grunt.
I had had no intention of ever returning to that mean little house in the dark environs of the Albertina again. I had played my part in a farce the night before. The charade with the ghost of Salthenius had embarrassed me at the time. Now, instead, I realised what that performance had meant.
Rickert knew Vulpius
.
There was nothing supernatural about it, no need for dripping blood, contact with the dead, or the drawing up of pacts with Satan. He would tell me where the killer was. Königsberg? Nordcopp? Hell?
The sky had been very grey that morning. The sun had barely shown itself all day. There had been an occasional rumbling of thunder, an odd flash of lightning. As I hurried forward, a mountain range of black clouds was massing on the far horizon out at sea.
Edviga had been in the water all day long. Her arms and legs would be stiff and tired with the endless labour. Her stomach cramps would be more frequent.
I don’t know where the notion came from. No sooner there, it was gone, like a mouse scuttling behind a cupboard. The thought of Edviga hid itself away behind the more reasonable concern which took its place:
Helena.
The baby would be fully formed by now, kicking out impatiently whenever the fancy took him or her, waiting for the cramps and the labour to start, waiting for the waters to break.
Waiting for me to come home . . .
As I was walking along the quay towards the Albertina, and Dr Rickert’s house, my eye was attracted by an unexpected flash of light on the far bank of the river. The bow-window of Herr Flugge & Son was gleaming like a faceted gem in a single, piercing ray of sunlight. On impulse, I turned sharp left, strode across the bridge, and stepped off it in Kniephof.
There was something that I had to do.
I had to rid myself of the guilt and shame that only a wayward husband can feel. I had thought of Edviga Lornerssen and the dangers she was facing on the Baltic coast. Then, and only then, had I remembered my wife, and the baby who would soon be born.
I walked across to the row of jewellers’ shops.
The previous evening, my eye had been bewitched by two objects standing next to each other in the window of the shop of Andreas Borkmann. The first was a silver rattle for a baby; the second, a tobacco-box for a man. They were so very different, and
yet, I thought, there was a temporal connection between them. Many birthdays would have to pass before I could think of buying my son a tobacco-box.
This was the moment for a silver rattle.
It was almost a tradition in the Stiffeniis family.
Almost . . .
I had been given one that was made in the shape of a whistle, the rattle comprising little balls of Italian coral. My brother Stefan’s was made of mother-of-pearl, and it contained balls of agate. When I left my father’s house for the last time, those rattles were resting on the mantelpiece in the drawing-room, as if they might be called into use at any moment.
My first child, Manni, had never had a rattle. Nor had my daughter, Süzi. And baby Anders had been lulled to sleep by the firing of French cannonades. It was time to revive the family tradition. The new baby would have a silver rattle with beads of amber.
I emerged from the shop five minutes later. In my hand, a pretty box tied up with a bright green ribbon. As Herr Borkmann placed it in my care, he had assured me that the toy would ward off any fear the child might have of the dark. As I walked across the bridge towards the Albertina University, I heard the rattle tinkle with every step that I took. In the network of streets and alleys leading down to Rickert’s house, I was tempted to shake the rattle as I went. Black thunderclouds had settled on the town, cancelling out the day. Nothing had changed since the night before, except, perhaps, that the smell of onions was less strong.
It was very dark as I approached the house. Rickert’s window was one of the few in the street not lit by a candle or a fire. If he had not returned, I would have to wait for him out in the street. As the first drops of rain began to splatter on my forehead, I hurried forward, intending to shelter in the doorway. But as I ran, I realised that there was a feeble light in the window. With a surge of hope, I thought that Rickert, after all, might be at home. So eager to escape from him that morning, I pounded with my knuckles on the door, more eager still to be admitted from the rain.
Dr Rickert did not answer.
I knocked again, thunder clapped, rain pelted down.
He did not come.
I stepped to the window, pressed my nose against the grimy glass.
The half-moon of a palm and three fingertips had touched the glass and left a streaking mark. I looked at it more carefully, and saw that the striations were red. My heart sank.
I peered inside again, so far as the dirt and dust on the window would allow.