Airs Above the Ground (18 page)

‘Wels,’ said Timothy suddenly. ‘She said Wels, didn’t she?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Annalisa said that when he joined the Circus Wagner they were playing at a place called Wels, in the north, near the Bavarian border.’

‘That’s right, she did. I say, Tim, you remember she said that the circus was actually pulling down when he joined them? At least, she implied it. If he was actually on the run at the time, what better cover could he have? All the muddle and traffic of the horse fair in the town, and then the circus crossing the border that very night . . . One more man and a horse could easily—’

‘The Spanish Riding School was in Wels till 1955,’ said Timothy.

The interruption was as brief and to the point as his last one, but, as before, I didn’t get the implications straight away.

‘Yes? She’d been to see them, she said. What would—?’

I stopped short, and I felt my mouth open as I gaped at him. I don’t remember either of us getting to our feet, but I found myself standing there, while we stared at one another.

I said, hoarsely, ‘It can’t be, Tim. It simply can’t be. There’d have been a fuss – police—’

‘There was.’ He sounded as dazed as I was. ‘Wait . . . listen . . . it’s all coming clear now. You remember that story I told you on the plane, the one about the groom cutting his horse’s throat and then killing himself? Well, I got it wrong. That’s an old story, I don’t even know if it’s true, but I told you, it was never published, and of course I never knew the names. But
there was another story which
was
published; I’d read it in one of these books I’ve got, and I’d got it muddled in my mind with the earlier story.’ He took a long breath. ‘Do you remember my showing you the photograph of Neapolitano Petra, and telling you he was the one who’d been killed? I was wrong. He disappeared, ten years ago this summer, and one of the stablemen disappeared along with him.’

There was a silence. We both turned like puppets pulled by wires, to look at the old piebald grazing at the other side of the field.

‘The markings,’ said Timothy. ‘How would he do it?’

‘I don’t know, it would be easy enough – hair dye, something of that sort.’ I swung back on him suddenly. ‘That would account for it!’

‘Account for what?’

‘The feel of that horse’s coat. I noticed today it was still feeling rough and sort of harsh even though the fever had gone, and his coat shouldn’t have been staring any more. I’m sure it was one of the black patches I was touching, you know how brittle and hard hair feels when it’s dyed often. It bothered me a bit, it didn’t feel quite right. We won’t see much at this time of night, but I’d like to take a look at those black patches by daylight! Tim—’ I checked myself. ‘No, look, it’s nonsense, all of it! I still don’t believe it!’

‘Neither do I,’ said Timothy, ‘but it fits, you know, it really does. Just think, if it was Franz Wagner, how easily he could do it; take the stallion out somehow – I’ve read that conditions at Wels were sometimes a bit
chaotic for the Riding School, and the local horse fair would make it a bit more so – disguise him, and then simply melt into his uncle’s circus, which was luckily just on the pull-down. Perhaps he did it just on impulse, because the cover was there handy . . . he may even have been drunk . . . and then, when he realised what he’d done, he didn’t dare confess. And he daren’t let the horse perform in public, either, or do so himself; but he couldn’t resist riding him in private – it’s obvious he’s kept him in practice of a sort.’

‘But why? If he was going to make nothing out of it, why steal the creature?’

He said slowly: ‘I can’t help thinking it was partly bloody-mindedness, a sort of revenge. That’s what comes through the story as I read it: it said “the stableman” had joined the Riding School from some Army company in Styria, and he’d worked his way up to junior
Bereiter
– that’s a rider – but he was a bit wild always, and quarrelled with the senior riders, and then got the idea they had a grudge against him and he wasn’t being given a chance. Then he did get his chance at a performance, and turned up drunk, and was put right back to stable-hand on the spot. I expect he’d have been sacked, but they were having a job to get people at all in those years, and he was good with the horses when he was sober.’

Another of those silences. ‘“Turned up drunk”,’ I said softly. ‘“An Army company in Styria”. I suppose the Czech circus was just a story they made up for cover . . . Merciful heavens, it does fit. Of course, none of the books would mention the man’s name?’

‘No, but it could be found out.’

‘Yes . . . yes. That’s the side of it we’ll have to think over.’

‘You seem sure they don’t know.’

I said: ‘I can’t believe they do. They gave no sign of it over all this business of the haematoma, with the spotlight – literally – on the old stallion . . . Besides, we can’t say a word to them one way or the other till we’re sure, and I don’t know quite how to set about it. The National Stud aren’t likely to tell us the name of the groom and if we ask the police they may wonder why we want to know, and we might get Herr Wagner and the circus into trouble. If you look at it the other way, we ought to tell them first, I suppose.’

‘I think we can find out fairly easily on our own,’ said Timothy.

‘No, we mustn’t. We can’t afford to go round asking all sorts of questions, for Lewis’s sake. I told you the Archie Goodwin stuff was out.’

‘Not that. It’s much simpler. We can find out here and now. The real Lipizzans – the Riding School Lipizzans, that is – are all branded. I’ve always felt myself that it was rather a pity to disfigure a white horse with a brand, but they each carry three. There’s a big “L” on the near side cheek, that’s for Lipizzan, obviously. If he’s bred at the National Stud, there’ll be a crown and a “P” for Piber on the flank. And on the side they do some sort of hieroglyphic which gives the actual breeding, the sire’s line, and the dam. I’m not at all sure that I could decipher that, but I think if we find he’s got all three brands, we can be pretty sure we’re right.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘what are we waiting for?’

The moonlight threw our shadows long and black across the turf as we walked over to the grazing horse. He was out of the moonlight now, and in the shadow of the pines, his black patches showing very dark and hiding his real shape so that he looked, not like a horse, but like floating patches of some moving ectoplasm.

I said: ‘You may be right, dear heaven, you may be right. You notice what a lot of black there is on his near side? The cheek, the ribs, the flank – all the places where you said the brands would be?’ The horse lifted his head as we reached him, and I took hold of the halter. ‘They’re horrible great ugly marks, too . . . You’d think it would go to his heart to . . .’

My voice trailed off. The horse had pushed his muzzle against my chest and Tim had run his hand gently but quickly down past the forelock, past the eye and over the near cheek. I saw the boy’s fingers, pale in the moonlight, moving over the black skin. They felt, hesitated, then slowly traced out the shape of a big ‘L’.

He said nothing. Nor did I. In silence as he dropped his hand I put mine on the horse’s cheek. The skin was damp where the dewy grass had brushed him. There, ever so slightly ruffling the hair, I could feel the outline of the old brand. It was there, the ‘L’ for Lipizzan. And so was the crowned ‘P’ for Piber. And so was some complicated pattern on the ribs, where, faintly, could be traced something that might be an ‘N’ and a ‘P’ . . .

Neapolitano Petra blew gustily at the front of my dress, pulled his head away, and took another mouthful of the dew-wet clover.

Still in silence, Timothy and I turned and left him there, and made our way slowly down the path between the pines.

Here the moonlight didn’t penetrate and it was very dark. For a time we picked our way in silence. Then Timothy said rather inadequately: ‘Well, it is.’

I said: ‘I was just remembering the parrot.’

‘The parrot? Oh, yes, I remember, those French commands he gave; they were the traditional high school ones. He’d have picked them up from Franzl.’

‘Were they? I didn’t know that. I was thinking of the “Peter”. It could be his name for the horse.’

We had reached the wicket gate leading from the wood to the circus field. As Timothy swung it open for me, excitement broke from him in a little laugh.

‘We’re getting good and loaded with secrets, aren’t we? Do you suppose this one’ll be any good to your husband and PEC?’

‘Heaven knows, but I can hardly wait to unload it on him! It’s no good ringing him up again tonight: I tried earlier, and they said he wouldn’t be available. But he’s coming south as soon as he can, they said, and when he does, all our troubles will be over.’

‘Famous last words,’ said Timothy, and in his hand the gate creaked shut with what sounded like a mocking echo.

A castle, precipice-encurled
. . .

Browning:
De Gustibus

Our arrival on the following day at Zechstein had about it the same curious quality of familiarity that we had encountered at Hohenwald: the circus posters, the slow lumbering of the last wagons and caravans into place in the fields on the outskirts of the village, the big top already up against its background of green; and the now familiar faces and vehicles seen everywhere.

The village lay in a wide valley where a river meandered lazily southward. At this point the valley floor was less than a mile wide, the ground rising on each side at first gently, with rounded hills, then more steeply into slopes of mixed forest – oak and chestnut, beech and holly – towards the precipitous fir woods and, finally, towering silver crests of rock. Spurs thrust out here and there from the valley walls, forcing the river to wind in shining detours round their rocky bases. The village, with its pretty church, its bridge, its mill, its wine shop with the bush hanging outside, was cradled in one such curve of the valley, and it was
not until the road rounded the bluff beyond the village that we could see the castle.

On the far side of the river another great buttress of the mountain had thrust out to deflect the course of the river sharply back on itself. At the end of this buttress was a crag, itself rugged and crenellated like a castle, its precipitous outer side dropping sheer to the river which here slid dark and deep round the base of the cliff. This high promontory was connected to the mountainside by a narrow hogsback ridge crowded to the top with pines, rank on rank of them, dark and beautiful, contrasting vividly with the sweet green of the meadows below and the blazing blue of the afternoon sky. And, perched on the outermost edge of the crag, like something straight out of the fairy books of one’s childhood, was the Schloss Zechstein, a miniature castle, but a real romantic castle for all that, a place of pinnacles and turrets and curtain walls, of narrow windows and battlements and coloured shields painted on the stone. There was even a bridge; not a drawbridge, but a narrow stone bridge arching out of the forest to the castle gate, where some small torrent broke the rock-ridge and sent a thin rope of white water smoking down below the walls. The castle was approached by a narrow metalled road which, branching at right angles off the main road in the valley below, led between heraldic pillars and over another graceful bridge, thereafter zigzagging steeply up to disappear in the thick mountain woods. For all its rugged approach and its carefully preserved mediaeval fortifications the place was not in the least forbidding. It was
charming – not a castle for the guide-books, but a castle to be lived in.

When at length our little car had roared its way up the winding road to the ridge we found that the bridge to the castle gate was nothing like so slender as it had appeared from below. It was a stout well-kept structure, wide enough to take one car at a time. We drove over it and in through an archway into a small cobbled courtyard.

There was very little sign in the hall of the castle that the place was now a hotel. It was a biggish square hall with a stone-flagged floor and panelled walls, and a wide staircase leading up to a gallery. All the woodwork was of pine. There was a green porcelain stove in one corner, unlit at this time of the year, and a heavy wooden table on which stood the register and various other bits of hotel paraphernalia. A man in shirt-sleeves and green baize apron carried our luggage in for us and showed us where to register, then picked our bags up and prepared to lead us to our rooms. I started towards the stairs, but he stopped me, saying with an over-casual air that did not conceal his pride:

‘This way,
gnädige Frau
. There is a lift.’

I must have shown my surprise. In a place like this, one hardly counted on modern plumbing, let alone such conveniences as lifts. He smiled. ‘One would not expect it, no. It has just been put in. This is the first summer that we have had it. It is a great convenience.’

‘I’m sure it is. How marvellous.’

‘This way. I am afraid there is a little way to go down the passage here, towards the kitchens, but you will
understand the Count did not wish such modern things to spoil the centre part of the castle. It would have been a pity to cut the panelling in the hall.’

As he spoke he was leading us down a long dim corridor, its flagged floor covered with rush matting. I said: ‘The Count?’

‘The Count and Countess still live here,’ the man explained. ‘You understand this has been their family home for many generations. They have, themselves, their own rooms in that part of the castle, the other side.’ He nodded his head back the way we had come, indicating the rooms to the opposite side of the central hall. The kitchen corridors we were traversing were in the north wing; no doubt the Count and Countess had kept the southern wing for themselves, while the main block of the castle, the centre block which faced the entrance and the bridge, was used as a hotel.

I said: ‘Do they run the hotel themselves, then?’

‘No, madam, there is a manager, but the Countess herself takes a great interest. Here is the lift.’

He had stopped in front of what looked like a massive pine door with the huge iron studs and hinges which I was beginning to expect everywhere in Austria. Hidden in the stone to one side of it, in another tangle of wrought iron, was an electric push button. The lift arrived without a sound, and proved to be one of the most modern possible variety, the self-service kind of which I am always stupidly terrified, and which has a panel of controls and buttons and switches that look every bit as complicated as the business end of a
computer. But it took us safely and smoothly and, it seemed, in about three seconds, to the third floor.