HS01 - Critique of Criminal Reason (2 page)

‘I need but a few minutes to wish my wife farewell and kiss my little ones,’ I protested on the strength of my new authority. ‘Neither Procurator Rhunken nor the King would deny me that small luxury, I think!’

Out in the street, a large coach bearing the Imperial coat-of-arms stood waiting in the snow. As I climbed aboard, I could not avoid reflecting on the incongruity of my situation. There I was in a state coach, holding a letter signed by the King imploring me to solve a case that not one of the great magistrates in his service had been able to resolve. It should have been the crowning moment in my short career, the day the dark clouds parted and the sun shone brightly on one of her own, my abilities not only recognised, but usefully employed for the good of the nation. But then the words of that old letter came echoing back once again:

The coachman cracked his whip, and the vehicle leapt forward. I took it as a sign of destiny. I should leave the past behind, and look towards a brighter and more prosperous future. What more could I possibly want? It was, when all was said and done, a glorious opportunity for professional advancement.

Helena must have been sitting at the window as the splendid vehicle pulled up outside the small, draughty house on the edge of the town which was tied to the prebend of Lotingen. As I climbed down, she ran out to meet me with neither hat nor coat, ignoring the biting north wind and the driving snow. She stopped before me, looking uncertainly up into my face.

‘What has happened, Hanno?’ she gasped, stepping close and slipping her arm through mine.

She listened as I told her all that had come to pass, slowly drawing away from me, clasping her hands protectively across her breasts. It was a gesture that I knew only too well when she was disturbed or upset by something I had said or done.

‘I thought that you had chosen Lotingen precisely to avoid such things, Hanno,’ she murmured. ‘I truly believed that here you had found what you were seeking.’

‘I did, my dear,’ I told her instantly. ‘I mean, of course, I have.’

‘I do not understand you, then,’ she replied. She hesitated for a moment, then went on: ‘If you are doing this for your father’s sake, nothing can change what happened, Hanno. Nothing will ever change
him
.’

‘I hoped you would be proud to see me getting on,’ I said, perhaps a trifle more harshly than I intended. ‘What ails you, wife? I have no choice. I must go when the King commands it.’

She looked down at the ground for some moments.

‘But
murder
, Hanno?’ she challenged suddenly, glancing up. ‘You have never dealt with such a heinous crime before.’

She spoke with fierce passion. I had never seen her in such a nervous state before. She threw herself upon my chest at last to hide the evidence of her weeping, and I glanced quickly in the direction of Sergeant Koch. He was standing stiffly by the carriage door, his expression blank and unchanging, as if he had heard nothing of what my wife had just said. I felt a flash of resentment for the embarrassment she had caused me.

‘Wait there, will you, Sergeant?’ I called back. ‘I’ll not be long.’

Koch bobbed his head, a tight-lipped smile traced faintly on his thin lips.

I led Helena quickly into the hall. Her manner was restrained and watchful. I cannot say what reaction I had expected from her. Pride, perhaps? Joy at my rapid promotion? She had shown no sign of either.

‘The King has called me to Him,’ I argued. ‘A senior magistrate in Königsberg has given His Majesty my name. What would you have me do?’

Helena looked at me, puzzlement traced upon her face, as if she failed to understand what I had just told her. ‘I…I do not know. How long will you be gone?’ she asked at last.

‘I cannot tell,’ I said. ‘Not very long, I hope.’

‘Run upstairs, Lotte. Fetch your master’s things,’ Helena cried suddenly, turning to the maid. ‘His carriage is waiting at the door. Be quick! He’ll be gone some days.’

As we stood in the hall alone, I knew not what to say. Helena and I had been wed four years, and had never spent a single night apart. A special bond of shared suffering tied us, one to the other.

‘I am not going off to fight the French!’ I declared with a nervous laugh, reaching out and drawing my darling close, kissing her gently on the forehead, cheek and lips, until the return of Lotte interrupted those brief, welcome moments of intimacy.

‘I’ll write every day, my love, and tell you of my doings. The minute we arrive, you’ll have word of me,’ I said with all the bluff sanguinity that I could muster to brighten the melancholy of parting. ‘Kiss Manni and Süsi for me.’

As I took the travelling-bag from Lotte, Helena threw herself upon me once again and let forth her emotions with a force and intensity I had never known in her before that moment. I thought it was on account of the children: Immanuel was not yet one, Süsanne barely two.

‘Forgive me, I am so troubled, Hanno,’ she cooed, her soft voice almost lost in the deep folds of my woollen cloak. ‘What do they want from
you?
’

Unable to reply, unwilling to speculate, I drew back from her embrace, straightened my mantle, threw my bag over my shoulder and walked quickly down the path towards the waiting coach and Sergeant Koch, my head bent low against the blizzard. I skipped aboard the coach with a light foot and a heavy heart.

As the vehicle slowly pulled away, the wheels crunching on the thick carpet of snow, I looked behind, watching until the dear, slender figure in the white dress was entirely swallowed up by the snowstorm.

The question that had perplexed Helena now returned to vex and puzzle me. Why
had
the King chosen me?

The coach jolted onwards for more than an hour, and barely a word was said. Sergeant Koch sat in his corner, I sat in mine, both as melancholy as the world through which we journeyed. I stared out at the passing countryside. Bleak villages and isolated farms dotted the landscape here and there, marking out the hilltops and the highway. Peasants toiled in the fields, up to their knees in the snow, to save their stranded cows and sheep. The world was all a massive grey blur, the distant hills blending into the horizon with no precise point at which the earth ended and the heavens began.

We had just passed through a little village called Endernffords when our coach was forced to stop on the ramp approaching a swing-bridge over a narrow river. Screams of suffering rent the peace. Such wild, blood-curdling howls, at first I thought that they were human. I leapt up from my seat, pulled hard on the sash, dropped the window, and leaned out of the carriage to see what was going on.

‘A farmer’s cart has skidded on the ice,’ I reported over my shoulder to Koch. The horse had slipped its traces, and it lay on its back in the middle of the road, one of its fore-legs dangling broken in the air. A man stood over the animal, howling drunken curses and lashing out viciously at the fallen beast with his whip. My first impulse was to get down, though whether to help the doomed horse, or to berate the senseless cruelty of the driver, I cannot say. What followed happened so quickly and in a manner so well-ordered, I was convinced that such things were a common occurrence at that isolated crossing, and I remained where I was.

Every man present at the scene – there were four of them sitting on the wooden beam of the bridge – seemed to know exactly what was going on. Three of these idlers rushed out suddenly, one brandishing a long curved knife, the other two with raised axes in their fists. The knife-blade flashed, then sliced through the horse’s straining neck. The keening wail of the beast’s distress died in a whistle of spouting blood and froth which turned the snow beneath the murderer’s feet into a gory, reddish mash. The driver froze, the whip raised high above his head, then, in a flash, without a word, he dropped his whip, turned, and ran away, slithering and lurching across the bridge to safety. In silence, the butchers fell upon the carcass with their axes. It was the work of a minute. Steam rose all about them in a swirling cloud as they furiously hacked and chopped the fallen animal into a dozen pieces, then quickly loaded the meat up onto the cart. The fourth man hurried forward, helping the brigands load the cart, then push it out of the way, signalling to our coach to pass across the swing-bridge.

My legs gave way and I sat down. But I jumped up quickly again to close the window. As we passed by the cart with its disgusting load of offal, flesh and guts, the stench of fresh blood filled our coach in a warm, engulfing haze. It was sweet, nauseating, corrosive, painful to my sensibility.

‘Hard times breed hard men,’ said Sergeant Koch quietly. ‘What are we to do about that, sir?’

I closed my eyes and leaned back against the leather bench.

‘They’re probably starving,’ I murmured. ‘Hunger has driven many a good man to shame.’

‘Let’s hope they’re ready to butcher Frenchmen with the same enthusiasm,’ Koch said dryly. ‘If Bonaparte turns up in Prussia, there won’t be anything left to eat, let alone horses. Then we’ll see what sort of men they really are.’

‘Pray God, we are never put to the test!’ I replied, more sharply than I meant.

Another hour passed with very little said on either side.

‘Whoever saw such a sky!’ exclaimed Koch suddenly, shaking me from my lethargy. ‘It looks as if the whole lot’s going to come crashing down about our ears, sir. Foul weather’s fit punishment for our sins, the proverb says.’

There was something almost comical about the seriousness of the man. The lurching of the coach had shifted his tricorn hat on his head, stark black strands of hair peeping out from beneath the stiff white curls of his periwig like shy maidens. I gave a nod and smiled, making the decision to pass the remainder of the journey in a more sociable manner. And yet, I hardly knew how. From a professional point of view, Koch was my inferior, little better than a servant.

‘This would be a good moment for you to examine these papers, Herr Stiffeniis,’ Sergeant Koch announced, reaching for his bag before I had the opportunity to speak.

The good humour I had decided on dissolved in an instant.

‘Do you mean to tell me that you have kept something from my sight, Herr Koch?’

‘I’m only doing as I was instructed, sir,’ he said as he pulled a sheaf of papers from his leather bag.’ I was told to hand these documents to you once we’d reached the Königsberg highway.’

As if in response to his words, the coach swung left at the Elbing crossroads.

So,
that’s
your game, I thought. I have been flattered into accepting an unpleasant commission and now that it’s too late to pull out, I’m to be told all the nasty details that would have convinced me to refuse it.

‘The authorities must guarantee the peace,’ Koch continued blithely. ‘All those involved in the investigation have been sworn to secrecy.’

‘Does that include you?’ I asked sharply. ‘You must have given your wife some reason for leaving her alone so early this morning.’

I felt mounting anger at the thought of this graceless messenger concealing information from me. ‘You hold back facts, Koch, unveiling them whenever the need arises, or it suits your mood.’

The suspicion was growing on me that Sergeant Koch was not simply taking me anywhere; he was observing me, judging me, mentally preparing critical notes to be written up for the eyes of his superiors. That was the normal procedure in the Prussian civil service. To spy on others was the surest way to step up a rung on the uncertain bureaucratic ladder.

‘I have nothing to hide from you, sir,’ Sergeant Koch replied through clenched teeth, his handkerchief out again. ‘I am a clerk. I have played no active part in the investigation. This morning, like any other, I took myself to work at five-thirty and I was instructed to do what I have done. I had no need to tell my wife, or anyone else, of my doings. I live alone.’

Koch and I had got off to a bad start.

‘You claim to know so little of this affair, Herr Koch. I find it odd that you should be charged to illuminate a person who knows absolutely nothing. A case of the blind leading the blind, is it?’

‘Those documents should answer your questions, sir. Obviously, I was told not to let you see them until you had accepted the task.’

‘Do you mean to say that I could have refused?’ I said, and snatched the papers from his hand.

He looked out of the window, but he did not reply.

With a bad grace I turned my attention to the documents. The first murder had been committed more than a year before. Jan Konnen, a middle-aged blacksmith, had been found dead in Merrestrasse on the morning of 3 January 1803. Police enquiries revealed that he had spent the previous evening at a dockside tavern not far from the spot where his corpse was found. The innkeeper did not recall ever having seen Herr Konnen before and denied that he had seen him gaming in the company of foreign sailors. He believed that the man was a foreigner, he said. A Lithuanian sailing ship had docked that day and the tavern had been particularly crowded until the early hours of the morning. Konnen had left the tavern shortly after ten o’clock that evening, but no one had noticed him outside. It was very cold that night and the streets were empty of casual passers-by. His corpse had been found at dawn by a midwife on her way to assist at a birth. Hurrying through the fog, which was exceptionally thick that morning, she had almost fallen over Konnen, who was kneeling up against a wall. The midwife thought that he was ill, but on drawing closer she saw that he was dead. The report had been signed by two officers of His Royal Majesty’s night-watch, Anton Lublinsky and Rudolph Kopka. Penned in passable German, it was dated six months after the murder. I glanced up, noting that heavy sleet had now begun to lash the windows of the coach, determined to ask Koch for an explanation. He was a bureaucrat, he was from Königsberg: he must know what the standard procedure was in such matters. But Koch’s head had fallen forward on his chest, his face half-hidden in the folds of his cloak, and he let out a rattling snore. For a moment, I toyed with the idea of waking him up. Instead, I turned to the second fascicle.

First, I glanced at the date written at the foot of the fourth page. This report had also been compiled recently, on 23 January 1804, to be exact, a week before, and almost four months after the murder, which did not say much for the efficiency of the local authorities. Had the second killing prompted them to review the first? It seemed a most irregular way of going about things. The name of the second victim was Paula-Anne Brunner. And there went my first hypothesis! I had formed the notion that there must be something banal at the heart of the matter, something so simple that it had been overlooked. After all, there was nothing startling about gambling debts and violent litigation in a low tavern between men who diced and drank more than was good for them. But Prussian women, as a rule, don’t drink in public or play at dice. Especially in Königsberg, which is renowned for its moral Pietism.

‘
On 22 September 1803
,’ I read, ‘
the corpse of Paula-Anne Brunner (née Schobart) was found in the public gardens in Neumannstrasse
.’

The report was signed by the same two officers who had written up the report of the first murder, Lublinsky and Kopka.

I sat back against the leather seat. The second account was rich in detail, almost literary, but as with the first, there were missing elements far too obvious to escape my attention. No mention was made of how the victim had been killed. Nor of the weapon that had been used.

I turned again to Koch. He was still asleep, his head jolting uncomfortably up and down with the unpredictable lurching of the carriage on the muddy, potholed road. His hat had fallen onto his knees and his wig had now slipped down over his right ear. I closed my own eyes and let myself be rocked by the motion of the vehicle, trying to get the picture clear in my mind. How had these people died? What purpose had been served by killing them? And why had two officers with considerable investigative experience (as I presumed from the fact that Lublinsky and Kopka had been present on both occasions) failed to confront these vital questions?

A deafening crash of thunder followed by a blinding flash of lightning put an end to my meditations, and to Koch’s dozing. He sat up as if he’d been struck by a bullet, his first impulse to reach for his wig with one hand, his second to make the sign of the cross with the other.

‘Good God, sir!’ he grumbled loudly. ‘Nature was created to plague the affairs of men.’

‘It is only water vapour, Sergeant,’ I smiled. ‘Electrical discharges in the heavens. That is all. An eminent fellow citizen of yours once wrote a pamphlet on the subject. Nothing exists, he said, which the laws of Science cannot explain.’

Koch turned to me, his grey eyes flashing with unmistakable indulgence. ‘Do you believe that, Herr Stiffeniis?’

‘Indeed, I do,’ I replied.

‘I envy you your certainty,’ he murmured, bending to pick his hat up from the carriage floor where it had fallen. He brushed the brown velvet, and set it on the crown of his head with care. ‘No mysteries exist for you, then, sir?’

I could not ignore the vein of incredulity with which he expressed his doubts.

‘I have always tried to follow the pathways of rationality to their logical conclusions, Herr Koch,’ I answered.

‘You do not admit the possibility of the Unknown, the Unthinkable?’ He had a trick of sounding capital letters where there ought to have been none. ‘May I ask what you do, sir, when you find yourself face to face with the Inexplicable?’

‘I do not mean to suggest that human reason can explain and justify every human action,’ I said with barely contained annoyance. ‘There are limits to our understanding. What is unknown, as you call it, remains so for the simple reason that no one has chosen to explain it for the moment. I would call this qualified ignorance, not a defeat for Enlightened Science.’

Lightning flashed again and his pale flesh turned silvery blue against the rushing backdrop of dark trees and fleeting drops of rain, framed by the window pane.