HS01 - Critique of Criminal Reason (20 page)

Was it, really? I wanted to reassure Helena, to tell her that the investigation was making progress, that I would soon be home with her and the children, that everything would be back to normal again, the slate wiped clean. That there would be no more murders, Königsberg a memory, Vigilantius and his jars of human heads, Lublinsky…all a dream, all left far behind. And what of Anna Rostova? If she truly
were
the murderer, I would sign her death sentence with a happy heart.

If, if, if…

‘Sir?’

The soldier was staring at me. How long had I kept him waiting, the letter held out in my hand, his fingers gripping it, pulling gently against my reluctance to let it go?

‘This message is very urgent,’ I repeated, and relinquished the letter.

I watched him walk to the end of the corridor, then I closed the door and lay down on the bed again. But still sleep would not come. My mind was troubled and sore. Despite what Lublinsky had told me, despite what the woman had done to him, despite the weapon in her possession, I was less than certain that she was the killer. Anna Rostova was no fool. Lublinsky might believe that the Devil’s claw would cure his ills, but did she? She was too worldly-wise and knowing. An abortionist, a harlot, a creature of the Underworld, Anna lived by manipulating the gullible. Why kill the hen that laid the golden egg? She made her living from the likes of Lublinsky, from child-getting, child murder. A murderer will often kill for gain, rarely at a loss. Would spreading terror on the streets of Königsberg serve
her
purpose?

And if it did, what might that purpose be?

Koch had suggested human sacrifice as a motive, trading lives with the Devil for power and wealth. But superstition, charms and magic were the tools of Anna’s trade, she made money from them. Death would not profit her directly. If gold were not the cause, I concluded, only Evil remained to explain her behaviour, and I would just have to face up to the fact. I would be required to publicly accuse her of consorting with Satan. I would be cast in the odious role of a Springer, or an Institoris. I had read their
Malleus maleficarum
. In the Dark Ages, those two blinkered magistrates had condemned numberless women to the trials of the ducking-stool, and sent them to the flames in public squares in the hallowed name of Religion. I would be obliged to do the same in the name of the Prussian State. Would I be immortalised to future time as ‘Stiffeniis, the witch-hunter of the Age of Enlightenment?’

A knock shook the door, and an immediate sensation of relief swept over me. At that moment, any distraction was better than the leaden weight of my own thoughts.

The bulk of Officer Stadtschen blocked the doorway, his face an inscrutable mask in the gloom. As he stepped into the light, the expression on his face was no more reassuring.

‘Have they caught her?’ I asked quickly.

He shook his head, then drew a brown paper file from behind his back and held it out to me. ‘Kopka, sir,’ he said.

‘You had no trouble finding the information, then?’

He looked away. ‘I didn’t need to look very far,’ he murmured.

‘So much the better,’ I said.

He bowed his head as we stood facing each other in the cramped room. ‘I knew where to look, sir,’ he said quietly. ‘I knew Rudolph Kopka. I would have known where to find those papers in any case, sir, once you said that the man was a deserter.’

The sombre expression fell away from his face. The muscles in his jaw seemed to pump and pulse with tension.

‘Where might that be, Stadtschen?’

‘ “Dead Soldiers”, sir. His file was there.’

‘Dead? I thought that Kopka had deserted from the regiment?’

‘He did, sir…’

‘A court martial, I suppose?’

He shook his head and smiled wanly. ‘It doesn’t work that way, sir.’

I took the file from his hand, and sat down on the bed to read the notes he had given me. There were three sheets of paper in the folder, and I examined the first.

REPORT

The second sheet confirmed the medical diagnosis: ‘Crushed larynx caused by a severe blow to the throat.’ It was signed by the regimental doctor.

The third, a death certificate, had been signed by the same doctor and witnessed by Captain Ertensmeyer: ‘Prisoner died of wounds.’

Once again, I was struck by how incomplete these documents were. They were like a mosaic with important pieces missing. Who, in the first place, was the mysterious capturing officer, the man who had led the search for Rudolph Kopka and witnessed the accident that had muted him and eventually caused his death? Why was he not identified?

‘Who led the hunt for him, Stadtschen?’

‘I’ve no idea, sir.’

‘Did Kopka die in prison?’ I asked, setting the papers aside.

Officer Stadtschen leapt to attention, but his reply was slower coming. ‘In a manner of speaking, sir,’ he said.

‘Well? Did he, or didn’t he?’ I burst out.

‘Indeed, he did, sir.’

‘That wound to the throat?’ I asked. ‘Or was it something else?’

Stadtschen looked first at the wall, then his eyes rose towards the ceiling.

‘Something else, sir,’ he said without expression.

I left him to simmer while I paced up and down the room in silence for some time. ‘What actually happens when a man deserts, Stadtschen? When I mentioned a court martial before, you said yourself that it doesn’t work that way. How
does
it work exactly?’

Stadtschen continued to stare at the ceiling as if his own larnyx had just been surgically removed.

‘I will not warn you again,’ I said sharply. ‘Tell me everything you know. This is not an investigation into military comportment. I have nothing at all to say on that matter. Murder of innocent civilians is my only objective. What happens to a deserter who is caught?’

Stadtschen coughed uncomfortably. ‘He is not disciplined by a military tribunal, sir. He has shamed his uniform, and he is punished by the members of his regimental company who are proud to wear the colours.’

‘
How
is he punished? That’s what I want to know!’

Stadtschen emitted a loud sigh. ‘The company is assembled, two close lines facing one another. Then, on some pretext – like going to the jakes, or changing cells – the traitor is forced to pass between the rows.’

‘It sounds harmless enough,’ I prompted when he said no more.

‘Each man has a large stick,’ Stadtschen added slowly. ‘And he doesn’t hesitate to use it.’

I scrutinised him for some instants. ‘In a word, Kopka was beaten to death. Is that it?’

Stadtschen said nothing. He now stared fixedly ahead, his eyes dull flints. Then, he slowly nodded his head.

‘And is the capturing officer the one who oversees this final punishment?’

The answer to this question came quickly. ‘It’s likely, sir. In cases such as this one, names are rarely mentioned.’

‘The authorities know about this unlawful practice, I presume,’ I stated, picking up the papers again and glancing over them.

Stadtschen’s mouth creased into a hollow smile. ‘Not officially, sir. And in the army, if it ain’t official, it never happened.’

I closed my eyes, and rubbed my eyelids. The death-roll in Königsberg seemed to be endless. Four people had been murdered in the streets for a reason that no one could divine. Morik’s death made five. The Totzes, six and seven. Rhunken made eight. And now, I could add Rudolph Aleph Kopka to the list.

‘Go away, Stadtschen. Get out,’ I said, dismissing him with a wave of my hand.

As the door closed and his footsteps receded quickly along the corridor, I threw myself down on the bed, my head a whirlpool of conflicting thoughts. And that confusion is all I remember. Somehow, I must have drifted into sleep. A dark void opened up before me, a dreamless vacuum untroubled by the spirits of Morik or the Totzes. Lublinsky was nowhere to be seen. Kopka might still have been alive, attending to his duty in the rowdy company of his fellows. No intruder marred the snow in Professor Kant’s garden. Helena’s pretty face cancelled out that other face with its pale skin and silver hair.

When I awoke, the first glimmer of dawn illuminated the narrow window-slits, and the long, pale face of Sergeant Koch hovered above my bed like a ghostly impersonation of the early morning sun. He was sitting on the chair beside my cot. ‘I’m glad you managed to get some rest, sir,’ he said quietly.

The cold inside the room was less intense.

‘Did you light the stove, Koch?’ I asked. ‘I didn’t hear you enter.’

‘I’ve been here a while, sir. Made myself useful while I was waiting. I did not wish to disturb you. It would have served no purpose.’

I sat up quickly. ‘Is Lublinsky dead?’

Koch shook his head. ‘He may lose his sight, according to the doctor. The wound’s deep, and there’s a danger of infection, but that can’t be helped. He’ll live.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘There’s an isolation ward in the infirmary here in the barracks.’

‘Anna Rostova?’

Koch shook his head.

I lay back on the pillow, breathing more easily. ‘You think that she’s the killer, don’t you, Koch?’

The sergeant looked down at his hands. He might have been mixing a pack of playing-cards, looking at each figure, searching for a particular one before he spoke. ‘Many things point that way, don’t you think, sir?’ he said. ‘We know that she’s done harm to more people than Lublinsky with that filthy Devil’s claw of hers. Remember what she was doing in that back room, sir? That’s prison, that is. A long spell, too.’

‘But did she commit these murders, Koch?’

Anna Rostova was an abortionist, a prostitute, she had blinded Officer Lublinsky, harmed and tricked any number of people, but if no incontrovertible proof of her involvement in the murders came to light, I would be able to go more easily on those lesser crimes.

‘Kopka’s dead,’ I said, my mind skipping to the latest horror. ‘They made him run the gauntlet.’

Koch frowned. ‘Who’s Kopka, sir?’

‘He and Lublinsky were the officers who were sent to guard Jan Konnen’s body. They also wrote the reports and drew the sketches of the second murder. But some time later, Kopka decided to desert. What could have made him do it, Koch? He knew what his fate would be if they caught him. All the soldiers know, apparently. Lublinsky, too. That’s probably why he never tried to run away…’

‘Goodness!’ Koch murmured. ‘D’you think Lublinsky set him up?’

I shrugged. ‘If Anna Rostova were the killer, and Lublinsky was her partner in crime, it would make some sense. Perhaps Kopka realised what was going on, and fled in fear of what Lublinsky and Rostova might do to him? It’s just a possibility, of course. Until we catch her…’

My voice faded to a whisper, and we remained in silence for some time.

‘I don’t believe any clear-cut, rational motive will ever explain these crimes, Herr Stiffeniis,’ Sergeant Koch said at last with great deliberation.

I studied his face. It was furrowed, wasted, mirroring my own confusion and frustration.

‘I do not follow you, Koch.’

‘I’m coming round to Professor Kant’s point of view, sir,’ he said with an attempt at a smile. ‘Do you recall what he said about the pleasure of killing? He said that pure evil exists as a fact, and that it doesn’t require any explanation. To be sure, a simple motive would make things crystal-clear and we’d all feel better for that, but what if no such justification exists?’ He stared unhappily down at his hands, then glanced up again.

‘Anna Rostova is evil. There can be no doubt of that, sir. And you don’t need
any
proof to condemn her. The Prussian Law Code of 1794 has never been repealed, it is not subject to
habeas corpus
. Napoleon’s army could come sweeping through the country at any time, Minister von Arnim was quite clear on the necessity for martial law. I remember reading the circular, sir.’

‘But what would be the
charge
, Sergeant? Witchcraft?’ I interrupted him angrily. ‘Because the woman claims to invoke the Devil? Not so very long ago, an accusation such as yours would have lit a raging bonfire beneath her. If I am going to accuse Anna Rostova of anything at all – even trafficking with the Devil – I need to be quite certain in my own mind what it is.’

‘Herr Professor Kant would not be so put out by the absence of a motive for murder as you appear to be, sir,’ Koch replied at once.

‘
What?
’ I expostulated, shocked by the gravity of the accusation.

‘Forgive me, sir,’ the sergeant said with a shake of his head. ‘But there seems to be no rational motivation for anything happening here in Königsberg. Kant’s sudden interest in murder, for example. Would you call that rational?’

Koch knew of my respect for the philosopher, he had witnessed the special relationship which existed between us. Even so, I realised, his personal aversion to Professor Kant was stronger than his sense of duty in my own regard.

‘Kant’s interest in murder, as you call it, may well prevent a war, Koch. Surely, you have not forgotten our conversation with General Katowice? He was champing at the bit, and I almost gave him the excuse that he was looking for. I was convinced there was a terrorist plot behind all this. But it was Kant’s help and the contents of his laboratory that corrected my mistake.’

‘Nevertheless, sir,’ Koch replied quickly, ‘here in town there are many people better qualified to handle the situation than Professor Kant. Perhaps I ought to say, there
were…
’

‘Procurator Rhunken, you mean?’

‘Aye, sir,’ he said, studying my reaction. ‘Professor Kant had him removed because he wanted you to lead this investigation. But, if you’ll permit me to speak freely, sir, that was altogether most irregular. You had no experience in cases such as this one. You told me as much when I first presented myself in your office in Lotingen.’

Only someone who has travelled in the land of shadows…

How could I make Koch understand the motive that had induced me to become a magistrate? Or explain the part that Immanuel Kant had played in the decision?

‘I thought philosophy was at the root of it,’ Koch went on thoughtfully. ‘You share his interest in a rational method of analysis. Maybe
that’s
what makes them different, I thought. But does philosophy drive a man to conserve human bits and pieces in glass jars? Does philosophy push a man to order soldiers to do things that would revolt them more than anything they’ve ever had to do on the battlefield? What sort of philosophy asks a common soldier to take up a pencil and draw the dead? Or store dead bodies under snow in a stinking cellar while they wait for the moon to rise? Lublinsky’s mind has been affected by it, I’d wager. All this talk of the Devil! There’s no clear cause or logical explanation that I can see in the whole affair.’

I stopped him there. ‘All of this may appear odd, out of place, even motiveless to you, Koch. But what Professor Kant has created in that laboratory is a new method, a new science, I would say. It represents a revolution in our way of thinking. New ideas always surprise us. He is acting in pursuit of Clarity and Truth.’

Koch held up a finger, as if asking permission to speak. A deep frown creased his troubled forehead. ‘May I finish what I was saying, sir?’

‘Please, go on,’ I said, suppressing my defence of Kant.

‘Another idea came into my head at first light, sir, and I cannot shake it out. Professor Kant is unwholesomely interested in the mechanics of Evil. He’s not in the least concerned about police business. That eel-fisherman down by the Pregel this morning, for instance. He should have been questioned. Instead of doing which, we sent him on his way. Professor Kant has more important things on
his
mind. He’s trying to slip inside the skin of the killer, attempting to penetrate Evil, learn its secrets. That laboratory is just about the most diabolical place that I have ever been.’