HS01 - Critique of Criminal Reason (30 page)

I took the book in my hands – it was a small thing to do by way of thanks – and examined the neat leather-bound volume. A large red velvet heart and the word ‘Memories’ had been embroidered diagonally across the cover in elegant white letters.

‘I stitched it myself,’ Herr Lutbatz said proudly. ‘All my own work!’

‘It’s quite remarkable,’ I admitted. Indeed, any housewife would have been proud of such handiwork.

‘Now, here’s a pen, sir,’ he said, bringing over a pot of ink and a quill, while I wondered what on earth to write. ‘If you turn back a way, you’ll see the phrase that Herr Kant inscribed with his own hand.’

My hands trembled as I turned the pages and saw what the visitor had written the night that he came to Roland Lutbatz to collect the instruments with which he would inflict sudden death on so many unsuspecting souls:

The epigram was signed ‘Immanuel Kant’.

‘Go on, sir,’ Herr Lutbatz urged with a shrill laugh of excitement, ‘let’s see if you can do better!’

I took the quill and in a few seconds I had composed and written the following phrase of my own: ‘Reason has vanquished the clouds of Obscurity, bringing Light.’ Then, as Immanuel Kant had done before me, I signed my name beneath the inscription.

The first rays of the rising sun caressed the dark horizon in a golden fan as I left The Blue Unicorn and walked out into the new morning with a lighter step, and an even lighter heart.

Did I truly believe that Immanuel Kant was the murderer? Even for a single instant? Had I been able to conjure up a mental picture of Roland Lutbatz chatting amiably away, while Professor Kant purchased six ivory needles for the purpose of massacring the innocent citizens of Königsberg in cold blood? At his age? In his frail physical condition?

If the idea had ever flitted across the ruffled surface of my troubled mind for the tiniest fraction of a second, that phrase written out so boldly in the merchant’s autograph book saved me from taking a further plunge into unthinkable error. What I had read was a godless parody of the Immanuel Kant that all the world knew and respected. As I studied those ungainly letters written out so awkwardly, in such an immature and childlike hand, I suddenly realised that a familiar ghost had brushed my sleeve many times in the past few days, and that he had gained ground each time that I failed to recognise him.

The very first time I had
not
seen this ghostly presence was the day that I came to Königsberg seven years before and found myself so unexpectedly invited to lunch at Professor Kant’s home. His ancient valet was absent that day, attending the funeral of his sister. In thirty years of constant domestic service, it was the only day when he had
not
been present at Professor Kant’s table. And just a short while after I returned home to Lotingen, the sixty-year-old servant had been summarily dismissed from the house, forbidden ever to return. Yet, Frau Mendelssohn had seen him repeatedly entering and leaving at all hours of the day and the night. She had told me so. She had seen Martin Lampe!

Lampe had managed to worm his way in and out of Professor Kant’s drawing room soon after I had left it, or shortly before I entered. Martin Lampe and I had been like twin satellites in parallel orbits around the same mighty planet, always circling, never meeting. But why had Kant allowed Martin Lampe to return from banishment?

I could only guess. Maybe the servant had played on the generosity of his former master. Perhaps he had answered some need, given comfort in the form of the regularity and continuity of his visits, or provided that sense of order and fixity which seemed to be so essential to the ageing philosopher’s well-being. What must have sounded to Kant like harmless chatter with an old, familiar confidant was the key to Martin Lampe’s power. Like an alien cuckoo in the nest, one by one, he had thrown out all the other chicks. Kant’s dearest friends had thought to unsaddle the valet, but he had pitched them headlong from the intimacy of his master. Martin Lampe had never distanced himself from Immanuel Kant. Not for one single moment. He had known my every move. As I began to displace him in his master’s confidence, he had sought to eliminate me. He had killed Sergeant Koch in the belief that he was murdering me. That waterproof cloak had been the signal. Kant must have mentioned in passing that he had given it to me; Martin Lampe could not have known that I had handed on the cloak to Sergeant Koch.

But why had Lampe killed the others? Had each one of them had some tenuous connection with Professor Kant that I had not yet been able to discover? That Professor Kant might consult a notary was certainly possible, but what about the others? Jan Konnen was a blacksmith, Paula-Anne Brunner sold eggs, Johann Gottfried Haase was a social derelict. And why had Kant himself said nothing about them if he knew these people?

I had identified the killer, but I could not fathom what had made him do it. I had to find him, and make him talk. But where should I start to look? Where did he live, where could he hide? I took out my fob-watch. It was half past five in the morning. Nevertheless, I walked away quickly down Königstrasse in the opposite direction from the Fortress, a nervous litany running through my head.

‘Dear God, forgive the Totzes, husband and wife. Pardon Anna Rostova for her sins and her crimes. Excuse the weakness of Lublinsky,’ I intoned. They had all been savaged by my blundering incapacity.

‘And help me stop Martin Lampe!’ He had found a modus operandi and a weapon ideally suited to his physical condition and his age. Like a watchful spider, he had woven a web of cunning to immobilise his prey. When the fly was caught and helpless, he had struck with all the venom at his disposal.

‘O Lord,’ I spoke out loud, ‘preserve the soul of Amadeus Koch.’

Koch would never know how close he had come to the truth. I prayed most fervently for his honest soul as I pulled my cloak more tightly against the freezing cold of dawn.

‘And Heaven help me!’ I thought finally, though there was more irony than piety in the notion. I had been deceived, but I had not been forced to pay for the error with my life.

I reached my destination, pushed open the creaking garden gate once again, and knocked more furiously on the door than I had intended. The servant came at last. While straightening his wig, he announced brusquely that it was too early for his master to receive a social call. ‘It’s barely six o’clock!’ he added. ‘And in any case, my master has a head cold. He’ll be seeing no one today.’

‘He will make an exception,’ I insisted stubbornly. ‘Tell him that Procurator Stiffeniis must speak to him on a matter of the greatest urgency.’

The fellow closed the door in my face, only to open it again a few minutes later. Without a word of apology for his rudeness, he stepped back, waved me into the hall, and pointed to the top of the stairs.

Herr Jachmann was propped up in bed on a mountain of pillows, his head covered by a grey woollen cap which was pulled low on his brow. The air in the room hung heavy with the fumes of camphor.

‘You again?’ he greeted me without warmth. ‘The last nightmare of a long night.’

I sat down on a chair near the bed without apologising or waiting for an invitation. ‘I have come about Martin Lampe,’ I said.

Jachmann sat up quickly.

‘I want you to tell me all that you know about him.’

Falling back against the pillows with a loud sigh, he closed his red-ringed eyes. ‘I thought your task was to find a murderer, Stiffeniis, not gossip about the servants.’

‘I need your help if I am to protect Professor Kant,’ I said stiffly, and waited for him to open his eyes and look at me, though he remained silent and still. ‘Do you know Frau Mendelssohn?’ I ploughed on.

He nodded without speaking.

‘She told me that she thought she had seen Martin Lampe entering Professor Kant’s house on more than one occasion.’

Had I told Jachmann that an Arctic tiger was roaming unchained on the streets of Königsberg, the effect could not have been more pronounced. His eyes flashed open, and he glared at me angrily. ‘Keep that man away from Kant,’ he cried with such force that he was afflicted by a fit of coughing. The violence of his disavowal of Lampe disconcerted me.

‘Have you told me everything I should know about him, Herr Jachmann?’

The old man did not answer, but fussed instead with the woollen cap on his head, pulling his shawl more tightly about his shoulders, as if I had brought the winter cold into the room with me.

‘Lampe was not simply a servant,’ Jachmann replied slowly. ‘He was more, much more. Without him, Professor Kant was lost. Like a child without a mother. Kant’s intellectual accomplishments are due in very large part to the contribution of Martin Lampe.’

The incredulity on my face must have been clear.

‘Do you think I am exaggerating?’ Jachmann smiled a wan smile. ‘Martin Lampe was discharged from the army, Kant was in need of a personal servant. At the time, it was a happy coincidence. Kant is incapable of the simplest household task; Lampe was taken on to remedy the omission. Why, he couldn’t even put his own
stockings
on! Kant’s daily life was arranged by this rough-and-ready soldier. When the Professor gave instructions to be called at five o’clock each morning, Corporal Lampe obeyed that order to the letter. If the master attempted to snooze after the hour had struck, the servant pitched him mercilessly from his bed like a lazy child. And Kant thanked him for it. He needs the sort of inflexible discipline which only a mother, or a man like Martin Lampe, can provide.’

He stopped to wipe his nose.

‘Why drive him off after a life of dedicated service?’ I insisted.

‘He represented the greatest danger to his master,’ Herr Jachmann snuffled into his handkerchief. ‘Martin Lampe had become…irreplaceable.’

I studied Jachmann’s pale face. His lips trembled, his eyes were feverish. He seemed to be terrified of Martin Lampe himself. ‘But
how
was he a danger, sir? I do not comprehend you.’

‘Do you know Gottlieb Fichte?’ he asked abruptly. He did not wait for me to answer. ‘Fichte was one of Kant’s most promising students. When his doctoral thesis was published, many people believed that Kant had written it. They thought he had used the name of Fichte as a convenient pseudonym, but there was no truth in the rumour. Fichte often went to visit him, and the professor had always greeted him with friendly warmth. But after that thesis was published, a degree of coldness and animosity crept into their intimacy. Philosophical thought had shifted direction. Sentiment, Irrationality and Pathos were the new keywords. Reason had had its day; Logic was long out of fashion, and Immanuel Kant was set aside. Then, Fichte published a stinging attack on Kant for no apparent motive, accusing him of intellectual idleness. And a short while after, as bold as brass, he appeared at the door, saying that he desired to speak to his former mentor.’

‘Did Kant receive him?’

‘Of course he did. You know what he’s like. He declared himself keener than ever to talk to someone capable of formulating new concepts. But Martin Lampe saw the affair in a different light.’

I considered this for a moment. ‘Lampe was only a servant. What could he do about it?’

Jachmann ignored my objection. ‘Fichte wrote to tell me what had happened that day,’ he went on. ‘He’d been frightened for his life, he said.’

He sank back on the pillow as if he had no energy left.

‘What did he tell you?’ I pressed without allowing him a second’s pause.

Jachmann placed a flannel to his mouth, breathed in deeply, and the cloying smell of camphor wafted through the room. ‘Leaving Kant’s house that evening, Fichte found himself alone in the lane. It was dark and foggy, and he thought that someone might be following him. He quickened his pace, but still those footsteps dogged his own. There was no one to whom he could turn for help. And so, at last, he turned to face the stalker.’

‘Did he recognise the person?’ I asked.

Jachmann nodded. ‘He did. It was Immanuel Kant.’

For a moment I thought the fever had possessed his reason.

‘Not the amiable Kant that Fichte had left at the house,’ Jachmann went on. ‘This was a demon, a terrifying parody who looked like Kant, dressed like Kant. He ran at Fichte with a kitchen knife, and would have slit his throat if the younger man had not been so nimble. Fichte recognised him then. He saw that it was
not
Professor Kant, but the aged domestic who had poured tea for them both in subservient silence half an hour before in Kant’s own sitting room.’

‘God help us!’ I exclaimed, wondering whether Martin Lampe’s madness had begun that night.

‘Fichte described him as the evil personification of his master.’

‘Why did you not tell me this before?’ I asked.

Herr Jachmann stared at me in silence for some moments. ‘What good would the knowledge have done you?’ he replied coldly.

‘Did Kant ever learn of the incident?’ I corrected myself.

Jachmann jerked beneath the sheets as if an adder had nipped him. ‘Do you take me for a complete fool, Stiffeniis? There was a catastrophic overlapping of personalities in that house. The servant had become the master.’

‘So you dismissed him,’ I concluded.

‘I fobbed Kant off with the notion that he needed a younger man. Then, I wrote to you, Stiffeniis, asking you to stay away from him. I wanted Kant to live out his mature years in peace. Professor Kant needs to be guarded from the world. He must avoid unsettling influences like yourself and Martin Lampe. Age has taken its toll on the stability and lucidity of his mind.’

The connection that Herr Jachmann had made between Lampe and myself distressed me. He still resented my short-lived intimacy with his former friend, and made no secret of his opinion. He viewed us both as a danger to Immanuel Kant.

‘Soon after I dismissed him,’ he went on, ‘I made another discovery. It was most distressing. Lampe had a wife! He’d been married for six-and-twenty years, and no one knew of it.’

‘But he’d been living in Kant’s house…’

‘Night and day. For all those years.’ Jachmann shook his head. ‘Marriage was strictly forbidden in the terms of Lampe’s employment.’

He relapsed into a moody silence.

‘Does Lampe know anything of philosophy?’ I asked.

Jachmann shrugged. ‘What does a footsoldier know of such things? He could read and write, I suppose, but a fixation had taken hold of his mind. Kant’s work cannot proceed without my help, he told me one day. And on more than one occasion I found him sitting in the kitchen, leafing through his master’s published works. God knows what he made of them! As he left the house for the last time, he warned me that Kant would never write another word without his assistance. The prophecy was all too true, I’m afraid.’

‘Did you hear anything more of him afterwards?’ I asked.

Jachmann seemed to swell with rage.

‘I have little or no contact with Kant these days. Even so, I did everything in my power to make sure that Lampe was kept away from the house. I shudder to think that he has disobeyed my prohibition.’ He looked at me with feverish eyes, rheumy tears trickling down his cheeks. ‘Is Frau Mendelssohn quite certain of her facts?’

‘She saw him leaving the house. Just yesterday. She told me so.’

‘Find him, Stiffeniis,’ Jachmann cried. ‘Find that man before he does any more harm.’

‘Do you have any idea where he is, sir?’

Jachmann stared at me like a hawk. ‘The wife will know. She lives
…they
are living,’ he corrected himself, ‘somewhere near Königsberg. I do not know exactly where. I never felt the wish to learn anything more about him. And now, Stiffeniis’ – he leaned forward stiffly and offered his cold, damp hand to me – ‘you must excuse me. I am grateful for all that you have done to help Professor Kant.’