HS01 - Critique of Criminal Reason (34 page)

A look of alarm appeared on Stadtschen’s face as he bowed his head, clicked his heels, and told me that he would do exactly as I had told him. Clearly, he had understood the meaning of my threat.

‘Please accept my apologies,’ I said, turning to the woman, ‘for the ordeal which you have been subjected to. Had the bones been
left
where they were found, it might have made identification possible.’ I glanced at Stadtschen, adding: ‘Whoever is to
blame
will be punished.’

I studied the woman’s face.

‘I wonder if you know, Frau Lampe…’

I stopped. For an instant I had been tempted to inform her of the death of Professor Kant. But only for an instant. I contented myself, instead, by witholding the news. It was a small, meaningless act of spite, but she had just dashed my hopes of identifying Martin Lampe.

‘What do you wonder, Herr Stiffeniis?’ the woman asked.

‘Oh, nothing very important,’ I said, turning away and clattering up the stairs.

Given her opinion of the philosopher, she would hear the news and rejoice soon enough.

I went upstairs to my office, calling for the sentry to come and light the candles as I set foot inside the dark room. The day was drawing on, it was high time for me to begin composing my report for the King. I had already put off the task far longer than I ought to have done, and I still had no real idea how much to tell. Nor how much to conceal. With Professor Kant dead, and the possibility that Martin Lampe was still loose on the streets of Königsberg, exactly
how
should I begin and end?

With deliberation, I picked up the feather quill, primed it full of ink, set the point to the smooth surface of the paper, then remained seated in that position like a statue carved from solid granite for fifteen minutes, or more. I felt the ire and the frustration of a shepherd building up inside me, a shepherd vainly trying to round up his unruly flock without the assistance of a trained dog, or a handy wicket gate in which to corner the skittish animals. Whenever I began to think that I had at last marshalled all my thoughts, some glaring inconsistency would jump up suddenly and slip out of the fold, preventing me from making a start.

The easiest way, I convinced myself at last, would be to report only those facts or events for which I had some corroborating written statement.

‘On this, the 12th day in the month of February, 1804,’ I began,

I paused, dipped my pen in the inkwell again, then let out a loud sigh. No good reason to believe
anything
came to my mind. Indeed, all the tiny pieces of the mosaic that I had managed to assemble led me to believe the very worst. I threw down my pen, pushed back my chair, walked across the room, and stared dismally out of the window. The sky was dark, low clouds driving in from the sea, bringing rain, sleet and probably more snow. I threw open the window for a breath of air, though it was already cold enough inside the room. Down below in the courtyard, soldiers were coming and going noisily. It was six o’clock, time for the changing of the guard. Men who had just come off duty ambled aimlessly up and down, laughing and joking, smoking their long clay pipes, exchanging insults and pleasantries, cat-calling and taunting their unfortunate fellows who were destined to pass the night marching round and round the icy ramparts.

Suddenly, I wished that I were one of them. I wanted to be free of this task, free of the responsibility and the care it had placed on my shoulders. More to the point, I wished that I could be at home in Lotingen, in the company of my wife and my children, idly roasting jacket potatoes before a roaring kitchen fire. Until the report was finished, I reminded myself sharply, there was little hope that I would be going anywhere. Unless I could produce a convincing account of every single thing that had happened in Königsberg, I would be left to rot there in the Fortress. With the unresolved question of Martin Lampe still hanging around my neck, I realised, I might be imprisoned there for a long, long…

The noise seemed to come from far away.

I had been so deeply lost in melancholy musing that a pitched battle might have been fought and lost for possession of the Fortress, and I would have known nothing of it.

Someone had been knocking at my door.

The sound was repeated a moment later, followed by a deep voice that I recognised. ‘Herr Stiffeniis, may I enter, sir?’

Officer Stadtschen was at my door. No doubt, he had come to plead for leniency. He could have few illusions about my intentions, little doubt of what I might write in his regard.

‘Come back later,’ I called out sharply. ‘The King must have his report!’

But Stadtschen did not go away. He knocked again, louder this time.

‘Herr Procurator, I beg you, sir. This cannot wait.’

I closed the window, strode to the door, my temper flaring into a blazing fire. What alternative did he leave me? I would tell Stadtschen
exactly
what I thought of him. By moving that corpse from the woods, he had ruined my investigation. If I had my way, he would be demoted. I would have liked to see him whipped into the bargain.

I threw the door open, saying: ‘Well? What is it?’

He was standing to attention, stiff and straight as a flagpole. He glanced nervously into my face, then raised his hand and held out a sheet of paper.

‘The affidavit, sir,’ he announced. ‘Recognition of the corpse by Frau Lampe, sir. That mark’s the sign of the widow.’

‘
Widow
?’ I blurted out, snatching the paper, reading it greedily.

The woman’s name had been written out in the same bold letters as the text and the signature of Stadtschen. Frau Lampe had witnessed the contents of the affidavit by making a peculiar slanting cross at the bottom of the page.

‘The woman cannot write,’ Stadtschen clarified.

I studied his face. ‘What holy miracle is this?’ I quizzed. ‘Frau Lampe was most adamant that it was
not
her husband’s body.’

‘Darn my breeches, sir!’ he exclaimed, quickly begging my pardon for his language before he continued. ‘It all came about while I was taking her home. The fact is, when I led her down to the charnel house, the smell was…well, sir, you know yourself, it was indescribable. Frau Lampe complained at once of feeling ill, and she asked to be taken out of there, insisting that those dreadful remains could not possibly be her husband’s. I could hardly force her to examine the bones, could I, sir? When I met you, Herr Procurator, I was taking her up to the courtyard for a breath of fresh air. I’d have taken her down again immediately, but you ordered me to take the woman home instead, sir.’

‘Go on,’ I said, beginning to suspect that Stadtschen might have forced the woman to sign the affidavit in the hope of salvaging his own position. ‘If she didn’t even look at the corpse, what made her change her mind?’

‘It happened while we were walking out to Belefest, sir,’ he explained. ‘I didn’t speak again about that body. But I did ask her what distinguishing features to look for if we happened to come across him. Officially, he was missing. He might have lost his memory, been wounded, or even killed. I was wondering whether he had a birthmark, or some other sign on his body to identify him by.’

Stadtschen paused, and a shadow of a smile appeared on his face.

‘And he
did
, sir! She told me so herself.’

‘What was this sign?’ I asked. I might have been a man with a terrible illness who had just been told by an eminent physician that it was easily curable.

‘We
saw
it, sir, but we took no notice at the time,’ Stadtschen replied. A broader smile broke out on his face, as if he found the situation amusing. ‘D’you recall that white strip of bone inside his mouth, Herr Stiffeniis? Remember when I turned the skull over? While serving in the Prussian army forty-odd years ago, Herr Lampe was lightly nicked by an enemy bayonet. It sliced through his bottom lip and ended up slitting the roof of his mouth!’

I remembered only too well. I had taken that jagged scar to be the exposed bone of the palate. I had even induced myself to believe that it had been caused by the fang of one of the wolves that had torn him apart. If Martin Lampe’s blood-caked mouth had caused me to quake with revulsion then, it now began to seem like one of the most stupendous sights I had seen in my life.

‘I hurried her back with me to town, and we arrived just in time. I searched for you, of course, sir,’ he added quickly, scrutinising my face to gauge my reaction, ‘but you had gone out. The medical officer had issued death certificates, the pastor had been called to adminster the last rites, the graves for him and the other man had already been dug. Another five minutes would have complicated matters. I explained the necessity to the doctor, and he made certain that she examined the skull and saw the scar, though wrapped up in a cloth. It was painless enough, and she identified him. I took her to the office, wrote out the affidavit, read it through to her, and she made her cross. As I said before, sir, Frau Lampe is now a widow.’

I looked away and closed my eyes for a moment.

Königsberg is safe
, I marvelled.
My task is over
.

‘This is excellent work, Officer Stadtschen,’ I said warmly. ‘I can now discount this corpse in writing my report. The part that you have played will appear in a more positive light.’ Though his face was stern and composed, I thought I saw a twinkle in his eyes. ‘God bless you, sir,’ he murmured.

God had already been extremely good to me that day, I realised. Better by far than I deserved. The killer not only had a name, but his corpse had been identified beyond a shadow of a doubt. I closed the door quietly, and sat down to work again. This time, I was brimming with confidence. Divine Providence was pushing me forward with both hands.

‘The King shall have his report!’ I announced to the empty room.

A triumphant proclamation of success was what I had always hoped to write. A triumphant proclamation of success was what the King would have. Picking up the quill again, I continued with all the artistry of an inspired poet.

I stroked my chin for some moments with the feathered quill, then added more in the same colourful vein: