HS01 - Critique of Criminal Reason (4 page)

A yellow hand shot out from beneath Rhunken’s shawl and came to rest before my face with such rapidity that the words froze on my tongue. ‘You have come, then,’ Rhunken gasped. ‘From Berlin, I suppose?’

‘Berlin, sir?’ I repeated, uncertain what he meant. I darted a glance at the physician, but found no comfort there. He was busily engaged, laying out another giant leech upon the sick man’s other leg. ‘I have come this day from Lotingen, Your Excellency.’

Herr Rhunken frowned. A chasm seemed to split his brow.

‘Where?’

‘Lotingen. On the western circuit,’ I said. ‘I am the presiding magistrate there.’

‘
Lotingen?
’ Rhunken cried, the distress on his face painful to see. ‘What are you doing here?’

The last thing I expected was to be quizzed about my identity by the man who had recommended me.

‘I was ordered by His Majesty to relieve you of the case. I have your own note here in my pocket!’

Rhunken shook his head, disbelief writ large on his face.

‘Surely you nominated me?’ I pressed.

Procurator Rhunken turned his face to the wall as Plucker applied two more famished bloodsuckers to his naked thighs.

‘I nominated no man,’ the patient muttered angrily. ‘This is
his
doing! That serpent does it to torture me!’

I chose to ignore his raving. Herr Rhunken was ill, after all. I could understand his situation. When a man is ill, he knows not who to blame, and so blames every man whose health is better than his own.

‘I expected a special emissary,’ he went on. ‘From Berlin. From the secret police. Not you…’

‘He’s never heard of you,’ Doctor Plucker hissed angrily in my ear, as he draped a smaller black worm across his patient’s sweating brow, and another on his right temple. ‘Any fool can see that. You are inflaming his brain, sir! You’ll kill him! He was removed from the case. Sacked! Forced to cede. To an expert, he believed. Have you no grain of pity, sir?’

Suddenly, the magistrate gasped for air. Phlegm bubbled in his throat, and he coughed violently, spitting into a bowl which the doctor held up for him. ‘Do not exert yourself, sir,’ the physician implored. Looking over his shoulder at me, his expression tense, he cried, ‘I beg you, sir!’

‘I am not to blame if he is sick,’ I replied stubbornly, then stopped short, uncertain how to continue. I had no wish to worsen his condition. ‘I have been empowered to act by the King. Herr Rhunken knows more about these murders than any other living soul. I need his help.’

Doctor Plucker turned on me with anger.

‘Herr Rhunken needs
rest
. You have robbed him of peace enough, I think, for one day. Leave him be!’

If the physician was determined to end the interview, the patient seemed intent on prolonging it. His hand clenched at my sleeve, dragging me down, and I was forced to my knees on the floor at his side. The leech at his temple throbbed and buckled, gorged with blood, sliding onto his cheek until the doctor picked it off with haste.

‘Go to the Court House,’ the magistrate said weakly. ‘See if you…can do what I have failed to do.’

He fell back against the cushion, eyes closed, panting desperately for air.

‘This will be the end of him,’ Doctor Plucker protested, pushing me away from the stool without ceremony and sitting down himself, his hand on the pulse of his patient.

I stood back, my brain in a whirl, and watched the doctor administer to him.

‘But you must know what weapon killed them!’ I shouted, confusion giving place to frustration, as Procurator Rhunken closed his eyes and seemed to fall into a dead faint, those worms on his face and temples wriggling and twisting like the portrait of the Medusa I had seen in Rome at the Villa Borghese.

‘Can’t you see the state he’s in?’ Doctor Plucker shouted, taking hold of my arm, pushing and pulling me to the door. ‘I must order you to quit this room!’

Throwing open the door with great energy, the doctor surprised me by his strength as he thrust me out into the corridor, where the maid was waiting.

‘Show Herr Stiffeniis out!’ he thundered.

I must have looked like a lost child, for the girl began to coax me gently along the corridor in the direction of the front door.

‘Come along now, sir,’ she said, retracing our path through the book-lined rooms and darkened corridors. ‘Just follow me.’

As the front door closed behind me, I stood stock-still in the cold light of the low moon. Beyond the garden fence, Sergeant Koch was waiting. He turned at the sound of the door closing and began to advance towards me, his face mottled like veined marble in a church. The temperature had dropped while I had been inside, and fresh-fallen snow had settled on the crown of his hat.

‘Is everything in order, Herr Stiffeniis?’

I ignored his solicitude. ‘Who instructed you to come to Lotingen today, Sergeant Koch?’ I was quivering with humiliation and with rage.

‘Procurator Rhunken, sir,’ he replied without a moment’s hesitation.

‘He had no idea who I was,’ I said with a coolness which surprised me.

Koch opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. Finally, he said, ‘I
presumed
it was Herr Rhunken. I was handed a despatch by a messenger.’

‘Who signed this despatch?’

‘It was not signed, sir. I am an employee of the Procurator. The messenger said that the note had come from upstairs. Herr Rhunken does not need to sign his orders to me,’ he said. ‘That order told me what to do, and where to go. The same messenger handed me that letter with the Royal seal and those documents I was to consign to you while travelling to Königsberg. If I’ve done any wrong, I am most heartily sorry for it, sir.’

‘You did not see Herr Rhunken at all?’

Koch shook his head. ‘No, sir, I did not.’

‘I must go at once to the Court House,’ I said, turning on my heel, setting off in the direction of the massive Fortress on the far side of the square. I had gone some way before I realised that Koch had made no move to follow me.

‘The Court House, sir?’ he called after me. ‘Don’t you want to see your lodgings first?’

I turned on him. There was something ludicrous in what he had suggested. ‘Do you think I am here on holiday? I have come to Königsberg to investigate murders, Sergeant!’

Koch took a step forward and removed his hat. ‘The moon is not yet high enough, sir,’ he said. For a moment I thought I had misheard him, but then he went on: ‘We have time enough to…’

‘Has the cold afflicted your brain, Koch?’ I interrupted. ‘What in the name of heaven has the
moon
to do with it?’

‘I was instructed to take you to the Fortress after the moon had reached its peak, sir. Not a minute before.’

I strode back through the snow, resisting the urge to grab him by the throat.

‘Is this the way that time is generally measured in Königsberg, Koch? By the phases of the moon? Or is this just one more instance of your superstitious nonsense?’

‘There’s to be a meeting over there, sir. When the moon is at its height. That’s all I know,’ Koch stated flatly.

‘You made no mention of this before, Sergeant,’ I observed. ‘It is not the first time that you have tricked me.’

Koch looked at me with measured coolness. ‘Mine is not to question why, sir. A person has been appointed to help you, that’s all that I have been told,’ he said.

‘People have names, Koch,’ I replied.

Snow began to fall again in drifting, wispy flakes, and Koch glanced up at the sky before deigning to answer. ‘The person’s name is Doctor Vigilantius.’

I opened my mouth to protest, but words would not come. Snowdrops settled cold on my lips and melted on my tongue.

‘A
necromancer?
’ I managed at last. ‘What is
he
doing here?’

‘I have heard,’ Koch replied hesitantly, ‘that the doctor will be conducting experiments of a scientific nature, sir.’

‘Which
science
are you talking of, Koch?’

Sarcasm appeared to be lost on my stolid companion.

‘I’ve been told that he is an expert regarding the flux of electrical currents in the brain,’ he replied.

‘Exactly, Koch. What is Vigilantius doing
here?
’

‘I have just told you, sir. Experiments.’

‘Let us try another tack, Sergeant Koch,’ I persisted. ‘Who called Augustus Vigilantius here to Königsberg?’

Koch stood to attention. ‘I really am most terribly sorry, Herr Procurator Stiffeniis,’ he apologised. ‘I cannot answer that question.’

‘Cannot, or will not? That seems to be your personal motto,’ I muttered through clenched teeth, though Koch did not move a muscle or make any attempt to explain himself.

‘You’ve time to spare before the appointed hour,’ he said instead. ‘I’m to take you to your lodging first, sir. The coach is waiting.’

I pointed to the Fortress on the far side of the square. ‘Am I not staying over there?’

‘Oh no, sir,’ he returned quickly. ‘I have been instructed to take you to another place.’

Suddenly, I felt drained of energy, as if I had just been leeched myself. Was there any point in arguing or complaining further with this intransigent man? I followed him to the coach as meekly as a ceremonial lamb being led to the slaughter.

The coach pulled away slowly. The fresh snow on the cobbles made the horses nervous, the driver hesitant. The rattling wheels echoed off the towering walls of the dark stone buildings lining the narrow streets through which we drove, but I paid no heed to my surroundings. My thoughts were taken up with Procurator Rhunken. He had not been expecting me. He had no idea who I was, nor why I had come. In which case, why had I been sent to see
him?
If he had not given my name to the King,
who
had? Rhunken had admitted himself that he was expecting a magistrate from Berlin. The Imperial capital was home to the Secret Police. Was that who he had been waiting for, a Procurator from the Secret Police, a specialist in politics and murder? These new uncertainties, together with the host of unanswered questions lurking in the sparse official documents that I had been permitted to read on my way to the city, threw me into something approaching despair. And to make my situation even worse, I was bereft of reliable assistance. Herr Sergeant Koch was a minor official, an uninformed messenger following orders, as rigorous as he was unhelpful.

The raucous screeching of seagulls broke in on my thoughts. My nose began to twitch with the stink of stale fish and the nauseous tang of seaweed as I raised the blind and looked out of the coach. The listless grey sea stretched northwards beyond a narrow sand bar to infinity. The tide was out, and a small fleet of fishing-smacks lay awkwardly on their keels, the masts and rigging a forest of icicles. The shallow beach was a sheet of solid ice, except for a narrow channel of fast-flowing water in the centre of the estuary. A black stone pier projected out like an arm into the stream. Tall three-masters lining the sea wall were moored in line like dead whales waiting to be hauled on shore. Navvies carrying sacks and bales went running up and down the gangplanks, while ancient derricks creaked and groaned under the weight of the cargoes being loaded and discharged. Apart from the ubiquitous presence of the soldiers on the streets, this was the first sign of life that I had witnessed since arriving in Königsberg. The city was renowned for the industry of its inhabitants, the canny tight-fistedness of its merchants. It was, after all, the most extensive port on the Baltic coast. Hamburg and Danzig were rivals to some extent, but neither place could boast a tonnage equal to that of Königsberg. In a normal day, Koch reported, a dozen ships from the farthest reaches of the earth hove to along that pier, while another dozen weighed their anchors and plotted their route in the opposite direction. The labourers came and went, each one following an identical path to the dockside warehouses, hard on his neighbour’s heel, then running back to the vessels, like ants carrying a grain of seed to their communal store. One of those ships, I thought, had journeyed all the way from the tropical jungles of South America with its cargo of leeches for the army.

‘Where are you taking me, Herr Koch?’ I asked.

‘To your inn, sir. It’s down on the quayside. It’s out of the way, I admit, but the coach will always be…’

‘An inn?’ I snapped. ‘Like a travelling salesman?’

Was this a further attempt to humiliate me? I had suffered knocks enough that day. First, Rhunken had denied all knowledge of who I was. Then, a meeting by moonlight had been arranged for me with a notorious alchemist, and now I was to be lodged in a low tavern in the company of smugglers and pirates, far from the Fortress and the Court where I ought to have been by rights.

‘I am not in Königsberg for my pleasure, Sergeant,’ I reminded him.

‘My instructions were to bring you here, sir,’ Koch answered bluntly.

Even at that early stage, I began to feel that a precise scheme had been laid out for me. My introduction to Königsberg had all the appearance of an elaborate courtly dance. I was being led deliberately from step to step by Koch, my taciturn dancing-master. But who had called the tune? And for what purpose?

‘I only hope this place is comfortable,’ I muttered to myself as the coach skidded to a stop in front of an ancient red-brick building with a ribbed, uneven roof. A weather-vane of a seagoing ship with her sails puffed by the wind spun furiously above the central chimney. In the gloom, the frosted glass of the bow window flickered with a lively amber glow, which suggested that a large fire was blazing inside. It was the first heartening thing I had seen that day. A wooden sign above the door was so plastered with driven snow that it was impossible to read the name of the inn.

‘The Baltic Whaler, Herr Procurator,’ Koch confided. ‘The food here is excellent. Far better than the Fortress barracks, I believe.’

I ignored this attempt to smooth my temper, the icy cold penetrating my bones as we made for the entrance. Inside, a wave of muggy heat hit me in the face, and I glanced around the room while Sergeant Koch went to speak to a man who was busy stoking the fire. The fireplace itself was so wide as to take up almost the entire wall at the far end of the room. Tables had been laid for dinner. Fresh white linen tablecloths and gleaming silver made a favourable impression. The place seemed clean and inviting enough.

Sergeant Koch returned in the company of a tall, thickset man with an untidy mass of curly grey locks cascading over his forehead, and a brass ring in each ear, who nodded in welcome, then ducked behind the bar-counter. A waxed ponytail tied up with a bright red ribbon added to the impression that he had once been a whaling man. He returned with a large bunch of keys, smiling at me in a manner that was respectful without being obsequious.

‘I am Ulrich Totz, owner of the inn. We’ve been expecting you all day, sir,’ he said in a deep, strong voice which made him sound younger than his grey hair suggested. ‘I’ve sent the groom upstairs to fuel the fire in your room. Now, let me get your bags from the coach.’

I thanked him and glanced around the room again, while Koch stood warming his hands before the blazing fire. There were few other people present at that early hour of the evening. Near to the fireplace, a knot of customers sat on high-backed wooden settles and regarded Koch and myself with undisguised curiosity. Having satisfied themselves that we were nothing more or less than two travelling gentlemen seeking refuge from the snowstorm, they turned back to their beer and pipes and resumed their conversations. Three of the drinkers wore Prussian naval uniforms, while another sported the garb of a Russian hussar with a short green cape and festoons of gold braid stitched like skeletal ribs across the breast of his uniform. The man seated nearest to the fireplace was dark-skinned, and stroked a huge handlebar moustache, a bright red fez sitting lopsidedly on his small head. I guessed him to be a Moroccan or a Turk, most probably a naval officer from a merchant ship. Mediterranean novelties had been arriving in Europe, and even Prussia, for some years now. Indeed, it was widely agreed that if the Egyptians had had the good sense to keep their exotic secrets to themselves, Bonaparte would have left them in peace. But the Emperor loved the fruits of the date-palm tree to distraction, and so he…

Before I had the opportunity to notice more, the innkeeper entered with my luggage. ‘Yours is the second room on the left, first floor. Come up whenever you are ready, sir.’

I joined Koch in front of the fire and warmed my hands.

‘This is a welcome sight,’ I conceded.

Koch murmured agreement, without lifting his eyes from the crackling logs; we remained standing there together in silence for some time, as if bewitched by the dancing flames.

‘We have an hour or so before your appointment with Doctor Vigilantius, Herr Procurator,’ he reminded me.

‘Ah yes, the moon!’ I joked. ‘You’ll keep me company, I hope?’

Koch turned to me, a show of surprise on his face. ‘Sir?’

‘Do you have any other plans tonight?’

‘Oh no, Herr Procurator,’ he enthused. ‘My orders were to make myself useful in any way you might think fit. I wasn’t sure…’

‘That’s settled, then,’ I said with decision. The thought of entering the bleak fortress in Ostmarktplatz and having to do so alone was daunting. Up to that point, my relationship with Sergeant Koch had been neither cordial nor easy, but he was the only person in the city to whom I could turn for aid.

‘As I have had good reason to note today, Koch, you are both efficient and discreet,’ I said, pausing for a moment. ‘Discreet’ was the most tactful word I could find to describe behaviour which had touched a raw nerve more than once. ‘I was wondering…that is, I’d be grateful to benefit from your knowledge of the city. Will you assist me during my stay in Königsberg?’

‘Procurator Rhunken has no need of me at the moment,’ Koch considered, his eyes fixed upon the fire. ‘If I can be of use to you, sir.’

Beneath the detached, austere attitude of Koch I thought I read a hint of willingness to help me in my task.

‘I am Herr Rhunken’s successor,’ I said with relief, making a bluff attempt at humour, ‘so I suppose I inherit you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must write a letter. Can it be delivered this evening?’

‘I’ll take it myself, sir,’ Koch replied promptly.

‘Thank you, Sergeant. Order two large glasses of hot toddy, will you? I won’t be long.’

Upstairs, I found my room without any difficulty. The door was ajar, so I walked straight in. Herr Totz, the innkeeper, was standing next to a boy who was down on his knees working a wooden bellows which caused the fire to roar. Their backs were turned to the door, so neither of them was immediately aware that I had entered the room. I laid my hat on the bed, conscious of the delicious warmth and general neatness of the apartment, noting the low, sagging ceiling with dark, tarred oak beams, the whitewashed plaster, and a carpet that was only slightly worn at the centre. A small desk was placed beneath the window, an oil lamp glowed brightly, while along the opposite wall a large trunk and a matching dresser of walnut stood on either side of a bed hung with curtains which appeared to be fresh and clean. A large blue Dresden ewer and washbowl on the dresser completed the furnishings.

Content with what I had seen, I glanced back in the direction of the innkeeper and his boy to announce my presence. But something in the
tableau vivant
stopped me. The red-faced boy was still crouching down before the fire, the tall innkeeper hovering over him, hands on his hips. I could see only Totz’s profile, but there was no mistaking the menacing expression on his face. With the roaring of the bellows, the swoosh of flames and the crackling of wood, I could make little sense of what they were saying. Totz was speaking earnestly to the boy, the veins standing out boldly on his neck as if he suppressed a desire to shout.

‘Play with flames, Morik, you’ll burn your fingers!’ he sneered.

‘He certainly does know how to start a fire, Herr Totz,’ I said out loud, taking off my travelling-cloak, and dropping it on the bed. When I turned back to the fireplace once more, I was astonished by the sudden transformation of the scene, the expressions frozen on their faces. Fear was written on the boy’s pinched features like a cornered fox as the hounds close in for the kill, despite his attempt at a welcoming smile. Ulrich Totz, who had been so angry only a moment ago, was now all accommodating smiles and seasoned humility. His left hand rested with a heavy, proprietorial air on the skinny shoulder of his young charge. For all the world, innkeeper Totz looked like a village beagle who had just taken the lad up for thieving.

‘Here’s your room, sir,’ the landlord said with a conspiratorial wink in my direction. ‘Whatever you need, my wife’ll be back from her sister’s this evening. I’m downstairs in the tavern as a rule. This here’s Morik, my nephew.’

The hand on the boy’s shoulder gave a quick, hard nip, and the hollow smile on the boy’s face was shattered by a grimace of pain.

‘That fire is to my liking, Morik,’ I said, measuring my enthusiasm to avoid increasing the animosity of the master in the boy’s regard.

The innkeeper smiled again broadly, though I had the impression that his good humour cost him a great deal of effort when I told him to go, but ordered the boy to remain behind to unpack my bag. The mere fact that the master had been dismissed from the room seemed to put the young servant at his ease. He was a sprightly little lad, bright of eye, his round face as rough and shiny as a golden russet apple, no more than twelve years old. He fell on my valise like a quick little monkey, pulling out the contents, laying out my shirts, stockings and linen on the bed, positioning my combs and hairbrushes with excessive care beside the washbasin, opening and closing drawers. He seemed to take some pleasure in feeling the cut and the quality and the weight of everything he touched. In a word, he was slow.

‘That will do, Morik!’ I stopped him, my patience running short. ‘Just pour some warm water into that bowl, will you? I need to wash before going out again. A gentleman is waiting for me downstairs.’

‘The policeman, sir?’ Morik asked quickly. ‘Is the inn being watched?’

‘All of Königsberg is under strict surveillance,’ I replied vaguely, smiling at this impetuous show of childish curiosity. Then, I sat myself down at the table near the window, laid out my writing
necessaire
and began to pen a letter that I had never believed I should need to write.

‘Shall I run to the post for you, sir?’

I turned around with a start. The boy was looking over my shoulder. I had been so involved in what I was doing, I had forgotten that he was still in the room.

‘The post? At this time of night? Aren’t you afraid to go out after dark?’ I asked.