The Left-Handed God (23 page)

Augusta sat, listening to her mother’s hopes for her brilliant future. Mama’s reasoning was beginning to make perfect sense: by taking this sudden trip, she had left behind unpleasant gossip about her own failed aspirations and would spend an enjoyable time shopping for clothes and attending parties, which would take her mind off the Seutter scandal. Even better: Mama would rid herself of a troublesome daughter and do so in a way that would benefit herself.

There was something almost endearing in her mother’s optimistic pursuit of self-gratification. Since she had fallen into this happy mood, she had treated Augusta with surprising mildness. Perhaps Augusta had not been forgiven completely, but there definitely was a truce.

Disaster struck after they entered the Black Forest. The coach slowed because of the mountainous terrain and the winding roadway. There was much cursing and snapping of the whip from the driver, and once or twice the postilion got down to push when the road went uphill, or to hold back the horses on a steep downward course. Inside the coach all was peaceful. Augusta’s mother had finally run out of steam and dozed off. The young mother had made her little girls comfortable and was reading a fairy tale to them as they rocked and swayed through the forest. The tale of two children lost in the woods and a witch with a gingerbread house seemed appropriate, and Augusta smiled, remembering her father reading the same tale to her when she was small.

As the coach swung around a sharp bend, the parson rose to lower the window and lean out with his upper body. Perhaps, thought Augusta, the swaying of the vehicle was making him sick. One of the little girls had complained of nausea earlier.

Then she hard shouts, and next there came a gunshot, and the coach shuddered to a halt. The young mother dropped her book and cried out. Augusta reached to lower her own window and look out, but the parson pulled his head back inside and said quite sharply to her, “Sit still and nothing will happen to you.”

“There was a shot,” objected Augusta. “We should try to do something.” She did not know what, but sitting still in utter ignorance seemed worse than knowing what was happening outside.

Her mother, sleep-dazed, sat up and looked around wildly. “A shot? What? Where?”

The young woman was quiet now, but she had turned very white and drawn her children close to her. The girls began to cry.

The parson drew a pistol from his pocket. This he pointed first at the young mother and her girls, causing them to cry out, and then at Augusta who was getting up. “Sit down and hand it over,” he snapped.

“What’s happening?” asked Frau von Langsdorff, trying to see out of the window and pushing the pistol-holding hand out of her way.

The parson pointed the gun at her face. “Shut up, you infernal old baggage. Give me your money. Yes, the money you’ve been bragging about. And your rings and chains and other jewelry. You, too.” He gestured with the gun at Augusta and the young mother. “Hurry up, or someone dies on the count of five.”

They stared at him, paralyzed with fear.

“One!” He held out his free hand.

Augusta slipped a small ring from her finger and put it in his hand, then looked at her mother, whose purse was attached to her petticoat and hidden under voluminous skirts.

“Two!”

The young woman added several rings and a brooch. Augusta’s mother pushed another ring and a few gold and silver pieces at him. He dropped them in his large pocket.

“Three!”

“That’s all, you villain,” Augusta’s mother cried, outraged that he still pointed the gun at her face. “Go away and may God have mercy on your soul for you’ll be hanged for this.”

The robber struck her viciously across the face with the pistol and said, “Four!” She shrieked and covered her face.

Augusta, in a panic, cried “Mama, please,” and then dug around under her mother’s voluminous skirts. She found the purse, untied it with shaking fingers, and pulled it out.

“Five!”

The robber snatched it from her hand, then opened the door and jumped down. Another man brought up a horse, and he climbed into the saddle.

With the robber gone, Augusta tried to stench her mother’s blood by pressing her handkerchief against her face. Outside, more shots were fired, and the coach jerked forward.

*

Max was frustrated. The foolish maid thought a few turns under the featherbed constituted a proposal. No, he told her, he liked her well enough, but he could not marry her.

This brought an angry storm of tears and reminders that she was now used goods and no man would have her for wife. Besides, she might turn up with child, and what then?

Max made the mistake of pointing out that it takes two to make a child and that she had practically pulled him into her bed. Now, Elsbeth threatened to tell all to her mistress, and Max realized that he would be dismissed unless he married the girl. He protested his devotion and hoped for a reprieve.

His relationship with Elsbeth took on a depressingly domestic tone. She clearly thought herself his wife already, cooking and serving his meals while regaling him with plans for their future. They would go back to her father’s farm and settle into the attic there, helping with the dairy herd and starting a market garden behind the stables. In time, and with a legacy from her parents, they would have enough for another small homestead or a house in the village where they would raise their children. She could take in sewing and he could find work managing the local lord’s fields and woods.

Max had Elsbeth’s measure: she would not let go of him if he remained. He frequently kissed Augusta’s letter and thought of her with longing of her. Then, one day, he had an idea.

14

Small, Helpless Creatures

Plots, true or false, are necessary things,
To raise up commonwealths, and ruin kings.

John Dryden,
Absalom and Achitophel

T
he morning after their arrival, Franz found Doktor Stiebel dressed and standing at the open window, looking down on the Paradeplatz.

“There you finally are,” he said. “It’s already past eight of the clock.”

“Good morning. I’m sorry, sir. I’m afraid I overslept. And you? Did you have a good rest?” He saw that his friend looked less tired, if not in a very happy mood.

Stiebel made an impatient gesture. “Adequate. We should be on our way. I ordered breakfast.”

A pot of coffee and a basket of fresh breads, assorted jams, pale slices of ham, boiled eggs, and butter waited on a table. Franz was hungry and said, “I cannot think that we should call on the baron before ten or eleven, sir. After all, the old gentleman is said to be in ill health. Won’t you join me?”

Stiebel grunted, but he sat down with Franz and poured himself coffee. “I have this feeling all is not well‌—‌that we will be too late,” he said after drinking half a cup.

“Impossible.” Franz patted his pocket where the letter still rustled. “We shall be rid of the task today. Even if the Baron isn’t in his right mind, we’ll leave the letter with him. My duty will have been done, and we can go home.” And none too soon, he thought, for Stiebel’s lack of interest in such delicious food troubled him.

Stiebel nibbled abstractedly on a piece of bread roll with a little butter and jam, while Franz consumed several fresh rolls with butter, ham, and honey, interspersing them with a couple of soft-boiled eggs. When he looked up from his empty plate, he saw Stiebel smiling at him.

“What’s the matter, sir?”

“You did not cry out last night.” Stiebel said. “It gives me great pleasure to see you so very nearly well again. I confess that you’ve become dear to me, my boy.”

Franz felt his eyes moisten. “Please promise me that you shall not make yourself ill on my account. I have come to curse this infernal letter.”

“Not at all. Not at all,” murmured Stiebel and looked away, embarrassed.

They left soon after in a hired carriage, both made silent by their emotion. The drive was comfortable in dry fall weather and on a remarkably smooth road, but gray clouds began to gather ahead. They arrived in the small town of Schwetzingen before the rain, got directions to the Baron’s house, and pulled up before its door just as the church clock struck ten.

The villa was new, like several others that had sprung up around Schwetzingen and near the palace. It was a charming two-storied building in pale stone with blue shutters at its large windows. In front was a wrought iron gate and a graveled drive, and in the back rose the trees of a garden. The house looked deserted, except for some odd-looking chickens and a neat two-wheeled vehicle with two horses tied up outside. Franz looked about him curiously. The chickens were fancy birds, some speckled, other pure white or glossy black. Perhaps the absence of servants was accounted for by the Baron’s poor health.

He climbed down and helped Stiebel, who eyed the waiting carriage with a frown. “I wonder who’s here. You have the letter?”

“Yes, sir. Be calm, I beg you. We’re almost done.”

Franz pulled the clapper of a copper bell beside the double doors. When that brought no response, he repeated his summons more impatiently. The clangor should have woken the dead.

Stiebel said tersely, “Someone’s here. Try the door.”

Franz did and found it unlocked. They stepped into an empty hall with a black-and-white-tiled marble floor. A life-sized painting of a bewigged gentleman in red velvet looked back at them from the opposite wall. Somewhere people were talking. A female voice sounded agitated.

“Hallo!” Franz called out. “Is anyone here?”

A door beside the bewigged gentleman opened, and a youngish man with round brown eyes and a small powdered wig looked out. When he recognized them, he frowned. “Not you again! Go away!”

He was the physician they had met the night before. Astonished, Franz said, “I beg your pardon, Doktor Mai, but you may recall that I bring news of Baron von Winkelhausen’s son.”

Doctor Mai stepped fully into the hall, closing the door behind him. Today he was soberly dressed in a black suit over a burgundy brocade vest and eyed them coldly. “You have wasted your time. His son is dead, and now so is he.”

Franz gaped. “The baron is dead?”

Stiebel stepped forward and bowed. “I collect we have the honor of speaking with Baron Winkelhausen’s physician?”

“You do.”

The door behind him opened again, and an elderly woman in a gray dress and white apron and cap joined him. Her eyes were red-rimmed from weeping.

“Frau Schaller, there is no need,” the doctor said impatiently. “I’ll handle this. Go back and have a brandy to calm your nerves.”

“Thank you, Doctor, but I’m all right. He would have wanted me to take care of things.”

Doktor Mai gave in with ill grace and turned back to Stiebel and Franz. “I was sent for about an hour ago. This is Frau Schaller, the baron’s housekeeper. She found him this morning, dead in his bed. So you see you have come too late.”

Stiebel said heavily, “Too late!” and then, “Was the death natural?”

The doctor looked shocked. “Certainly. The baron was elderly and had been in poor health for some months. He simply died in his sleep. A merciful way to go.” He turned to the housekeeper, who was weeping softly into a handkerchief, and put his hand on her shoulder. “Isn’t that so, Frau Schaller?”

She mumbled, “
I
didn’t expect it, sir. He was just as usual last night. Ate a good supper. Veal with mushrooms. It was his favorite.” She broke into sobs again.

The doctor patted her back. “Now, now, my dear, you must be strong.” Glancing at Franz and Stiebel, he said, “She’s served him all her life. Even if not unexpected, this is a great blow for her.”

Stiebel looked as if he wished to argue the point, but Franz apologized for their untimely visit and expressed his condolences to Frau Schaller. They left quickly.

Stiebel climbed into the carriage with a set face. When Franz joined him, Stiebel told the coachman, “Back to Mannheim and be quick!”

“Why the hurry?” asked Franz, still a little dazed by the news of the baron’s death.

“Let me see the letter.”

Franz dug it out of his pocket. “I suppose we might as well throw it away.” Stiebel snatched it out of his hand. “Just as I thought,” he said grimly.

Franz saw with surprise that the paper looked somehow different‌—‌cleaner and newer than it should. “What…‌? How did that get into my pocket?” He searched his pocket again.

Stiebel unfolded two pages and held them up for Franz to see. They were blank. “We’ve been duped,” he said. “If I’m not mistaken, that very accommodating little villain at the inn picked your pocket last night and substituted this.”

“Impossible. I would have noticed. Besides, why would one of the inn’s people steal a letter?”

“I’m beginning to doubt he works for the inn. And it was no ordinary letter you’ve been carrying. People have been trying to get it for months now.” He turned to check the road behind.

“Well, whatever secret it contained, it no longer matters. Both the letter and the man it was intended for are gone. Please do not get agitated. It’s not good for you.”

Stiebel snapped, “Are you dense? We were expected and met in Mannheim, and the baron died a few hours later before we could see him.”

Franz saw that Stiebel’s hands were clenched and shaking. He was suddenly afraid and made an effort to reassure Stiebel. “In that case, whoever wanted the letter has it. I’m sorry I failed Captain von Loe, but he should have warned me.” Actually the dying man had stressed the letter’s importance. “I almost wish we had opened it,” Franz added.

Stiebel said nothing but he looked quite miserable.

“It’s over, sir. Let’s leave this place behind and go home.” Franz thought wistfully of the little princess, and that delightful world of gods and men he had so briefly strayed into.

“I’m afraid,” Stiebel said heavily, “that our visit was responsible for the baron’s death.”

“Oh, come,” protested Franz, “you heard the doctor. It was a natural death. It was expected.”

“His housekeeper was surprised.” Stiebel fidgeted. “I don’t know, Franz. I don’t know what we’re dealing with here, but judging from what has happened, this is no ordinary matter and, given the baron’s position at court, men of power are involved. We’re already too deeply involved for our own good. Whoever is behind this may suspect that the dying captain told you something of this matter.”