The Left-Handed God (25 page)

“Was there anything out of place in his room when you found him?” Franz asked.

She shook her head. “He’d dropped his book, but he often did that. And the candle had burned out.” She thought a moment. “There was this large cushion he had in his bed to prop himself up with. It was a bit wet. I wondered if he’d spilled some of his draft on it when he knocked the glass over.”

“He knocked his glass over?”

She nodded. “Walter thinks it must’ve been when he took his last breath. It proper bruised his poor wrist. He must’ve fought against death.”

“Yes,” said Stiebel heavily. “Yes, I think that very likely. Could a draft from the door have blown over the glass.”

Walter spoke up. “There’s heavy curtains across the doors, keeping out the night air. And the doors were closed.”

“Were they locked?” Franz asked quickly. “Someone could have come in during the night.”

Walter glared. “Not on your life. I lock all the doors every night.”

His wife said, “You do, Walter, but sometimes the master opens his door again. He likes to hear the fountain. He says it helps him sleep.”

A silence fell. Then Stiebel asked gently, “Was the door unlocked this morning?”

She nodded unhappily.

“He wasn’t murdered.” Walter sounded belligerent. “And we’ll thank you not to spread such lies. We both saw him, and so did the doctor. There wasn’t a mark on him other than that little bruise.”

Stiebel said quickly, “You misunderstood. We didn’t mean to imply a crime took place, but rather that there might have been an accident. Perhaps he got up and fell but managed to get back into bed before he died. Or he had a fright and his heart failed.”

They looked confused. Clearly the death was a mystery to them, but neither wanted to be thought careless. They preferred the doctor’s diagnosis. Franz and Stiebel bade them goodbye and expressed the hope that the heir would have the humanity to look after them and the fancy chickens.

“It’s silly, but I grieve for those chickens,” said Stiebel outside. “They remind me of my little bird. We pay too little mind to small, helpless creatures and their feelings.

It’s a cruel world for the old and the weak.”

Franz shuddered and turned to look back at the house, but the
allée
of linden trees was empty, and only a finch trilled briefly in the branches above, then flew away. “Surely that was murder,” he said.

“Oh, I think so. That wet bolster. So easy to suffocate an old man who’s taken a sleeping draught. He had no idea he was in danger, or he wouldn’t have been satisfied with just two old servants in the house. Or left his door open. You, know, in a way, this death was quite similar to his son’s. That, too, offered a perfect opportunity for his killer to commit a murder without raising suspicion. The villain seized his chance and struck. And now he has escaped the law again. He’s a very dangerous man. I’m afraid that it was our coming here that caused the baron’s death.”

Franz said, “It’s horrible that human beings can bungle along with the best of intentions and yet cost some hapless fellow creature his life.”

“Indeed. But ours are not the hands that commit the deeds.”

Franz said glumly, “Is this is the purpose for which God spared me at Freiberg? It weighs heavily on my soul that I killed men there, and here I am, adding to my heavy sins unknowingly. Even your little bird’s demise was my doing.”

Stiebel stopped. “We’re in enough trouble, Franz, without you beating your breast and crying
mea
culpa
. No, we must see this through and leave the verdict of our actions to a greater judge.”

Franz hung his head. “What can we do?”

“As the elector and his court are to come here, I have a mind to stay. We shall dismiss the coach and take a room.
Iacta
est
alea
!”

15

The Earthly Paradise

It is a great pity but ’tis certain from every day’s observation of man, that he may be set on fire like a candle, at either end provided there is a sufficient wick standing out.

Laurence Sterne,
Tristram Shandy

T
he die was indeed cast; there would be no going back.

Their driver was agreeable to the change in plans because he had another party for the journey to Heidelberg. Stiebel paid, tipping him generously, and told Franz, “It couldn’t be better. Since he continues on to Heidelberg, no one in Mannheim will know that we have broken our journey here.”

Luck was still with them when they got the last room at the inn. The court’s imminent arrival in Schwetzingen brought its usual influx of hangers-on and
demimondaines
who were in hopes of making their fortunes. The Elector Palatine was thought to be more approachable here than at Mannheim.

As for the
demimondaines
, Franz ran afoul of one almost instantly on his way upstairs. When she swept down, he, supported on his cane, could not avoid the collision quickly enough. He staggered back, tried to catch her fall, and both went tumbling down the stairs. Somehow, he found himself on his back on the inn’s floor, grasping a soft and scented figure firmly to his chest.

It had fortunately not been a hard fall, and she was a charming burden as they lay there, he looking up at her and she down at him. Both liked what they saw and smiled, and neither was in a great hurry to get up.

The inn’s servants pulled them apart and put her back on her feet. Franz, propped on his elbows, looked up at a dainty creature in a gown of green-sprigged muslin trimmed with black velvet ribbons, her small head of dusky curls topped by a lacy cap, her black eyes sparkling, her red lips moist. An enchanting beauty patch was placed cunningly on one white breast just above the tightly laced bodice. She giggled, then saw his cane and the crippled leg and gasped instead. “O,
mon Dieu! Le pauvre gentilhomme
!
Je vous demande mille pardons!”

Franz struggled to his feet, flushing a deep crimson with mortification. The beauty meets the beast, he thought. “
Pas de tout, Mademoiselle
,” he said with a bow, worried about his limited French.

It was almost worse when she shifted to German, heavily accented German, though from her lips the words fell with a particularly musical sound. “Eet vas my mistake,
Monsieur
. Are you pained badly?”

“Not at all.” His crippled knee hurt furiously, but he was not about to admit to it. Instead, he became miserably lost in admiration of this altogether bewitching creature. Stiebel finally took his arm and pulled him away. Climbing the stairs feeling her eyes on his back was sheer agony. Nothing could hide his deformed leg, and the pain in his knee was so agonizing that perspiration ran down his back and he bit his lip bloody to keep moving.

“That was one of the actresses,” remarked Stiebel when they gained their room.

It was of an adequate size, but they would have to share the bed, and their bags took up much of the remaining floor space between the bed, a large wardrobe, and a small desk. Still, above the desk was a window which looked out over the town’s market and, being open, it let in the sounds of music and song.

“How do you know she’s an actress?” asked Franz, taken aback. “She was very well dressed. I took her to be the daughter of some visiting French gentleman.”

Stiebel’s eyes twinkled. “Trust me, she’s an actress. The inn’s full of players. Princes like theater, and there are always players about the court. The females make good money if they’re young and pretty‌—‌or talented. Yours was clearly young and pretty.” He paused. “Dear me. It was unkind of me to assume that she’s not talented.”

Franz was oddly disappointed. This enchantress, hardly older than Augusta, was an actress? Franz knew that such women were thought to be only a small step above ordinary prostitutes. The students in Heidelberg had frequently bragged about their affairs with them. “I’m a great fool,” he said sadly. “I thought she liked me. Proper women have no time for a penniless cripple.”

Stiebel smiled. “Franz, you cannot have looked in the mirror lately. You have just such a face as girls swoon over and a nice manly shape to your body. And never underestimate the power of a uniform. That small defect with your leg makes you more interesting rather than less. A hero who has been wounded in battle arouses the tenderest feelings in a woman’s breast.”

Franz said bitterly, “You’re quite wrong, and besides I’m done with all of that.” He thought it nothing but the most barefaced flattery from his friend but, like all flattery, it worked in insidious ways; he wondered what an affair with the little actress would be like and felt quite warm at the thought.

Stiebel watched his face and cocked an amused eyebrow. “I confess I hadn’t thought of it, but since you seem to have settled for the life of a monk all too unwillingly, I think you must reassure yourself at your earliest convenience. Abstinence can lead to madness, you know. So let us rest a little and then descend to the public rooms to take our supper with the other guests. I hope to learn some things while you’re about the business of making eyes at the little lady.”

*

When the assassin finally called on the great man, he found him at breakfast in an elegantly appointed dining room with pearl gray paneling and Dutch still-lifes of dead fowl among fruit on the walls.

“Where the devil have
you
been?” the great one snapped.

“I beg your pardon?” the assassin said, raising his brows.

The other’s scowl faded, and his tone became slightly warmer. “Oh, what does it matter? Sit down, sit down.” He waved to a chair and called a servant. “Another cup and more coffee.”

He sat. “Thank you. No coffee. I’m in a hurry.”

“In a hurry?” The great man’s cup stopped halfway to his mouth. “What’s the matter with you? I expected you sooner.”

The assassin studied his fingernails. “I’ve been rather busy with my own affairs.”

The great one set his cup back down. “Why this double talk? I take it you heard of the baron’s death?”

He said nothing and smiled.

Turning rather pale, the great man said, “You don’t mean…‌what did you do?”…‌you surely didn’t think I’d send you to‌—‌” He broke off, his eyes startled.

Just what had the pompous bastard expected him to do? The assassin controlled his temper. “Sir, I may do a friend a favor, but I shall not be
sent
to do his bidding like a common lackey.”

The great man’s jaw sagged. “Dear gods,” he muttered. “You must be mad.”

The servant came in with fresh coffee, and nobody spoke. The assassin drew out his pocket watch and clicked it open. He waited until the servant had left the room, then said, “You worry too much. An old, sick man died, that’s all. As I said, I have no time for coffee. The court is to go to Schwetzingen. There will be an Italian opera and perhaps also Voltaire’s new play.” He tucked his watch into its pocket and rose. “I shall be busy for the coming months.”

The other man still looked sick. “Yes. The last occasion for the year‌—‌except for the hunt.”

“Hunts no longer interest me,” the assassin said grandly. With a very small bow, he departed‌—‌happy in the knowledge that he had left the great man looking very worried.

*

When Stiebel and Franz entered the public room that evening, they found all the tables occupied. At one end of the room was a large and cheerfully noisy party of young people who‌—‌a waiter informed them‌—‌were musicians and players with the court theater. Franz found his French charmer among them, and gaped, struck by the easy manner of such men and women. They laughed and talked with the familiarity of old friends or siblings.

She was one of five females and six or seven males gathered around two tables that had been pushed together. To Franz, she was the youngest and most beautiful of the women, though all were quite handsome in looks and fashionable clothing.

He was still staring when she saw him. Her dark eyes widened, and she sent a devastating smile and a wave of her small hand his way. As a gentleman cannot ignore a lady’s welcome, Franz said to Stiebel, “Surely we should at least introduce ourselves.”

Stiebel smiled. “But, of course.”

They went across, bowed, and Franz kissed the pretty actress’s hand.

“
Mon chèr ami blessé
!” she cried, dimpling. “All dis time I ’ave been ’oping to see you again.
Le voilà
,” she said, turning to the others at the table, “Dis is de ’andsome ’ero I talk you about.”

They all smiled, the men rising and making their bows. One of the women joked about the wounded hero having wounded Desirée’s heart, and Franz blushed. Introductions followed, invitations to join them were given. Franz hesitated in spite of a fervent wish to sit beside the delectable Desirée‌—‌never was woman more aptly named! Before he could speak, Stiebel accepted for both. Room was made, food and wine appeared in abundance, and Franz thought he would never spend a more pleasant evening than this. It brought back memories of happier days with fellow students in Heidelberg. But this was immeasurably improved by the presence of an adoring woman.

Because she was something of a distraction, he missed a good deal of the general conversation, but when the talk turned to the Elector’s imminent arrival‌—‌Franz was dimly aware that Stiebel had raised the subject but had been looking too deeply into pansy-brown eyes to follow the exchange‌—‌someone praised the gardens of the summer palace, which were said to outshine even those of Versailles.

“Oh, you ’ave not seen?” asked Desirée, opening her pansy eyes in surprise. “You must. Eet is
très charmante
. We walk dere many days.”

Greatly daring, Franz said, “I would enjoy it above anything with such a guide as you,
Mademoiselle
.”

She giggled and slapped his arm. “I vill not deny you,
mon brave
.”

And so Franz climbed the stairs to their room that evening happy in the prospect of taking
Mademoiselle
Desirée to the palace gardens very soon.