Part 43 (1/2)

His honeyed voice was servile, ingratiating.

I replied with nothing more than a grunt.

I had had no intention of ever returning to that mean little house in the dark environs of the Albertina again. I had played my part in a farce the night before. The charade with the ghost of Salthenius had embarra.s.sed me at the time. Now, instead, I realised what that performance had meant.

Rickert knew Vulpius.

There was nothing supernatural about it, no need for dripping blood, contact with the dead, or the drawing up of pacts with Satan. He would tell me where the killer was. Konigsberg? Nordcopp? h.e.l.l?

The sky had been very grey that morning. The sun had barely shown itself all day. There had been an occasional rumbling of thunder, an odd flash of lightning. As I hurried forward, a mountain range of black clouds was ma.s.sing on the far horizon out at sea.

Edviga had been in the water all day long. Her arms and legs would be stiff and tired with the endless labour. Her stomach cramps would be more frequent.

I don't know where the notion came from. No sooner there, it was gone, like a mouse scuttling behind a cupboard. The thought of Edviga hid itself away behind the more reasonable concern which took its place: Helena. The baby would be fully formed by now, kicking out impatiently whenever the fancy took him or her, waiting for the cramps and the labour to start, waiting for the waters to break.

Waiting for me to come home . . .

As I was walking along the quay towards the Albertina, and Dr Rickert's house, my eye was attracted by an unexpected flash of light on the far bank of the river. The bow-window of Herr Flugge & Son was gleaming like a faceted gem in a single, piercing ray of sunlight. On impulse, I turned sharp left, strode across the bridge, and stepped off it in Kniephof.

There was something that I had to do.

I had to rid myself of the guilt and shame that only a wayward husband can feel. I had thought of Edviga Lornerssen and the dangers she was facing on the Baltic coast. Then, and only then, had I remembered my wife, and the baby who would soon be born.

I walked across to the row of jewellers' shops.

The previous evening, my eye had been bewitched by two objects standing next to each other in the window of the shop of Andreas Borkmann. The first was a silver rattle for a baby; the second, a tobacco-box for a man. They were so very different, and yet, I thought, there was a temporal connection between them. Many birthdays would have to pa.s.s before I could think of buying my son a tobacco-box.

This was the moment for a silver rattle.

It was almost a tradition in the Stiffeniis family.

Almost . . .

I had been given one that was made in the shape of a whistle, the rattle comprising little b.a.l.l.s of Italian coral. My brother Stefan's was made of mother-of-pearl, and it contained b.a.l.l.s of agate. When I left my father's house for the last time, those rattles were resting on the mantelpiece in the drawing-room, as if they might be called into use at any moment.

My first child, Manni, had never had a rattle. Nor had my daughter, Suzi. And baby Anders had been lulled to sleep by the firing of French cannonades. It was time to revive the family tradition. The new baby would have a silver rattle with beads of amber.

I emerged from the shop five minutes later. In my hand, a pretty box tied up with a bright green ribbon. As Herr Borkmann placed it in my care, he had a.s.sured me that the toy would ward off any fear the child might have of the dark. As I walked across the bridge towards the Albertina University, I heard the rattle tinkle with every step that I took. In the network of streets and alleys leading down to Rickert's house, I was tempted to shake the rattle as I went. Black thunderclouds had settled on the town, cancelling out the day. Nothing had changed since the night before, except, perhaps, that the smell of onions was less strong.

It was very dark as I approached the house. Rickert's window was one of the few in the street not lit by a candle or a fire. If he had not returned, I would have to wait for him out in the street. As the first drops of rain began to splatter on my forehead, I hurried forward, intending to shelter in the doorway. But as I ran, I realised that there was a feeble light in the window. With a surge of hope, I thought that Rickert, after all, might be at home. So eager to escape from him that morning, I pounded with my knuckles on the door, more eager still to be admitted from the rain.

Dr Rickert did not answer.

I knocked again, thunder clapped, rain pelted down.

He did not come.

I stepped to the window, pressed my nose against the grimy gla.s.s.

The half-moon of a palm and three fingertips had touched the gla.s.s and left a streaking mark. I looked at it more carefully, and saw that the striations were red. My heart sank.

I peered inside again, so far as the dirt and dust on the window would allow.

The fire was a dull glow, a cooking-pot suspended over it. So, Rickert had returned, and had been cooking soup for dinner. Indeed, the untidy breakfast table I had left behind had been cleared, and freshly set with bowls and spoons. I stood on tiptoe, cleaning the condensation of my warm breath from the gla.s.s with the sleeve of my jacket.

Then, I spotted him.

First I saw the soles of his feet. His naked calves protruded from behind the sofa, where the rest was hidden. I crushed my face against the window-frame, trying to see around, or beyond, the obstacle. His upper body was twisted, as if in trying to escape he had slipped, then been struck as he attempted to rise again. The cut extended from his left ear, beneath and beyond his larynx. His white face was floating on a dark red lake. So much blood had discharged on the tiles, it was hard to believe that a single drop remained inside his body.

Frantically, I pushed against the door.

As I did so, I realised that it had been left open.

I cannot say which came first.

The sensation of swimming in a dark green sea. Or the thought which flashed through my mind.

He is in Konigsberg.

33.

'STIFFENIIS.'

The voice was soft, almost beyond hearing.

A cloth of some sort clung like skin to my nostrils, mouth and ears. It was damp, and I choked on the mouldy stink of it. I tried to s.h.i.+ft my hands, but I could not do so. They had been tightly tied across my chest, and bound at the wrists.

I was caught up like a fly in a spider's web.

'Stiffeniis,' that voice called out again.

I opened my eyes with difficulty. The cloth binding was tight, but I could just make out something through the weave of it. I might have been peering through a thick fog. A vague dark form towered over me, dimly lit on one side only by a flickering candle.

Vulpius.

'You thought that you were hunting me,' he said. 'But I was hunting you.'

The last thing I remembered was seeing Rickert on the tiled floor. The front door was ajar. I had ventured in. Then, I had been struck down. Afterwards, I suppose I had been bound and gagged. Unlike my erstwhile host, I had not been murdered.

Not yet.

'I know that you can hear me,' he went on. 'You are here to listen to me, Herr Magistrate.'

The accusation rose unbidden to my lips.

'You killed Rickert.'