Part 48 (2/2)

'When I read that the French had handed the investigation to you, I was already here, and I was very busy.' He laughed to himself. 'You can imagine what I was up to, can you not? A great many corpses are needed to make a detailed anatomical model. The French had no idea, of course. They realised that women were disappearing without a trace, but . . .' He shrugged. 'Well, what did it matter? They thought that the girls had run away, carrying the amber that they had stolen. But then les Halles arrived on the scene. Women disappearing? A Prussian killer on the loose? He wanted the killer to be stopped. His motive was obvious, of course. He was afraid the French would be blamed, that it would go ill with him when he tried to rid himself for ever of the women, and replace them with his machines. But what was to be done? Les Halles spoke to his general, and Malaport had a bright idea. What about that Prussian magistrate, the one who was called to Konigsberg by Kant? That clever fellow had already worked with the French, and he had proved his usefulness. A French criminologist had written excellent reports about him. If he can find a suitable Prussian suspect, Malaport declared, and if he hands the killer over to us, all our troubles will vanish into thin air.'

He stopped.

'Could I refuse them?' I protested.

'Who can refuse them?' Gurten continued. 'That was why I wanted to be at your side. I hoped to temper your enthusiasm, Herr Magistrate, and call forth from your soul the beast that had taken refuge there.'

He roared down from his pulpit. I sat meekly in the pews. I wished to ask about Edviga, but I hesitated to do so. If I asked him outright to tell me what he had done to her, he would only plunge me deeper into confusion and mystification. But there was one road left. He offered me no alternative. I had to try and play him at his own game.

'You must take me for a fool,' I said. 'Did you believe that you had got the better of me last night? I would have told you any lie to save my life. And so I did. I led you to believe that we are two of a kind. You fell for it. You let me go, did you not? So, tell me, which of us is the greater fool, Johannes Gurten?'

For an instant, I saw a shadow of doubt flash upon his face. 'I care not what was said last night. You have seen my work in Konigsberg. I know that you will wish to see my ecorche completed. If you are true to your own heart, you will rejoice in what I do. Otherwise, you'll have what every homunculus deserves: endless pain and suffering.'

He flexed his knees and bent to pick up something from the floor. It was dark and sopping wet, like his clothes. He had brought it with him, whatever it was. He s.n.a.t.c.hed this packet up, then rocked it gently in his arms.

As if it were a newborn baby . . .

In that instant, I ceased to breathe.

His eyes held mine.

I looked back with horrified intensity.

The fingers of his right hand pushed inside the sack. The canvas moved, as if the contents had suddenly come to life. He partially withdrew his hand, holding something small, tightly wrapped up in a dark-stained cloth. It had once been white. Now, it was grey, where water had soaked through it. But there were darker stains as well. Dark brown. Reddish brown. The colour of blood . . .

And I could smell it. It was mineral sharp, saltier than the sea.

The package was no more than ten or twelve inches in length.

If it was what I thought . . .

When had he killed Edviga?

Where had he left the body?

I heard her voice inside my head. Begging me to hide a piece of amber on the corpse of Ilse Bruen before the French threw her body into the sea. Asking me to do the same for her.

Gurten threw aside one fold of the swaddling cloth. It was seen and gone in a flash. A tiny face. A lump of blood and gore. The head of a child barely formed.

Inside my breast, a tempest roared.

I had failed in everything.

'What have you done with Edviga Lornerssen?'

His eyebrows formed a double arch. His eyes and mouth gaped open.

'Edviga?' he asked, his voice a hollow whisper.

Suddenly, he laughed out loud. 'Herr Stiffeniis,' he admonished, 'have you forgotten the name of your own wife? Do you fail to recognise the face of your very own son? Who is this Edviga that governs your heart?'

I heard a Frenchman speaking once of an event on the battlefield. A friend had been decapitated by a cannonball, he said, yet they spoke for half a minute before the poor man died. What cry of protest could I raise? My head had just been blown away, and I was helpless. I could see, but I was in another world already. What sense remained in words?

And yet, I heard him speak.

'I went to Lotingen,' he said. 'But not to visit your Count Dittersdorf. Nor to read his dusty French journals. Surely, sir, you remember the message for your wife? Which I delivered, as you instructed me to do.'

He paused, laughed, found something funny in what he had said.

'It was Helena that I was interested in. She was carrying something that was valuable to me. Where would I have found the crowning jewel of my new Eve, if not where you had put it, Hanno Stiffeniis?'

He held the package up and stared at me.

I heard the sharp intake of air through his nostrils.

I did not breathe. I felt no movement in my chest. No beating heart, no lungs expanding and retracting. I had no need of air. My blood was boiling.

'Do you share my joy?' he asked. 'Or do you suffer like a poor homunculus?'

I could not s.h.i.+ft my eyes from his ironic smile.

My hand stretched out and found what it was looking for. An object that I had discarded on Edviga's bed. It slipped comfortably into my outstretched palm. It might have been formed for my hand, and no other. It was my hand, not my brain, that drew back suddenly, then struck forward.

The pointed blade arched through the air like Death's scythe.

I pushed past his heart and into Infinity.

The sound was liquid, solid, a bucket overturned, a pile of clattering wood. My hand was deep inside his breast, blood spurted out and bathed my face. I pulled away, then thrust again to finish him off.

That smile never left his face.

As I pushed forward, he staggered back.

He opened his mouth to speak, and blood poured out like a crimson cataract, cascading onto his s.h.i.+rt and his vest. Then spluttered words.

'It will not end with me,' he gagged. 'We are . . . the Dev il's brood.'

Even in death, there was something twisted, false, and devilish about him.

I knew that I had killed him. I rejoiced in the deed, and Gurten knew it. His eyes peered into mine. He saw into my soul, I think, and knew what I was feeling. And in that instant, the creature dwelling in the black depths of my heart looked at him without a grain of pity.

The handle of the weapon seemed to sear my skin.

I let it go, watching as his hands came up to clutch and hold it.

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