Borrower of the Night

lying flat on the couch with my head floating up somewhere near the ceiling and a handsome tanned boy bending over me with a glass of brandy.

‘Oy,’ I said, pushing it away. ‘That I don’t need. Will you please – ’

‘I am a student of medicine,’ said the boy grandly. ‘Rest quietly, Fraulein, all has been done as you directed. But what in God’s name has happened?’

‘Look at my face,’ I said hysterically. ‘I know I’m drunk, but I can’t help looking like this, I didn’t do it on purpose; and I don’t know why all you men can’t stop looking at my – ’

He had been patting me – absentmindedly, I’m sure. He got quite red and leaped to his feet.

‘I apologize! No disrespect was intended – ’

‘I know,’ I said sadly.

I had not forgotten the Grafin, but I was no longer worried about her; with all those husky witnesses rushing around, it was unlikely that she could do any more damage. She must have heard all the activity and come down to see what was going on. When I saw her standing in the doorway, I struggled to a sitting position.

She dismissed the student with an autocratic wave of her hand. Her faint smile, as she studied my unkempt person, told me more clearly than any mirror how terrible I must look. It stung me into relative coherence.

‘Grin all you want,’ I said. ‘You still lose. All is known.’

Her smile didn’t change.

‘Poor girl, you are delirious after all you have suffered. But if you will insist on prying into places where you have no right to be – ’

‘It won’t work,’ I said. ‘George is dead.’

That did it. Her smile vanished.

‘I’m going to let you go,’ I said. ‘I hate to do it, but without George I’m not sure how much we can prove. In your position, though, I wouldn’t risk it.’

‘You would turn an old woman from her home?’

‘You can go live with Miss Burton. I’ll bet she’s loaded; you wouldn’t cultivate her for her gracious personality. And you probably have plenty stashed away. You’ve been milking this place of its saleable antiques for years.’

She stood there looking at me with the Medusa stare that had paralyzed so many luckless victims. It didn’t affect me. She had no power, except over weak minds like Irma’s and Miss Burton’s.

‘The police will be here any minute,’ I said.

She left.

The local constabulary of Rothenburg, accustomed to drunken brawls and traffic jams, were out of their depth at the Schloss. The case was closed. There was nothing for them to do but gather up the wounded. However, they were understandably confounded by the train of events. Finally one of them settled the matter.

‘Mad,’ he said, tapping his forehead. ‘The man was mad, no doubt.’

Everyone agreed. Then, at long last, they led me to my room, and with a groan of voluptuous satisfaction I fell full length on the bed, dirty and half naked as I was, and let my poor old eyes close.

It was late the following afternoon when we all assembled in my room for the denouement. I had slept till noon. Then I washed. That took quite a while. I spent the rest of the time at the hospital with Schmidt, who was coming along nicely. We had a fascinating talk. I was giddy with the implications when I joined the others.

Tony and Blankenhagen were still acting like wounded heroes. I thought Tony had overdone the bandages just a bit, but the effect was impressive.

Irma looked beautiful. She hadn’t dug through forty feet of dirt or fallen down a shaft or crawled through a couple of miles of brambles. She had simply rested peacefully for a few hours. She was safe, rich, beautiful, and surrounded by men who had risked all for her sake – at least that was how she thought of it. No wonder she looked gorgeous. She could even afford to be nice to me. She made me a pretty little speech thanking me for my help.

I looked at my bare arms, which were covered with a network of scratches, and squinted at the tip of my nose, which had a scab on it, and I said dispiritedly, ‘Oh, no problem. I had a talk with your aunt last night. I was dignified, but convincing.’

‘You should not have let her escape,’ said Blankenhagen critically.

‘It would be hard to prove her guilty of anything except poisoning Irma’s mind. That kind of crime is hard to describe in a court of law.’

‘It was a nightmare.’ Irma shivered prettily. ‘To think that the soul of that dead woman could seize my body . . ’

All of us looked at that astounding portrait. ‘Damn it,’ Tony muttered. ‘The resemblance is uncanny.’

‘Not really.’ I lifted the portrait off the wall. I had had plenty of time to study it, and I wasn’t proud of myself for seeing the truth. It should not have taken me so long. ‘The Grafin didn’t miss a trick. See how faded the rest of the picture is, compared to the face? Someone has touched it up.’

‘You mean – that is not how she looked?’ Irma gasped.

‘No one will ever know what she looked like.’ I tossed the portrait carelessly onto the bed. ‘When your aunt mentioned that she had studied painting . . .’ I shrugged. ‘If you doubt me, have an expert examine this thing. Even I can see that it is modern work.’

‘It started so long ago,’ Irma said, pressing her hands to her face in another of those pretty, fragile gestures. ‘Even before my uncle died, she hated me. Then, later, she started to tell me stories – terrible stories about the crimes of the Drachensteins and the burning of Konstanze. I had not noticed the portrait till she showed it to me; there are so many faded pictures here.’

‘She had to keep you off balance so she could steal your belongings,’ Tony said.

‘She sold even the locks from the doors. She said there was no money from my uncle, that we had to live.’

‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘Everybody has a few rotten apples on the family tree. We all have the same family tree, if you go back far enough. I have a little surprise for you that should take your mind off your troubles.’

‘I hope,’ said Blankenhagen apprehensively, ‘that you do not want any stones moved?’

‘I’m no more anxious to move stones than you are. George has already been here, so it shouldn’t be necessary.’

Mortar had been cleared from around four stones that formed a door. It yielded easily to the pressure of my hand, exposing a dark cavity in the wall. The space was almost filled by a big wooden box. Everyone rushed forwards to help me get it out onto the table. I brushed off some of the encrusted dirt and broke the corroded hasp with a twist of my hands. The front of the box fell away.

Against a Gothic tracery of carved vines and flowers sat the Virgin, her unbound hair flowing over her blue robe, her hands lightly touching the Child on her knee. Above them, cunningly supported by sections of the vine, hovered two angels, slender youths with austere young faces and lifted golden wings. One of the wings was missing.

The three kings knelt at Mary’s feet, and for a disgraceful interlude my eyes forgot the beauty of the carving and lingered greedily on the stones set in the sculptured forms. Balthasar was dressed in crimson; on his head, framed in gold, was an emerald whose depths caught the sunlight and flung it back in a thousand green reflections. Melchoir, behind him, wore a turban set with a great baroque pearl. The third king, balancing the group on the right, lifted his gift in both hands: a golden bowl, holding a globe of scarlet fire.

Irma’s eyes were as round as saucers.

‘Mine?’ she said, in a childish squeak.

‘Yep,’ I said.

She was staring at the stones, not the figures. Her open mouth was pink and pretty and wet and greedy. And then, just as I was enjoying my contempt for her, she did something that cut the ground out from under my feet.

‘No, it is yours,’ she said suddenly. ‘Three gems, for the three who saved my life. Do they measure any value compared to that?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Blankenhagen; and ‘My God, no,’ said Tony.