‘Ah, yes,’ said Gottfried. ‘I have seen your father in the Herrenklub.’
‘And this is Carla von Ulrich – I believe you know her father, too.’
‘We were colleagues at the German embassy in London,’ Gottfried said carefully. ‘That was in 1914.’ Clearly he was not so pleased to be reminded of his association with a social democrat. He took a piece of cake, clumsily dropped it on the rug, tried ineffectually to pick up the crumbs, then abandoned the effort and sat back.
Carla thought: What is he afraid of?
Heinrich got straight down to the purpose of the visit. ‘Father, I expect you’ve heard of Akelberg.’
Carla was watching Gottfried closely. There was a split-second flash of something in his expression, but he quickly adopted a pose of indifference. ‘A small town in Bavaria?’ he said.
‘There is a hospital there,’ said Heinrich. ‘For mentally handicapped people.’
‘I don’t think I was aware of that.’
‘We think something strange is going on there, and we wondered if you might know about it.’
‘I certainly don’t. What seems to be happening?’
Werner broke in. ‘My brother died there, apparently of appendicitis. Herr von Ulrich’s maid’s child died at the same time in the same hospital of the same illness.’
‘Very sad – but a coincidence, surely?’
Carla said: ‘My maid’s child did not have an appendix. It was removed two years ago.’
‘I understand why you are keen to ascertain the facts,’ said Gottfried. ‘This is deeply unsatisfactory. However, the likeliest explanation would seem to be clerical error.’
Werner said: ‘If so, we would like to know.’
‘Of course. Have you written to the hospital?’
Carla said: ‘I wrote to ask when my maid could visit her son. They never replied.’
Werner said: ‘My father telephoned the hospital this morning. The Senior Physician slammed the phone down on him.’
‘Oh, dear. Such bad manners. But, you know, this is hardly a Foreign Office matter.’
Werner leaned forward. ‘Herr von Kessel, is it possible that both boys were involved in a secret experiment that went wrong?’
Gottfried sat back. ‘Quite impossible,’ he said, and Carla had a feeling he was telling the truth. ‘That is definitely not happening.’ He sounded relieved.
Werner looked as if he had run out of questions, but Carla was not satisfied. She wondered why Gottfried seemed so happy about the assurance he had just given. Was it because he was concealing something worse?
She was struck by a possibility so appalling that she could hardly contemplate it.
Gottfried said: ‘Well, if that’s all . . .’
Carla said: ‘You’re very sure, sir, that they were not killed by an experimental therapy that went wrong?’
‘Very sure.’
‘To know for certain that is
‘Not necessarily,’ he said, but all his tension had returned, and she knew she was on to something.
‘I remember seeing a Nazi poster,’ she went on. It was this memory that had triggered her dreadful thought. ‘There was a picture of a male nurse and a mentally handicapped man. The text said something like: ‘Sixty thousand Reichsmarks is what this person suffering from hereditary defects costs the people’s community during his lifetime. Comrade, that is your money too!’ It was an advertisement for a magazine, I think.’
‘I have seen some of that propaganda,’ Gottfried said disdainfully, as if it were nothing to do with him.
Carla stood up. ‘You’re a Catholic, Herr von Kessel, and you brought up Heinrich in the Catholic faith.’
Gottfried made a scornful noise. ‘Heinrich says he’s an atheist now.’
‘But you’re not. And you believe that human life is sacred.’
‘Yes.’
‘You say that the doctors at Akelberg are not testing dangerous new therapies on handicapped people, and I believe you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But are they doing something else? Something worse?’
‘No, no.’
‘Are they deliberately
Gottfried shook his head silently.
