Borrower of the Night

the tea party.

My first sight of the Grafin’s room at the top of the tower took my breath away. It was full of treasures; there was no sign here of the genteel shabbiness that marked the rest of the Schloss. An eighteenth-century Kabinett, with panels of painted silk, might have been designed by Cuvillies. Next to it was a writing desk, French by the look of it, that had beautiful brass inlays over its leather surface. The sofa and chairs dated from Ludwig I; crimson brocade seats bore the Drachenstein arms in gold, and the wood was gilded. The Grafin had a weakness for gilt, but she tolerated crasser metals; the massive silver tea service on the table looked like Huguenot craftsmanship. I have seen poorer work behind glass in several museums. The place was rather like a museum, a selection of the best of Schloss Drachenstein. Only the hangings at the window were new. They were expensive looking, made of crimson fabric as heavy as felt, embroidered with – you guessed it – gold threads.

I have been told, by critics, that I have a nasty suspicious mind. The sight of that collection brought out my worst suspicions. If these pieces were representative of the original furnishings of the Schloss, then what had happened to the rest of the furniture and ornaments? And why were the surviving goodies all gathered here in the Grafin’s lair? She might at least share them with her niece, to whom they probably belonged legally. I have seen maids’ rooms better furnished than Irma’s shabby quarters.

I turned from my appraisal to meet the Grafin’s ironical eye. If she knew what I was thinking – and I wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that she could read minds – she made no comment. She indicated the tall Englishwoman, who was perched on the sofa beside the tea service.

‘My dear friend, Miss Burton.’

Miss Burton shook hands with us. Tony’s eyes widened when her bony fist clamped over his. Thus warned, and uninhibited by his archaic notions of courtesy, I was able to give Miss Burton a worthy grip when she tried to squash my fingers. She gasped. When she sat down again, her cheekbones were an ugly rust colour, and Tony shook his head at me. He was right; we should keep on amicable terms with the Grafin as long as possible, and antagonizing her dear friend wouldn’t help. But the two women, who were unappealing separately, gave me the creeps when I saw them together. They only needed a third to qualify for the blasted heath bit in Macbeth. Somebody had to keep them in line, and that somebody wouldn’t be Tony. He’s incapable of talking back to any female over forty. They hypnotize him.

As I expected, Tony was a ready victim for the Grafin. He stammered like a schoolboy when she spoke to him. Irma fluttered around, speechless and servile, offering plates of cookies. George sat and smiled. Schmidt’s small dark eyes darted from one face to the next in open curiosity. I was waiting for a chance to ask the Grafin about the Schloss library. I had a valid excuse for being interested in historical records, and the less sneaking I had to do, the less chance there was of being caught in a place I had no business being in. But before I found my opening, Miss Burton, who had been eyeing Tony like a hungry tiger, interrupted her friend in the middle of a long speech about the antiquity, nobility, and all around virtue of the House of Drachenstein.

‘Elfrida, I believe this young man is a sensitive. Perhaps we should make use of him tonight.’

Tony, who didn’t know what the woman meant, and who thought the worst, looked horrified. The Grafin smiled.

‘Miss Burton is a student of the occult,’ she explained.

‘Oh. Oh, God,’ said Tony, looking, if possible, even more aghast. ‘Look here – I mean, I’m no sensitive, if that’s what you call it. In fact – in fact – ’

He looked hopefully at me.

I contemplated the ceiling. I knew his views on spiritualism and the occult; they are profane. He has a morbid passion for ghost stories of all kinds, but only because he can suspend his disbelief for the purpose of entertainment. Torn between the requirements of courtesy and a thorough distaste, Tony looked in vain for rescue. He wasn’t going to get any help from me. It was high time he learned to stand up for himself.

‘In fact,’ Tony mumbled servilely, ‘I’m pretty ignorant about the whole subject.’

‘Ignorance is not uncommon,’ said Miss Burton, with a sigh. ‘Dreadful, when one considers the urgency . . . But I feel sure, Professor, that you are mediumistic. Look, Elfrida, at his hands . . . his eyes . . . There is a certain delicacy . . .’

Tony was beet-red.

‘But,’ he croaked.

‘Many mediums are unaware of their gift until they try,’ said Miss Burton, giving him a severe look.

There was a hideous pause. George, shaking with suppressed laughter, gave me a look that invited me to share his amusement. Schmidt was sitting bolt upright, his teacup in one hand, a half-eaten cookie in the other. He caught my eye; and to my surprise, he said seriously, ‘The Schloss is an admirable place for such research, Fraulein Doktor. There is a strong residue of psychic matter in a spot where so many have lived and died, loved and hated.’

‘You are a psychic researcher?’ I asked.

‘Only as an amateur.’

Miss Burton broke in.

‘If we can obtain only a moderate degree of cooperation from Professor Lawrence, the least one might expect from a gentleman and a – ’

I knew she was going to say it, and I knew I would laugh out loud if she did. It was time for me to be ingratiating; all this was leading up to something, and Schmidt’s attitude made me very curious indeed.

‘I’m sure Tony will be glad to help,’ I said, before Miss Burton could say ‘scholar.’ ‘We all will. Don’t you need a certain number of people to make up a circle?’

The countess turned to look at me.

‘How kind,’ she murmured.

‘Not at all,’ I murmured back. ‘I’ve always been fascinated by the occult.’

Tony made an uncouth noise which I ignored. I swept on, ‘One seldom finds an opportunity to hold a seance in such ideal surroundings. An old castle . . . a very old family . . .’

‘The Drachensteins trace their lineage unbroken to the ninth century,’ said the countess. ‘In 1525 the original line died out, but the title was assumed by a cousin.’

‘Died out? What happened to Count Burckhardt’s daughter?’

Tony’s question was followed by a silence which gave me time to think of all the things I was going to do to him for letting his big mouth loose again. In my opinion it was too early in the game to let the Grafin know the full extent of our knowledge of, and interest in, the family of Graf Burckhardt. But since the damage was done, I decided to make the most of it.

‘As a prominent American historian of the Reformation,’ I said pompously, ‘Professor Lawrence is particularly interested in the sixteenth century.’

‘Ah, of course.’ You couldn’t call the gleam in the Grafin’s eye a twinkle, but she was definitely amused. I found that expression even less attractive than her normal look. ‘No doubt you, too, are a prominent historian of the Reformation, Miss Bliss? It is a pleasure to find foreign scholars so well informed about our local history.

‘As for Graf Burckhardt, he did indeed leave an infant daughter. She was taken into the family of her second cousin, who became Graf Georg. She later married his eldest son.’

So that, I thought, was the physical link between Konstanze and Irma, who was the direct descendant of Graf George and his wife. Funny thing, genetics . . .

‘You said fifteen twenty-five?’ Tony tried to look casual. ‘That was the time of the Peasants’ Revolt. Was Graf Burckhardt killed in the fighting?’

‘How strange that you should not know that, with your interest in the family,’ the Grafin said. ‘No, he was not, although he fought valiantly in Wurzburg for his liege, the bishop. He died of a virulent fever, it is said, soon after his return home.’

George leaned forward in his chair.

‘What happened to Burckhardt’s wife?’