Borrower of the Night

The Grafin grinned at him. It was a full-fledged grin, not a smile, and it was a singularly ugly expression.

‘Of course you would be interested in her – after last night.’

Miss Burton gasped.

‘Elfrida! Why didn’t you tell me? Has the countess returned again?’

Chapter Five

I HAD FORGOTTEN about Irma. She attracted my attention by dropping the tray she was holding. It made a splendid crash. We swung around, as one man – to use a male chauvinlst formula – and when I saw the girl’s face, I leaped out of my chair. I thought she was going to faint. All my half-formed suspicions about the relationship between aunt and niece came into focus, and without stopping to think I said rudely, ‘If you’re talking about Konstanze, she hasn’t returned, and she isn’t about to. The dead don’t come back. Anyone who believes that rot is weak in the head.’

Miss Burton’s nostrils flared. ‘You said you believed!’

‘I said I was interested. I am willing to admit the possibility of contacting those who have passed beyond . . .’ That was an exaggeration, but I didn’t want to be excluded from the seance ‘. . . but ghosts, clanking chains in the halls? Ha, ha, ha.’

My laugh was a bit artificial, but it affected Irma as I hoped it would. A faint touch of colour came back to her cheeks, and for the first time since I’d met her she looked at me with something less than active dislike. I didn’t blame the girl for resenting me; to her, I represented the freedom and independence she conspicuously lacked. I didn’t resent her, even if she did have all the physical qualities I lacked. I felt sorry for her, and whether she cared for me or not, I wasn’t going to stand around and let the two witches bully her. Not with that kind of half-baked stupidity, anyhow.

Tony had also been studying Irma with concern. He chimed in. ‘I agree. I’m willing to go along with your theories up to a point, ladies, but let’s not get distracted by fairy tales.’

‘Do you call Konstanze’s portrait a fairy tale?’ The Grafin had stopped grinning. She wasn’t used to back talk from inferiors, and it angered her.

‘These chance resemblances are fascinating, genetically,’ Tony said smoothly. ‘I remember once seeing a row of portraits in a French chateau. Two of the faces might have belonged to identical twins. But one man wore medieval armour, and the other the uniform of Napoleon’s Guards.’

Irma had forgotten my kindly intervention. She was staring at Tony the way what’s-her-name must have looked at Saint George, when he killed the dragon. Tony’s chest expanded to twice its normal size. He was so busy exchanging amorous glances with Irma he didn’t notice the Grafin; but I did, and an unpremeditated shiver ran down my back.

‘How fascinating,’ she said, through clenched teeth. ‘You are indeed a confirmed sceptic, Professor Lawrence. Some day you might like to visit our crypt. I think you will find it interesting, in spite of your rational explanations.’

‘Oh, there is a crypt?’ For a moment Tony forgot to leer at Irma. This was his opening.

‘Yes, there is a crypt. Ask me for the keys whenever you like. I do not allow casual guests to go there, but in your case . . .’

‘Perhaps I may also take advantage of your generosity, Grafin,’ I said. ‘Is there a library in the Schloss? I am something of an expert on old books and manuscripts. If you have never had the library examined by someone who knows books you may discover there are objects of value that could be sold.’

‘How kind you are.’ The old bat gave me one of those smiles that make nervous people want to hide under the nearest piece of furniture. ‘I fear we have already disposed of most of our treasures. But of course you are welcome to look. Let me give you the keys now.’

I accepted the keys, and with them my conge, as Emily Post might say. The exodus was a mass affair; the tea party had not been a social success. It was primarily my fault, and I was delighted to take the responsibility. But I wasn’t sure the good guys had come out ahead.

At least we had the keys to the library. I tossed them, jingling, as we went down the stairs. George patted me on the back.

‘Nice work, Vicky. But you’re wasting your time.’

‘Hush your mouth,’ said Tony, with some vague idea that he was speaking a kind of code. Schmidt, who was ahead of me, turned to give us a bewildered look.

‘You will inspect the library?’ he asked.

‘Yes. Why not?’

‘Oh, of course, of course. I only meant to ask – I too am an antiquarian. An amateur, of course!’

‘Of course,’ I said. We had reached the corridor leading to our rooms, and I gave the little man a very hard stare. He beamed ingratiatingly.

‘It would be a privilege to assist you,’ he said.

‘She has an assistant,’ Tony said. ‘Me.’

‘Then as a favour to an old man?’

I didn’t see how I could refuse without giving the whole business an aura of secrecy, which was the last thing I wanted. In the unlikely event that I found a useful clue, I believed myself capable of distracting Schmidt’s attention from it.

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘The more the merrier. How about you, George?’

‘No, thanks. It’s not in the library. I’ve already looked.’

He ought to have been on the stage. He didn’t even look back as he walked off down the corridor, humming softly to himself.

‘It?’ said Schmidt, with a frown.

‘Crazy American,’ said Tony wildly. ‘You know how they are.’

‘If he doesn’t,’ I said, sighing, ‘he’s finding out now. Come on. Where is the blasted library, anyhow?’

It was on the same floor as the Great Hall, off a corridor to the south. When the door swung open, I couldn’t hold back a groan. The room had once been handsome. The fireplace was of marble, with stiff Gothic figures of saints supporting the mantel; there wasn’t a nose or chin left among the holy crew, and the stone was pitted, as if by acid. Tapestries covered the walls, but they were cobwebby masses of decay; behind them, small things scuttled and squeaked, disturbed by our entry. The bookshelves sagged; the books were crumbling piles of leather and paper.

At some time, the library had been stripped of most of its contents. The remaining volumes were either valueless or decayed beyond hope of repair.

Then, by the dust-coated windows, I saw something that looked more interesting. It was a tall cupboard, or Schrank, black with age, but still sound. It was locked. I tried the keys the countess had given me, and found one that worked.

The Schrank contained several books, a metal box, and a roll of parchments. I took the last object first and carried it to a table. Tony and Schmidt looked on as I unrolled it.

The parchments were all plans of the castle and its grounds. They were very old.

I let the sheets roll themselves up again, and twisted them out of Tony’s clutching hand.

‘Naughty, naughty,’ I said gaily. ‘We don’t care about these old things, do we? Nothing valuable here. Let’s see what else there is.’

The books were three in number – heavy volumes, bound in leather, with metal clasps and studs. I wondered why they had not been sold with the other valuables, for they could be considered rare books. When I tried to open one, I understood. Hardly a page remained legible. Water, mildew, worms and rats had all taken their toll.

‘Amazing,’ said Tony, breathing heavily over my shoulder.

‘Rather peculiar volumes to find here,’ I agreed, picking up the next book. It was in equally poor condition.