Borrower of the Night

‘What is it?’ Schmidt asked.

‘You might call them books of philosophical speculation. In their day, they verged on the heretical. I’m surprised to find them here because the Counts of Drachenstein don’t strike me as intellectuals. This is Trithemius; this one is Albert of Cologne, better known as Albertus Magnus – ’

‘The great magician!’ Schmidt exclaimed. ‘Fascinating! May I please – ’

I handed him the book. He glanced at it, and shook his head.

‘I cannot make it out. You two perhaps understand?’

‘I read medieval Latin,’ Tony said. Schmidt let him have the volume, and he opened it.

I was too distracted to indulge in my usual bragging. Of course I read Latin, classical and medieval, as well as most of the European languages. I had a feeling Schmidt did, too. Whatever his other talents, he had no gift for dissimulation. In other words, he was a lousy liar. When he said he couldn’t read the book, his eyes shifted and he changed colour, the way Matthew Finch did back in fifth grade when he was trying to psych the teacher.

I left Tony deep in the heresies of Trithemius, and turned to the object that interested me most. If papers could survive for four centuries, it would be in just such a metal box.

The box was locked, but the key proved to be on the countess’s ring. I tackled lock and top cautiously; air, admitted to a formerly sealed container, can be destructive to items within. But it was clear that this box had been opened in the recent past The lock had been oiled, and the lid lifted easily.

After a minute I turned to Schmidt, who was hovering.

‘Nothing much,’ I said, as casually as I was able. ‘A couple of old diaries and some account lists.’

Tony’s head came up. His nose was quivering.

‘I’ll have a close look at them some other time,’ I said, before he could speak. ‘Must be almost time for dinner. Shall we?’

I hated to put that box back in the Schrank. I didn’t trust Schmidt as far as I could throw him. Not nearly as far – I could have thrown him quite a distance. His shifty looks and inconsistent behaviour were not proof of guilt; but whether he was witting or ignorant, my safest attitude was one of indifference to anything I found. I felt sure the metal box had once contained the letters which had been reprinted in The Peasants’ Revolt. Therefore someone had already searched its contents. And the box was as safe in the Schrank, under lock and key, as it was anywhere.

Having reached that conclusion, I was able to meet George’s smiling curiosity at dinner with relative calm. We fenced through the meal, with innuendoes falling thick and fast, and Tony glaring, and Blankenhagen watching all three of us as if he suspected our sanity. We had reached the coffee stage when Irma came to the table. As soon as I looked at her, I knew something was up.

‘My aunt asks that you spend an hour with her this evening,’ she said, addressing Tony.

‘This evening? Sure . . . Is there any particular . . . I mean, why does she . . . ?’

The girl’s face got even paler.

‘I cannot say, Herr Professor. It is not for me . . . She asks the others to come also. Fraulein, Herr Nolan, and you, Herr Doktor Blankenhagen.’

Blankenhagen was watching her curiously.

‘The Grafin has not honoured me before,’ he said. ‘I think this is not a social occasion. I will come; but I too ask you, why?’

The repetition of the question was too much for Irma. She shook her head speechlessly and turned away.

‘I think I know why,’ I said coyly, as Blankenhagen, still on his feet, stared after her slim form.

‘So do I,’ said Tony, with a dismal groan.

We were correct in our assumption; but I was surprised when Irma led us to one of the guest rooms instead of the Grafin’s eyrie in the tower. The room was the one occupied by Schmidt. He stood modestly to one side while Miss Burton bustled about, arranging the setting for a seance. A heavy round table had been pulled out into the centre of the room and a pack of alphabet cards was arranged in a circle on its top. In the centre of the circle, looking as menacing and squatty as a toad, was a planchette.

The Grafin was seated in a high carved chair. Hands folded in her lap, face and hair lacquered into mask-hardness, she had the air of a high priestess waiting for a ceremony. Seeing our surprise, she condescended to explain.

‘Herr Schmidt kindly allows us to use his room. It has a particularly interesting aura.’

If Schmidt had any misgivings about the proceedings, he didn’t show them; beaming, bobbing up and down on his toes, rubbing his hands together, he seemed quite pleased about the whole thing. It was the first time I had seen his room, and as I studied it I could understand why it might be appropriate for a seance. It was by far the largest of the guest rooms, and was the only one still furnished with antiques. The walls retained their panelling – dark, worm-eaten wood, atmospheric as all get out. The windows were heavily draped.

I caught Tony’s eye, and knew what he was thinking as surely as if he had spoken aloud. Was this the master bedchamber, the room once occupied by Count Burckhardt himself? Some of the furniture might have belonged to him – the great canopied bed with its carved dragon posts, for instance.

George cleared his throat.

‘Ladies, I want to warn you that I’m not a believer.’

‘So long as your attitude is not positively hostile . . .’ said Miss Burton.

‘No.’ George looked sober. ‘I’ve seen a few things in my travels . . . Well, what about it, Doctor?’

Blankenhagen’s face was a sight for sceptics. If he had been able to voice his real feelings, they would have come out in a howl of outraged rationalism. But something made him strangle his protests, and when I saw Irma, standing white-faced in a corner, I thought I knew what the something was.

‘I remain,’ said Blankenhagen, after a moment.

We took our places at the table. I sat between George and Tony. The two Germans flanked Irma.

‘Miss Burton prefers to sit to one side, in order to take notes,’ said the Grafin, as Tony, always the little gent, glanced inquiringly at that lady before seating himself.

‘And you?’

‘I never participate,’ said the Grafin, with an unpleasant smile.

Miss Burton extinguished the lamps, leaving only a single candle at the end of the table.

‘Now,’ she said, ‘put only the tips of your fingers upon the edges of the planchette. You all understand the procedure? If we are able to make contact, the discarnate will spell out its answers to our questions, using the alphabet cards. Do not resist the movement of the planchette. And let me ask the questions.’

She sat down behind Tony, holding a pencil and a pad of paper. His shadow hid all of her except her hands. They looked like the claws of a scavenger bird as they clutched the writing implements with feverish intensity. I wondered what sick desire had driven Miss Burton to spiritualism. The best psychic investigators approach the subject in a spirit of genuine inquiry and endeavour to maintain scientific controls. Not Miss Burton; the bony, clawlike hands betrayed her. The room had an ‘aura,’ all right – not the psychic residue of past centuries, but the projected emotions of the living. The flickering candlelight left people’s bodies in darkness, casting ugly shadows on faces that seemed to hover disembodied in air.

The room grew very silent. A rustle of the draperies, at a sudden breath of wind, made us all jump. Gradually the stillness spread again. I found myself staring dreamily at the bright shape of the candle flame. It took some effort to wrench my eyes away; the whole business was a perfect example of hypnotic technique, and it was damnably effective. The silence was not the absence of sound; it was a positive force that seemed to grow and strengthen. Silence, concentration, and a single point of moving light in darkness . . . Yes, very effective. It was hard to keep my mind critical and controlled.

A prickle ran down my back. The planchette had moved.

I lifted my hands until my fingertips barely brushed the planchette. So far as I could determine, the others had done the same. I could have sworn no one in the circle was exerting enough pressure on the planchette to move it.

It moved again. Rocking unsteadily, it shifted towards the side of the circle.

Miss Burton’s voice was hoarse with excitement.