Borrower of the Night

before starting to descend.

The crypt extended the full length of the chapel. Rough square stone pillars supported the vaulted roof. There was none of the dampness I had expected, but the air had a musty smell that struck at the nostrils, and the imagination.

Across the floor, row on row, lay the tombstones of the Drachensteins. Those nearest the stair were simple marble or bronze slabs, with a name and a date: Graf Conrad von u. zu Drachenstein, 1804–1888; Grafin Elisabeth, seine Frau, 1812–1884.

‘That must be Irma’s father,’ said Tony, pointing to a bronze plaque bearing the dates 1886–1952. ‘He was succeeded by his younger brother.’

‘They are a long-lived family,’ said Blankenhagen thoughtfully.

We moved forward.

Graf Wolfgang. Grafin Berthe. 1756–1814. 1705–1770.

As we approached the far end of the crypt, the simple stones were replaced by more elaborate ones. Tony flashed his light on a sculptured form clad in armour, with hands clasped on its breast and the remains of a four- footed beast under its feet.

‘The first of the effigies,’ he said in a low voice. ‘We’re getting there.’

Against the wall we found the sixteenth-century markers.

Graf Harald von und zu Drachenstein, Burckhardt’s father, looked in grey marble much as he might have looked in life. His face, framed in stiff stone ringlets, was stern and dignified. The hardness of stone suited his harsh features. His left hand rested on his sword, and his right held the banner of his house, with its crest of a dragon on a stone. Beside him lay his countess, her face set in a pious simper, her hands palm to palm under her chin. The ample folds of her best court gown were frozen for all eternity.

Tony moved to the next monument. Upon it also lay a knight in armour, encircled by a long epitaph in twisted Gothic script. It had been carelessly carved. The letters were not deeply incised. But there was no traffic or weather here to wear them down. Tony translated the essential data.

‘Graf Burckhardt von und zu Drachenstein. Geboren fourteen ninety-five. Tot fifteen twenty-five.’

‘Thirty years old,’ I said.

There was an empty space next to Count Burckhardt, presumably because the old family had died out with him. The stones of the cadet line began beyond the next pillar.

Tony returned to Burckhardt’s effigy and waved his flashlight wildly about.

‘What is it?’ Blankenhagen asked. ‘What do you search for?’

‘Don’t you see? All the counts have their wives laid out beside them – in rows, when they wore them out too fast. There’s room for her there by his side. Where is the Countess Konstanze?’

Chapter Six

THE COUNTESS KONSTANZE was defnitely not in the crypt. Tony checked every stone, stalking up and down the dim aisles like an avenging fury. Blankenhagen saw some of the implications; when we finally left the chapel, he burst out.

‘What is the meaning of this folly? Do you suggest that because this dead woman is not in the crypt, she is . . . Ach, Gott! You are encouraging this madness! No wonder the child believes . . . What does she believe?’

Tony scowled malevolently at a smirking plaster cherub, and then slammed and locked the door of the chapel.

‘Three guesses,’ he said. ‘And I’ll bet you’re right the first time.’

We crossed the moonlit court in a silence that could be felt. No one spoke till we reached our rooms.

‘Gute Nacht,’ said Blankenhagen stiffly.

‘Hah,’ said Tony.

I waited till I heard the other doors close. Then I waited a little longer. I had no intention of going to bed. Sleep would have been difficult, after our bizarre discovery, and anyhow I had work to do. The dead countess was turning out to be as distracting as the two living females of the Drachenstein blood; I was spending too much time on them, and not enough on the shrine. But I carefully avoided Konstanze’s painted gaze as I found my flashlight and slipped out of the door. My journey along the dark halls was not a pleasant experience. I went straight to the library and opened the Schrank.

The roll of maps was gone.

Locks and keys were no hindrance to the unknown creature that walked the halls of the Schloss by night. I had the Grafin’s set of keys to the Schrank and the library. There might be other sets of keys; but in the midnight hush of the room I found myself remembering ghoulish legends instead of facts. ‘Open, locks, to the dead man’s hand . . .’ How did the poem go? The necromantic night-light, made of the severed hand of an executed murderer whose fingertips bore candles concocted of human fat, was popularly supposed to open barred doors, and induce slumber on the inhabitants of a house. Not a happy thought . . . Tony had told me that story, blast him.

I snatched up the metal box, which was where I had left it, and retreated precipitately. I didn’t draw a deep breath until I was back in my own room with the door locked. (I was aware of the illogic of this, but I locked the door anyhow.) Then I sat down at the table with my prize.

The papers in the box appeared to be undisturbed. The one on top, bearing a blob of red sealing wax, was the one I had left there. It was a deed of sale, referring to fields in the valley once owned by an eighteenth-century count.

The papers were a miscellaneous lot, ranging in age from the nineteenth century back to the fifteenth, including household lists, the mouldy diary of an early countess, and the like. I went through them methodically; one never knows what unexpected source may provide a clue. But it was not until I got near the bottom of the box that I hit pay dirt.

It was part of a letter, in a beautiful Latin hand, and something about the delicacy of the strokes suggested a woman’s writing. I knew, with a queer sense of fatality, who had written it.

Rats or mice had gnawed the parchment. There was a big hole right through the centre of the sheet. The damage had occurred before the letters were put in the metal box, of course. I wondered absently where they had been, until they were gathered together by a historically minded Drachenstein. The ink was faded; the language was difficult. But I understood enough.

‘I have returned from the chapel,’ the scrap began, ‘where I gave thanks to Christ and his Blessed Mother and to Saint George, patron of our house, who preserved you from harm in the battle. My dear lord, I implore you to care for your health, which is so precious to me. I gave a receipt for a remedy for the stomach . . .’

The receipt was forever lost; the ink faded out at this point. I suspected that modern pharmacy hadn’t lost much, but it was strangely touching to see evidence of the countess’s housewifely concern. After a fold in the parchment the writing regained legibility.

‘I pray also that God will soften the obduracy of that wretch who tries to keep from you what is yours, thus sinning doubly, since he hinders your carrying out your sainted father’s will, and prevents Holy Church from claiming its own . . .’

I couldn’t stand it any longer. I turned the sheet over and at the bottom found the name I knew would be there:

‘Your wife, Konstanze von Drachenstein.’

The letter contained nothing more except domestic details, and questions about – Tony had not exaggerated – Burckhardt’s bowels. I scrabbled through the remaining documents in the box. At the very bottom I found two more fragments.

It was obvious why these scraps had not been given to the author of The Peasants’ Revolt. Not only were they void of details about the rebellion, but they were in bad condition. The first one I had found was the best preserved. The other two were only scraps, each bearing a few disconnected