Borrower of the Night

green plastic watering cans, tending the begonias and the miniature pink rose trees which had been planted on the graves.

The others began to arrive. Miss Burton accompanied the Grafin. She would come, I thought; dead bodies are just her thing. Blankenhagen was also present, watching Irma with more than professional interest. George watched everybody.

We filed solemnly into the little church and took seats – all of us except Tony. He marched up the aisle and accosted the pastor, a slight, dreamy-looking little bald man. I couldn’t hear what they said, but I saw some object pass from Tony’s pocket to that of the pastor. He disappeared, and Tony joined me. He was looking smug, but I had no time to question him before the coffin was carried in and the service began. It was short and ambiguous, in keeping with the state of the remains. When it was over, we straggled out into the cemetery behind the two young Rothenburgers who carried the wooden coffin. In a short time only a mound of fresh earth remained to show where the bones had been laid. It looked raw and stark in contrast to the ivy and flower-covered plots around it. No one would plant roses on Nicolas’ grave.

The Grafin turned away. Miss Burton joined her, and they went off together. Irma suggested a visit to a cafe, and Blankenhagen was so pleased at her good spirits he neglected to intimate that our presence was not wanted. So we went to The Golden Star, and drank beer, and made conversation, Irma was looking gorgeous. She giggled and flirted, turning from Blankenhagen to Tony with impartial goodwill. I noticed she didn’t bat her eyelashes at George.

As we were leaving the cafe I grabbed Tony and dragged him to the rear. He struggled some.

‘I want to talk to you,’ I said. ‘If you can tear yourself away from Cinderella for a minute.’

‘She gets prettier all the time,’ said Tony, watching the threesome which was now some distance ahead.

I wasn’t jealous. I merely felt he ought to face facts.

‘Yes, she does, and I wonder why? How come she’s so relaxed and pleased with life these days?’

‘Maybe she’s in love,’ said Tony fatuously.

‘And maybe she’s pleased because her plans are working.’

It took the romantic jerk several seconds to see what I meant.

‘Irma?’ he exclaimed, so loudly that I slapped my hand over his mouth. He pulled it off and continued, just as indignantly, but in a lower voice.

‘You’re crazy jealous. How could she manipulate all our ghosts?’

‘I will pass over your gratuitous and uncouth insult,’ I said, ‘and point out a few solid facts. The profit motive applies just as well to Irma as it does to her aunt. So far as opportunity goes, she has the best of anyone. You saw the hidden stairs on the plans; she could have gotten out of her room and left the door locked. As for the armour, it would take a short man to wear it – or a woman. But the really damning fact is the seance. Unless you believe in possession – which I do not – how do you explain her reference to the fire? She’s lived here all her life, she could have found out about Konstanze’s death the same way you did.’

‘I don’t buy the motive,’ Tony said, but he was disturbed. ‘This is a damned roundabout way to get at a hidden treasure. She is the only one who could search openly for the shrine. Why all the ghosties and ghoulies? It’s a crazy way to act.’

‘Maybe she is crazy. Maybe she has motives we don’t understand because we don’t know enough about the situation.’

‘So what do we do now?’

‘What we do is, you tell me about that mysterious envelope you slipped the minister.’

‘Nothing to tell,’ Tony said.

‘Let us apply logic,’ I said sarcastically. ‘You want someone to believe you kept something out of the steward’s belongings because there was important information in it – papers, maybe, in the pouch – though how you expect anyone to believe papers would survive . . . You think someone will try to dig up the . . . When, tonight?’

‘That is the most ridiculous series of non sequiturs I’ve ever heard!’

‘What time do we meet?’

It was about midnight when we took up our vigil in the cemetery. We had some difficulty finding a place that wasn’t already occupied. It was behind a low wall, shadowed by two funereal trees. We could have been closer to the steward’s grave, but I refused to move. I have few superstitions, but I try to avoid lying on graves when I possibly can.

After we were settled I glanced uneasily at the sky. The moon was almost full, but the sky to the west was overcast, and from time to time clouds obscured the moon and left the graveyard quite dark. The night was warm, but damp lingered in the earth under the tree, and the blanket I had brought was useful.

Tony keeps insisting with maddening monotony, that what happened was not his fault. Now I don’t hold him accountable for meteorological phenomena. The dark cloud that hid the moon around 2 a.m. was more or less unexpected and undeniably uncontrollable. But the fact remains that if he had been paying attention . . . I’m perfectly willing to admit I wasn’t paying attention either. All I want him to do is shoulder half the blame.

It was not until we heard the creak of hinges that we realized what was going on. Even then things might have worked out if Tony had kept his head. Instead of moving slowly and quietly, he leaped to his feet, planting a knee in my stomach in the process. I grunted.

The scuffle was warning enough for the grave robber. I had only a glimpse of a dark form leaving the grounds at impressive speed. Tony started in pursuit and lost valuable time by falling into the hole that had been excavated. When he realized where he was, he got out with considerable alacrity. The moon was still hidden, and he cursed it fluently, without noticeable results.

I had caught up with him by that time, having recovered my breath while he was floundering around in the open grave.

‘Hurry,’ I yelled. ‘Street outside is lighted . . . we can see . . .’

We couldn’t see our quarry, but we could hear him. Cemeteries are notoriously quiet places, especially in the middle of the night. From the sounds, the man seemed to be heading for the gate on Ansbacher Strasse.

As we had already ascertained, the gate was locked. I didn’t expect it to detain our agile adversary for long, however. He was over the gate before we reached the spot. Our progress had been frustratingly slow; even if I had had no qualms about stepping on graves, the stones were close together and the paths were winding. We got over the gate, in our turn, leaving a piece of my slacks on the spikes.

The street outside curves and is lined with trees. There was no one in sight. Assuming that the grave robber would head for the inner city, and the Schloss, we took that direction. As we neared the open area in front of the city gate, we were finally rewarded by a glimpse of the man we were after. One glimpse was enough for Tony, who staggered and stopped, for a vital couple of seconds, before he got a grip on his nerves and began running again.

I couldn’t blame him for hesitating. The figure was that of a tall Black Man, enveloped in a cloak that swooped out around his body like giant dark wings. The head appeared to be a featureless lump.

The monstrosity disappeaerd under the stone arch of the Roedertor. I admit, without shame, that I felt a healthy reluctance as we followed, running into darkness and into the enclosing walls that had been designed to hold back entire armies.

If you have never seen a medieval city gate you may picture it as a pair of wooden doors, plus a portcullis or two. No so. This particular gate, which is more properly called a bastion, consists of a series of massive walls and narrow passages, designed so that a defending force could clobber the attackers at several points. Once past the first gate, an invader found himself in a circular area hemmed in by high stone walls with enclosed galleries, from which various missiles could be propelled onto his head. The only way out of this area was over a moat, whose drawbridge could of course be raised. Beyond the drawbridge a high tower defended the inner part of the bastion.

The gates are gone nowadays, and the drawbridge has been replaced by solid pavement. All the same, my shoulders hunched apprehensively as we entered the circular court. Pounding along the brick-paved street that crosses the moat and goes through the narrow tunnel under the tower, I felt a wave of sympathy for the soldier who had had to attack the place – not for the arrogant knight, safely encased in steel, but for the conscripted peasant in his leather jerkin, clutching his pike in a sweaty hand and hoping to God he’d never have to use it. I half