The three jewels were a ruby, an emerald, and an enormous baroque pearl.
Tony had looked this up too, but he professed to be more intrigued by the people who had been involved with the shrine back in 1525. (Women are always moved by crass materialistic things such as jewels; men concern themselves with the higher things of life.)
‘You had better get the characters straight in your mind,’ Tony said smugly. ‘There were three of them. The count, Burckhardt, was a typical knight – and I’m not thinking, like, Sir Galahad. I assume you had the simple wit to write the author of The Peasants’ Revolt, and ask if there were any other letters from Burckhardt? Oh. You did.
‘Burckhardt was a rat. A bloodthirsty, illiterate lout. His repulsive personality is even more apparent in the unpublished letters. I guess that’s why they weren’t published; they tell more about Burckhardt than about the war. He was obstinate, unimaginative, arrogant – ’
‘My goodness,’ I said mildly. ‘You really are down on the lad.’
‘Lad, my eye.’
‘He couldn’t have been very old. What was the average life span – about forty? As you say, he was fairly typical. Why the prejudice?’
‘Not all of them were hairy Neanderthals. Take Götz von Berlichingen; he supported the peasants.’
‘Under protest, according to Götz. I don’t think he’s a good example of a parfit gentle knight. He was a menace on the highways, a robber, looter – ’
‘At least he had courage. After his hand was shot off, he acquired an iron prosthesis and went on robbing.’
‘I stayed at his place once.’
‘Whose place?’
‘Götz’s,’ I said, spitting a little on the sibilants. ‘Schloss Hornburg, on the Neckar. It’s a hotel now. They have his iron hand.’
‘I wish you would stop changing the subject,’ Tony said unfairly.
‘You were the one who brought up Götz.’
‘And stop calling him Götz, as if he were the boy next door . . . To return to Burckhardt – he was only heroic when he was up against a bunch of serfs armed with sticks. And did you notice the hypochondria? All those complaints about his bowels!’
‘Maybe he had a nervous stomach.’
I could have said something really cutting. Tony’s prejudice against the valiant knight suggested a transferral of resentment against men of action in general – not mentioning any names. But I didn’t even hint at such a possibility. I didn’t like Burckhardt either.
‘He had one good point,’ Tony said grudgingly. ‘He loved his wife. That comes out, even through the stiff formal phrasing. I couldn’t find much information on her. All I know is that her name was Konstanze and she was beautiful.’
I started. I shouldn’t have been surprised. The dates on the portrait in my room would have told me that the woman portrayed had been the lady of our count. But it was – uncomfortable, somehow.
Tony gave me a curious look, but asked no questions. He went on, ‘The third character was named Nicolas Duvenvoorde. He was the count’s steward, majordomo, or whatever you want to call it. He was Flemish, by his name, and a trusted, efficient servant, to judge by the references to him. Now one of the unpublished letters, if you remember, says the count has sent ‘it’ to Rothenburg in the care of this steward and an armed escort of five men. The countryside was in disorder; bands of marauding peasants and men at arms marauding after the marauding peasants – ’
‘Don’t be cute,’ I said. ‘I’m not one of your giggly girl students.’
‘Then you tell me what happened next.’
‘I take it you found no further references to the shrine? Neither did I. But, assuming the caravan started on schedule, there are only two possibilities.’
Tony nodded. ‘Either the shrine arrived in Rothenburg as planned – no reason why not; a group of armed men, on their guard, with their precious burden a secret, had a good chance of getting through – or else they were attacked along the way and the shrine was stolen.’
‘No reason why not?’ I echoed. ‘But is there any reason to suppose the reverse? If the shrine was stolen, that would explain why it hasn’t been heard of since.’
‘Obviously. But if thieves seized and burned the shrine, what happened to the jewels? Such stones are virtually indestructible, and they have a habit of reappearing. Look at the great historic gems; you can trace them through the centuries, usually by the trail of blood they leave behind them. The fact that the jewels, as well as the shrine, have not been heard of since fifteen twenty-five is suggestive. They must have been hidden – hidden so well that all memory of the hiding place was lost.’
‘Suppose your hypothetical peasants did the hiding, after they robbed the caravan. The cache could be anywhere in West Germany.’
‘Or farther. But that isn’t likely. A single thief couldn’t overpower six armed men. And if there were several thieves, the chance of all of them being killed before they could pass on the secret of the hiding place is remote. Besides, where could they hide it, a group of homeless peasants, so that the hiding place remained undisturbed for four hundred and fifty years? Now this castle . . .’
The massive walls seemed to close in around us. Tony’s reasoning wasn’t new to me; I had reached the same conclusions, not because we were en rapport, but because they were logical conclusions. There were plenty of holes, and weak links, in the chain of reasoning, but at the end of it lay a solid fact: even on the evidence we had, Schloss Drachenstein was worth searching.
I said as much. Tony snorted vulgarly. Like all men, he likes to have his lectures received with little feminine squeals of admiration. So I added tactfully, ‘But that’s as far as logic took me, Tony. Suppose the shrine is here. Where do we look? The castle is enormous. You’re so clever at this sort of thing; can’t you narrow it down?’
Tony is very susceptible to the grosser forms of flattery. He beamed.
‘Obviously the shrine wasn’t left out on a shelf, in plain sight. Rothenburg was a real hotbed of radicalism, and although the revolt was officially suppressed before Burckhardt got home, I would think he’d prefer to tuck his valuables away till things were back to normal. Now here’s an interesting point that maybe you didn’t know. The count and his wife both died that same year, leaving an infant daughter. I don’t know how Burckhardt and Konstanze died, but it must have been suddenly. They had no opportunity to pass on the secret. The child was too young to know anything.’
‘It’s plausible. If the shrine exists, it is hidden somewhere in the older section of the Schloss.’
‘I wish I knew the layout of the place a little better. Where do Irma and the old Gräfin live? It would be mildly embarrassing to meet one of them while we were ripping up the floor.’
‘The dowager’s rooms are in the tower at the end of our wing.’ Tony gestured. ‘I think Irma’s room is under the old lady’s.’
‘Nuts. I hoped I was alone in the old wing.’
‘You’re surrounded,’ Tony said, with mean satisfaction. ‘Nolan’s room is down the hall. I’m next to you, and on your other side is Dr Blankenhagen, our conversational tablemate. The little fat guy is next to me. That’s about all . . . Oh, yeah, the English female is in the tower too. I told you she was a crony of the Gräfin.’
‘Good God. How can we do any searching? It’s like Main Street on Saturday night.’
‘If you’re planning to start ripping up floor boards in the guest rooms, you aren’t as logical as you think you are.’