I sighed ostentatiously.
‘Must I explain my reasoning? I thought it was obvious.’
‘I’ve been sharing my humble thinking with you. Go ahead, be obvious.’
‘Well, isn’t the master bedchamber – Burckhardt’s own room – the logical place in which to start searching?’
‘It might be, if we knew which room was Burckhardt’s.’
At that moment the moon rose above the wall and turned the little garden into something out of Rostand. I glanced at Tony. He put his arm around me and I leaned back against it.
‘I can’t fight with you,’ Tony said.
‘You can’t fight with anybody. You’re too nice a guy. No, none of that. We were reasoning, remember. What we need is a plan of the Schloss as it was in the good old days. Or we could ask the Gräfin which room was the master bedchamber.’
‘I’m against that.’
‘So am I,’ I agreed amiably. ‘We don’t want to rouse any suspicions. Anyhow, she may not know.’
‘And until we know, I don’t see any point in searching the bedrooms. The hiding place won’t be obvious; you really would have to rip up floors and tear down the walls.’
‘Anyhow,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘the count’s room might not have been the best place to hide something. Didn’t they have servants and attendants hanging around all the time?’
‘I wouldn’t say that. But there are any number of equally likely places: Such as – ’
‘Don’t,’ I said suddenly. The garden was a magical place, but it was a little uncanny, with the rustling shrubbery and a breeze moving the branches of the trees. ‘Let’s go in. I’ve had enough atmosphere for tonight. I could stand a glass of plain prosaic beer.’
We had our beer, served by Irma, in the room of the château that served as a lounge. The family from Hamburg were playing Skat and the honeymoon couple, in a shadowy corner, were fully occupied with each other. The only person in the room who wasn’t distracted by the squeaks and giggles coming from that corner was the English lady, who sat knitting like a robot, without removing her eyes from her needles. George was nowhere to be seen, and I wondered uneasily about the rustling I had heard in the garden.
When the clock struck ten, there was a general exodus. Apparently Rothenburg, like my home town, rolled up the streets at an early hour. That was fine with me. I had other plans for the middle hours of the night.
At the door I was intercepted by the little man whom Tony had identified, somewhat vaguely, as a professor. He introduced himself with a big broad smile.
‘Ich heisse Schmidt. And you are the American Professorin, nicht? What is it that you teach?’
I admitted to being a historian. I was caught off guard by his blunt approach but it was impossible to resent the little guy. He did look like Santa Claus. Besides, he only came up to my chin. As I have said, I can’t be cruel to little people.
‘And you, Herr Schmidt?’ I asked. ‘Are you perhaps also a historian?’
Herr Schmidt’s eyes shifted. All at once he looked like a very sneaky Santa Claus.
‘Alas, I am no longer anything. I am, as you say, retired. I enjoy a long vacation. And you, I hope you find Rothenburg pleasant? You are, like me, in the older wing of the Schloss? It is charming! Full with atmosphere of the past, very appealing to Americans. But inconvenient, this charm. For example, we must light ourselves to bed. There is no electricity in the old wing.’
He picked up a candle, one of a row which stood atop a chest.
‘So I noticed,’ I said drily.
In a mellow moment Tony lit a candle for me and we found ourselves part of a small procession which wound its medieval way across the court. The candle flame flickered in the wind; I had to shield it with my hand. When we entered the Great Hall, the illusion of antiquity was complete. The feeble flames were overpowered by the vast darkness of the room. They woke a dim reflection in the polished surfaces of helmet and breastplate, giving the armoured shapes an illusion of life and surreptitious movement.
‘I am glad to have company when I cross this room,’ said Schmidt, scampering for the stairs. ‘Brrrr! In candlelight it is too full with atmosphere. I expect to see the countess herself.’
‘The countess?’
‘But yes, have you not heard the legend? The countess walks here, on moonlit nights. Which countess I know not, but she is one of those who has no right to be walking.’
He chuckled. I wasn’t amused. I had a feeling I knew which countess he meant. Nor was I precisely easy in my mind about Herr Schmidt. If ever a name sounded like an alias . . . And he had been decidedly elusive about his occupation.
In the dim light of the candle, my room looked like an apartment in Castle Dracula. I lit the oil lamp beside the bed, lay down, and tried to read. The smoky light made my eyes ache.
It was a warm night, but the room had a clammy chill which the air from the open window didn’t alleviate. I went to the window and looked down into the tangled underbrush beneath. There were no screens in the window; the drop was sheer. To the left was another window – that of Tony’s room, I assumed. It was dark, as were all the other windows I could see.
I looked across the grounds at the bulk of the old keep. The jagged walls made a picturesque outline against the moonlit sky. As I stared, something peculiar happened. For a moment a square of wavering yellow light interrupted the blackness of the tower’s silhouette. Just for a moment; then it was gone.
I gulped, and told myself to be rational. What I had seen was not a ghost light, but a candle, behind one of the windows of the keep. But why would anyone be in the crumbling ruin at this time of night?
A possible answer wasn’t hard to find.
Frowning, I turned from the window and met the enigmatic eyes of the Countess Konstanze.
I lifted the lamp from the table and held it up so that its light fell full on the painted face. It was not one of the world’s great portraits. Though the physical features seemed to be accurately represented, the painter had failed to capture a personality. He had been more successful with the pose – the shape of the head and shoulders, the arrogant tilt of the chin suggested a strength of character not implicit in the expressionless face. The resemblance of the sixteenth-century countess to her downtrodden descendant was probably not one of character; but feature by feature the resemblance was uncannily exact.
‘If you could only talk,’ I muttered – and then made a quick, instinctive gesture of denial. The Gothic atmosphere was thick enough already. A talking portrait would send me screaming out into the night.
I looked at my watch. It was after midnight. The old Schloss and its inhabitants should be sleeping soundly by now. I put on a dark sweater, which I had brought for the purpose of nocturnal prowling, and tied a scarf over my light hair. I found my flashlight, and blew out the lamp.
Talk about dark. I hadn’t seen anything like it since the old days on the farm. The faint moonlight from the window didn’t help much, and when I closed the door of my room behind me the corridor was pitch-black. I didn’t want to use the flashlight until it was necessary, so I stood waiting for my eyes to adjust.
A hand touched my shoulder.
I thought of screaming, but my vocal cords didn’t cooperate. Before I could get them into operation I heard a voice.
‘Hi,’ it whispered.
‘Tony,’ I whispered back. ‘You rat.’
‘Scare you?’
‘Scared? Me?’
‘I figured you’d be prowling tonight. Couldn’t let you go alone. Who knows, you might be nervous.’