‘How do you know there is a crypt?’
‘There’s a chapel.’
‘Okay, I’ll give you the crypt. I still want a detailed plan of the Schloss.’
‘And where do you expect to find it?’
‘Two possibilities. The town archives, for one. Also the library, or muniment room of the Schloss. There may be other letters or useful documents there too.’
‘Okay,’ I said grumpily. ‘If you’re going to be the honest, candid little fellow, I can do no less. You take the archives, I’ll take the library. We share any information we find.’
‘Agreed.’
When we reached the courtyard, we found an unexpected duo sitting at one of the tables in the garden. George Nolan and Professor Schmidt were deep in conversation – or rather, Schmidt was talking and George was listening. I thought he looked bored. He brightened when he saw us.
‘Exploring, on a hot day like this?’ he inquired.
‘You know us.’ I dropped into a chair and smiled affably at him. ‘Nothing in the Wachtturm but dust and decay.’
‘But I thought Americans admired the old and decayed,’ said Schmidt.
I was getting a little tired of hearing that sentiment expressed, but I said only, ‘That place is too old.’
‘You should see the town. It is not too old. It is very nice.’
‘I’ve been here before,’ I said.
‘But not with me,’ George said. ‘Let’s go sightseeing. Harmless occupation,’ he added.
‘Gut, gut,’ said Schmidt eagerly. ‘I know Rothenburg well. There is a Gasthaus where we will lunch.’
‘We have to be back here by four,’ Tony said, regarding Schmidt unfavourably. ‘The countess has invited us – ’
‘But I also! I also have tea with the Gräfin. We can easily return by four.’
There was no way of ditching him, short of deliberate rudeness. He turned out to be a rather pleasant companion, and an absolute mine of useless information. My half-formed doubts about him faded as the morning passed; he seemed harmless and rather endearing.
Looking like innocent tourists – which three of us certainly were not – we wandered clear across town to the old hospital area, while Schmidt spouted statistics about every building we passed. There are some lovely old buildings in the big hospital court; some of them are now used as a youth hostel. After the rather oppressive antiquity of the Schloss and its sombre inhabitants, I enjoyed seeing the kids swarming around, weighted down by their backpacks but having a marvellous time anyhow. Sure, most of them were pretty dirty by the time they got halfway across Europe; cleanliness is a luxury when you are short on money and even shorter on time. Like any other mixed group, they had their share of no goods, but most of them were nice kids seeing the world – pilgrims, of a kind. As we stood there, a pair of them emerged from the unadorned facade of the early Gothic church. I admit it was hard to determine their sex; but with their long locks and faded clothes they didn’t look as incongruous as one might have expected.
Outside the hospital stands one of the more formidable of the city gates. George, who was visiting Rothenburg for the first time, seemed fascinated by the fortifications. He nodded approvingly at the sections of wall that stretched out from both sides of the gate.
‘They wouldn’t stand up against artillery, but I’d hate to attack the place with anything less. A roofed walkway all around for the defenders – arrow slits, I suppose, on the outer wall . . . ?’
‘That is correct,’ Schmidt said. ‘They are proud of their wall, it is one of the best preserved in Europe.’
‘Can you walk along it?’
It was a stupid question; we could see at least a dozen people up above, walking or leaning over the wooden rail that fenced the walkway on the town side. But Schmidt answered seriously, ‘To be sure you can. The walk is kept in repair.’
‘But not now,’ Tony said. ‘Where’s this restaurant? I’m starved.’
We had an excellent lunch, which included one glass of beer too many for me. Schmidt was glassy-eyed; he had eaten everything he could get his hands on, including a couple of extra platters of heavy dark bread. He announced his intention of taking a nap, and I had to admit it sounded like a good idea.
‘I’m going to walk some more,’ said Tony, with a meaningful glance at me. ‘See you later.’
He intended, of course, to search out the town archives. I really meant to look for the library, to keep my part of our bargain. But it was a hot day, and my stone-walled room was nice and cool, and the bed was soft. I didn’t wake up till Tony banged on the door, and I discovered I had just time enough to assume my best bib and tucker for the tea party.
My first sight of the Gräfin’s room at the top of the tower took my breath away. It was full of treasures; there was no sign here of the genteel shabbiness that marked the rest of the Schloss. An eighteenth-century Kabinett, with panels of painted silk, might have been designed by Cuvilliés. Next to it was a writing desk, French by the look of it, that had beautiful brass inlays over its leather surface. The sofa and chairs dated from Ludwig I; crimson brocade seats bore the Drachenstein arms in gold, and the wood was gilded. The Gräfin had a weakness for gilt, but she tolerated crasser metals; the massive silver tea service on the table looked like Huguenot craftsmanship. I have seen poorer work behind glass in several museums. The place was rather like a museum, a selection of the best of Schloss Drachenstein. Only the hangings at the window were new. They were expensive looking, made of crimson fabric as heavy as felt, embroidered with – you guessed it – gold threads.
I have been told, by critics, that I have a nasty suspicious mind. The sight of that collection brought out my worst suspicions. If these pieces were representative of the original furnishings of the Schloss, then what had happened to the rest of the furniture and ornaments? And why were the surviving goodies all gathered here in the Gräfin’s lair? She might at least share them with her niece, to whom they probably belonged legally. I have seen maids’ rooms better furnished than Irma’s shabby quarters.
I turned from my appraisal to meet the Gräfin’s ironical eye. If she knew what I was thinking – and I wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that she could read minds – she made no comment. She indicated the tall Englishwoman, who was perched on the sofa beside the tea service.
‘My dear friend, Miss Burton.’
Miss Burton shook hands with us. Tony’s eyes widened when her bony fist clamped over his. Thus warned, and uninhibited by his archaic notions of courtesy, I was able to give Miss Burton a worthy grip when she tried to squash my fingers. She gasped. When she sat down again, her cheekbones were an ugly rust colour, and Tony shook his head at me. He was right; we should keep on amicable terms with the Gräfin as long as possible, and antagonizing her dear friend wouldn’t help. But the two women, who were unappealing separately, gave me the creeps when I saw them together. They only needed a third to qualify for the blasted heath bit in Macbeth. Somebody had to keep them in line, and that somebody wouldn’t be Tony. He’s incapable of talking back to any female over forty. They hypnotize him.
As I expected, Tony was a ready victim for the Gräfin. He stammered like a schoolboy when she spoke to him. Irma fluttered around, speechless and servile, offering plates of cookies. George sat and smiled. Schmidt’s small dark eyes darted from one face to the next in open curiosity. I was waiting for a chance to ask the Gräfin about the Schloss library. I had a valid excuse for being interested in historical records, and the less sneaking I had to do, the less chance there was of being caught in a place I had no business being in. But before I found my opening, Miss Burton, who had been eyeing Tony like a hungry tiger, interrupted her friend in the middle of a long speech about the antiquity, nobility, and all around virtue of the House of Drachenstein.