Irma had forgotten my kindly intervention. She was staring at Tony the way what’s-her-name must have looked at Saint George, when he killed the dragon. Tony’s chest expanded to twice its normal size. He was so busy exchanging amorous glances with Irma he didn’t notice the Gräfin; but I did, and an unpremeditated shiver ran down my back.
‘How fascinating,’ she said, through clenched teeth. ‘You are indeed a confirmed sceptic, Professor Lawrence. Some day you might like to visit our crypt. I think you will find it interesting, in spite of your rational explanations.’
‘Oh, there is a crypt?’ For a moment Tony forgot to leer at Irma. This was his opening.
‘Yes, there is a crypt. Ask me for the keys whenever you like. I do not allow casual guests to go there, but in your case . . .’
‘Perhaps I may also take advantage of your generosity, Gräfin,’ I said. ‘Is there a library in the Schloss? I am something of an expert on old books and manuscripts. If you have never had the library examined by someone who knows books you may discover there are objects of value that could be sold.’
‘How kind you are.’ The old bat gave me one of those smiles that make nervous people want to hide under the nearest piece of furniture. ‘I fear we have already disposed of most of our treasures. But of course you are welcome to look. Let me give you the keys now.’
I accepted the keys, and with them my congé, as Emily Post might say. The exodus was a mass affair; the tea party had not been a social success. It was primarily my fault, and I was delighted to take the responsibility. But I wasn’t sure the good guys had come out ahead.
At least we had the keys to the library. I tossed them, jingling, as we went down the stairs. George patted me on the back.
‘Nice work, Vicky. But you’re wasting your time.’
‘Hush your mouth,’ said Tony, with some vague idea that he was speaking a kind of code. Schmidt, who was ahead of me, turned to give us a bewildered look.
‘You will inspect the library?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Why not?’
‘Oh, of course, of course. I only meant to ask – I too am an antiquarian. An amateur, of course!’
‘Of course,’ I said. We had reached the corridor leading to our rooms, and I gave the little man a very hard stare. He beamed ingratiatingly.
‘It would be a privilege to assist you,’ he said.
‘She has an assistant,’ Tony said. ‘Me.’
‘Then as a favour to an old man?’
I didn’t see how I could refuse without giving the whole business an aura of secrecy, which was the last thing I wanted. In the unlikely event that I found a useful clue, I believed myself capable of distracting Schmidt’s attention from it.
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘The more the merrier. How about you, George?’
‘No, thanks. It’s not in the library. I’ve already looked.’
He ought to have been on the stage. He didn’t even look back as he walked off down the corridor, humming softly to himself.
‘It?’ said Schmidt, with a frown.
‘Crazy American,’ said Tony wildly. ‘You know how they are.’
‘If he doesn’t,’ I said, sighing, ‘he’s finding out now. Come on. Where is the blasted library, anyhow?’
It was on the same floor as the Great Hall, off a corridor to the south. When the door swung open, I couldn’t hold back a groan. The room had once been handsome. The fireplace was of marble, with stiff Gothic figures of saints supporting the mantel; there wasn’t a nose or chin left among the holy crew, and the stone was pitted, as if by acid. Tapestries covered the walls, but they were cobwebby masses of decay; behind them, small things scuttled and squeaked, disturbed by our entry. The bookshelves sagged; the books were crumbling piles of leather and paper.
At some time, the library had been stripped of most of its contents. The remaining volumes were either valueless or decayed beyond hope of repair.
Then, by the dust-coated windows, I saw something that looked more interesting. It was a tall cupboard, or Schrank, black with age, but still sound. It was locked. I tried the keys the countess had given me, and found one that worked.
The Schrank contained several books, a metal box, and a roll of parchments. I took the last object first and carried it to a table. Tony and Schmidt looked on as I unrolled it.
The parchments were all plans of the castle and its grounds. They were very old.
I let the sheets roll themselves up again, and twisted them out of Tony’s clutching hand.
‘Naughty, naughty,’ I said gaily. ‘We don’t care about these old things, do we? Nothing valuable here. Let’s see what else there is.’
The books were three in number – heavy volumes, bound in leather, with metal clasps and studs. I wondered why they had not been sold with the other valuables, for they could be considered rare books. When I tried to open one, I understood. Hardly a page remained legible. Water, mildew, worms and rats had all taken their toll.
‘Amazing,’ said Tony, breathing heavily over my shoulder.
‘Rather peculiar volumes to find here,’ I agreed, picking up the next book. It was in equally poor condition.
‘What is it?’ Schmidt asked.
‘You might call them books of philosophical speculation. In their day, they verged on the heretical. I’m surprised to find them here because the Counts of Drachenstein don’t strike me as intellectuals. This is Trithemius; this one is Albert of Cologne, better known as Albertus Magnus – ’
‘The great magician!’ Schmidt exclaimed. ‘Fascinating! May I please – ’
I handed him the book. He glanced at it, and shook his head.
‘I cannot make it out. You two perhaps understand?’
‘I read medieval Latin,’ Tony said. Schmidt let him have the volume, and he opened it.
I was too distracted to indulge in my usual bragging. Of course I read Latin, classical and medieval, as well as most of the European languages. I had a feeling Schmidt did, too. Whatever his other talents, he had no gift for dissimulation. In other words, he was a lousy liar. When he said he couldn’t read the book, his eyes shifted and he changed colour, the way Matthew Finch did back in fifth grade when he was trying to psych the teacher.
I left Tony deep in the heresies of Trithemius, and turned to the object that interested me most. If papers could survive for four centuries, it would be in just such a metal box.
The box was locked, but the key proved to be on the countess’s ring. I tackled lock and top cautiously; air, admitted to a formerly sealed container, can be destructive to items within. But it was clear that this box had been opened in the recent past The lock had been oiled, and the lid lifted easily.
After a minute I turned to Schmidt, who was hovering.
‘Nothing much,’ I said, as casually as I was able. ‘A couple of old diaries and some account lists.’
Tony’s head came up. His nose was quivering.
‘I’ll have a close look at them some other time,’ I said, before he could speak. ‘Must be almost time for dinner. Shall we?’
I hated to put that box back in the Schrank. I didn’t trust Schmidt as far as I could throw him. Not nearly as far – I could have thrown him quite a distance. His shifty looks and inconsistent behaviour were not proof of guilt; but whether he was witting or ignorant, my safest attitude was one of indifference to anything I found. I felt sure the metal box had once contained the letters which had been reprinted in The Peasants’ Revolt. Therefore someone had already searched its contents. And the box was as safe in the Schrank, under lock and key, as it was anywhere.