I moved closer to the bed and took Irma’s hand, which was groping desperately, as if in search of something. Blankenhagen gave me a faint smile of approval. I felt absurdly complimented. The smile made him look almost handsome.
Finally Irma’s eyes opened, and I gave a sigh of relief. Blankenhagen leaned over her, murmuring in German – repeated reassurances, comforting and semi-hypnotic. The technique seemed to work; her face remained calm. Then she turned her head and saw me.
‘It is the Fräulein Doktor, come to sit with you,’ said Blankenhagen quietly. ‘She will stay – all night, if you wish . . . ?’
The question was meant for me as well as for Irma. I answered with a prompt affirmative, and patted the kid’s hand.
Gently but decisively it was withdrawn.
‘Thank you. You are good. But I would like my aunt.’
‘But – ’ the doctor began.
‘My aunt! I must have her, she alone can help me . . . Herr Doktor, please!’
Her voice rose. I recognized the sign of incipient hysteria as well as Blankenhagen did. Our eyes met, and he shrugged.
‘Yes, of course you shall have her. I will fetch her.’
Irma’s eyes closed.
‘I’ll get the Gräfin,’ I said in a low voice. ‘You’d better stay here. If Irma changes her mind I’ll come, any time.’
‘Sehr gut.’ He got up from his chair with an anxious glance at the girl, who lay unmoving. He opened the door for me, and as I was about to go out he moved with a quick grace I hadn’t expected in such a stocky, solid man. He kissed my hand.
‘You are a good woman,’ said Blankenhagen, in a burst of Germanic sentimentality. ‘I thank you for your help . . . I apologize for what I thought . . .’
I didn’t know what he had been thinking about me, and I didn’t particularly want to know. He was still holding my hand – his hands were big and warm and hard – when Tony appeared on the stairs that led to the next floor. He stopped, with a corny theatrical start, when he saw us. Blankenhagen released my hand, and Tony came on down slowly, his eyes fixed on me.
‘Got the keys?’ I inquired.
‘Huh? Yeah. How’s Irma?’
‘Not good. She wants Auntie. God knows why.’
Auntie chose that moment to make her appearance. I think she heard me. She gave me a mocking, ice-blue stare, and spoke to Blankenhagen.
‘I will stay with my niece tonight. Thank you, Doctor.’
‘But I – ’
‘I will call you if there is need. But I think you may sleep undisturbed. I know how to deal with this. It has happened before.’
The door closed on our staring faces, but not before we had seen Irma’s face turn towards the old woman, and heard her breathless greeting.
Blankenhagen made a movement towards the closed door, but I grabbed his arm.
‘Better not,’ I said. ‘She’ll throw you out of the hotel if you interfere. She has the right.’
‘And I have none,’ Blankenhagen muttered.
‘No,’ Tony agreed. He glanced at me. The glance was friendly; he had concluded that the doctor was falling for Irma and was therefore safe from my predatory clutches. ‘Better go to bed. See you all in the morning.’
I observed the awkward angle of the arm Tony was hiding behind his back, and I remembered why I had come to Rothenburg. I had not come to rescue oppressed damsels. Let the boys take care of that.
‘Go to bed, while you explore the crypt?’ I demanded. ‘You’ve got the keys behind your back right now. I’m coming with you.’
‘The crypt?’ Blankenhagen repeated. ‘Why in the devil’s name do you want to go there?’
‘Why not?’ I said flippantly. ‘Maybe we’ll meet Konstanze. That’s where she – er – lives, isn’t it?’
‘I should not go with you,’ Blankenhagen muttered. ‘If I am needed – ’
‘You weren’t invited to come,’ Tony said indignantly.
‘I invited myself,’ said the doctor, with an unexpected gleam of sardonic humour. ‘I do not know what you are doing, but if I were in your shoes, I would not mind a companion. There are forces abroad in this place which are not good, though they are not supernatural. For safety it is best to travel in groups.’
‘I agree,’ I said, before Tony could object. ‘The countess won’t call you, Doctor; she made that pretty clear.’
Blankenhagen nodded.
‘Come, then. I understand none of this; but some of it I must understand if I am to help that girl. She has need of help, I think.’
We went down the stairs, through the Hall, and out into the night-shrouded court. There was enough moonlight to let us see the arched door of the chapel in the north wing. Tony’s first key fitted the lock.
The interior was a blaze of tarnished gilt in the rays of Tony’s flashlight. I blinked, and mentally discarded one possible hiding place. The chapel had been redecorated in the baroque period; twisted marble columns, sunbursts of gold plaster, and stucco cherubs by the cartload filled the long, narrow room. The remodellers would have found any treasure here.
‘The entrance to the crypt should be near the altar,’ I said.
Blankenhagen hesitated.
‘I am wondering – should we not wait until daylight?’
‘You aren’t scared, are you?’ Tony grinned weakly.
‘The dead are dead,’ said Blankenhagen.
In broad daylight it might have sounded sententious. In the baroque gloom, with the memory of the séance fresh in our minds, it had the ring of a credo.
‘Thanks for reminding me,’ said Tony. ‘This way.’
The entrance was behind the altar. It was barred by a grilled iron gate, which yielded to Tony’s second key. He turned the flashlight down into the black pit of the stairs, and he wasn’t the only one who hesitated just a bit before starting to descend.
The crypt extended the full length of the chapel. Rough square stone pillars supported the vaulted roof. There was none of the dampness I had expected, but the air had a musty smell that struck at the nostrils, and the imagination.
Across the floor, row on row, lay the tombstones of the Drachensteins. Those nearest the stair were simple marble or bronze slabs, with a name and a date: Graf Conrad von u. zu Drachenstein, 1804–1888; Gräfin Elisabeth, seine Frau, 1812–1884.
‘That must be Irma’s father,’ said Tony, pointing to a bronze plaque bearing the dates 1886–1952. ‘He was succeeded by his younger brother.’
‘They are a long-lived family,’ said Blankenhagen thoughtfully.
We moved forward.
Graf Wolfgang. Gräfin Berthe. 1756–1814. 1705–1770.
As we approached the far end of the crypt, the simple stones were replaced by more elaborate ones. Tony flashed his light on a sculptured form clad in armour, with hands clasped on its breast and the remains of a four-footed beast under its feet.
‘The first of the effigies,’ he said in a low voice. ‘We’re getting there.’
Against the wall we found the sixteenth-century markers.
Graf Harald von und zu Drachenstein, Burckhardt’s father, looked in grey marble much as he might have looked in life. His face, framed in stiff stone ringlets, was stern and dignified. The hardness of stone suited his harsh features. His left hand rested on his sword, and his right held the banner of his house, with its crest of a dragon on a stone. Beside him lay his countess, her face set in a pious simper, her hands palm to palm under her chin. The ample folds of her best court gown were frozen for all eternity.
Tony moved to the next monument. Upon it also lay a knight in armour, encircled by a long epitaph in twisted Gothic script. It had been carelessly carved. The letters were not deeply incised. But there was no traffic or weather here to wear them down. Tony translated the essential data.