‘It sure is, from the kitchen to the scullery.’ As I hoped, Tony was sufficiently distracted by this information to forget his wrath. ‘Oh ho and aha. That is interesting.’
‘I thought so,’ I said. And then George turned back, with a jovial question about our plans for the evening, and I led Tony away before he lost his temper again.
To my relief, Miss Burton wasn’t in the lounge that night. I couldn’t have faced her. Tony went to the piano and started to pound out a weird medley of tunes, from rock and roll to Gilbert and Sullivan. He plays by ear, and he doesn’t play too badly; but the piano almost defeated him. I don’t know when, if ever, it had been tuned.
Seeing Schmidt reading a newspaper on the sofa, I headed for him. My attempts to pump him were singularly unsuccessful.
‘I took my degree at Leipzig,’ he admitted finally. ‘But that was many years ago, my child, long before you were born. Ah, how charmingly the professor plays Beethoven. A friendly tribute to Germany.’
The sounds coming from the piano would have made Beethoven spin in his crypt, but I didn’t have the heart to hassle Schmidt anymore. There was a pinched grey look around his mouth, and when I asked after his health, as tactfully as possible – I can be tactful when I feel like it – he shook his head.
‘I have, they tell me, a slight condition of the heart. It is not serious; but the events of these last days have not been something for me. If you will excuse me, I think I will seek my bed.’
Tony made his excuses not long after that. I eluded George, who wanted to chat about our mutual friend Tilman R., and followed Tony. When he said good-night, at the door of his room, my suspicions were confirmed. I knew that sweet innocent smile of his. We had agreed to share information, but only up to a point.
Sure enough, a couple of hours later I heard his door open. I almost didn’t hear it. After everyone else had gone to bed I turned out my light, propped my door open about half an inch, and sat down on the floor next to the crack.
The rain had stopped by that time, and the moon poured cold silver light through the open window. The slow drip of moisture from the leaves was as soothing as a lullaby. My eyelids got heavy . . .
What with sleepiness and stiffness, it took me a couple of minutes to get limbered up and follow Tony. I had planned to bounce out at him, figuring I owed him a scare or two, but on second thoughts I decided I would follow the sneaky little rascal and see what he was up to.
By the time I reached the gallery above the Great Hall, Tony was halfway down the stairs. I waited in the shadows; I could see all right, thanks to the moonlight, but the Hall was an eerie place. If I hadn’t known it was Tony up ahead, the shadowy figure gliding down the stairs would have scared hell out of me. At any rate, the countess wasn’t walking tonight. There was a flash of reflected light from the row of armoured figures against the wall, but no movement except for Tony.
Tony walked out into a patch of moonlight that lay quivering across the floor. He looked as uneasy as I felt; he kept glancing over his shoulder at the shadowy area under the stairs. I couldn’t move without his seeing me, so I stayed put, but I didn’t like my location. Almost half the area of the Hall was hidden from my sight by the gallery. If Tony went back under the stairs I might lose him.
One of the suits of armour got down off its pedestal and started walking towards Tony.
Chapter Seven
A RATIONALIST IS AT a disadvantage when events are irrational. One of the count’s contemporaries would have howled with terror and bolted. Tony wasted several vital seconds trying to tell himself that what he saw wasn’t really happening.
I could see the armour quite clearly in the moonlight. It was armed cap-à-pie, and the metal plates clanked musically with each stiff stride. The visor was closed. I saw the right arm go up; the fan-shaped piece of steel at the elbow spread like a peacock’s tail. The mailed hand held a long dagger.
At long last, Tony moved. He moved backwards, and I didn’t blame him a bit. Unfortunately, his retreat took him into the hidden area under the stairs; and when the armour followed him I couldn’t see either of them. I heard a clank, and a howl from Tony, and deduced, through a haze of horror and disbelief, that the idiot had swung at the armour, which was a damned silly thing to do . . .
The whole episode didn’t take very long. Even so, my paralysis was inexcusable, and what I did next was even worse. Instead of rushing down the stairs to Tony’s rescue, I ran the other way.
I could claim I was going for help; and, in fact, some vaguely sensible instinct led me to the doctor’s door. I banged on the door with both fists and yelled. The door was locked, or I would have rushed in. Finally Blankenhagen answered me. I shouted something – it was incoherent, but forceful. Then I got a grip on myself. I turned and ran back.
I had a flashlight, which I had completely forgotten in all the hullaballoo. By its light I located Tony. He was flat on his back on the floor under the stairs – his eyes closed, his face white, and blood all over his shirt.
Maybe I’m not the type for a heroine, but then I behaved like the worst stereotype of the feeble female. I flopped down on the floor beside Tony, held his hand, and insisted that he wake up. I think I cried. I was sure he was dead, and it was all my fault; I had talked him into this crazy escapade, I had jeered at him and dared him.
Blankenhagen had to push me out of the way to get at Tony. I sat on the floor snivelling while the doctor, fully dressed, poked interestedly at Tony’s shoulder.
‘You took long enough,’ I said nastily. ‘A fine doctor you are. Do you have to put on a tie while somebody is bleeding to death?’
‘Be still,’ said Blankenhagen coldly. ‘He is not dead.’
As if to prove it, Tony opened his eyes.
‘Well,’ I said, hastily wiping my face on my sleeve. ‘Are you with us again? That was a dumb thing to do, Tony.’
I don’t think Tony heard me, which is probably just as well. His eyes focused on something behind me. I turned. There was George, wearing a dressing gown. His shanks were bare, and as hairy as a gorilla’s.
‘What happened?’ he asked.
Poor Tony considered the question.
‘You wouldn’t believe it,’ he mumbled.
George turned to Blankenhagen.
‘What’s wrong with him, Doc?’
‘He hit his head falling,’ said Blankenhagen, with a ruthless jab at a spot over Tony’s left ear. ‘He has also been stabbed,’ the doctor went on reluctantly. ‘It is only a scratch, very shallow. Herr Lawrence, it is time you spoke. What has happened?’
I tried to imagine what Blankenhagen’s face would look like if Tony said, ‘I was attacked by a suit of armour.’
‘I was attacked by a suit of armour,’ muttered Tony.
Blankenhagen’s face took on exactly the expression I had visualized. Tony was in no mood to accept scepticism. He sat up and thrust out a dramatically stiffened arm.
‘You don’t believe me? Then tell me what’s happened to that set of armour?’
The pedestal was undeniably empty. We were close enough to read the identifying label. It said, ‘Armour of Graf Burckhardt von Drachenstein, ca. 1525.’
‘That’s what happened,’ I said. ‘I saw the whole thing.’
Tony gaped at me. George said calmly,
‘I thought maybe you were the one who slugged him.’
‘Well, of all the – You think I was in that armour?’
‘You’re too tall,’ George said, with the same maddening coolness. ‘So am I,’ he added.