‘Big deal. I didn’t want Nicolas anyhow. What am I supposed to do with him?’
He left, grumbling, and I went on my errand. George was right about the keys. Tony’s key fitted Blanken-hagen’s door. All the keys probably fit all the doors, which was not a comforting thought.
Blankenhagen hadn’t bothered to hide the maps very well. They were on top of his wardrobe, quite visible to anyone with my inches. I grabbed them and left.
Tony sat up when I came in.
‘Got them? Good work.’
‘Lie down.’ I slid the roll of parchment under his bed. ‘Blankenhagen is on his way up. I just got out in time.’
There was a knock at the door. Tony flopped back onto his pillow.
‘All settled,’ George announced briskly. He pushed Blankenhagen into the room and followed him, rubbing his hands together with the air of a man who has just finished a painful session at the dentist’s. ‘The Gräfin was quite reasonable. The minister will be up later, and they’ll probably have some kind of service, today or tomorrow. She won’t have the lad in the family vault, though. Says, with all due respect for Tony’s deductions, that she can’t accept the identification as certain, and anyhow, the crypt is reserved for Drachensteins. They’ll bury him in the town cemetery. Lord knows what they’ll put on the tombstone.’
‘Good,’ said Tony, closing his eyes as Blankenhagen started poking at his shoulder. ‘What excuse did you give her for our tomb robbing?’
‘Funny thing,’ said George thoughtfully. ‘She didn’t ask.’
‘You have done yourself no injury,’ Blankenhagen said, tucking in an edge of bandage. ‘But remain quiet and do not raise any more tombstones. Such childishness.’
He stalked to the door and went out. George followed, with a rather wistful glance at me.
‘Maybe we ought to keep him in the club,’ I said.
‘Generosity does not become you. Somebody is behind all these kookie manifestations here, and until I find out who it is – ’
‘You don’t seriously suspect George, do you? He hasn’t had time to arrange all the things that have happened.’
‘I know. I’d like to suspect him, but he doesn’t fit. Herr Schmidt is a better bet. How is he, by the way?’
‘Okay, I guess. He’s up and around, anyhow. He wouldn’t even go to the hospital for a checkup, as Blankenhagen suggested.’
‘Very interesting. Maybe he faked his faint. He told you his degree is from Leipzig? Convenient that it’s in the East Zone, where official inquiries aren’t easy for us amateurs to make. And of all the suspicious names – it’s as bad as Smith.’
‘I think the countess is our man – pardon me, woman.’
‘She’s almost too perfect,’ Tony objected. ‘Probably she has a heart of gold under that frosty exterior. I can’t see her galloping around in a suit of armour, either.’
‘Don’t be fooled by that air of languid dignity. She’s as hard as nails. She detests Irma; she’s a natural bully, and you must admit Irma asks to be trampled on. Also, the Gräfin is the only one to profit if, for instance, Irma fell down the stairs while she was sleepwalking.’
‘She could encourage, if not actually induce, the sleepwalking,’ Tony agreed. ‘She’s got that girl mesmerized. But the profit motive doesn’t amount to much if this’ – he waved a hand around the poorly equipped room – ‘is all Irma’s inheritance.’
‘Unless she knows about the shrine.’
‘Right.’ We stared at one another in silence. Finally Tony said,
‘We don’t want to face it, do we? But it would be naïve of us to assume that we’re the only ones who could have spotted the original clues. Anyone who read that book and who knew Riemenschneider’s life story could have reached the same conclusions we did. And don’t forget the Gräfin may have other information. She could have removed significant family papers from that collection before we saw it.’
‘But she hasn’t found the shrine yet. Or has she?’
‘No. She wouldn’t tolerate our messing around if she had. Hasn’t it struck you how cooperative the old witch has been? Keys to the crypt, keys to the library, no embarrassing questions about our nocturnal wanderings or even about our outlandish performance this morning. Her restraint is completely out of character, unless – ’
‘Unless she is hoping we can find the shrine for her. She may know that it exists; but if she doesn’t know where it is hidden, she might think that we, with our training, stand a better chance of finding it than she would. Has it occurred to you – ’
‘That we had better guard our backs if we do locate the shrine? Yes, dear, it occurred to me with a vengeance when that homicidal armour came at me.’
‘I don’t think you were in any danger from the armour,’ I said callously. ‘You won’t be in danger until you locate the prize. That was just fun and games, to spur you on. You always think better when you get mad.’
‘Fun and games,’ Tony muttered. ‘Somebody has a sick sense of humour.’
‘Definitely,’ I agreed, thinking of Irma and the séance.
‘Enough of this,’ Tony said. ‘We haven’t enough evidence to make sensible deductions about the living villain. Let’s get back to the dead villain. You do see, I trust, what our discovery this morning has to do with the problem of the shrine?’
‘I haven’t had time to think about it. But – my Lord, yes. In that letter of Konstanze’s she said the shrine, and the steward, had not arrived. Now we know he did arrive. And stayed here.’
‘Indeed he did. Now,’ said Tony patronizingly, ‘go on. What was old Nicolas doing down there with the count’s dagger between his ribs?’
‘Hmm. How about this? The steward was not a faithful hound after all. He stole the shrine for himself, sneaked into the castle – which he knew well – at the dead of night. He was about to hide the shrine in the old count’s tomb when Burckhardt wandered in – to pray, or pay his respects, or something. Seized by rage at the sight of his double-dealing servant, and the shrine – which he assumed had been lost on the way from Rothenburg – Burckhardt stabbed Nicolas, tumbled him into the ready-made grave, and hid the shrine himself. Then he got sick – wait, wait! Remember the testimony of the nurse? The murder must have happened that very night. Burckhardt was already ill, ill and delirious. That’s why he never told anyone where he put the shrine. It’s still hidden!’
‘Not bad.’
‘Not bad! What else could have happened?’
‘You have fallen in love with your own theory,’ said Tony severely. ‘A dangerous fault in a scholar. I can think of at least one other possibllity. The count himself came home with the caravan and the shrine. He and the faithful steward hid it, at dead of night, as you so quaintly put it, in the old count’s tomb. Konstanze didn’t know a thing about this. Later the count got to worrying about the safety of the hiding place, and went down, with the steward, to move the shrine. They hid it somewhere else, and then the count stabbed the steward, etcetera, etcetera.’
‘I don’t mind making the count the villain,’ I said. ‘I never liked him anyway. But you have a slight credibility gap, bud. Why should Burckhardt hide his own property and kill his faithful retainer?’
‘Remember what was supposed to happen to the shrine? Count Harald’s will left it to the church. The countess is definite about that in her letters, and she agrees that it should be done. Suppose Burckhardt didn’t agree. The jewels were worth a pile, you know. Maybe he needed money. He wouldn’t let anyone, especially his pious wife, know he wanted the shrine for himself. When the faithful steward realized what Burckhardt had in mind, he threatened to expose him, and Burckhardt murdered him. That way Konstanze never would know where the shrine was hidden, and Burckhardt wouldn’t be about to tell her.’