II.3
The clouds parted to let the sun smile on the long frontage of the Palace of Ulrichsberg. The butter-coloured walls glowed and the windows flashed even as the sky behind it remained dark slate and stormy. The vast curving wings of the palace that faced the city were like the wings of an eagle. In front of its high central portico, a company of soldiers in blue and gold were performing the complicated choreography of the changing of the guard, dwarfed by the architecture they protected. The steel on their pikes glimmered, as did the polish on their high boots. Their commander’s sharp, barked instructions echoed off the walls.
Between the palace and the road lay an extensive, open formal garden of sculpted hedgerows and a series of fountains, each sending great plumes of water into the air. There were perhaps a dozen men at work here, clearing any leaf or weed that dared to litter the lawns, all dwarfed by the ranks of clipped yew trees that extended from each side of the garden. Some looked up as the jangle of the Hussars’ spurs reached them, to watch the oil-black horses and their straight-backed riders pass by, then turn north along Eugene Strasse, leading the carriages they accompanied towards the rear of the palace. None of the gardeners recognised the coat-of-arms on the carriage doors.
District Officer von Krall, seated on a bench in the market square on the other side of the road, did recognise it. The crest of the Earl of Sussex. So they had arrived. He tapped out his pipe and stuck it into his pocket, then rubbed at his forehead with his gnarled fingers. After nearly two months of laborious work, Krall had found himself awaiting the arrival of Mrs Westerman and Mr Crowther a confused and frustrated man. Mr Clode still had only a fragmentary memory of the Carnival. He was no longer the rather deranged creature that Krall had first encountered, however. He had spent almost the entirety of his first two days of confinement asleep, then woken weak, but with his senses restored. Krall crossed his ankles and glowered at the cobbles, thinking of the young man in the tower like something out of a fairy story. Clode could recall preparing for the parade with perfect clarity, but sometime after his party had joined the crowd he seemed to have lost his mind. He admitted to Krall, haltingly, that he had started to see not men and women in costumes, but actual demons and gods. Spirits that whispered to him. One memory that seemed horribly clear was the look of disgust and shame on his young wife’s face when he tried to dance with her at the ball. Then there was this man in the black mask who promised to look after him. Of his time in the room with Lady Martesen he seemed to recall nothing but his own fear, his dream of drowning and pain.
Krall realised he was hungry. He got to his feet and began to stamp away from the castle towards a little tavern he knew where he could get a good beer and simple cooking. Dining so often from the court kitchen was playing merry devils with his digestion. He looked at the higher ranks of the old nobility with a new respect, having tasted the riches on which they subsisted. Clode never claimed he was innocent. He left that to his pretty wife. All he said was he had no memory of doing harm to Lady Martesen. That he had no memory of his first meeting with Krall either. Krall hesitated on the tavern steps. He had to admit he liked Daniel Clode. He seemed an honest man, and a brave one. He had a haunted look, but Krall was reasonably sure it was not fear of the axe that disturbed his rest and hampered his recovery, but those odd visions of Festennacht. Krall could give a full account of the movements, histories and passions of all the principals, but as to the facts of Carnival night he could only say that Lady Martesen should not be dead, though she was, and though Clode was the only man who, it seemed, could have killed her, Krall had doubts about his guilt. Well, it was all written down. Let these clever friends of Mr Clode’s worry at the problems now. He pushed the door to the tavern open and welcomed the sour yeasty smell of the beer, and the sharp tang of liver coming off the grill. He breathed deeply and found a place among the tables.
The carriage turned down a road on the far side of the garden, and after a significant journey down the east flank of the palace, the horsemen preceded them under a great arch into one of the interior courtyards. The Hussars wheeled about and exited at once, all flashing braid and polished stirrups. The carriage halted, and Harriet peered out of the window.
A gentleman was there to meet them, dressed magnificently in pink satin and with a small squadron of liveried footmen behind him. Two stepped forward and with the formalised movements of ballet dancers, they let down the steps of the coach and, as Harriet emerged, one, without looking at her, offered her his arm to help her descend. The footman’s wig was such a startling white she had to fight the impulse to reach out and touch it.
The cobbles looked as if they had only just been laid, so clean and neat they were. The man in pink satin introduced himself in slightly affected French as the Court Harbinger and requested the honour of showing them to their apartments. Harriet replied in as flowery a manner as she knew how. She glanced backwards at Michaels as the gentlemen took their turn at exchanging civilities. He winked at her and climbed down from the box, his leather bag over his shoulder. Her maid emerged from the other carriage and shot a look of such concentrated suspicion at one of the footmen, he blinked. Monsieur Clemme waved his hand and the liveried footmen swarmed over the luggage like scarlet ants attacking the picnic meats. Harriet realised she was being addressed by the magnificent Monsieur Clemme once more.
‘Mrs Clode is waiting for you in your rooms, madam.’ He bowed and offered his arm.
The servants of such a palace as Ulrichsberg naturally prided themselves on not being overly impressed by the rank and fame of visitors to the court. Monarchs, Lords and luminaries of the world of music and art passed through Ulrichsberg continually, but they watched the arrival of the Englishwoman and her companions with interest. A little knot of some of the more senior servants in the east wing had found it convenient to pause in their labours and watch as the carriage was unloaded and the gentry led away.
Mr Kinkel, head footman in the east wing, the cook to the servants’ hall and the housekeeper observed while their more junior fellows bustled round with baggage and band boxes in the swept yard. Mr Crowther, he that was some Lord or other in his own country but liked to pretend otherwise, was easy to identify. Thin as a rake with a long nose — and, Mr Kinkel suspected — a habit of looking down it. The younger man they thought perhaps a Prince of some sort. Handsome youth, still some years short of thirty and awkward as a newborn calf. He stumbled on the cobbles as Monsieur Clemme led them off. The maid remained rooted to the spot, obviously intending to keep her eye on the luggage. The likeness between Mrs Westerman and her pretty sister young Mrs Clode was easy to spot.
‘That poor little cabbage, marry a man and find him a murderer!’ Cook observed, preserving her reputation for great kindness to the unfortunate. ‘Lovely frock Mrs Westerman has on though. Green is such a blessing for red-heads. Isn’t it true her husband was murdered himself?’
‘Unlucky in love, that’s true enough. Covered in tragic blood, the pair of them.’ The housekeeper sighed. She was the romantic.
Mr Kinkel’s attention was distracted by the sight of a large muscular-looking man having a word with one of the under-footmen, then approaching his little group with a leather bag over his shoulder. He walked with rather more swagger than Kinkel thought appropriate to those in service. He wore no livery. Kinkel had seen the valets and secretaries of Kings cross the yard before him, but this great bearded fellow looked like none of those. Certainly not a valet in that coat, and his hands looked too broad and meaty to wield a pen.