“I heard stories,” Winterluck said. “Some claimed that Macker killed him with a poisoned sword, that this was the only way it could have happened.”
“Yes,” Von Baden acknowledged. “I heard the stories too. In truth, poor Cassan was poisoned. The autopsy proved it. But by that time, it was too late to check Macker’s sword. For the rest of his college days, though, he lived in disgrace, under a cloud of suspicion. Eva left him, refused even to speak to him. A few years later he was killed by a train, and some called it suicide.”
“That would pretty much confirm his guilt,” Winterluck said.
Van Baden fingered the scar on his cheek. “On the contrary, old friend, it confirmed his innocence. A man who would poison the blade of his sword would hardly lose much sleep over it afterward. Poisoning is a careful crime. It takes a great deal of thought and premeditation. And of course, the best evidence for his innocence: until the last moment, he thought he was fighting me, not Cassan. After Cassan stepped in to take my place, Macker never left the center of the room. He had no chance then to poison the blade.”
“Then who did? Could the swords have become switched when they were dropped somehow?”
“No, no. The hilts were different colors, remember, to match the corps color.”
“But...” Winterluck puzzled, “no one could have poisoned Macker’s sword once Cassan entered the duel. There must have been fifty pairs of eyes on them both! Certainly Eva couldn’t have done it. And certainly no one would have wanted to poison you!”
“No,” Von Baden agreed. “No one would have wanted to poison me.”
“Then who?”
Von Baden smiled. “There remains only one possibility.”
“You know?”
“I’ve known for years.”
“Of course! I should have realized it! The doctor! He applied the poison while he was swabbing the wounds on Cassan’s face!”
“A good ending for a detective story, old friend, but hardly for real life. The doctor would have no motive.”
“He was really Eva’s father, avenging his daughter’s honor!”
And now Von Baden laughed aloud. “You would make a wonderful writer! I’m sure the doctor could have chosen a far safer and less spectacular method of murder, had that been his desire. Or at the very least, a slower-acting poison.”
“Then where are we left?”
“With the truth,” Von Baden said. “The truth.” He fingered the scar again. “As you can see, I did fight after all, later on. I fought bravely and well, both for the White Corps and for Hitler. I collected my medals, and my ribbons.”
“Tell me,” Winterluck said.
“Sometimes fear can be a terrible, twisted thing. Men will kill for love, or revenge, or in anger, but I sometimes think that fear is the greatest motive for murder. After all, wasn’t it fear of a sort that drove us to kill the Jews?”
“And?”
“I was afraid to fight Macker,” he said, looking away. “Afraid for my life, or my face, or my honor. Afraid. Terrified! I coated the blade of my sword with poison from the chemistry lab, to kill Macker, or at least sicken him and let me win the duel. But then Cassan fought with my sword, and when it broke a piece flew back to nick his scalp. And kill him.”
“My God!”
“A foolish thing, a senseless thing. As I said, a vorpal blade.”
They had reached the farthest point of the prison yard, and now the uniformed guard was motioning them back. The exercise period was over, and they must return to their cells. “It is something of a paradox, I suppose,” Von Baden observed as they walked slowly back. “We are caged here because they call us war criminals, and yet I killed this first man because I feared to fight. Was I perhaps a peace criminal in those days?”
But the guard separated them at the entrance and the question went unanswered.
Dead and Breakfast
by Marilyn Todd
Marilyn Todd currently sets her work in three different historical periods: Ancient Rome, where we find series heroine Claudia Seferius; Ancient Greece, in which the adventures of High Priestess Iliona unfold; and the 1950s, which the author has chosen for a just-completed novel and a variety of (so far) non-series stories, including last year’s Shamus Award nominee “Room for Improvement.” Her latest published novel is Blood Moon (Severn House), in the Iliona series.
“Georges, have you put those pillows in Number Twenty-two yet?”
Pillows. Pillows. Georges dragged his eyes away from the grebes out on the lake as he remembered the pile of goosedown in his arms.
“Doing it now, Mother.”
But it was so comical, the way they dived for fish. You watch them go down, follow the ripples on the surface, then pick a spot where you think they’ll come up. Except you’re wrong. Every time, it’s that much further from where you expect them to, and this time one of the grebes had caught a fish. A big one. Georges watched, fascinated by the contest between predator and prey. One false move and the fish was gone forever. Both sides fighting for survival.
“And don’t forget to unblock that drain in the second-floor bathroom while you’re up there, love.”
Drain? He looked at the spanner in his hand. Oh. Drain. “No, no,” he called down. “I won’t forget.”
Georges loved this lake. He loved the way the boats bobbed on smooth days as well as in rough weather, their yards clanking gentle lullabies, their hulls gleaming in the sun. He loved the way that spring dawns glimmered hazy and yellow on the surface, like melted Camembert. How fiery sunsets multiplied out and flickered on the water. How autumn mists swirled round the islands and then disappeared, as if by magic, and how the moon reflected double on the lake. And none of this would be possible, were it not for the pines that surrounded it, repelling the winds that drove in from the west, fending off the snows that swept up from the Pyrenees, thwarting the desiccating frosts that gripped the rest of France. In fact, he thought, if it wasn’t for the gulls, flapping round the perimeter in search of tiddlers in the shallows, you’d think the coast was a lot further than eight kilometres away.
Except not everyone enjoyed neat promenades that served up ice creams and carousels, or took pleasure in roasting themselves on broad, white sandy beaches that stretched to infinity in both directions. The people who holidayed at Georges’ lake were more discriminating. Not for them long treks through woods, laden with parasols and picnic hampers, just to then do battle with the highest dunes in Europe. Let others wrestle with deck chairs and drink lukewarm lemonade—
“Oh, Georgie!” His mother jerked the pillows from his arms with a good-natured, but nonetheless exasperated sigh. “Will you ever stop your silly daydreaming?” She gave his cheek an affectionate squeeze, before setting off down the corridor to give 22 their extra pillows. “But if you don’t mind, love. The drain?”
The what? Oh, that. Second floor. Blocked. At last, the grebe managed to turn the wriggling fish and gulp it down. Almost at once, it was diving back down for more.
“Now, if you wouldn’t mind.” She didn’t seem entirely surprised to find her son still staring out of the window when she returned. “Breakfast’ll be over any minute, and the guests are bound to need the bathroom.”
“Right-oh.”
He mightn’t have won any prizes for spelling, maths, or grammar, but Georges was handy with his hands. In no time at all, he’d unscrewed the waste and was flushing out the pipe, though he didn’t see what all the fuss was for. A few hairs, a bit of gunge, and bien sar, it would reduce the drainage to a trickle, but that was no reason to go grumbling to his mother. She went to a lot of trouble to make the guests feel welcome. She set vases of flowers in their rooms, left them boiled sweets on the dressing table, and placed mothballs in the drawers. The sheets always smelled crisp and clean and fresh.