She gulped. ‘Yes, I understand.’
Payne smiled. ‘Good. The chopper leaves in five.’
51
Kusendorf, Switzerland
(82 miles south-east of Bern)
The Ulster Archives was nestled against a sturdy outcrop of rock that shielded the wooden fortress from the Alpine winds that roared through the region during winter. Nut-brown timber made up the bulk of the chalet’s framework and blended perfectly with the broad gables and deep overhangs of the roof. Square windows were cut into the front facade at regular intervals and were complemented by a triangular pane that had been carved under the structure’s crown. A large picture window ran vertically through the middle of the chalet, giving people on the main staircase a spectacular view of the Lepontine Alps.
But Petr Ulster ignored the scenery as he trudged down the steps from the document vaults on the upper floors towards his private office. It was a journey he typically made several times a day, moving from room to room, helping researchers from around the world with their pursuit of historical data. Although he didn’t consider himself an expert in any particular field, Ulster had a working knowledge of every significant historical subject from A to Z.
It was a skill set that served him well as curator of the facility.
Expecting to find his freshly showered guests in his office, Ulster was drawn towards the kitchen by the sound of laughter and the smell of newly baked bread. Inside the spacious room, he saw Payne, Jones and Heidi huddled around a plate of meats and cheeses. Standing next to them was Ulster’s private chef, who was slicing a warm loaf while arguing with Jones.
‘That isn’t possible!’ the chef blurted. ‘I don’t believe you for a second.’
Ulster looked at them, confused. ‘What isn’t possible?’
Jones ignored the question. ‘I’m telling you, we jumped out of the helicopter while holding on to salami. We slid over a hundred feet, right into some trees.’
Payne nodded. ‘If you don’t believe us, ask Baptiste. He was flying.’
The chef glanced at Ulster. ‘Sir, is that what happened?’
Ulster shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t there. But it wouldn’t surprise me. When the chopper landed to pick us up, Baptiste had to reel in a very long rope that smelled like fried salami. I thought I was imagining things, but perhaps not.’
Jones laughed while patting Ulster on his belly. ‘Your picnic basket saved some lives. Your stomach should be proud of its sacrifice.’
Ulster grabbed a slice of bread. ‘In that case, I’ll reward it.’
Payne pointed at the food. ‘I hope you don’t mind. We were waiting for you in your office, but we smelled the bread and couldn’t resist. It’s tough to think when you’re hungry.’
Ulster smiled. ‘Why do you think my office is so close to the kitchen?’
Once they had eaten, they went back to Ulster’s office where a research assistant had dropped off several books about Ludwig’s life. All but one were written in German. The lone exception was a coffee-table book with English captions under photographs of Ludwig’s castles, including some taken during their construction.
Payne studied one of the pictures. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see that.’
‘See what?’ Ulster asked from his desk.
‘Pictures of the building site.’
‘Why not?’ Heidi asked as she peered over his shoulder. She instantly recognized the slim towers of Neuschwanstein underneath the scaffolding.
‘When I think of castles, I think of ancient buildings that were built long before the age of photography. Then again, what do I know? We don’t have many castles in America. We’re too young a country to have ancient ruins.’
‘Have you seen photographs of Abraham Lincoln?’ she asked.
Payne nodded. ‘Several.’
She walked around the couch and sat next to him. ‘They started building Neuschwanstein a few years after Lincoln’s death – if that helps you understand the time period.’
‘Actually, it does.’
Heidi tapped the photograph. ‘Ludwig built Neuschwanstein on the site of two medieval castles that had fallen into disrepair. They used explosives to blow up the old remains before they hauled everything away. The very next year they laid the foundation stone of the new castle. The date was the fifth of September 1869.’
Jones glanced at the book from the far end of the couch and noticed the date at the bottom of the page. Wondering if she had seen it or was quoting information from memory, he decided to test her expertise. ‘Who designed the castle?’
She looked at him. ‘An artist named Christian Jank. Believe it or not, he wasn’t a trained architect. He was actually a stage designer for Richard Wagner’s opera Lohengrin. Ludwig was so moved by Jank’s artwork that he commissioned him to create several concepts of a dream castle. Ludwig selected a design he liked, and the two of them worked on it together.’
‘Without an architect? That doesn’t sound safe,’ Jones said.
‘Ludwig eventually hired Eduard Riedel, a German architect who had restored Berg Castle for Maximilian the Second, to make sure the plans were safe. However, Riedel was just the first of many. Over the next few years, a number of architects worked on the plans including Georg von Dollmann and Julius Hofmann.’
‘Why so many architects?’
‘Two reasons,’ she said. ‘One, because Ludwig was a control freak. He changed his mind all the time and every new draft required his personal approval. This was unbelievably frustrating for the architects, especially when Ludwig disappeared for days on one of his journeys. Sometimes construction stopped while they were waiting for his authorization.’
‘What was the other reason?’ Payne asked.
‘The construction took nearly twenty years. That’s a long time to work with a crazy person.’
Jones nodded in agreement. ‘I worked with Jon for less than a decade, and it felt like for ever. Twenty years would have killed me.’
Payne smiled but said nothing.
‘Sadly,’ she added, ‘that’s one of the reasons it took so long to build the castle. Thirty people died during its construction – mostly because Ludwig was so demanding about self-imposed deadlines. Occasionally, when he made urgent changes to the designs, he had as many as three hundred workers at the site working in shifts around the clock. They used to set up oil lamps on the scaffolding so they wouldn’t have to stop at night.’
‘They must have hated him,’ Jones said.
She shook her head. ‘Despite the challenging conditions, the locals loved Ludwig because he was the biggest employer in the region by a wide margin. Without Neuschwanstein, many of the craftsmen would have been out of work. That carried a lot of weight with them.’
Payne glanced at her. ‘If I remember correctly, you said Neuschwanstein means new swan stone in English.’
She stared at him, trying to read the emotions in his eyes. But it was difficult. He was a much better poker player than Ulster. ‘That’s correct.’
‘What else can you tell us about the name?’
‘That depends. What are you keeping from me?’
‘What do you mean?’
She sighed, frustrated. ‘I mean, it’s a simple translation of three German words – neu, schwan and stein. You didn’t need me to tell you that. Petr could have told you the same thing. He speaks German, too.’
‘What’s your point?’ Payne demanded.
‘My point is you asked me about the translation on Schachen. When I explained it to you, your eyes lit up when I mentioned the word swan. Then you huddled with DJ to discuss it when I took Petr inside the house.’