HS04 - Unholy Awakening (5 page)

‘Weren’t you worried when she didn’t come home last night?’

Frau Enke pursed her lips and frowned. ‘It wasn’t the first time,’ she said. ‘She often slept with the girls at Frau Graube’s. At their homes, I mean. I’d always warned her never to stay out after dark. Only
they
go out at night.’

‘They?’ I asked, though I knew how she would answer me.

‘Bad creatures,’ she said. ‘Whores, and…and…’

At her back, the two men moaned with fright.

‘And who?’ I insisted.

‘You know who, Herr Magistrate,’ she said, glaring at me. ‘Them that never sleep.’

I immediately changed direction. ‘Then, you heard that she was dead.’

She rubbed her nose with the back of her fist. ‘Selleck brought the news from town this morning. He said how Angela had been killed, the wounds, and all her blood drained out. I started making ready. I sprinkled salt on the step and in the fireplace, and I placed a bucket of water hard inside the door. They won’t cross water, don’t like salt. She’ll suffer if she tries to force her way in here.’

Silence hung heavily in the air.

She turned abruptly to face her husband and her son. ‘Before the night comes on, them two will have to go outside and daub the walls. I don’t intend doing any more for them. They’ll have to help themselves for once!’

In a sort of frenzy, she swept a lighted candle from above the fireplace, and ran around the room, pointing. ‘See here?’ she cried. ‘And here? And here?’

There were plates and saucers of blood that she had laid in every corner.

‘I slaughtered our hens and rabbits while them two were sitting here feeling sorry for themselves!’ she barked.

They were planning to barricade themselves in for the night in an attempt to keep their daughter out.

‘I’ll not let her enter the house!’ the woman shouted, her shoulders shaking. ‘No-one in Krupeken will let her in the cemetery if she does come back!’

That question still remained to be settled.

‘About her burial, Frau Enke,’ I said as gently as I could. ‘As soon as I have completed my examination, I will let you have the body for…’

The woman advanced upon me, fists raised.

‘Do what must be done, Herr Magistrate,’ she screeched. ‘Make her safe, sir! Get someone to do it! I’ll not have her here!’

As I left the house, I heard the door being closed and barred behind me.

The sky was a corrugated ripple of pearly blue and pink, darker purple on the horizon, still clear and bright above. A single star gleamed like a navigation light far out over the Baltic Sea. The day was drawing to an end. I did not return the way that I had come, however, but left Krupeken heading north-east, following another path through empty fields which would lead me to the Mildehaven coast road, and carry me back to the northern side of Lotingen more swiftly.

Along the way, I met no-one.

Not even the pastor. As the light began to fade, I wondered whether the holy man’s courage had faded with it. Frau Enke was anxiously awaiting his arrival. He ought to have gone to Krupeken to bless the cottage and scatter protective crumbs of communion host inside and out, as tradition prescribed. If he did not go, the villagers would have a night of terror to look forward to.

Suddenly, I felt very cold.

I raised the collar of my jacket, and pushed my hands more deeply inside my pockets. My task was no longer simply to find whoever had murdered Angela Enke. First, I must find a place to hide her corpse. A place where she would be
safe
. Not in the sense that her mother intended, but safe from what her mother and the other villagers of Krupeken would do to her if they managed to lay their hands on her.

There was no-one to whom I could give the body.

Angela Enke was my problem.

As I came over the brow of the hill, I spotted Knutzen.

He was standing in the middle of the narrow lane outside the cemetery gates, his back towards me, staring in the direction of town. Legs spread wide, feet firmly planted on the ground, his hands on his hips, he might have been a stone colossus guarding the entrance to a port, though he put me in mind of a farmer who was intent on stopping his cows from straying.

And there was Lars Merson, too.

The gravedigger emerged from the gate. He was wearing the ‘uniform’ that he always wore in the cemetery: a cut-off, moth-eaten cassock which he must have plundered from the chapel of rest, a black woollen helmet which covered his ears, and a pair of leather boots which some unwitting corpse had surrendered without a fight.

I was relieved to see that there was no-one else outside the cemetery.

I raised my arm and waved.

Merson waved back and said something to Knutzen, who turned towards the cemetery gate. My heart jumped into my mouth when I saw four French soldiers step into the lane. An officer in a leather shako and a tight-fitting frock-coat came striding out behind them. He stood, watching my approach, his baton jammed under his arm.

Major Glatigny.

During the epidemic, he had been in charge of the transportation of corpses to the fever cemetery which the French had hastily organised on the far side of the River Nogat. Evidently, they had still found nothing new for Major Glatigny to do. Death, and its registration, was still his business. My intention to keep the matter of the death of Angela Enke as quiet as possible was in danger of foundering on the sharp rock of French bureaucracy.

My first impulse was to slow down, if only to avoid his questions.

Instead, I strode on to meet my fate, knowing that it was better to get it over with.

The Frenchman stepped forward, touching the peak of his cap, slapping the seam of his riding-breeches with his baton. ‘Procurator Stiffeniis,’ he said, ‘I have been waiting here for you for over an hour.’

‘I had to…start my investigation,’ I apologised, short of breath after the long walk. I had been about to mention Krupeken – the fear of the inhabitants, the preparations they were making for the night – but I bit down hard on my tongue. I was as loath to send the French to the village as the inhabitants were to let Angela Enke enter it.

‘Your secretary says that you have found a corpse, monsieur.’ He looked at me sternly. ‘You
know
where that corpse should be, according to the law. Do you not?’

Claude Glatigny pressed his narrow lips together and let out a loud sigh. His face was the colour of seasoned ivory, and equally inexpressive. His eyes were dark, bristling with rising impatience. ‘Every death must be registered immediately with the French authorities, as you are aware. The sanitation men reported the finding of a woman’s body, but they…well, they seemed to be confused about the manner of her death. As those men are Prussians, Colonel Claudet suspected, obviously, that the body had been…’

He paused, searching for a word.

‘Stolen?’ I suggested. I held up my hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘That is exactly what I have done with the corpse of Angela Enke, Major Glatigny. I have stolen it.’

A frown furrowed Glatigny’s brow. ‘That corpse should be in my office. It is a question of French jurisdiction. She may have died as—’

‘I held it back for a good reason,’ I interrupted him.

He shifted his head towards his left shoulder, narrowing his eyes. ‘Is that so?’

I took a step towards him. ‘The girl had been murdered, and that is a fact. But how she died, that is, the nature of her wounds…If the news got out, I do believe that you’d have difficulty controlling the panic of the people in Lotingen.’

He stared thoughtfully at me for some moments.

‘There was a small crowd here a short time ago,’ he said. ‘The people knew that a corpse had been found, and that it had not been taken into town. They tried to break into the cemetery, monsieur. My men had to chase them off with bayonets. I was obliged to report the facts to Colonel Claudet, of course. Is this the sort of panic that you are speaking of? In the colonel’s opinion, this disorder suggests a fresh outbreak of the recent deadly fever.’

‘He is not so far from the truth,’ I replied with half a smile. ‘Unless this fever is nipped in the bud, it will be far more dangerous than the last one, I assure you. We are not talking of a physical disease…When Colonel Claudet knows all of the facts, he will approve of my decision. However, this is a
criminal
case; I am investigating the murder of a Prussian girl. This is my responsibility. I will decide where the corpse should be taken, and what should be done with it.’

Glatigny rubbed his nose, then asked: ‘How did she die?’

‘She was found at the bottom of a well. I’m sure the sanitation officers told you that. But it is the way in which she was murdered which is the cause for concern. Wounds to the neck. Just here,’ I indicated, touching the artery in my neck with my fore and middle fingers. ‘She quickly bled to death. But in the village where she lived, they are saying that she has been attacked by one of those…those infernal creatures
¹
which feed on the blood of living people. Here in Lotingen, most of the inhabitants believe these tales. Do such legends exist in France?’

Glatigny’s eyes gaped wide. Was it my impression, or did he look paler than before?

‘Long ago,’ he said. ‘Not any more. We have sent our legends to speak with Madame Guillotine, monsieur. The supernatural…’

‘There’s nothing supernatural about it,’ I hurried on. ‘But until I can arrest the killer, the panic will spread. Especially if the corpse is brought into the centre of town. That’s why I had it carried here. I need to examine the body with care. I need to explain to myself – and to every one else in Lotingen – exactly what has happened. As soon as I have finished my investigation, Colonel Claudet will have my full report.’

His soldiers were standing some way off. They had not heard a word that we had said, and I was glad of it. The rank-and-file French trooper is an unschooled peasant for the most part, and just as likely to be terrorised by the legends as our Prussian villagers. All the same, I knew that they would obey their officer.

‘Major,’ I proposed carefully, ‘I would be grateful if you and your men remained here on guard. I cannot be inside and outside the chapel at the same time. The people must be kept back, by force of arms if necessary.’

I glanced towards the cemetery gates, and I saw the expression on the face of Merson. During the epidemic he had been supplanted by the French, and their new French cemetery beyond the river. With things getting slowly back to normal, it was evident that he resented their continuing presence in
his
cemetery.

‘As a precaution,’ I added for the gravedigger’s sake. ‘In case any Prussian hotheads return with more serious ideas about what ought to be done,’ I specified loudly.

Glatigny glanced towards his men, then turned to me again. ‘Are you asking me to prevent anyone from entering the cemetery, monsieur?’

I nodded quickly. ‘As soon as I have finished with the body, they can carry it across the river, and bury it there. Would that be acceptable?’

Glatigny considered this proposal. I was issuing orders, asking him to put his men at my disposal. I was asking a lot, but I was hoping that the recent presence of the mob would convince him of the urgency of the case, and of the danger if precautions were not taken.

‘I will follow your recommendations,’ he said at last. ‘The men will stay. I will have to report the matter, however.’

He turned to his soldiers, and told them to do as I instructed.

I watched Glatigny march off to town to speak to the colonel, while the troops took up their positions along the road. Now, I would have to exercise my powers of persuasion over the Prussians, too.

‘Knutzen,’ I said, calling him over, and placing my hand on my secretary’s shoulder. For an instant, he shrank back from me, as if he feared that I might attack him. I smiled, instead, to set him at his ease. I needed him at that instant; his punishment could be meted out at any time. ‘Go to my home and speak with my wife. Carry her this message, and say nothing more. Do you understand me?’ I said, squeezing hard at his shoulder. ‘Tell Helena that a body has been found, and that I must stay in town tonight. I do not know when I will be home.’

Knutzen opened his mouth to reply.

I held my finger up at him. ‘Not a word, Knutzen. Not one!’

As Knutzen began to shuffle away, breaking into a half-trot, Merson and I were the only ones left outside the cemetery. I stood in front of the gravedigger, staring in silence into his eyes.

‘I need your expert help,’ I said. ‘You and I will examine the body together, and you will tell me what you think.’

He closed his eyes, and nodded once.

Lars Merson is heavily built, with a large, ruddy face, and dark, leathery skin that has been tanned by the sun. He had laid her out in the sexton’s office next door to the chapel. It was the coldest place in the cemetery, he said, the most secure. He kept the large key on a string around his neck. On my request, he took the key and opened the door of the long, low building which is just inside the cemetery gate. Made of rough-cut stone, it had been added to the chapel of rest at some time in the last couple of centuries. It looked new in comparison.

We stepped inside together.

‘Lock the door,’ I said. ‘I don’t want any interruptions.’

I glanced at the collection of tools which were hanging on the wall: shovels of various sizes, shapes and lengths; irons, pikes and chisels for prizing out and lifting tombstones; wedges, hammers, saws, and many other implements of unspecified use; a row of lanterns which were resting on the floor at the foot of the wall; old tombstones standing up against the wall.

A long, narrow table occupied the centre of the room.

Light rained down from the latticed skylight set in the roof. It played fitfully upon the table as clouds raced across the sky, throwing an ever-shifting chiaroscuro on the body of Angela Enke. The pattern of the window-leading covered her like a net; she might have been a large fish recently caught. Merson had pushed his pens and papers into a careless heap at the bottom end of the table, close to where the toe-cap of her right boot and the naked toes of her left foot pointed skywards. She lay on a sheet of canvas, her hands along her flanks, her head resting on what might have been a ragged curtain. The red velvet had been folded to make a pillow for her head. She could so easily have been a bereaved customer who had come to see the sexton, suddenly felt giddy, and asked him if she might be allowed to lie down for a moment to recover. Except that her skin was the colour of wet lime.

‘What do you intend to do, sir?’

‘I want you to cut that dress away. Do you have a suitable implement?’

Merson turned to the wall, and came back with a large pair of tailor’s scissors.

‘I have these, sir. They should do the job,’ he said.

‘Let me see,’ I said.

His hand was shaking as he passed them over. I hefted the scissors in my palm, examined the blades, wondering why the points had been turned. Helena had scissors at home, but they were nothing like these strange things. ‘Do they have some special use?’ I asked him, as I handed them back.

‘I use them to recover wedding-rings and suchlike before I close the coffin,’ he explained. ‘Mourners rarely have the nerve to take them off, and the finger-joints are the first thing to start swelling up and stiffening.’

In other circumstances, I might have been disturbed by the clinical coldness with which he described what he did. Then again, I thought, this was his job. He spoke of the details as thoughtlessly as I might speak of putting a man in jail.

I made a brief examination of her clothing.

The victim was wearing a plain brown blouse of coarse, heavy weave, and a light-blue taffeta gown with ribbed darker bands. Though worn and dirty, the gown seemed too good for her. Had one of her better-off customers passed it on to the seam stress, having no further use for it? The blouse was tightly caught inside the waist of the gown, except over her right hip, where it had come loose. I noted fine stitching along the seams – the victim’s own work, I presumed – where the dress had been taken in to fit her figure. Over her breasts and thighs, the material was badly scuffed, stained here and there with streaks of moss. There was also a jagged rent between her knees. As the body fell down the well-shaft, it had evidently scraped and bumped against the rough stone walls.

Merson looked at me. ‘Where do you want me to start, sir?’

I told him to cut through the centre of the lower hem of her gown and work his way up to the neck. ‘Be careful not to mark the body,’ I warned him, following the relentless progress of the cutters as the cloth fell loose between her legs. The snip with which he severed the heavy waistband of her gown, sounded obscenely loud in the silence. As Merson continued cutting through the blouse which covered her stomach and breasts, I told him again not to do any additional damage to the body. She had suffered enough with out being carelessly mutilated.

He laid his scissors down on the table, and turned to me.

‘Throw back the coverings,’ I ordered.

He hesitated, looked at me.

‘Surely you’ve done this sort of thing before?’ I said with growing impatience.

He nodded grimly, laying his hands on the divided parts of the gown, and flicking them aside. His hands appeared very dark against the white flesh of the woman’s legs.

‘Remove the top, as well,’ I added.

‘I’ll need to slice through the sleeves,’ he said. ‘Otherwise, they’ll…’

‘Do it,’ I said.

From wrist to shoulder he managed the lower blade of the scissors like a knife, using the dead weight of the woman’s arms to facilitate the operation. The sleeves fell away and slid to the floor like snakes. He set his hands just below her breasts and shifted the blouse and bodice, lifting them away like two perfect halves of a delicately hinged box.