Borrower of the Night - Elizabeth Peters [21]
‘Don’t,’ I said suddenly. The garden was a magical place, but it was a little uncanny, with the rustling shrubbery and a breeze moving the branches of the trees. ‘Let’s go in. I’ve had enough atmosphere for tonight. I could stand a glass of plain prosaic beer.’
We had our beer, served by Irma, in the room of the château that served as a lounge. The family from Hamburg were playing Skat and the honeymoon couple, in a shadowy corner, were fully occupied with each other. The only person in the room who wasn’t distracted by the squeaks and giggles coming from that corner was the English lady, who sat knitting like a robot, without removing her eyes from her needles. George was nowhere to be seen, and I wondered uneasily about the rustling I had heard in the garden.
When the clock struck ten, there was a general exodus. Apparently Rothenburg, like my home town, rolled up the streets at an early hour. That was fine with me. I had other plans for the middle hours of the night.
At the door I was intercepted by the little man whom Tony had identified, somewhat vaguely, as a professor. He introduced himself with a big broad smile.
‘Ich heisse Schmidt. And you are the American Professorin, nicht? What is it that you teach?’
I admitted to being a historian. I was caught off guard by his blunt approach but it was impossible to resent the little guy. He did look like Santa Claus. Besides, he only came up to my chin. As I have said, I can’t be cruel to little people.
‘And you, Herr Schmidt?’ I asked. ‘Are you perhaps also a historian?’
Herr Schmidt’s eyes shifted. All at once he looked like a very sneaky Santa Claus.
‘Alas, I am no longer anything. I am, as you say, retired. I enjoy a long vacation. And you, I hope you find Rothenburg pleasant? You are, like me, in the older wing of the Schloss? It is charming! Full with atmosphere of the past, very appealing to Americans. But inconvenient, this charm. For example, we must light ourselves to bed. There is no electricity in the old wing.’
He picked up a candle, one of a row which stood atop a chest.
‘So I noticed,’ I said drily.
In a mellow moment Tony lit a candle for me and we found ourselves part of a small procession which wound its medieval way across the court. The candle flame flickered in the wind; I had to shield it with my hand. When we entered the Great Hall, the illusion of antiquity was complete. The feeble flames were overpowered by the vast darkness of the room. They woke a dim reflection in the polished surfaces of helmet and breastplate, giving the armoured shapes an illusion of life and surreptitious movement.
‘I am glad to have company when I cross this room,’ said Schmidt, scampering for the stairs. ‘Brrrr! In candlelight it is too full with atmosphere. I expect to see the countess herself.’
‘The countess?’
‘But yes, have you not heard the legend? The countess walks here, on moonlit nights. Which countess I know not, but she is one of those who has no right to be walking.’
He chuckled. I wasn’t amused. I had a feeling I knew which countess he meant. Nor was I precisely easy in my mind about Herr Schmidt. If ever a name sounded like an alias . . . And he had been decidedly elusive about his occupation.
In the dim light of the candle, my room looked like an apartment in Castle Dracula. I lit the oil lamp beside the bed, lay down, and tried to read. The smoky light made my eyes ache.
It was a warm night, but the room had a clammy chill which the air from the open window didn’t alleviate. I went to the window and looked down into the tangled underbrush beneath. There were no screens in the window; the drop was sheer. To the left was another window – that of Tony’s room, I assumed. It was dark, as were all the other windows I could see.
I looked across the grounds at the bulk of the old keep. The jagged walls made a picturesque outline against the moonlit sky. As I stared, something peculiar happened. For a moment a square of wavering yellow light interrupted the blackness of the