Borrower of the Night - Elizabeth Peters [32]
At least we had the keys to the library. I tossed them, jingling, as we went down the stairs. George patted me on the back.
‘Nice work, Vicky. But you’re wasting your time.’
‘Hush your mouth,’ said Tony, with some vague idea that he was speaking a kind of code. Schmidt, who was ahead of me, turned to give us a bewildered look.
‘You will inspect the library?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Why not?’
‘Oh, of course, of course. I only meant to ask – I too am an antiquarian. An amateur, of course!’
‘Of course,’ I said. We had reached the corridor leading to our rooms, and I gave the little man a very hard stare. He beamed ingratiatingly.
‘It would be a privilege to assist you,’ he said.
‘She has an assistant,’ Tony said. ‘Me.’
‘Then as a favour to an old man?’
I didn’t see how I could refuse without giving the whole business an aura of secrecy, which was the last thing I wanted. In the unlikely event that I found a useful clue, I believed myself capable of distracting Schmidt’s attention from it.
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘The more the merrier. How about you, George?’
‘No, thanks. It’s not in the library. I’ve already looked.’
He ought to have been on the stage. He didn’t even look back as he walked off down the corridor, humming softly to himself.
‘It?’ said Schmidt, with a frown.
‘Crazy American,’ said Tony wildly. ‘You know how they are.’
‘If he doesn’t,’ I said, sighing, ‘he’s finding out now. Come on. Where is the blasted library, anyhow?’
It was on the same floor as the Great Hall, off a corridor to the south. When the door swung open, I couldn’t hold back a groan. The room had once been handsome. The fireplace was of marble, with stiff Gothic figures of saints supporting the mantel; there wasn’t a nose or chin left among the holy crew, and the stone was pitted, as if by acid. Tapestries covered the walls, but they were cobwebby masses of decay; behind them, small things scuttled and squeaked, disturbed by our entry. The bookshelves sagged; the books were crumbling piles of leather and paper.
At some time, the library had been stripped of most of its contents. The remaining volumes were either valueless or decayed beyond hope of repair.
Then, by the dust-coated windows, I saw something that looked more interesting. It was a tall cupboard, or Schrank, black with age, but still sound. It was locked. I tried the keys the countess had given me, and found one that worked.
The Schrank contained several books, a metal box, and a roll of parchments. I took the last object first and carried it to a table. Tony and Schmidt looked on as I unrolled it.
The parchments were all plans of the castle and its grounds. They were very old.
I let the sheets roll themselves up again, and twisted them out of Tony’s clutching hand.
‘Naughty, naughty,’ I said gaily. ‘We don’t care about these old things, do we? Nothing valuable here. Let’s see what else there is.’
The books were three in number – heavy volumes, bound in leather, with metal clasps and studs. I wondered why they had not been sold with the other valuables, for they could be considered rare books. When I tried to open one, I understood. Hardly a page remained legible. Water, mildew, worms and rats had all taken their toll.
‘Amazing,’ said Tony, breathing heavily over my shoulder.
‘Rather peculiar volumes to find here,’ I agreed, picking up the next book. It was in equally poor condition.
‘What is it?’ Schmidt asked.
‘You might call them books of philosophical speculation. In their day, they verged on the heretical. I’m surprised to find them here because the Counts of Drachenstein don’t strike me as intellectuals. This is Trithemius; this one is Albert of Cologne, better known as Albertus Magnus – ’
‘The great magician!’ Schmidt exclaimed. ‘Fascinating! May I please – ’
I handed him the book. He glanced at it, and shook his head.
‘I cannot make it out. You two perhaps understand?’
‘I read medieval Latin,’ Tony said. Schmidt let him have the volume, and he opened it.
I was too