Borrower of the Night - Elizabeth Peters [38]
‘I agree,’ I said, before Tony could object. ‘The countess won’t call you, Doctor; she made that pretty clear.’
Blankenhagen nodded.
‘Come, then. I understand none of this; but some of it I must understand if I am to help that girl. She has need of help, I think.’
We went down the stairs, through the Hall, and out into the night-shrouded court. There was enough moonlight to let us see the arched door of the chapel in the north wing. Tony’s first key fitted the lock.
The interior was a blaze of tarnished gilt in the rays of Tony’s flashlight. I blinked, and mentally discarded one possible hiding place. The chapel had been redecorated in the baroque period; twisted marble columns, sunbursts of gold plaster, and stucco cherubs by the cartload filled the long, narrow room. The remodellers would have found any treasure here.
‘The entrance to the crypt should be near the altar,’ I said.
Blankenhagen hesitated.
‘I am wondering – should we not wait until daylight?’
‘You aren’t scared, are you?’ Tony grinned weakly.
‘The dead are dead,’ said Blankenhagen.
In broad daylight it might have sounded sententious. In the baroque gloom, with the memory of the séance fresh in our minds, it had the ring of a credo.
‘Thanks for reminding me,’ said Tony. ‘This way.’
The entrance was behind the altar. It was barred by a grilled iron gate, which yielded to Tony’s second key. He turned the flashlight down into the black pit of the stairs, and he wasn’t the only one who hesitated just a bit before starting to descend.
The crypt extended the full length of the chapel. Rough square stone pillars supported the vaulted roof. There was none of the dampness I had expected, but the air had a musty smell that struck at the nostrils, and the imagination.
Across the floor, row on row, lay the tombstones of the Drachensteins. Those nearest the stair were simple marble or bronze slabs, with a name and a date: Graf Conrad von u. zu Drachenstein, 1804–1888; Gräfin Elisabeth, seine Frau, 1812–1884.
‘That must be Irma’s father,’ said Tony, pointing to a bronze plaque bearing the dates 1886–1952. ‘He was succeeded by his younger brother.’
‘They are a long-lived family,’ said Blankenhagen thoughtfully.
We moved forward.
Graf Wolfgang. Gräfin Berthe. 1756–1814. 1705–1770.
As we approached the far end of the crypt, the simple stones were replaced by more elaborate ones. Tony flashed his light on a sculptured form clad in armour, with hands clasped on its breast and the remains of a four-footed beast under its feet.
‘The first of the effigies,’ he said in a low voice. ‘We’re getting there.’
Against the wall we found the sixteenth-century markers.
Graf Harald von und zu Drachenstein, Burckhardt’s father, looked in grey marble much as he might have looked in life. His face, framed in stiff stone ringlets, was stern and dignified. The hardness of stone suited his harsh features. His left hand rested on his sword, and his right held the banner of his house, with its crest of a dragon on a stone. Beside him lay his countess, her face set in a pious simper, her hands palm to palm under her chin. The ample folds of her best court gown were frozen for all eternity.
Tony moved to the next monument. Upon it also lay a knight in armour, encircled by a long epitaph in twisted Gothic script. It had been carelessly carved. The letters were not deeply incised. But there was no traffic or weather here to wear them down. Tony translated the essential data.
‘Graf Burckhardt von und zu Drachenstein. Geboren fourteen ninety-five. Tot fifteen twenty-five.’
‘Thirty years old,’ I said.
There was an empty space next to Count Burckhardt, presumably because the old family had died out with him. The stones of the cadet line began beyond the next pillar.
Tony returned to Burckhardt’s effigy and waved his flashlight wildly about.
‘What is it?’ Blankenhagen asked. ‘What do you search for?’
‘Don’t you see? All the counts have their wives laid out beside them