Borrower of the Night - Elizabeth Peters [41]
‘That girl needs help,’ he went on. ‘I don’t know why the old lady hates her so, but she’s slowly driving her crazy. I can’t walk out on a situation like that.’
‘Sucker,’ I said. ‘Softhearted chump. Easy mark.’
‘Uh-huh,’ Tony agreed. ‘I talked to Blankenhagen at breakfast. He thinks Irma needs to get away from this place. She ought to be amused and distracted. So I told him you’d take her shopping this morning. Isn’t that the universal panacea for disturbed females?’
‘You have your nerve promising my services. I have other things to do this morning. I’m going to – ’
‘Take Irma shopping. Don’t put it that way; tell her you need her to show you the best stores. You’re a paying guest; the old lady can’t object if you ask for Irma’s services.’
‘Huh,’ I said.
‘I knew you would. Sucker, chump . . . We’re meeting Blankenhagen at the Architect’s House for lunch. One o’clock.’
‘And you, my knight in shining armour? Are you coming along to carry our parcels?’
‘Not me. I have other things to do this morning. I’m going back to the archives. I’ll meet you at one.’
But Tony didn’t appear at the Architect’s House at one, or at two, or at two thirty, when our party rose to leave.
The excursion had done Irma good, and it hadn’t hurt me either. This nonsense about shopping being good therapy doesn’t apply to me, actually, but . . . I bought a loden cloak. I love cloaks, they are one of the few items of dress that look better on tall people than on cute little short people. My cloak wasn’t grey or dark green, like most of the loden material; it was creamy white, trimmed with bands of red and green, and fastened at the throat with big silver buttons. It was divine.
I also bought a carved wooden reproduction of a Gothic saint, and didn’t even wonder how I was going to get it in my suitcase. It was three feet high. I also bought . . . Well, we could have used Tony as a carrier. But I wistfully declined peasant blouses trimmed with lace, and rose-printed dirndl dresses with white aprons, and stuff like that. I love it, but on me it looks the way a pinafore would look on Tony.
One particularly charming dress, which had a laced black velvet bodice embroidered with tiny white rosebuds and green leaves, made my mouth water. I showed it to Irma.
‘Why don’t you try it on? It would look gorgeous on you.’
Irma and I had gotten quite matey by then – two girls together, and all that. It was nice to see the kid smile for a change. At my question the smile disappeared, and she shook her head.
‘No, no, this is for tourists. The money is far too much.’
Tactfully I dropped the subject and we made our way towards the restaurant. The rest of Irma’s wardrobe was as hideous as her nightgowns; that day she was wearing another high-necked dark print that hung like a burlap bag from her shoulders. I had never seen her in one of the pretty peasant dresses of the region, which are common street wear in southern Germany, and which would have suited her petite beauty.
As Irma sparkled and giggled at Blankenhagen, I continued to wonder why she was so broke. The hotel was making money. The prices were outrageous, as I had cause to know. The countess had spoken of selling books; Irma said furniture and objets d’art, even the iron gates, had gone under the dealer’s hammer. Were taxes and running expenses so high that two women, living frugally, could barely eke out a living? Judging from the objects I had seen – most of them in Elfrida’s quarters – the stuff that had been sold was of prime quality, worth a considerable amount.
As the time wore on and no Tony came loping into the courtyard dining room, with its vine-hung balconies, worry replaced my curiosity about the Drachenstein finances. I kept telling myself it was absurd to worry; what could happen to him in broad daylight, in the law-abiding streets of Rothenburg? But it wasn’t like him to forget an appointment. I was increasingly silent and distracted, and Blankenhagen started casting me significant glances, raising and lowering his eyebrows and making other signals. He didn’t care