Borrower of the Night - Elizabeth Peters [55]
‘In the tower, eh? Then Irma could have gotten out of her room even with the door locked.’
‘Maybe,’ Tony said shortly. He lifted the last parchment and stared at the bedspread. ‘That seems to be all.’
‘Seems to me it’s enough.’
‘No, there’s something missing. We have two sheets covering the first and second floors of the Schloss. Where’s the plan of the cellars?’
‘Right on. There must be a subterranean level, for storage and cooking. Maybe a dungeon or two. The count had to deal with crimes on his own premises; there weren’t any policemen. And I’d expect a well. If the defenders had to retreat within the castle walls, they were gone geese without a water supply – ’
Someone banged on the door, interrupting my discourse. I kicked the whole collection of maps hastily under the bed.
‘Come in,’ Tony said.
It was George.
‘The Gräfin asked me to tell you that the services are this afternoon.’
‘How come so fast?’ asked Tony.
‘How should I know? Maybe she doesn’t want him lying around.’
‘And we’re expected to attend the obsequies?’ I asked.
George smiled.
‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
I had assumed the service would he held at the Jakobskirche, where Riemenschneider’s altar is the chief attraction, but I was mistaken. I should have known better. There is no more space for the dead inside the town walls. So, following directions, Tony and I crossed the town and went out through the Roedertor to the new cemetery. It really is new; I couldn’t find any graves earlier than 1720.
For reasons known only to himself, Tony insisted on arriving early, so we wandered around the cemetery for a while. It is a pretty place – if you like cemeteries – well tended, and pretty well filled. A high stone wall encloses it; like the city of the living, it is bright with flowers. We saw several Hausfrauen, with green plastic watering cans, tending the begonias and the miniature pink rose trees which had been planted on the graves.
The others began to arrive. Miss Burton accompanied the Gräfin. She would come, I thought; dead bodies are just her thing. Blankenhagen was also present, watching Irma with more than professional interest. George watched everybody.
We filed solemnly into the little church and took seats – all of us except Tony. He marched up the aisle and accosted the pastor, a slight, dreamy-looking little bald man. I couldn’t hear what they said, but I saw some object pass from Tony’s pocket to that of the pastor. He disappeared, and Tony joined me. He was looking smug, but I had no time to question him before the coffin was carried in and the service began. It was short and ambiguous, in keeping with the state of the remains. When it was over, we straggled out into the cemetery behind the two young Rothenburgers who carried the wooden coffin. In a short time only a mound of fresh earth remained to show where the bones had been laid. It looked raw and stark in contrast to the ivy and flower-covered plots around it. No one would plant roses on Nicolas’ grave.
The Gräfin turned away. Miss Burton joined her, and they went off together. Irma suggested a visit to a cafe, and Blankenhagen was so pleased at her good spirits he neglected to intimate that our presence was not wanted. So we went to The Golden Star, and drank beer, and made conversation, Irma was looking gorgeous. She giggled and flirted, turning from Blankenhagen to Tony with impartial goodwill. I noticed she didn’t bat her eyelashes at George.
As we were leaving the cafe I grabbed Tony and dragged him to the rear. He struggled some.
‘I want to talk to you,’ I said. ‘If you can tear yourself away from Cinderella for a minute.’
‘She gets prettier all the time,’ said Tony, watching the threesome which was now some distance ahead.
I wasn’t jealous. I merely felt he ought to face facts.
‘Yes, she does, and I wonder why? How come she’s so relaxed and pleased with life these days?’
‘Maybe she’s in love,’ said Tony fatuously.
‘And maybe she’s pleased