Borrower of the Night - Elizabeth Peters [56]
It took the romantic jerk several seconds to see what I meant.
‘Irma?’ he exclaimed, so loudly that I slapped my hand over his mouth. He pulled it off and continued, just as indignantly, but in a lower voice.
‘You’re crazy jealous. How could she manipulate all our ghosts?’
‘I will pass over your gratuitous and uncouth insult,’ I said, ‘and point out a few solid facts. The profit motive applies just as well to Irma as it does to her aunt. So far as opportunity goes, she has the best of anyone. You saw the hidden stairs on the plans; she could have gotten out of her room and left the door locked. As for the armour, it would take a short man to wear it – or a woman. But the really damning fact is the séance. Unless you believe in possession – which I do not – how do you explain her reference to the fire? She’s lived here all her life, she could have found out about Konstanze’s death the same way you did.’
‘I don’t buy the motive,’ Tony said, but he was disturbed. ‘This is a damned roundabout way to get at a hidden treasure. She is the only one who could search openly for the shrine. Why all the ghosties and ghoulies? It’s a crazy way to act.’
‘Maybe she is crazy. Maybe she has motives we don’t understand because we don’t know enough about the situation.’
‘So what do we do now?’
‘What we do is, you tell me about that mysterious envelope you slipped the minister.’
‘Nothing to tell,’ Tony said.
‘Let us apply logic,’ I said sarcastically. ‘You want someone to believe you kept something out of the steward’s belongings because there was important information in it – papers, maybe, in the pouch – though how you expect anyone to believe papers would survive . . . You think someone will try to dig up the . . . When, tonight?’
‘That is the most ridiculous series of non sequiturs I’ve ever heard!’
‘What time do we meet?’
It was about midnight when we took up our vigil in the cemetery. We had some difficulty finding a place that wasn’t already occupied. It was behind a low wall, shadowed by two funereal trees. We could have been closer to the steward’s grave, but I refused to move. I have few superstitions, but I try to avoid lying on graves when I possibly can.
After we were settled I glanced uneasily at the sky. The moon was almost full, but the sky to the west was overcast, and from time to time clouds obscured the moon and left the graveyard quite dark. The night was warm, but damp lingered in the earth under the tree, and the blanket I had brought was useful.
Tony keeps insisting with maddening monotony, that what happened was not his fault. Now I don’t hold him accountable for meteorological phenomena. The dark cloud that hid the moon around 2 a.m. was more or less unexpected and undeniably uncontrollable. But the fact remains that if he had been paying attention . . . I’m perfectly willing to admit I wasn’t paying attention either. All I want him to do is shoulder half the blame.
It was not until we heard the creak of hinges that we realized what was going on. Even then things might have worked out if Tony had kept his head. Instead of moving slowly and quietly, he leaped to his feet, planting a knee in my stomach in the process. I grunted.
The scuffle was warning enough for the grave robber. I had only a glimpse of a dark form leaving the grounds at impressive speed. Tony started in pursuit and lost valuable time by falling into the hole that had been excavated. When he realized where he was, he got out with considerable alacrity. The moon was still hidden, and he cursed it fluently, without noticeable results.
I had caught up with him by that time, having recovered my breath while he was floundering around in the open grave.
‘Hurry,’ I yelled. ‘Street outside is lighted . . . we can see . . .’
We couldn’t see our quarry, but we could hear him. Cemeteries are notoriously quiet places, especially in the middle of the night. From the sounds, the man seemed to be heading for the gate on Ansbacher Strasse.
As we had already ascertained, the gate was locked. I didn’t expect it to