‘What are you looking for?’
‘There ought to be a door down here somewhere. For workmen, repair materials – they wouldn’t drag lumber through the chapel . . . Ah, I thought so.’
The north end of the crypt was made of brick instead of the stone prevalent elsewhere. Set into the wall was a low door fashioned of heavy wooden beams bound with iron. One of the keys on the Gräfin’s ring fitted the massive keyhole, but in addition there was a modern padlock and a series of bolts and chains. When these had been dealt with the door opened into a corridor with a number of rooms leading off it. The first was typical of all the others – a vaulted stone chamber, poorly lit by a grating high in the wall. It contained nothing but some scraps of wood and a broken pottery bowl.
‘Storage room,’ said Tony, after an inspection had yielded nothing of interest. ‘We must be under the far end of our own wing now. My God, this place is big.’
‘Too big. All we need to do is miss one stone, in one wall or floor.’
‘It isn’t as bad as that. These are public rooms – places the servants had access to. It’s unlikely that the count would have a secret wall safe down here.’
We gave the other storerooms only a cursory search. Finally we reached a big room lit by several windows at ground level, but still dark and dismal. On one wall was a flat stone slab like a table. In the corner was a hooded fireplace big enough to roast a couple of oxen.
‘Kitchen,’ Tony announced unnecessarily. ‘How would you like to whip up a meal in this mausoleum? We’re under the Great Hall – I’ll bet that stair goes up to it. Here’s where the banquets were cooked.’
‘We won’t have to thump on these walls, then. I haven’t got any skin left on my knuckles.’
‘Here’s your well.’
Tony tugged at a stone which was equipped with a rusted iron ring. The stone slid aside with a screech, leaving a gaping hole. Peering into it I saw, far below, the glimmer of water.
‘Cover it up,’ I said suddenly, glancing over my shoulder.
Tony heaved the stone back into place.
‘You can see,’ he said, ‘why I don’t recommend solitary exploring. If something went down there, it wouldn’t come up.’
He led the way along the corridor outside the kitchen, dismissing a series of closed doors with the comment, ‘More storerooms.’
At the end of the corridor we found something that couldn’t be dismissed so casually.
Stairs led down into Stygian darkness, far below ground level. Below was a short corridor with three doors opening onto it. The doors were of iron, with bolts as thick as Tony’s arm. In the upper half of each door was a small barred opening that could be closed by a sliding iron plate.
We didn’t need Tony’s keys. The doors had not been locked for centuries, not since the last Count of Drachenstein had given up his seignorial privileges of imprisonment and execution to the state. But the doors looked functional, even now.
‘They will squeak,’ Tony warned, and pushed on the first door.
Squeak was hardly the word. The hinges screamed like a wounded animal.
I was secretly relieved when the flashlight showed no heap of mouldering bones, no grinning skeleton held erect by rusted chains. There was nothing in the cell, not even a bench or a shard from a broken water bowl. It was simply a square, windowless stone box about eight feet by eight. Yet there was an aura in that room which would have made human bones seem like meaningless stage props. The cell stank of fear and despair; a miasma of ancient agony shrouded the walls like fog. It required all the courage I possessed to step into that evil little room. From the sound of Tony’s breathing I suspected he didn’t like it either.
The walls and floors seemed to be solid. The second cell was a duplicate of the first, and the third, which was so small that neither of us could stand erect in it, was equally unproductive. Tony let me precede him in a retreat which closely resembled flight, and neither of us stopped running until we stood panting in the Great Hall, with a closed door between us and the grim medieval kitchen.
I don’t know how Tony passed the rest of the day; I spent quite a lot of time washing. I was grey with dust and sticky with perspiration, but I kept on washing long after my surface was clean. The stink of those cells had penetrated to the bone.
I had another errand to take care of. By the time I finished, I was good and hungry. The dining room was full when I arrived. Glancing around, I realized I had been so absorbed by the small group of guests who occupied my wing of the Schloss that I had lost track of the others. The family from Hamburg and the honeymooners were gone. Most of the tables were occupied by a party of German students, husky, tanned youngsters who made even Tony look elderly.
George was brash and cheery as ever.
‘Where were you two?’ he asked. ‘I went downtown later, but I couldn’t find you.’
‘We drank beer,’ I said. ‘What did you do for amusement?’
‘Went to church. I was breaking the Tenth Commandment – or is it the Ninth?’
‘Coveting your neighbour’s goods?’ Tony was not amused. ‘The Riemenschneider altar?’
‘Yes. I’d steal it if I could think of a way to get it out of Germany. There’s another altar at Creglingen, across the valley. I think I’ll drive up there tomorrow.’
‘It is considered his masterpiece by some,’ said Blankenhagen suddenly. ‘I myself prefer certain figures in the museum of Würzburg.’
‘We’ll have to see Würzburg,’ George said. ‘Maybe after we leave here. How much longer do you plan to stay, Vicky?’
‘I never make plans. I’m just a creature of impulse. Don’t let me interfere with your arrangements.’
Blankenhagen gave me an enigmatic look, and continued to be informative about Riemenschneider.
‘He was one of the councillors of Würzburg. During the Bauernkrieg, he and eleven other councillors supported the peasants, and when the nobles captured the town he was imprisoned.’
‘So he picked the losers,’ George said. ‘He got his, I suppose.’
Blankenhagen shifted in his chair.
‘They pierced his hands,’ he said. ‘Never again did he do a work of sculpture.’
‘Artists shouldn’t dabble in politics,’ George said. ‘He should have stuck to his last, or chisel, or whatever he used.’
I wanted to hit him with something – something hard. I consider myself unsentimental, but I could not have joked about an atrocity like that. What made it worse was that George wasn’t joking. He meant what he said.
‘He had at least the knowledge,’ snapped Blankenhagen, ‘that he suffered for a cause he believed was right.’
‘I wonder,’ said George, ‘if that was any satisfaction to him.’
We spent the evening in the lounge, yawning at each other. Tony was silent and rather peaked-looking. For the first time in too long I remembered his injury. I hadn’t even had the decency to ask how he felt. Feeling guilty, I let him escort me to my room when the witching hour of ten struck. If he had asked me nicely, I might even have agreed to stay there. But he didn’t ask. He told me.
‘Stay put tonight. That’s an order.’
I nodded. A reflexive movement is not binding legally.
The next two hours were difficult. I didn’t want to leave my room until I was sure Tony had fallen asleep. It would be just like him to check up on me. But I had a hard time keeping awake. I was short on sleep and long on tiring adventures.
Finally I barred my door and shoved the heavy cupboard away from the wall. As I started down the hidden stairs I noticed that the beam of my flashlight was getting dim, and I retraced my steps. I had bought extra batteries and a can of oil in town earlier, and I was taking no chances on having my light fade out in the middle of some dark hole. Then I went back to the passage.