Harriet frowned at the earth in front of her. ‘Did he write about the Freemasons? Did he have enemies there?’
Dorf looked surprised. ‘He was a Freemason. He wrote against some of the Lodges, who he believed had forgotten the central ideas of brotherhood and charity in their search of esoteric mysteries. The Rosicrucians he thought fools, and said so.’
Harriet pondered this. ‘You would say he had influence in court?’
‘He did. He was well-liked there. Do you think that might have been why he was killed? Some intrigue there?’
‘I can hardly say.’
‘One moment, Mrs Westerman. We were talking about my friend, a prominent writer certainly, but no more. And, I presume, about Lady Martesen …’
Harriet looked at him; he had the long dark eyelashes that reminded her again of her horse. She suddenly missed Caveley very much. ‘Dieter Fink, Count von Warburg.’
His eyes widened. ‘You think there is something suspicious in those deaths also?’
‘I do,’ she said simply. ‘Well, certainly in Fink’s case. Of Warburg, I do not know as yet. But do you see what I am suggesting? A banker, a writer, a first lady of the court. It begins to look like a campaign, does it not?’
‘And you asked about Freemasons because …?’
‘Mr Graves heard rumours in London of a group called the Minervals. They were said to have revolutionary aims and to be active in this part of Germany. I wondered if they were conducting a campaign against Maulberg.’
Herr Dorf gave a little snort and nodded to himself. ‘That is a coincidence. Minervals? One moment. There was a gentleman who wished us to publish some rather wild accusations about an organisation of that name. I thought it was ridiculous, but I may still have the papers. You are in luck, the gentleman wrote in French.’
‘What happened to him?’ Harriet asked.
‘Disappeared off to Strasbourg in a cloud of indignation, I think. Will you wait a moment while I try to find it?’
Harriet was happy to do so.
Michaels found Kupfel’s house easily enough, then lit his pipe and leaned into the shadows to consider. There were two other shopfronts opening onto this particular square. From one drifted the smell of meat cooking, and there was a steady stream of people coming and going from the doorway, their midday meal wrapped in scrap paper, steaming in the cold air as they dispersed again into the streets. When it looked like the rush had died down a bit, Michaels shifted himself out of the shelter of his corner and went in. It was a low room, dark with steam and smelling strongly of onions, but clean enough. There were two or three tables about, and he took a free seat in a corner, ordered liver and onions and made himself comfortable. The girl who fetched and carried from the kitchen gave him a smile, and he touched his forehead to her, but until he had eaten and was alone in the place he made no attempt at conversation. He knew it would come. No one ran an establishment like this unless they had a friendly sort of nature. They would be sighing and stretching now, glad the hardest work of the morning was out of the way and just in the mood to find a stranger interesting.
‘Like it?’ the girl said as she took away his plate.
‘Just like Mother used to make,’ he replied with a grin.
She frowned briefly. ‘Not from round here, are you?’
‘You’ve got a good ear, miss! No, I was born and raised in London. My mother was from here though, that’s how I know the language.’
‘London!’ The girl sat down at once and put her elbows on the table. ‘I’ve heard of London. Is it true anyone can get rich there and end up in a carriage?’
‘Some do, I guess. I’ve got the blunt to pay for one myself now. But I like to ride and my wife would sooner walk.’
The girl hugged herself. ‘My! How did you get so rich?’
He scratched his chin. ‘Prize-fighting got me started. After that, horses and their care.’
She laughed. ‘No good to me then. Horses make me nervous, and I can’t see me fighting for money.’
An older woman appeared through the door to the kitchens, wiping her hands on her apron, and the girl twisted in her chair. ‘Here, Mum, you’ll never guess. This fella is from London, though he talks just like a real person.’
Michaels tipped his hat and got a friendly enough nod in return. ‘Thank you for the liver and onions, ma’am.’
She looked at the empty plate on the table and lifted her chin. ‘Nice to see good cooking appreciated. You look like the sort of man who’s a pleasure to feed.’
Michaels shrugged and studied the tabletop. ‘Not sure my lady wife would agree with you, ma’am. She says it’s like having a pack of wolves to tend.’
The cook looked pleased. ‘Sure she doesn’t mean it, Mr …?’
‘Michaels, ma’am, just Michaels.’
‘We wives love to tease our menfolk almost as much as we like to feed them. I’m Mrs Valentin, and this is my daughter Gurt. Now might you like a little something to settle that in your stomach? I brew a Schnapps that can take the nip out of a fresh morning.’
‘That’d be a real treat, ma’am.’ Michaels pushed out the chair and bowed.
‘Such nice manners! Gurt, go and fetch the flask and shut the door, then maybe Mr Michaels can tell us how he comes to be in Ulrichsberg.’
IV.3
Frau Gruber thought her excitements for the day were over, and was glad of it, when there was a firm knock at the door and the tall thin figure of Mr Crowther appeared on the step. He reminded her of the priest in the village where she had grown up, with his formal German and the severe glint in his eye. She had hoped that she had got past the age where a man could make her feel nervous, but this one did. He was so unlike her old master, his belly busting out of his waistcoat and his laugh of brandy and tobacco.
He said he wanted to talk to her a little more, and was invited in. Not wishing to receive him as if she were mistress, but feeling the kitchen would be inappropriate, she ushered him into her master’s study and went to fetch a little of her own stock of sweet sherry. When she returned he had his cane under his arm and was flicking through one of the master’s books. He turned as she came in and went about arranging the liquor and glasses on the table, but remained with the books till she invited him to sit.
‘You are most kind, madam,’ he said, and she felt herself blush.
‘How may I be of assistance, sir?’ she said as she poured out the wine. Lord she was sounding like her old priest now. If her niece came in and heard her talking so fine she’d laugh her silly head off.
‘Will you tell me, madam, anything you can remember of the last day of Mr Fink? I am sorry to discomfort you in any way, but such was our amazement this morning, we did not make detailed enquiries.’
She sipped her wine a little gingerly. ‘Discomfort’, eh? Might just be his German but it sounded like he’d heard about the whores. Lord save me, she thought. In for a penny.
‘His Excellency had breakfast at home, as always was his custom. He then did some work here.’ She pointed at the desk and they both looked at it for a moment.
‘Did he receive any visitors at that time?’
‘No, sir.’ She nodded and was about to sip her sherry again when she saw her glass was near empty. Mr Crowther saw it too and made to pour her another. He really wasn’t so bad, after all. She noticed his glass was still full, though.
‘He went to the palace for a time, then came back about two and had his dinner here.’
Mr Crowther took a sip of his sherry and gave a look as if he approved of it. Man just needed some feeding up.
‘I have heard there were signs that he also had visitors in the evening.’
Some of the jollity left her. He did know about the whores. ‘He did love his wife, Mr Crowther. But men … I don’t think she minded, really, and he was always very sweet to her when she came home.’
‘I do not judge,’ he said.