The Tin Princess Page 14

  He paused, listening carefully. There was a faint line of light under the door, and slight sounds of movement came from inside, as if of someone folding back bedclothes. He knocked softly and heard a sharp intake of breath.

  "Who's that?"

  He turned the handle and went in, shutting the door silently behind him.

  "Jakob," he said. "Remember me? I carried your trunk up for you."

  "What do you want? You're not a servant, I can tell. Who are you?"

  The old woman was standing by the bed, her white nightdress voluminous around her, a lacy nightcap on her grey hair. The candle on the bedside table flickered in the draught.

  Jim said, "I'm Count Thalgau's private secretary. And you're in trouble, Frau Busch. I followed you to the grotto this evening, and I saw the man who's in there. Why is Prince Leopold being kept prisoner? And why are you helping his wife?"

  She gave a helpless little gasp and sat down on the bed. Her mouth opened once or twice and then set in a trembling line.

  "You'd better tell me," he said. "You know that woman is the one who killed King Rudolf. See this scar on my hand? She did that with a knife. I wouldn't be at all surprised if she was behind the deaths of Prince Wilhelm and Princess Anna, too. Your husband was with Prince Leopold when he was reported killed - and now you're mixed up in this. You're in trouble. Wake up and realize it. What's going on?"

  She put a hand to her breast and closed her eyes. A sigh shook her, and then she began to cry softly.

  "I didn't mean to do anything wrong! All I ever did was out of love! What are you going to do? Are you going to give me away to Baron Godel? He would have me shot! And how would that help anyone?"

  "You tell me," said Jim. "I'll sit here and listen. We're all alone; we've got plenty of time. Tell me everything."

  The old woman got into bed and pulled the blankets up high, shivering as if with cold.

  "I was Prince Leopold's nurse," she said. "I was nurse to all of them, but I loved him best. When he married I was the first person he told; he brought his wife to see me, secretly. He wanted me to approve, you see. He was closer to me than to anyone. She wasn't what I would have chosen, but it wasn't my place to choose his wife for him, and she loved him, in her way; she was fierce and passionate; I could see she would be loyal, and he needed that so much; he was frightened of his father, frightened of Baron Godel, frightened of his duty, almost.

  "So I kept their secret, but of course it wasn't a secret for long. They found out and banished her, and then took him to Ritterwald. My husband was the chief huntsman. They told him what to do: he was to take Prince Leopold out into the forest, and kill a boar, but make it look as if the boar had first killed the Prince. Some men met them in the forest and took the Prince away to Neustadt, to the asylum there, where he was kept prisoner. I know, because Baron Godel paid me to go and look after him."

  "It was Godel's plan, then?"

  "Oh, yes."

  "Did the King know about it?"

  "That was no concern of mine. In the King's eyes, Prince Leopold died when he married that woman."

  "So it was Godel's doing, keeping him alive ... he's mad, poor man."

  "Wouldn't you be? Locked away underground, no one to know you're alive, forbidden to speak to anyone? Of course he went mad, poor dear soul. I did my best to look after him, but I could see it happen, little by little; the madness crept over him like ... like cobwebs creeping over an empty room. Oh, I cursed myself many and many a time! I prayed that some power would take us all back ten years, before it had happened! My husband, poor man, he knew, and he couldn't face what he'd done; he shot himself soon afterwards. I've looked after Prince Leopold all his life - baby, boy, young man, prisoner, madman. I looked after him in Neustadt and when they moved him here a little while ago they brought me here to be close to him..."

  "Why did Godel bring him here?"

  "I don't know. No concern of mine. I suppose he's going to overturn that English girl... Are you English?"

  "Yes."

  "I thought so. One of her servants?"

  "Yes. So are you, Frau Busch. She's the monarch Godel isn't. What he's doing is treason, and if you're doing anything to help him, you're a traitor too. Tell me about the actress. What's her name?"

  "Carmen Ruiz is her stage name. She uses other names as well."

  "Why did you take her there tonight? Is that part of Godel's plan as well?"

  "No! God forbid! He doesn't know the first thing about her. I kept in touch with her, for his sake, for the Prince. Prince! Ha! He's King, rightfully, and she is the Queen! That English--"

  "Don't you know your own history? Queen Adelaide is the Adlertrager, and rightfully so. Do you think that poor man would be capable of ruling? He'll be fit for nothing for the rest of his life. What did you think would happen when you involved his wife? Did you know she was responsible for killing the other two princes?"

  "Nothing to do with me."

  She sat there defiantly, her lips set, her cheeks flushed, her bright eyes red-rimmed and hard. He stared her out. Finally her gaze faltered and dropped, and tears spilled on to the sheet.

  "It's no concern of mine!" she sobbed. "I wrote to her because she loved him! And I took her there tonight because she wanted to see that he was still alive! All I do is for him, my poor baby Leo, my little prince..."

  "Do you want to see him out of that filthy hole?"

  "Yes!"

  "So do I. He needs to be set free and cared for properly. But listen to me, Frau Busch."

  "I'm listening..." Her eyes were bloodshot, her breathing was laboured.

  "You've already gone behind Godel's back. If he finds out what you've done, he'll punish you, he'll send you away, you'll never see Prince Leopold again. And if he doesn't punish you, I will. If you're sent away, that'll be the end of the Prince. Now where can I find Carmen Ruiz?"

  "What are you going to do?"

  "What's that phrase you keep using? It's no concern of yours. If you want the Prince to stay alive, and if you want the chance to keep on looking after him, tell me where that woman is."

  She gulped, or choked. Her breast heaved laboriously, and she said, "In Para ... Parasol ... Paracelsus..."

  Then her head fell forward. A light, high moan came from her throat, and a thread of saliva trailed from her chin on to the sheet. Jim leapt up, looking around for the bell-pull, and remembering a second later that there wouldn't be one in a servant's room anyway. Frau Busch was having some kind of apoplectic seizure: what should he do? He laid her down, made sure she wasn't choking, and ran to bang on the door of the next room along.

  He opened it without waiting for a reply, and said to the sleepy maid who looked up astonished from her bed, "Frau Busch, next door to you. She's ill - didn't you hear her cry out? She woke me up! Run and get help, and hurry now."

  Leaving the girl to scramble up, he ran back down to his own room, put his revolver in his pocket, and set off out again.

  Chapter Twelve

  STATECRAFT

  Forty-five minutes later, he was climbing the dusty stairs to the attic where Karl von Gaisberg lived. He tapped on the door, opened it, and by the light of a match saw that Karl was fast asleep. A half-eaten meal still occupied part of the table, and a fat mouse slouched resentfully away to eye Jim from a hole in the wainscot. Beside the dirty plate a volume of Schopenhauer had its place marked with the blade of a fencing foil; a candle had guttered to extinguishment between the horns of a goat's skull, whose eye-sockets wore a pair of broken spectacles; a champagne cork stopped the mouth of a crusted inkpot; a broken chair lay beside the iron stove, for fuel; a photograph of the actress Sarah Bernhardt was pinned to the wall above Karl's bed, surrounded by hearts drawn on the crumbling plaster; and on the floor all around lay at least two dozen sheets of paper covered with blots, scrawls, crossings-out, diagrams and closely written Gothic script. It was headed "An examination of the Idealist implications of Schopenhauer's Platonism". Halfway down the last sheet w
as the triumphant word FINIS .

  Jim stepped over the papers, flung open the shutters, and rattled the poker in the stove to wake the embers.

  Karl stirred and groaned.

  "What you doing? Who's that?"

  "It's Jim. Where d'you keep the coffee?"

  "Flowerpot. Windowsill. What's the time? What are you doing up?"

  Karl sat up shivering, and shrugged on the dressing-gown Jim threw him. The Cathedral clock a stone's throw away stirred itself in a shiver of cogs and springs and weights, and the ancient mechanism marched through its whirring pantomime before striking five. Karl rubbed his hair and yawned while Jim put some water on the stove to boil.

  "Listen, my boy," Jim said, "we've got trouble..."

  He thrust the last chair-leg into the stove, and then sat down to tell Karl about the night's events. By the time he'd finished, the water in the little copper pot was boiling, and Karl padded across the cold floor to find two cups.

  "Leopold?" he said. "Are you sure? It's impossible."

  "I saw him, and I saw the Spanish actress, and I heard it from the mouth of the old woman. It's true."

  "But... Why? Cui bono? Who gains by keeping him prisoner all this time? Not the Royal Family, surely?"

  "No. I don't think the old King even knew about it. This was a scheme of Godel's from beginning to end. He kept Leopold up his sleeve so that he could bring him back as ruler one day. You remember the fight in the beer-cellar on the night we met? That fellow Glatz was going on about Leopold. I think there's a strong current of blood-loyalty in this place, especially in the old dark corners of it. Godel's been planning some trouble, and that's why he brought Leopold to the grotto from the asylum at Neustadt, ready to bring him out..."

  "Have you told Count Thalgau?"

  "No, damn it. He's up to something of his own." Jim told Karl about Becky's note, and went to the window to look out over the city. The wind of the night had scattered the clouds, and the air was fresh; and in the east the stars were fading as the dawn lightened the sky behind them. "So we've got to do two things," Jim went on. "We've got to rescue Prince Leopold, both for his own sake and to spike Godel's guns; and we've got to find the Spanish woman. And we've got to do them both without telling the Count. Do you know anywhere in the Old Town with a name like Paracelsus?"

  Adelaide was awake early. She lay tense and eager between the fine linen sheets, stroking the little sleeping black kitten with one hand, fretting for the moment when she would lay her plans before the German and Austrian negotiators. She felt herself at the very centre of a multitude of life as the city woke around her. She could almost see them all, her subjects: the servants yawning and lighting fires in the cold kitchens, bakers sliding their flat paddles under crusty, steaming loaves to take them out of hot ovens, farmers slapping the flanks of cows in the milking-parlours, monks in the Abbey of St Martin mumbling over the office of Prime. They were all waking one by one, and only little Saucepan was asleep.

  As the sun rose and the traffic thickened in the streets, as the waiters in the cafes hurried from table to table with steaming coffee and hot rolls, the chief Austrian representative stood at the open window of the Embassy, breathing deeply and swinging a pair of Indian clubs to improve the vigour of his circulation, and the chief German representative lay in bed, pondering snoozily whether to order an extra brioche for breakfast, to fortify him against the rigours of the day.

  In an apartment on the third floor of a solid old building on the Glockengasse, one of the clerks from the Razkavian Ministry of Foreign Affairs dabbed at his neat moustache with a snowy napkin, pushed back his chair from the table, and, having smoothed down his already glossy hair, went into the hall to say goodbye to his family.

  His wife was holding out his attache case and his Homburg hat; his five daughters stood in line, in order of size, ready to be kissed.

  "Goodbye, Gretl ... Inge ... Bertha ... Anna ... Marlene. Be good girls. Work hard today, as Papa will. Goodbye, my dear. I shall be a little late this evening; we have a formidable task. A formidable task!"

  They waited respectfully while he gave his moustache an extra twist in the looking-glass and set the hat jauntily on his pomaded head, and then waved goodbye as he set off down the stairs.

  "Goodbye, Papa! Goodbye, Papa!"

  From all over the city, Herr Bangemann's colleagues, the clerks and secretaries and junior administrative assistants, were making for the Palace, with an extra spring in their step, an extra shine on their shoes. And the ushers and the footmen of the Palace staff were busily laying out the Council Chamber in preparation for the talks.

  The Council Chamber was on the sunny side of the Palace; the autumn light gilded everything inside it with a meticulous splendour. The table was spread with a green baize cloth, and in front of each place (there were sixteen: five each for Germany and Austria, five for Razkavia, and the Queen's own chair at the centre) there lay a blotting pad, a crystal inkwell with red and black ink, a little tray of pens and pencils, a carafe of water, a glass and an ashtray.

  Behind each of the principal chairs was a smaller, less comfortable one, on which a clerk or secretary was to sit. Behind Adelaide's chair, of course, was Becky's, a little back and to the right.

  As the delegates assembled in the ante-room, with secretaries clutching their bundles of papers and boxes of documents and volumes of legal argument, Adelaide the Queen stood in her Drawing Room on the floor above and peered closely into a looking-glass held by her maid.

  "Very handsome," she said. "Oughter knock their eyes out. Here - tuck that bit of hair over me ear, come on, get it right. Becky! Stop yawning! That's the third time in two minutes. They haven't come here to look at your tonsils, girl. You been up all night? You look God's-own awful. You shouldn't fool about when we got important business to do. What's the time? How long they been waiting? Give 'em another minute. Five minutes late is royal; four's hasty. Six is languid. I don't want to be languid today. I'm going to make the buggers hop, see if I don't. All right, Marie-Helene, stop fussing, you baggage, go and open the door. Where's the Count? Ah, here he is..."

  Frowning grimly to try and suppress another yawn, Becky followed. She hadn't slept properly; her dreams had been filled with a dark woman, armed with a knife, cloaked and faceless and climbing slowly up the stone side of the Palace towards a window, but whether her window or Adelaide's, she couldn't say. And now her head ached and her eyes were red. Well, she'd have to concentrate harder than ever in her life if she was going to help Adelaide through these talks. This was what she'd become Queen for, she'd said. It was the most important thing she'd ever do.

  Her Majesty was pale, composed, beautiful. Only the set of her lips and the little flicking of a thumb against a finger showed her tension, as the footmen bowed and threw open the double doors that led into the Council Chamber.

  Well if she ever stops being Queen she could earn a handsome living on the stage, thought Becky, watching the thirty or so pairs of eyes turn and widen in admiration.

  Adelaide went to her place and spoke. She had written the speech herself, letter by laborious letter, and Becky had translated it and rehearsed her thoroughly. Now teacher watched pupil proudly as the clear voice spoke the words in faultless German, pitched perfectly to the size of the room and the solemnity of the occasion.

  "Good morning to you all. Welcome to the Council Chamber of my Palace. At first I thought that we might hold these Talks in the Great Hall of the Castle, where Walter von Eschten signed the Treaty in 1254 that guaranteed the freedom of Razkavia.

  "But then I decided that castles are for times of war, palaces for times of peace. Razkavia is not threatened now as it was then; our little country is established and safe and guaranteed."

  She paused a moment, a slight expectant smile on her lips, and sure enough there came a murmur of agreement, a shuffle of feet, a few discreet nods. Who could disagree with something so innocently expressed? And it was exactly enough to establish an atmosphere of wi
llingness, of good intentions, even of a certain sly humour.

  Becky settled down to work, and soon forgot the ache in her head and the stiffness in her shoulders in the sheer fascination of watching history being made.

  In the Cafe Florestan, the Richterbund were pooling their knowledge of the city. Paracelsus... What the hell did that mean?

  "Paracelsus-Strasse?" suggested someone.

  "Is there such a place?"

  "No!You're thinking of Agrippa-Strasse, near the Castle!"

  "Well, another alchemist ... Paracelsus-Garten, that's what she meant."

  "It's not Paracelsus-Garten, it's Parasol-Garten! Where the Marionette Theatre is!"

  "Oh yes. So it is. Well, there's a Paradies-Garten too. It might be that."

  "Stick to Paracelsus, for God's sake. Paracelsus-Platz? Is there a Paracelsus-Platz?"

  "It's a code. She was referring to gold, because of the alchemy. I reckon she meant the Goldener-gasse."

  "There's a painting of Paracelsus somewhere. I'm sure I've seen it. In the Museum..."

  Jim looked at Karl, who blew out his cheeks. "Better start looking," he said. "We'll each take a section of the city and search it thoroughly. Anything you find, report back. Anton, stay here and keep a note of where everyone is and what they find..."

  And so the search for Paracelsus began.

  Adelaide played statecraft with all the guile and passion that she put into her other games, and Becky began to realize that perhaps she had been preparing for this with every throw of the dice, every move of a chesspiece. As the morning went past, and the details of the negotiating positions became clearer, Becky, beside her at the heart of it, followed her moves with increasing admiration.

  At mid-morning, the German Trade Minister insisted on a large discount on the price of Razkavian nickel in order to compensate Germany for not being able to buy the whole of it. Adelaide called an adjournment, and while the rest of the delegates were walking on the terrace smoking their cigars, deep in discussion, she cast the German Minister a smouldering look from her great dark eyes and invited him to come and see the last of the roses. Helplessly, he went, and Becky, interpreting from a step or two behind, watched like a ghost as the two of them walked along between the rose-beds. Adelaide looked up at him and spoke fervently about the great affection and admiration Razkavia felt for Germany, and how a mystical bond of kinship united the two peoples in a spiritual union that was far above the demands of commerce. Before five minutes were up the poor man was half convinced firstly that Adelaide was in love with him; secondly, that he was too noble to take advantage of it, but thirdly, that an offer of help on his part would be worn in her heart for evermore; and when the talks resumed, the size of the discount agreed on was somehow much less than the Germans had originally asked for.