HS01 - Critique of Criminal Reason (10 page)

The last case on which Tifferch had been working was laid out neatly on his desk. Arnolph von Rooysters, a rich burgher, had left all his moveable property to his butler, a man named Ludwig Frontissen. Apparently, the relatives had tried to reverse this decision, but Tifferch had a sworn testament in the hand of the dead man in favour of the servant which settled the argument. I had sat myself down at Tifferch’s desk to read these papers; Koch was busy on the other side of the room with the last of the scrolls.

‘Herr Stiffeniis,’ Koch said, ‘there’s a cupboard here that’s locked.’

Having noticed a large bunch of keys in one of the desk-drawers, I took them out and tossed them across to him. ‘See if one of those will fit,’ I said.

I heard him jangling the keys uselessly against the lock while I continued reading a sequence of letters and declarations relating to the quarrel between von Rooysters’ relatives and the butler. The descendants of the deceased had appealed to a certain Minister in Berlin who had written to Tifferch to know exactly how things stood in the case. Tifferch maintained that the law was undeniably on the side of the fortunate butler. Minister Aschenbrenner, who was a distant relative of the von Rooysters, agreed with Tifferch, but proposed a compromise to put an end to the squabble. Accordingly, Tifferch had offered the family members one half of the inheritance, which, it seemed, the butler was well disposed to share with them. The dates on some of these documents went back a couple of years, and Tifferch had most recently concluded the dispute to the advantage and the satisfaction of all parties. There was absolutely nothing that might suggest a possible reason for his murder.

‘It’s no good, sir,’ Koch’s voice broke in upon my thoughts. ‘None of the keys fits.’

‘Well, then,’ I replied, ‘do as the housemaid suggests.’

‘Sir?’

‘Force the lock, Sergeant. If he hid the key, he probably kept money and valuables in there.’

With a nod Koch set to work on the lock. Some minutes later, he let out a grunt of triumphant satisfaction. Then, silence followed.

‘Well, Koch?’ I asked impatiently, dragging myself away from the paper I was reading. ‘What have you found?’

‘You’d better come and see for yourself, sir,’ he replied.

I clapped my hands to remove the dust, then joined him on the far side of the room. Koch had placed a candle on one of the chairs to light the cupboard, which was deep and dark. On the top shelf stood a grinning porcelain bust of Napoleon Bonaparte. I stretched out my hand to pick the statue up, and almost dropped it as my fingers closed upon the base. The pressure of my thumb had triggered a hair-spring: the Emperor’s hat flipped up and two satanic horns popped out of the flat hair on his head.

‘What a remarkable toy!’ I exclaimed with a laugh. ‘What else is there?’

On the shelf below was a stack of pamphlets and broadsheets, which Koch and I examined with mounting curiosity. They were ribald and even erotic in their contents, and referred in the most scabrous terms to the Emperor of France. If the anonymous cartoonists were to be believed, Bonaparte showed a marked sexual preference for the animal world. Donkeys he particularly favoured, though in one instance, he was portrayed in amorous coupling with a female elephant. As Koch was quick to point out, the satirical comments beneath these drawings were in the German language, and the obscenities appeared to have been printed on a hand-press using wooden print-blocks, a system long out of commercial fashion.

‘I wonder where he bought these,’ I said, glancing through the pages.

‘Do you think he might belong to a political group, sir?’ Koch asked.

‘A scurrilous circulating library, more like! You could be right, though. It seems as if Herr Tifferch led a busy secret life.’

Were these seditious materials, I asked myself, the cause of his domestic problems? Had his wife chanced upon those disgusting images, the shock proving too great for her health to withstand? The sudden knowledge that one’s apparently respectable husband was, instead, a radical pervert might quite easily transmute a woman of over-strong religious ideals into a living statue.

A living statue…

My mother’s image rose to my mind once more. Sweat broke out on my forehead, and a nervous tic in my throat brought on a coughing fit.

‘It is dusty in here, isn’t it, sir?’ Koch responded diligently. ‘Would you like me to get you a glass of water?’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ I replied, and really it was not. The maternal ghost with her desolate air of constant accusation had fled at the sound of his voice.

‘Do we need to go through all of these pamphlets, Herr Procurator?’ Koch asked, his dislike for the task quite evident.

‘I am afraid we must, Koch,’ I said. ‘We cannot afford to leave any avenue unexplored.’

‘I see, sir,’ Koch replied, and made haste to do what he had so hastily wished to abandon not a moment before.

Still, I tried to make it easier for him. We examined the leaflets front and back, looking for names. None was found, of course, except for
noms-de-plume
of an evidently fantastical and francophobic origin:
Cul de Monsieur, Seigneur Duc de Porc, Milord Mont du Merde
, and so on. We returned this material to its shelf, then moved on down the cupboard. A large, brown velvet box on the next shelf was closed by a small padlock. Applying himself to the key-ring again, and finding no help there, Koch removed the padlock with his knife on my orders. The box opened up to reveal a domestic tableau in wax and wood: Bonaparte and his paramour, Josephine Beauharnais. The Emperor was standing, the Empress sitting on a stool, and they were facing one another. There was an odd expression on the woman’s pretty face, her mouth open, her eyes gaping wide, as if she were in a state of shock or terror. At the jerk of a rod on the base of the model, Napoleon’s trousers slid down around his ankles, his third leg rose stiffly into the air – it was as long as the other two – and hovered close to the mouth of the lady. A lever on the other side of the automaton caused the woman’s head to lean forward and do perverse and beastly things that no self-respecting French Empress ought to do in public.

‘A most…unusual sense of humour,’ Koch murmured uncertainly.

Without looking at his face, I knew that he was blushing.

Could Herr Tifferch have been murdered by Napoleonic sympathisers in Königsberg? A man might keep such toys a secret from his wife and maid, but surely he would share them with his friends. And friends in times as dangerous as ours need to be handled with care. Since the revolution in France, not every man in Prussia is as patriotic as he ought to be.

‘How strong are sympathies for France in the city, Sergeant?’

Koch stroked his chin before he answered. ‘Prussia has been isolated by the political events of the past few months, sir. We have so few allies, and Bonaparte intends that we shall have none. Then, he will attack. But he
does
have followers in Königsberg. He has supporters all over Europe…’ He stopped, and looked at me. ‘But do you really think that some fanatic killed Herr Tifferch for his ribald attitude towards the French Emperor, sir? What about those scars on his body? How do they fit in?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said with a sigh. ‘I can’t see any link. Rhunken’s reports make no mention of whip marks on the other bodies, but he seemed to believe that the connection between the murders was political. He suspected that there was a conspiracy of some
sort
behind all of these deaths, although he could not say what sort of plot it was. This,’ I said, indicating the collection of items in the cupboard, ‘appears to lead us in the same general direction.’

Just then, a ray of sunlight entered the room. Like a beam piercing the dark interior of a
camera obscura
, the light settled for an instant on a rolled-up bundle of dark purple silk pushed to the back of the bottom shelf. Uncertain what Herr Tifferch’s next posthumous trick might be, I retrieved the bundle carefully and held it up in both hands for Koch to see. It was as long and thick as a spicy Danish dried sausage.

Setting this object down on the top of the notary’s desk, I carefully rolled it open. Koch and I looked at the contents in silent disbelief for some moments.

‘This may explain the pained expression on Tifferch’s face when he came down to breakfast,’ I said.

‘I’ve never seen such a thing,’ said Koch in a hushed voice.

I took up the dark leather stick, and shook it in the air. Three long tails with knotted tips waved free in a sinister cascade. ‘At least we know what made those lacerations on Tifferch’s body, Koch. Old scars, new wounds…’

Koch struggled to find his voice. ‘Do you think he did it to
himself
, sir?’

‘There can be little doubt,’ I said. ‘But whether to punish himself for his sins, or as a source of sexual pleasure, we cannot even begin to guess. Perhaps both?’

‘That such a thing could exist in Königsberg!’ It was clear from the expression of shock on Koch’s plain, honest face that he found himself in a new and disturbing dimension. ‘In France they do such things, I’ve heard. In Paris. But here in Prussia?’

‘Put everything back where you found it,’ I said quietly, watching as he returned each object to its allotted place in the cupboard. He handled them as if they might corrode his fingertips, closing the door again with gusto.

As we took our leave, Agneta Süsterich was preparing to feed her mistress. Frau Tifferch was seated in a stiff-backed chair without her veil, a white linen cloth spread protectively over her finery. Her round face was puffy, white, expressionless, her pale blue eyes two empty blanks fixed on the bowl of gruel on the table before her.

‘I hope you’ve found what you need to catch Herr Tifferch’s murderer,’ the maid huffed sharply over her shoulder, the only note of sympathy she had offered for her master since we stepped into the house. ‘You know where the front door is. Her pap’s the only blessed thing the lady’s interested in. She won’t be kept a-waiting.’

Outside in the street I felt a grey blanket of depression fall upon my spirits. What sort of life would Frau Tifferch lead without her husband? What future did she have, a helpless woman in the company of a bitter maid in an empty house? Then again, I thought, what was Agneta Süsterich’s lot? A Pietist forced to live in a Catholic shrine she hated, she was bound to discover the secrets of her master’s cupboard sooner or later. Would the stark revelation make her less caring of her mistress, more resentful of her sinful master? Would she continue to nurse Frau Tifferch? And if she did not, who would? The person, or persons, who had killed Jeronimus Tifferch had brought distress into that household. How much havoc had been caused, and how much more had been swept away forever, with the deaths of Jan Konnen, Paula-Anne Brunner and Johann Gottfried Haase? I knew from my own personal experience the immense distress that a single thoughtless action could unleash on the lives of the people close to a family tragedy.

‘Sir?’

I looked up, and took stock of my surroundings. The winter sun shone weakly above the almost-touching roofs in a narrow strip of blue sky. Packed ice flashed as blue as steel on the cobblestones. The cold wind cut deeper than a sharp knife as it whistled in from the sea.

‘What are your conclusions, Herr Stiffeniis?’ Koch asked cautiously as we made our way to the end of the street.

‘We have found a whip in a cupboard,’ I said. ‘But we still do not know exactly how or why Herr Tifferch died. And neither have we been able to find any connection between him and the others who were murdered. I hardly have room in my head for conclusions.’

I lapsed into a dejected silence as we emerged from the street into a small snow-filled square with a huddle of leafless trees in the centre. I had hoped to discover a great deal more.

‘Do you think that a war with France is inevitable, sir?’ Koch asked suddenly.

‘I certainly hope not,’ I returned promptly, ‘but there isn’t much we can do about it. Russia hovering on our right flank; France on the other, and all this idle chatter about Bonaparte! Who’s for him, who’s against him. And whether King Frederick Wilhelm can keep Prussia out of it. And will the Frenchman let him? The argument never seems to end. In such a climate of mounting suspicion and intrigue, these murders aren’t helping things one little bit.’

General Katowice had warned me that whether the country went to war, or not, might depend on how I managed the criminal investigation. The memory of his alarm set my head spinning once again. Nervously, I unhooked my fob-watch and glanced at the face. It was almost ten to twelve.

‘Is Klopstrasse far from here?’ I asked briskly.

I had no wish to be late. Herr Jachmann was a stickler for watching the clock. He was very like his oldest and dearest friend in that respect.

‘It’s just across the square, sir.’

‘Good!’ I exclaimed.

Before Koch could say a word, I struck out across the snow-filled square.

The house in Klopstrasse stood out from its brightly coloured neighbours like a rotten tooth. The once-green paint was peeling and grey. A dead ivy vine grasped the facade like a skeletal hand intent on throttling the life out of the building. A rusty balcony running the length of the upper floor seemed likely to collapse with the next winter storm. The shutters, half-closed and broken, hung sadly from their hinges. It was not a pretty sight. Herr Reinhold Jachmann’s days of gracious and fashionable living seemed to be long past.

‘Shall I go in with you, sir?’ Koch asked.

‘No, Sergeant,’ I said quickly. I wanted no witness to the conversation I was about to have. ‘Go to the Court House, and see about that list of aliens I mentioned. Send the gendarmes out to check it.’

Koch bowed stiffly. Was it my impression, or did a look of disappointment flash across his face? I watched him march away with all the haste that the fresh-fallen snow would permit, then I turned towards the house. The wrought-iron gate protested loudly when I pushed to open it. A loud shriek gave way to a long painful groan as I forced back rusty hinges which had not tasted whale-oil in many a month. Apart from the crusted footprints that Koch himself had left there earlier that morning as he came to deliver my message, no other impression had been made in the snow. No visitor or tradesman had called before or since.

I let the iron knocker fall against the door, and the sound seemed to echo and rebound on the icy air as if the house and garden were enclosed within a vacuum. A lone blackbird flew away, twittering angrily. That sudden noise shattered the silence which reigned supreme in the garden. The motionless shrubs and bushes hidden beneath the deep coverlet of snow might have been forgotten tombstones in an abandoned graveyard. I was looking around forlornly as the door opened silently at my back.

‘You have come then, Stiffeniis.’

I recognised the deep, resonating boom of Reinhold Jachmann’s voice, though I did not recognise the man as I turned to face him. A cold, unearthly winter had blown over him, too. His thin hair was as white as bleached bed linen, his eyebrows large snowdrifts above piercing, coal-black eyes. His stiff seriousness alarmed me. I remembered a warm friendly man during our first and only meeting seven years before, but the suspicious stranger glaring down at me from the top of the steps was the very opposite. For one moment, I thought he would refuse to allow me to enter his house. We stared at each other in silence.

‘This way,’ he said at last, and led me through the hall and into a sparsely furnished sitting room on the ground floor. Pointing to a sofa before a cast-iron fireplace where a single log smoked and smouldered, he asked me to be seated. It was more an order than an invitation. He watched me sit without a word, then he walked to the window and looked out over the garden.

‘What brings you here?’ he enquired without turning around.

‘A matter of the greatest urgency, Herr Jachmann,’ I replied. ‘A Royal commission.’

‘So you mentioned in your note,’ he said. ‘Can I know its nature?’

I had hoped he would not need to ask.

‘I have been appointed to investigate the recent spate of murders in the town,’ I said quietly.

With a sudden movement, he turned to look at me, some of his former energy returning. ‘You, Stiffeniis? Investigating murder?’

He appeared to be stunned by what I had just told him. ‘I thought that Procurator Rhunken was in charge of the case?’ he said.

‘He died, Herr Jachmann.’

He shook his head and looked confused. ‘I have heard nothing of his death, nor of his burial.’

‘It happened just yesterday evening,’ I explained. ‘Herr Rhunken was buried immediately. There was no funeral. It was his final wish.’

‘Gracious me! What has become of Königsberg?’ he whispered, turning again to the window. He remained there for quite some time, peering out at the snow.

‘I warned you, I
told
you, never to come here again,’ he growled over his shoulder, his face livid with anger, as if I had brought these new disasters along with me from Lotingen.

Another brooding silence followed his outburst.

‘I was very surprised to be assigned the case,’ I ventured to say at last. ‘I accepted the commission with trepidation, sir. For the sake of…’

‘Have you seen him yet?’ Jachmann interrupted gruffly, his eyes still fixed on the garden and the street.

‘Oh no, sir,’ I replied. ‘I would never dream of doing so without consulting you.’ I paused for a moment, then blurted out, ‘Your letter came as a great shock to me, Herr Jachmann. I have not gone back on my word, sir. His peace of mind is as precious to me as it is to yourself. I’ve not forgotten your warning.’

He turned to face me. ‘But you intend to visit him now, do you not?’ His voice had risen again, the blood rushed to his cheeks, and he stared at me with evident distaste.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. ‘Not if I can help it,’ I said, ‘though there is the possibility that we might meet by accident. I thought I ought to warn you, sir. That is why I am here.’ I stopped for some moments, but then curiosity got the better of me. ‘How is he, sir?’ I dared to ask.

‘He is well enough,’ Jachmann returned brusquely. ‘His valet reports to me on a regular weekly basis.’

‘His servant?’ Now it was my turn to be surprised.

‘His servant,’ he confirmed sharply without adding anything more.

‘But you are his closest friend, Herr Jachmann…’

‘I
was
his closest friend,’ he interrupted, his voice cracked, broken. ‘I am still his domestic administrator, but I have not seen him in the past twelve months, or more. He has become secretive, almost a recluse. I go to his house no longer. All essential communication passes through his valet.’

‘How can this be, sir?’

He waved his hand dismissively. ‘There was no quarrel, no argument, if that is what you mean. The professor has no time for old friends. His door is closed to all and sundry. His servant is instructed to say that he is busy, and does not wish to be disturbed. Work and study, as you know, have always been the mainsprings of his existence.’

He twirled away and paced up and down the room in silence, then came to rest once more in front of the sofa. He bent close, the deep lines of age in his long face etching themselves even more sharply with the effort to control his emotions or his temper.

‘Why would any responsible person want
you
to conduct this investigation, Stiffeniis?’ he enquired.

I know what I would have liked to reply. That the King had recognised my qualities, knowing that I would succeed where all other investigators, including Procurator Rhunken, had failed. But I was obliged to concede the truth.

‘I do not know, Herr Jachmann.’

‘I expected an angry reply to that harsh letter of mine,’ he said suddenly. ‘I knew that you would return to Königsberg unless I managed to stop you. Had you answered telling me to mind my own affairs, or asking me to explain the motives that obliged me to write to you in such a manner, I would not have been in the least surprised. But when your answer came, stating meekly that you would comply with my wishes, I was more than surprised, I can tell you. I was alarmed.’

‘I took you at your word,’ I began to say, but he was not listening.

‘You knew
why
I did not wish to see you ever again,’ he continued angrily. He paused, drew a deep breath, then added: ‘I have tried many a time to fathom what passed between you both that day in the fog.’

I stared into his accusing eyes and held my breath, recalling the day seven years before when I had been privileged to speak in private with the most famous man in Königsberg, Jachmann’s friend and colleague at the University, Professor of Philosophy, Immanuel Kant.

‘You ordered me to avoid the city for the good of Professor Kant,’ I whispered. ‘I had no idea why, but I saw no reason to question your integrity. You were his dearest friend. You knew what was good or bad for him, and…’

‘
You
were bad for him!’ His white face suddenly blazed with resentment. ‘That is the point. Don’t you see? Why should there have been any need for me to forbid you to see Kant? What other reason could there be to make me fear for the mental stability of the most rational man on Earth?’

‘You are unjust, sir,’ I protested, but Jachmann rode over me.

‘I realised that something was amiss whenever your name was mentioned afterwards,’ he continued with great intensity. ‘It had such a marked effect on him. There was agitation in his manner, wild distraction in his eyes. It was out of character, totally unlike him. This madness began the day that he invited you to lunch. In itself,
that
was an event without precedent.’

‘Why do you say so, sir?’ I asked.

‘He had never invited a stranger to his home before. Not once!’ He looked at me inquisitively. ‘Something in you triggered his interest. Something that you had done, or something that you had said to him.’

‘But you know why he invited me,’ I replied with passion. ‘I had just come back from Paris, Professor Kant was interested in what I had seen there.’

Jachmann nodded grimly.

‘I recall your speech about what you saw the day the Jacobins executed their legitimate ruler…’

I closed my eyes to block out the memory. Would the image of that moment never leave me in peace? How long would it haunt me? The sight of human blood on the ground. The stench of it in the air.

‘…Paris, January 2nd, 1793,’ Herr Jachmann intoned pedantically.

The scene flashed before my mind’s eye. The bubbling gaiety of the crowd. The condemned man in his soiled finery proudly climbing the steps to the block. The oiled blue triangle of steel shimmering in the early morning light. The sound of grating metal as the blade fell. Then, blood! Oceans of crimson blood, spurting out of that severed neck like water from one of the ornamental fountains that the King had built for himself at Versailles, drenching the faces of the onlookers. Falling like rain on my own face, on my mouth and my tongue…

‘They murdered the King that day.’

A king? A man had been butchered before my eyes. A flick of a lever, and a shadow had been cast upon my soul. A hidden part of myself had risen up with the mob and taken possession of my confused mind.

‘Kant had met others who had been in France,’ Herr Jachmann continued. ‘Others who were involved in those tragic events. He was not upset by what they had to say. But you, Stiffeniis!
You
brought a malignant plague to his house that day.’

He stared fixedly at me.

‘Whatever happened between the two of you, Stiffeniis, it changed him. It changed him totally. And it all began with that conversation about the effect of electrical storms on human behaviour.’

‘It was not
I
who raised the subject,’ I spluttered in my own defence. ‘
You
started it, sir.’

‘But it was you,’ Jachmann replied, his finger pointing accusingly, ‘
you
, Stiffeniis, who led the discussion in such an unsavoury direction. You froze the blood in my veins!’

He turned his gaze to the fire. ‘How many times have I regretted that odious conversation! Kant was studying the effects of electricity on the nervous system in that period, he was interested in little else. And the night before, there had been a terrible storm.’

Every single detail was still vivid in my mind.

‘Looking out of your window,’ I murmured, ‘you found a stranger in your garden. Careless of the lashing rain, the thunder and lightning, he was staring up at the sky in a trance. You’d been disconcerted by his behaviour, and you asked Kant if static electricity might provide an explanation for it.’

‘And he replied by saying it was not the electrical discharge, it was the unbounded energy of Nature which had fascinated the man,’ Jachmann went on. ‘The destructive power of the elements had mesmerised him. Kant referred to the
incantamento horribilis
. Human Kind, he said, is fatally attracted by Sublime Terror.’

He sat down heavily in an armchair, his forehead couched in his hand. ‘I was shocked. Unable to believe my ears. Immanuel Kant? The Father of Rationality celebrating the powers of the Unknown? The dark side of the human soul?’

‘I remember, sir. You objected that such power belongs to God alone. That Man is bound by moral ties which he should never question…’

‘Then
you
spoke up,’ Jachmann interposed, still shading his eyes, avoiding my sight, ‘and suddenly the pleasant young student who had won our respect with his good manners and his sound reasoning appeared in a different light.’

‘I just said…’

He held up his hand for silence. ‘Your words are indelibly printed on my memory. “There is one human experience which may be equal to the unbridled power of Nature,” you said. “The most diabolical of all. Cold-blooded murder. Murder without a motive.” ’

Jachmann stared at me, his eyes narrowed and resentful. I felt as if my body had been stripped away, my soul exposed to view.

‘When Professor Kant shifted the discussion elsewhere,’ he went on, ‘I felt grateful to him. But the ghost that you evoked that day had not been laid to rest. He insisted on taking a turn around the Castle Walk alone with you, though he had not been out of doors all winter, except to go to the university. The fog was dreadful, you remember. But I knew that he would wish to talk with you again.’

‘You are curious to know if we talked further of the same subject. Are you not?’ I asked, on the defensive.

‘You are wrong, Stiffeniis,’ he replied. ‘Totally wrong! I do not wish to know what was said. But let me tell you what happened as a consequence. When Kant returned to the house, I was waiting for him. Long before I saw him through the fog, I heard his footsteps. And what I heard was enough to convince me that something was wrong. Very wrong. Kant was running. Running! But from whom? From what? I rushed out to meet him, and the expression on his face was frightful to behold. Rather, I was frightened by what I saw. His eyes sparkled with nervous energy. I thought he had taken a fever. I expressed my concern, but he announced that he had work to do which could not wait an instant. In short, he sent me about my business! And the very next day, he told me that he had begun to compose a new philosophical treatise.’