HS03 - A Visible Darkness (24 page)

Gurten threw on his stockings, linen and trousers, then searched in his bag for a letter. Sealed with wax, it was addressed to me. He handed it over with a bow, then continued dressing with nonchalant elegance. A cambric shirt, a yellow waistcoat finely embroidered with rosebuds. He slipped effortlessly into riding-boots, which were new and costly.

I had never seen a man so sure of himself—with, or without clothes. There was nothing bold or reckless about him. He seemed to match exactly the measure I had taken of him when I read his note the night before: confident, but respectful at one and the same time.

I broke the wax, and opened the letter.

Honourable Magistrate Hanno Stiffeniis of Lotingen,

The most urgent requirement in the formation of a judge is practical experience, as you well know. In response to the request
made by the bearer of this missive, Johannes Gurten, trainee magistrate, has been assigned to your care for a period of two months with precise instructions to assist you in your daily round, and question you in regard to your administration of Civil Law.

On completion of his probation, please submit a detailed report to,

Your most humble servant,

Gregor von Gernshorn
,

Senior Magistrate in the City of Potsdam

I closed the envelope and handed it back.

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to postpone your training, Gurten. I cannot say when I shall return to Lotingen and my duties . . .’

‘Lotingen is not the point, sir,’ Gurten said politely, slipping effortlessly into the space that I left him as I drew a deep breath. ‘
You
are the point, Herr Stiffeniis.’

He sat on the bed, back straight, hands on knees, blue eyes focused on mine, like a prisoner waiting for me to pronounce sentence.

‘I asked specifically to be assigned to you, sir,’ he added. ‘It was not so easy to achieve in Potsdam, you can imagine. They wanted to send me to Berlin. Magistrate Otto von Rautigan’s name was mentioned. You’ve heard of him, I shouldn’t wonder.’

I knew von Rautigan as the author of a shelf of standard works of reference in any decent School of Law. Now, I supposed, he would be nearing the end of his working life. Still, any young graduate would have given the world for the opportunity to work in his office. I most certainly would have.

‘I do not wish to sound like a flatterer, sir,’ Gurten continued, ‘but I should have been disappointed had they sent me to work in the offices of Minister von Arnim himself.’

‘I am certainly flattered,’ I said, and I was telling the truth. Another thought occurred to me. Out in the church, I had asked God to spare me further problems. Had God sent me help, instead, in the person of this young man? ‘What advantages do I offer that von Rautigan cannot surpass?’

Gurten bounced on the bed, and answered quickly. ‘Herr Stiffeniis, were it not for the serious expression on your face, I would think that you are making fun of me. Not one of the greatest magistrates in all of Prussia possesses what you possess, sir.’

Was he making fun of
me
? His seriousness suggested that he was not.

‘I do not understand you.’

‘Kant, sir. Immanuel Kant.’ He raised his hands and joined his palms together as if he meant to pray to the soul of the philosopher. ‘Four years ago, you went to him in Königsberg. Kant has always been my spiritual north . . .’

‘I thought your spiritual north was east,’ I quipped, looking at the spot on the pavement where I had found him lost in meditation five minutes before. ‘Are you not a praying Buddhist, sir?’

He smiled. ‘Buddhists have no god and do not pray. I use their technique of meditation to enter into closer contact with the spirit of Christ. There is no better place than a Pietist church to ponder on the mystery of God’s essence, sir.’

Had anyone asked me why I had been praying in that Pietist chapel five minutes before, I would given the same answer.

‘You find me in a difficult situation, Gurten,’ I explained. ‘The investigation in which I am engaged has nothing to do with our Prussian authorities. I would like to help you, but I cannot.’

His eyebrows arched. ‘Are not
you
the legal representative of Prussian interests in this case?’

‘Do you know what is happening here?’

‘I know something,’ he said. ‘I called on you in Lotingen yesterday. Your office was closed, but a note was pinned to the door, saying that you had been sent to Nordcopp on an urgent mission. It was signed by a certain Colonel Claudet.’

Despite myself, I let out a loud sigh. No man in Prussia would read such a note without assuming that I had sold my soul to the French. That I had chosen to further my career by serving them. Would anyone in Lotingen believe that I was interested only in removing the putrefying waste from our streets?

‘Did you see the state of the town?’ I asked him, anxious for news.

Gurten wrinkled his aquiline nose. ‘I’ve never seen such filth, sir. Only flies and other insects prosper in Lotingen, I think.’

I had left Helena and my children in that stinking mire, and I continually chastised myself as I went about my business on the coast.

‘The French don’t seem to care,’ he muttered.

Our eyes met. Shared resentment flashed between us. He did not say a word against them, but it was clear that he had no time for our foreign overlords.

‘I must show you something,’ he said, standing up, opening his bag, taking out a roll of papers. ‘I gathered these in Lotingen, sir. Before the dust had settled behind your coach, these were already floating in the air.’

He handed over two broadsheets—one of fair quality paper, the other a rough rag.

The
Bullétin militaire
announced that ‘
Prussian magistrate Hanno Stiffeniis of Lotingen has been appointed to investigate a murder in Nordcopp
.’ The writer underlined the fact that I had accepted the task of helping the French without hesitation, pointing out that ‘
such willing collaboration is rare among the native populace.
’ Before the end, he casually mentioned the fact that I had left an eight-months-pregnant wife and three small children behind without a second thought.

‘It puts my family and me at risk,’ I said, and felt my cheeks burn brightly.

Gurten sighed and turned his head aside, as if to spare my shame.

L’Ami des peuples
was a blatant copy of the Parisian broadsheet with which the monster Marat incited the crowd before the victims of his ire went to meet the guillotine blade. The news reported was the same, except for a rough silhouette of a tall, thin man striding away, while a large-bellied woman with three small children in tow waved him goodbye.

‘May I keep these? I asked.

‘I’d rather burn them,’ Gurten replied.

I quickly folded up the papers, and put them in my shoulder-bag.

‘Your wife must be exceptionally brave,’ he added quietly.

‘Did you see her, by any chance?’ I asked.

‘It would have pleased me greatly,’ he replied. ‘But I didn’t stop half an hour in town. I jumped on board the coach again, and dashed here after you, sir. In the future, perhaps, I may have the opportunity to make her closer acquaintance.’

‘My wife is everything that a man . . .’ I began to say, but then I faltered.

I had never revealed such sentiments to a stranger. Why was I doing so with Johannes Gurten? He claimed to be a trainee magistrate. He insisted that he had chosen me as his tutor. Was he telling the truth? How many powerful men in Berlin—the king, or Minister von Arnim himself—would want to set a hound on my heels? A man who would ingratiate himself with me. A spy, in other words.

‘Have you been sent to watch me?’ I asked him flatly.

The laughter which erupted from his lips was the loudest thing I had heard since entering the chapel confines. ‘You must excuse me, sir,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I wondered how long it would take before you asked me. After all, here am I, an acolyte, who turns up out of the blue. And there are you, a magistrate depicted as a traitor to his nation. It was a natural supposition on your part, but there’s no truth in it. I cannot prove to you that I am not what I am not, but there is one thing that I can do. Let me serve you, sir. Let me learn what you have learnt from Professor Kant. I swear to you in
his
name that I am not a spy.’

I shook my head, though he had in part convinced me of his good faith. It was the name of Kant that did it. I had believed as fervently in Kant when I was Gurten’s age. ‘I am quartered inside the French camp,’ I explained. ‘That is where the victims lived. And General Malaport alone has the power to open the gates and let you in. I can see no way around the difficulty. The commander is eager to be rid of me. He will not welcome my assistant.’ A bitter laugh escaped from my lips. ‘Today, he believes that he has got rid of me!’

‘Does he really, sir?’

It was the expression on his face that finally won my confidence. I did not feel as though I were talking to a stranger. Instinctively, I felt inclined to trust him. Something similar had happened four years before, when Amadeus Koch had come to carry me off to Königsberg and Immanuel Kant. Irksome incomprehension had quickly given way to abiding friendship, while all around us the city was plunged into chaos. I had not felt alone. Now, I was drawn to Gurten by the thought that he would listen and respond to me in a language that was native to us both.

The young man pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, a gesture I would soon know well. ‘The victims lived in the French camp,’ he murmured. ‘Yet, they managed to elude the guards and reach Nordcopp. Surely they were trafficking in stolen amber?’

‘Perhaps,’ I countered.

‘What other reason could there be to murder amber-gatherers?’

‘Colonel les Halles has arrested a man named Adam Ansbach,’ I replied. ‘The Frenchman believes that sex is the motive.’

He edged closer, and frowned. ‘Is this man a Prussian?’

I nodded, curious to know where his reasoning would lead him.

‘And he is accused of murder by the French,’ he said with a grimace. ‘Nothing happens here on the coast, but amber is the cause. And especially now that it is in their hands.’

‘But I have found nothing to contradict the accusation,’ I said. ‘So far, at least.’

Gurten stretched out his hand, as if to lay it on my arm. He stopped short, his hand in mid-air, smiling awkwardly, embarrassed by his own impulsiveness, perhaps.

‘Procurator Stiffeniis, you will need a spy in Nordcopp,’ he said. ‘Someone to act as your eyes and ears. A man who is not known in the French camp. A Prussian who can move with ease among our own people.’

I had to smile. He seemed to contradict my fears, generously offering to do for me what I suspected him of doing already.

‘I am that man, sir.’ He paused, looked up eagerly. ‘As a child I travelled with my father in this region. He was a comptroller for
the old Baltic Trading Company. Fish and furs for the most part, but they also dealt in amber.’ He edged closer. ‘When I learnt that you’d been sent out here on a case involving amber, it seemed to be a potent sign of my destiny, sir.’

His mysticism took strange and unexpected paths, I realised.

‘Did you see a sign before you asked to be seconded to my office?’

I found it hard to keep the sarcasm from my voice, but he did not react to it.

Instead, he laughed, and said: ‘That’s not the half of it, sir! When I discovered that you’d been sent to the amber coast, I thought to myself: this was meant to happen. I may be able to help the man who learnt his trade from the great Immanuel Kant. By helping you, Herr Stiffeniis, I may be able to help my country.’

A sort of growl erupted from my throat. ‘Judging by those papers that you brought from Lotingen, you seem to be one of those rare Prussians who thinks that I am acting in the national interest.’

He shook his head, held up his hands. ‘I should not have shown them to you.’

‘You did the right thing,’ I said.

‘I may do another, yet,’ he said. ‘At five o’clock this morning, sir, I opened my Bible, and began to read the first passage that came to hand. You’ll never guess what it was!’

‘It is possible to find everything in the Bible,’ I replied dismissively.

Would he use the Holy Book in his attempt to make me take him as my pupil?

‘I read the page where Moses leads his people through the Red Sea,’ he rushed on. ‘The waters close again on the heads of the Pharoah’s army, and drown them all. And as I read it, I was thinking of the French . . .’

The image of les Halles being swallowed up by the Baltic Sea was a pleasing one.

‘And there’s something else, sir,’ he pushed on quickly. ‘Something inside this convent that you ought to see. I have been here
with my father many times, the pastor knows me well. Yesterday, I had just arrived, he told me something he would not have told to you, or anyone else. It may be helpful to your investigation.’

I had prayed to God for help when I entered that convent.

Had my prayer been answered?

J
OHANNES
G
URTEN LED
me down a dark corridor.

A row of identical wooden doors was set into the right-hand wall, a different inscription carved in Latin in the lintel above each one. At regular intervals along the opposite wall, a narrow unglazed slit let in a sliver of light.

‘They live according to the rule of Jakob Spener here,’ Gurten explained.

I had been brought up in a Pietist family, and had no need to ask what he meant.

‘Unfortunately, the convent is built like a rabbit warren,’ he added.

He paused for an instant in front of one of the doors, then entered without troubling to knock. I followed him into a small room which was dimly lit by a single tiny window. A score of people were huddling in the gloom, adults and children, seated all together on a narrow bench along the far wall. A man held up a large Bible; a woman read from it. Her words were echoed in a whisper by the assembly; they seemed to know the text by heart, reciting something concerning ‘unfaithful shepherds who abandon their flocks.’