HS03 - A Visible Darkness (40 page)

Klaus Flugge raised his head, and fixed me with his viewing instrument.

‘A moment more, I pray you.’

Might their scrutiny bring forth some intelligence which would be of use to me?

I held my silence.

And yet, I thought, they ought to be bombarding
me
with questions. Had I found the amber on the coast? Purchased it? And if so, how much had it cost me? The law made plain that such a piece should be consigned to the State. That amber was contraband, and they certainly knew it. Unless I had inherited it, they could only
assume that I had had it from a Frenchman, or from a Prussian smuggler.

Still, they made no objection.

They continued to exchange opinions in whispers. That is, the father talked, while the son nodded, reaching out for a stick of graphite, with which he began to make some marks on a sheet of paper. It seemed to me that the less the father spoke, the more furiously the son began to draw.

‘Gentlemen,’ I interrupted, attempting to explain my presence there.

Klaus Flugge held his finger up for silence, never shifting his eye from the paper on which his son was working. Some minutes passed, the graphite stopped moving. The two men looked at one another, then at the sketches, of which there were two. Then, they both stood up to face me.

The artist seemed drained by his efforts. The father’s eyes shone brighter than before. He lifted up the paper, and offered it for my inspection.

‘Here you are,’ he said with evident satisfaction. ‘This is the design that we propose, sir. You won’t find anyone along the row who’ll do it better. Such a startling creature requires a setting which is bold and daring. It has not survived the ravages of Time to be closed up in the dusty cabinet of some French museum. Or worse, to adorn the mantelpiece of some functionary in Paris.’ Klaus Flugge bridled, as if such a destiny were unthinkable. ‘You’d be shocked to know how many of our national treasures have been carried off.’ He let out a sigh, laid his gloved hand flat on his chest, and added: ‘Thank the Lord, this one is in good hands. I would not dare to ask you where you got it, sir. We consider it a privilege to behold such a marvellous piece of Baltic amber.’

If I showed surprise at the warmth of this reception, Herr Flugge betrayed no sign that he had noticed it.

‘These are traditional designs,’ he said, holding up the paper. ‘This one is very popular. We’ve done quite a few along these lines. Your specimen is larger, of course. But the other customers were highly satisfied. Paulus is a master of his trade. We call this model
“The Prussian Eagle.” Set in gold, of course. Silver will not do. The reddish tint of the amber would overwhelm it. The nugget can be firmly fixed in place by the eagle’s breast feathers. And held—here and here–by the talons.’

He looked at me uncertainly.

‘You’d like to see the alternative? “The Hohenzollern Crown” is always dear to our hearts.’ His smile grew brighter as he described the effect. ‘Imagine the cushion–that’s the amber. Imagine the royal garland—purest gold—resting here upon the cushion. Oh, it will be stupendous. My son has really done it justice.’

Paulus Flugge glanced up, then modestly lowered his head.

‘Then again, sir,’ Klaus Flugge continued suavely, ‘we are here to serve
you
.’ He bowed, then added quickly: ‘Many gentlemen come with an idea already fully formed. We are happy to content them. We’ve seen some fine insertions recently, but this one is the finest of them all.’

Klaus Flugge seemed greatly pleased with himself and his son.

Most of all, he seemed bewitched by that polished carbuncle of amber.

‘This jewel will be a tangible symbol of our history,’ he went on lyrically. ‘Prussia, the Baltic Sea, the treasure which lies beneath it. Amber is the soul of Prussia. Nowadays,
foreign
hands have dared to desecrate this precious rarity.’

His Adam’s apple took a sudden dive inside his high, stiff collar.

‘If you desire it, sir,’ he rushed on, ‘a fraternal emblem might be implanted on the underside, two swivels—here and here—transforming it into a secret symbol of nationhood known only to the wearer. And to others of a like mind.’

A secret symbol known to others of the same persuasion . . .

Did rebels wear insertions to identify themselves? And did Herr Flugge serve such men? Had I discovered the secret path that smuggled amber took? Our own Prussian nationalists?

‘I am not here to commission a jewel,’ I admitted. ‘The woman who owned this amber was murdered. I am a magistrate, and I am investigating her death.’ I looked from the father to the son. Their eyes widened, their brows creased. Those shocked expressions
made them seem more markedly alike than I had previously noticed. ‘I came to ask for information. That is all that interests me. I was wondering whether you had ever been employed to set such a jewel as this one. But you have answered me already.’

I picked up the amber nugget, and clasped it in my fist.

‘Do not be alarmed,’ I said. ‘I did not intend to trick you, sirs. Nor would I arrest two Prussian craftsmen for a misunderstanding. Yet, it is evident that you have had vast experience in handling amber containing creatures. This was found in Nordcopp . . .’

‘Nordcopp?’

Oddly, it was Paulus who spoke. If fright subdued his father, the same fear seemed to embolden him.

‘Two women have been murdered there,’ I explained.

‘Are you working for the Prussian authorities?’ he asked.

The incisiveness of his question surprised me.

‘They know that I am investigating the matter,’ I replied in the vaguest terms, afraid that greater honesty would inhibit them even more.

‘So, you are working for the French,’ the son concluded, as if he were a magistrate and had just read out a capital sentence. As he spoke, he gathered up the amber beads by the handful, carelessly dropping them into a glass jar like so many boiled sweets. Did he wish to save his precious stock from contamination with the piece that I had shown them?

‘Your father admitted that you have set a number of similar pieces,’ I pressed on. ‘Who brought them here? And where would someone obtain a piece like this one?’

Paulus Flugge turned aside.

‘That French officer, don’t you remember, father? That piece containing . . .’

‘An ant,’ the old man insisted. ‘A tiny, tiny ant. There wasn’t much to see, but he was delighted.
Excentrique
was the word he used.’ He tilted his head, and stared at me, frowning so hard that furrows appeared on his brow.

‘We did the work,’ said Paulus, picking up the tale. ‘We knew that the decree had just been signed, of course. Even such a trifling
piece should not have left the country, but what were
we
to do about it? Can a Prussian challenge a French officer’s right to do exactly as he pleases?’

‘Hardly,’ I agreed.

‘And now, here you are, Herr Magistrate, with your fine example. We will not be asked to break the law in this case. You want information. Information which we do not possess, unfortunately for you. What more have we to say to each other?’

He considered me to be a traitor, without a doubt. I could not change his opinion, but I would not let the opportunity slip.

‘But you said you have created other jewels of this type. Patriotic emblems, let us call them. How many have you made?’ I insisted. ‘Your father spoke of each piece being different . . .’

‘Setting amber is our trade,’ Klaus Flugge flared up in support of his son. ‘Every piece that we make is distinct and original. We pride ourselves on that fact. That is what I meant. Nothing more.’

‘You described amber as the “soul of Prussia,” and I quote you.’

‘All true Prussians think so,’ he replied disdainfully. ‘Unhappily, it is ours no more. You know that, sir, coming from Nordcopp. The French have made great changes, we have been told.’

I held up my hand to stop him.

‘Herr Flugge, I am interested only in the murdered girls. I don’t care what your business is. Amber of exceptional value is involved in the crimes. But look here,’ I pulled my album from my bag, and began to flick through the pages, searching for the rough sketch I had attempted to make of Kati Rodendahl without the mutilation. ‘Have you ever seen this face before?’ I asked, holding up the picture.

Her eyes were closed, her cheeks were hollow. I had not been able to disguise the fact that she was dead. And they knew it. They stared at the portrait, their magnifying lenses growing out of their brows like monstrous warts, but both men shook their heads when I insisted on an answer.

‘What about this girl?’ I asked, turning to the sketch of Ilse.

They boggled at the triangular cavity in the girl’s throat, but neither spoke.

Perhaps they were too shocked to speak. And yet, I thought, it was more than possible that girls like Ilse and Kati had made their way from Nordcopp to the shops in Königsberg, selling what they had managed to steal.

I turned the page.

There was Edviga. Whole, well, bright eyes sparkling. Clearly alive.

‘Have you ever seen this woman?’ I said, hoping for little, expecting less.

Their heads turned, one to the other. An unspoken message passed between them.

‘I remember that scar,’ Klaus Flugge admitted. ‘It did not mar her face in the least. We have seen her here. Not recently, of course.’

‘How long ago?’ I asked.

‘Shortly after Jena, as I recall,’ the old man said, musing as he said it, and I remembered what the son had said about his father’s remarkable memory.

‘Two years ago?’ I quizzed him.

‘Not quite so long,’ he said. ‘She came from the Samland peninsula.’

So, I thought, Edviga Lornerssen had worked elsewhere collecting amber, and for quite a while before she came to Nordcopp.

‘Did she bring you amber?’ I held the sketching-album propped against my chest like a reading-stand, hoping that the sight of Edviga’s face would spur him on to marvels.

‘What else?’ Paulus Flugge intervened. ‘We deal exclusively in amber.’

I asked myself why the Flugges were now so ready to talk of Edviga. Was it because that portrait was clearly not the picture of a girl who was dead? Or, having imprudently revealed the fact that many of their customers were nationalists, had they decided to give me a titbit to keep me happy? By doing so, they would distance themselves from any suspicion regarding the girls who had died.

‘Where does your amber come from, sirs?’

‘Now, that’s a question that we can answer,’ Flugge Senior replied. ‘We purchase raw materials from the Königsberg Guild, sir. They pay the French, then they distribute it to us. Not to jewellers alone, please note, but to all the men who use amber in their trades. Makers of soap and furniture polish, for example. Mixers of medicines, paints and balms. They use powder made from broken bits and fragments, most of them. Amber of the best quality must be entered in the register of the local Guild. And in our accounts-book, too. Then again, sir, very occasionally, a young woman . . .’

‘Most infrequently,’ Paulus stressed.

‘. . . walks in through the door, bringing a piece of amber . . .’

‘Not quite through the usual channels,’ Paulus added.

‘And she asks if we would like to buy what she has for sale.’

‘But most infrequently . . .’

‘I wish to see your registers,’ I said, interrupting this duet.

A thick book in a heavy red leather binding was brought out for my inspection. I felt my heart sink. What did I expect to find? There would be lots which was of no use to me at all, and nothing of what truly intrigued me, that is, amber containing insects, amber which the Guilds were no longer allowed to sell.

‘This volume covers the last ten years,’ Klaus Flugge announced. His confidence seemed to have returned to him. ‘Month by month.’

I spent some minutes sifting through the pages. The Flugges bought roughly six pounds of amber every month, slightly more in the months before Christmas. Each time a purchase was recorded, there was an ink stamp and the signature of the emissary who had brought the goods, together with the signature of Klaus or Paulus Flugge. The emissary signatures for the last twelve months, I noted, were French, as were the exorbitant prices paid. The cost of unfinished amber had tripled in a year. Nothing that might be of help to me, however. The only thing of interest was a certain fussiness which the father and the son displayed, meticulously noting what they did with their monthly allowance of amber. Handles for knives and forks made up the bulk of their work, together with frames for miniature pictures and compact mirrors. They made twice as many
earrings as bracelets and rings. Those pages reflected the changing tastes of Prussian fashion—brooches were out, lockets were in—though ever more frequently the name of the purchaser was French. In one instance, in March 1808, just five months previously, Messrs Flugge had acquired ‘
two large lengths of solid amber—dark red in colour, streaked with yellow veins, opaque
,’ as the description read. These had been transformed by Paulus Flugge into ‘
two virile members, almost life-size
’ on the order of a French
chasseur
whose name was Captain Noel Laganarde. The price agreed upon was fifty-six thalers ‘
per item
,’ which more than equalled the average monthly earnings of the shop. Nothing in the register suggested that the Flugges had ever set a piece of amber containing an insect in a patriotic clasp, or bought a piece of amber on the sly.

I closed the ledger.

I could have made a nuisance of myself. That is, I could have come back in the company of French soldiers, and turned their shop upside down. Or I could have reported them to General Malaport, suggesting that they might know the names of seditious elements that might be worth arresting. Then again, I could have had their names struck off the Guild’s list of registered amber-jewellers. I could have closed their shop, for ever.

But I did none of these things. Rather, I compressed the threat that I represented into a few words as I prepared to leave the shop. ‘If I need any further information,’ I warned them, ‘I’ll be back.’