The Fatal Tree (13 page)

T
here was a knock on the door, and the magistrate’s secretary put his head into the room. “I am sorry to disturb you, Herr Richter.”

“What is it, Pavel?” asked the magistrate without bothering to look up from the papers in his hand.

“It is that man – he is here again.”

“Which man, Pavel? More specificity is expected in this office.”

“The baker,” replied the secretary. “The one from the kaffeehaus on the square.”

The chief magistrate felt his heart sink. “Oh, him.” He raised his head and glanced at his secretary. “What is it now – six times he has been here? Seven?”

“Nine, Herr Richter. This is the ninth time he has asked to see you.”

“Well, send him away.” He snapped the papers in his hand with a flick of his fingers. “Can you not see that I am busy? Tell him to go away.”

“Of course, Chief Magistrate,” replied Pavel. “I will certainly do as you command.”

The magistrate returned to his reading, but his clerk remained wedged in the door. The one day of the week when the office was open to public petition was always a nuisance, one inconvenience after another. Today, it appeared, would be no different. “Yes, Pavel?” sighed Richter. “Am I never to get anything done?”

“A thought, merely,” replied the secretary. “Far be it from me to tell the chief magistrate how to conduct his affairs – ”

“Get on with it, man,” demanded Richter. “What is it?”

The clerk stepped farther into the oak-panelled office with its shelves of books and sheaves of papers and scrolls bound in red ribbon. “It simply occurred to me that if, perhaps, you would agree to see him this once, then he might be persuaded to, as you say, go away.”

“This has occurred to you?” wondered the magistrate.

“Indeed, Herr Richter. See him – it is all you need do.”

The chief magistrate sighed again, more heavily, and tossed the papers onto his enormous black desk. “Oh, very well, Pavel. I will see him. But he must wait his turn. Who is next?”

The secretary frowned. “No one, Herr Richter.”

“No one?”

“The baker is the only one to come today.”

Richter puffed out his cheeks. “Humph! Well, then let us be done with him for once and all.”

“A wise decision, Chief Magistrate. I will send him in directly.”

Herr Richter trimmed the wick on his candle and arranged his features in his most forbidding aspect. A moment later the door opened to admit his persistent visitor – a large, well-fed fellow with a shock of pale, unruly hair and the pink, scrubbed face of a much younger man. Clutched in his large hands was a shapeless green hat; he entered with the smell of fresh bread still clinging to his flour-dusted clothes. “Come in, Baker… ,” Richter searched for a name.

“Stiffelbeam,” offered his visitor. “It is true that I am a baker, but my name is Engelbert Stiffelbeam.”

The magistrate lowered his brows in displeasure. “If you please, Baker Stiffelbeam, explain to me why you deem it necessary to pester the official organs of the state with your petty concerns. Hmm? What is so important?”

“Forgive me, Chief Magistrate, it is not my intention to irritate the organs of the state.”

“I am a busy man, as you can see,” grumped Richter. “Declare your business and be on your way.”

Engelbert stepped to the desk and placed a small parcel before the magistrate.

“What is this? A bribe?”

“No, Herr Magistrate – it is a pastry. Everyone must eat.” He smiled. “I made it myself. For you.”

“Oh, well – I see.” Herr Richter took the parcel and placed it to one side. “Now then, your business – ”

“A baker, as you said – ”

“No, no – I mean, why are you here? Why have you come to this office?”

Engelbert nodded and drew a breath, remembering the speech he had prepared. “Good magistrate, I come before you to plead the case of men who are languishing in prison this day. It is my deepest wish that – ”

“These men whose case you plead,” interrupted the magistrate. “What is the case against them?”

“Assault and battery,” answered Engelbert.

“They are friends of yours, these men? Relatives?”

“They are not my friends, Magistrate. Nor are they related to me in any way.”

“Then what is your interest here? These men owe you money, perhaps? That is the reason for your concern, eh?” The magistrate wagged his finger at his visitor. “Answer truthfully and be quick about it.”

“No, wise magistrate, they owe me nothing.”

Chief Magistrate Richter nodded, his eyes narrowing a little further. “The crime they committed – they are innocent, I suppose?”

“Far from it. They committed the crime,” replied Engelbert.

“How do you know this?”

“It was me they assaulted – in my own bakery. I was the victim.”

“When did this happen?”

“Many weeks ago – twelve weeks, I believe.”

“Then why this sudden urgency? Why have you waited until now to speak up?”

“I must beg your pardon, Herr Magistrate, but I did not wait until now. I have been coming here for many weeks. Today is the first time I have been allowed to speak to you.”

“Leaving that aside,” huffed the magistrate quickly, “you are perhaps thinking that this imprisonment is in some way unjust? You think them wrongly imprisoned, eh?”

“That is not for me to say.”

“Who, then? Eh?” Richter gave him a sly smile as if catching a culprit trying to evade his relentless logic.

“Why,
you
, Herr Magistrate. Surely it is for you to hear the case and decide what justice demands.”

Richter’s stern magisterial frown deepened. He did not care for the way this interview was proceeding. The magistrate wagged his finger again. “I warn you, baker, this flippant attitude of yours will not be tolerated in this office.”

Engelbert nodded thoughtfully, then began again. “I beg your pardon, Magistrate. I wish only to see these men released from prison.”

Richter studied the benign features of the man before him. “Why?” was all he could think to ask.

“Why?” wondered Engelbert. “Because it is only right and fitting.”

“But you have affirmed the charges against them and sworn to their guilt. From your own mouth you condemn them. Why, then, do you seek their release?”

“I am the one who was wronged, and I have forgiven them their sins against me.”

“The law is the law,” intoned Richter. “Justice must be served and must be seen to be served.”

“With respect, Magistrate, I believe these men have suffered enough and that keeping them in prison any longer cannot serve any just or useful purpose.” He hesitated, opened his mouth, and then closed it again.

“Yes?” demanded Herr Richter sharply. “What else?”

“I was merely going to point out that they have no one to look after their needs, and they have spent the little money they have on such food and water as they were able to get from the gaoler.”

“Humph!” snorted Richter. “They should have thought of that before they went around assaulting and battering solid, upstanding citizens of Prague such as yourself.”

“Of course,” agreed the baker. “Yet perhaps the time already spent in prison might be taken into consideration and regarded as fair punishment for the crime. Justice would be served. Then might the men be released?”

Magistrate Richter reached for a little brass bell on the side of his desk. He rang it, and when his clerk appeared, he said, “Assault and battery – there are men being held in gaol. Do we know about this, Pavel?”

“We do, Chief Magistrate. You will recall that this is the case in which the imperial court has taken an interest.”

“This is
that
case?”

The clerk nodded solemnly.

The magistrate adopted a grim and forbidding aspect and stood slowly to deliver his verdict. “Your petition is denied. The malefactors will remain in custody until the charges against them can be heard.”

“Again I feel I must beg your pardon, sir,” said Engelbert. “When will the hearing of these charges take place?”

Richter the magistrate was not used to having his every utterance challenged. He drew himself up in all his magisterial dignity. “The charges will be heard when I decide that it is time to hear them.”

Engelbert nodded slowly, then smiled. “I will see you next week.”

“You do not understand. The men must be made to answer for their crimes. The charges will be heard in due course. And in any event, the matter is out of my hands. You will kindly go about your business and allow me to go about mine.”

“With pleasure, sir. Yet I feel I must explain that the future of these poor men has become my business. I cannot in good conscience let this matter rest until it is resolved.”

The magistrate reached for the bell resting at the corner of his desk. “I wish you a good day, Baker Stiffelbeam.” He rang the bell and said to his clerk, “This audience is concluded. Please show the baker to the door.”

“This way, if you will,” said Pavel. “I will see you out.”

Engelbert followed the clerk into the outer office. He paused at the door and said, “You said that the emperor had taken an interest in this case, I believe?”

“Indeed, yes,” the clerk assured him. “A rare occasion, to be sure. But it happens from time to time. Naturally, we must respect the wishes of His Highness in all things, Baker Stiffelbeam.”

“Naturally,” agreed Engelbert with a smile. “Thank you for telling me. I will bring
you
the pastry next time.”

T
he Copa del Rey final between Real Madrid and Athletic Bilbao for the championship of Spanish football’s Primera Division descended into chaos with tragic results when seven bulls charged onto the pitch. Players from both teams raced for the sidelines as the enraged animals thundered in from the players’ tunnel during the closing minutes of the first half at Santiago Bernabeu stadium.

Striker Fernando Sola, caught near the Madrid goal, successfully evaded two animals but was trampled and gored by a third in full sight of over eighty thousand screaming fans. The attempt to rescue the wounded player turned into a bloodbath as spectators poured onto the pitch in what one match commentator described as an “impromptu running of the bulls.”

Young Spaniards, fuelled by lager and sangria, leaped over the crowd barriers. One witness estimated more than a hundred young men ripped off their shirts and rushed onto the field of play – most to show off their bullfighting prowess and others to help wounded comrades in the inevitable melee. In the carnage to follow, eight people were killed. Five more were crushed by the crowd trying to flee the stadium when rumours of a bomb were broadcast, and three additional victims succumbed to wounds received by the bulls and later died in the hospital.

Police on-site killed four of the animals, and the remaining three were corralled and taken away by livestock handlers drawn from the crowd; these animals would be examined for clues as to their origin. The official story that the bulls were hijacked en route to a bullfight in southern Madrid remains pure speculation.

A statement issued by the Ministerio del Interior indicated that the incident was being treated as an attack by ETA, the Basque separatist movement, in what was labelled an obvious attempt to disrupt Spain’s national pastime. Interior Minister Juan Carlos Navarro was quoted as saying the Spanish government would prosecute the perpetrators with the full force of the law and that those responsible would not escape.

However, a spokesman for the Policía Nacional said that although the investigation continued, the police had very little material evidence to pursue. CCTV footage from multiple cameras both inside and outside the stadium showed no suspicious activity of any kind in the hours leading up to the attack. “Where those
toros
came from is a mystery,” he said. “It is as if they simply appeared from nowhere.”

Both of Spain’s largest national newspapers,
El Pais
and
El Mundo
, issued rewards totaling €500,000 for information leading to the arrest of the perpetrators. Despite being inundated with thousands of leads, officials remained stymied.

Wilhelmina gazed around the flattened crown of Black Mixen Tump, deceptively tranquil in the early-evening light. With a last glance around the silent hilltop, she drew a deep, steadying breath and prepared to try yet again.
Sixth time lucky
, she thought, and with that she raised her fist into the air.

Almost instantly, she felt the prickle of electricity on her skin and sensed the surge and swirl of energy around her. The portal was active and strong. A second later the air grew hazy and took on a pale bluish tint, and a wind from nowhere sent waves rippling through the long green grass that covered the top of the ancient hill. She felt the strain in her muscles as a force like gravity enveloped her; her arm quivered as she strove to keep it straight and raised high. The wind shrieked down from frigid heights, and everything around her became blurry and indistinct as if seen through a sandblasted windowpane. Static electricity sizzled around her and Wilhelmina braced herself for the leap. Her last thought was of the object of her search, Thomas Young. His bespectacled face flashed before her eyes. There was a fizzing pop, and everything grew dark.

She blinked and opened her eyes to find herself standing at the end of the Avenue of Sphinxes in a cloud of dust – again. She exhaled sharply and glanced around as dust devils raced down the long double rank of silent statues. A quick look at the sky told her that it was early morning yet, and that was a good thing. She shook her clothes back into place and adjusted her pack, and once again started for the riverside village where she would get a boat to ferry her across the Nile. She had traversed this way so often she could have walked it blindfolded. She tried not to think about that. Better to simply slog on and hope for the best.

She was still hoping for the best when at midday the next day she once more stood at the entrance to the hidden gorge and gazed up at the soaring walls of the wadi yawning before her. From her observation of the village and traffic on the river, she was fairly certain she had achieved a leap to an earlier time than her last attempt. She was where she wanted to be… was she also
when
? “Please be there, Thomas,” she murmured as she stepped into the wadi. It was marginally cooler in the shaded corridor of the canyon, and she hurried to the T-junction she knew was waiting at the end.

As she walked, she wondered how the other questors were faring in their missions; she thought about the Kit and Giles she had rescued on her last visit to the tomb and wondered what her involvement would mean in whatever reality they inhabited. It wasn’t time travel, as she well knew, but perhaps she had closed some kind of cosmic loop for them; or, then again, maybe for herself?

She was playing with the various implications of this when she rounded the last bend and there, in the place where three channels of the wadi met, stood a wing-shaped Arab tent. She ducked out of sight and pressed herself against the ravine wall, took a breath, and inching forward, peeked warily around the corner. A group of swarthy men in blue kaftans laboured among scattered heaps of crates and boxes, some men carrying objects to be packed and others nailing shut the lids.

Very organised for tomb robbers
, she thought and continued her chary perusal of the scene. She was debating whether to make herself known when out of the shadowed entrance to the ruined temple emerged a man in a much-battered broad-brimmed hat. It took her a moment to realise that beneath the hat was the man she had come to find. Thinner, and a good deal grubbier than the last time she had seen him – his whiskers were longer and bushier, and his linen coat and trousers were so thoroughly covered in pale powdery dust he looked as if he might have been bathing in the stuff – still, he was the same Dr. Young she had met in London. He was carrying a large jar, which he handed to one of the workmen and then proceeded to a small camp table near the temple doorway.

“Jackpot!” she sighed with knee-weakening relief. Pushing away from the wall, she moved out into the open. A few yards down the right-hand branch she saw large rubble piles and the gaping rectangular hole in the wadi floor leading to the underground Tomb of Anen. Several of the workmen saw her pass; they stopped to stare, but no one called after her or tried to stop her.

At a run, as if afraid the object of her search might vanish before her eyes, she made directly for the man at the table. “Excuse me, Dr. Young?”

The sound of her voice startled him, and he jolted back in his chair. “Great heavens above!”

Glancing up quickly, he looked at her and then beyond her, as if searching for other visitors. Seeing none, he regarded her more closely. “Miss Klug? Is that you?” The renowned Egyptologist stared, his eyes blinking behind his round, steel-rimmed glasses, then rose slowly from his chair as if drawn by the sudden materialisation of an apparition before his very eyes. “Dear girl, is that truly you?”

“Truly me.” Wilhelmina laughed, delighted not only that she had found her man at last but that he remembered her. Lifting her face heavenward, she breathed a
Thank You
and put out her hand. “You cannot imagine how good it is to see you, Dr. Young.”

He smiled, shaking his head in surprise. “But whatever are you doing here?” he asked, taking her hand and pressing it warmly. “How did you find me?”

Before she could reply, a shout went up from some men who were just then emerging from the excavated hole at the base of the wadi wall. They were carrying a large amphora between them and were followed by a third fellow dressed in white. “Khefri!” shouted Thomas, turning to summon the young man. “Khefri, come here. We have a visitor!”

A moment later Wilhelmina was looking into the deep brown eyes of a slender young Egyptian with a short black fuzz of hair and a deeply puzzled expression on his smooth brown face. He looked a question to Dr. Young, who explained, “Khefri, I would like you to meet Miss Wilhelmina Klug – a very dear colleague of mine.”

“Hardly that,” protested Wilhelmina. “Hello, Khefri. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“Greetings,
saida
,” he said, lowering his head in a slight bow. He glanced quickly around to see if she had been accompanied; seeing no one, he turned back. “You are alone,
saida
? In the desert?”

“I came alone, yes,” she told him. “I came to find Dr. Young.” She turned back to smile at the still-bemused doctor. “And I am very happy to say that I have succeeded.”

“As delighted as I am to see you too, dear, I have to ask again – what on earth are you doing here?”

“I have something very important to discuss with you,” she told him, and felt the smile fading from her face even as she spoke. “A matter of life and death. It cannot wait.”

“Truly?” wondered Thomas blithely. “A matter of life and death – that sounds very serious, very serious indeed.” He blinked at her. “Whose life, may I ask? Whose death?”

Wilhelmina’s voice took on a note of utter foreboding as she answered, “Everyone’s.”