23

Villa von Düchtel

1906

When Colin and I arrived downstairs, a footman directed us to the gallery, where aperitifs were being served. I accepted a glass of schnapps as we entered the room. Ursula was dressed in white from head to toe. Her eyes, red rimmed, were the only sign of her grief.

“White is the color of mourning in Asia,” she said. “It’s all I shall wear until I learn the identity of the individual who snuffed out my daughter’s life.”

“I’m so very sorry,” Colin said. “It’s a dreadful thing for a parent to lose a child, completely beyond the natural order of things. I promise we shall do all we can to find the perpetrator as quickly as possible.”

I looked around, and, seeing that Liesel had not yet appeared, asked Ursula how they’d met. It was time to consider everyone’s history with the others in the house.

“I go to Paris twice a year to look for art,” she said. “A friend there, who’s aware of my interest in collecting pieces created by women, told me about Liesel’s gallery in Berlin. I wasn’t planning any more travel in the upcoming months—I wanted to enjoy my house now that it’s finished—so I wrote her a letter, explaining my interests and asking what she had that she thought I might like. She replied and offered to bring two paintings, wherever I desired. I invited her to come for the party and stay on a few days thereafter while I decided if I wanted them.”

“Is it unusual in the art world to have paintings brought to your house for consideration?” Colin asked.

“Your wife is a collector,” Ursula said. “Does she spend inordinate amounts of time going from gallery to gallery?”

“A not insignificant amount of time,” he said, “but she does have relationships with several dealers who contact her when they acquire objects they believe meet her taste. I can’t recall a time they’ve brought them to her, however.”

“It would’ve been simpler to have her come to me in Munich, but I wanted to see the paintings here, where I’d display them. I’m rich enough and eccentric enough to get what I want, so she agreed. At first, she planned to deliver them and return after a week, so that I wouldn’t feel any pressure while deciding whether I wanted to purchase them, but once she arrived and I saw how sharp she is, I asked her to stay on to catalog my collection. She’s been an enormous help.”

“Had you no catalog before then?” I asked.

“No. I collect for myself and remember what I have. However, I realized it would be wise to have a more formal accounting of what I own. Naturally, I have records of all my purchases, but that’s not the same as a catalog. Sigrid gave me the idea.”

“Did she share your interest in art?” Colin asked.

“Not at all,” Ursula said. “I suspected it was so she’d know what she’d inherit when I die. One can’t blame her.”

“What will happen to your estate now?” he asked. “Forgive the crassness of the question, but it’s essential to consider who benefits from the crime.”

“I’ve no other family and haven’t ever given the matter much thought. Perhaps I’ll arrange to turn my house into a museum. There could be a small number of tickets available each day, tickets that would include luncheon, so that the visitors would have the opportunity to get a sense of what it is to live with art, not to pass by it in a rush.”

I left Colin talking to her, grabbed a glass of champagne, and intercepted Cécile as she entered the room. “Here,” I said, passing the wine to her. “I was hoping we could have a little chat about Felix. You know him better than I—”

“I don’t know that I’d go that far, chérie. We’ve conversed here and there, but not in a fashion one could call très proche.”

“Could you try to change that?” I asked.

“I do not involve myself with gentlemen who are already committed to someone else. So long as Mademoiselle Göltling has his attention, he shall have to do without mine.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest anything outside the bonds of propriety. Just get to know him so that we can determine whether he’s likely to have had anything to do with Sigrid’s death.”

“That, Kallista, I can manage. I’ve been embroiled in enough of your investigations that I consider myself almost fully qualified as a detective. I should, perhaps, offer my services to la Sûreté upon returning to Paris.” She looked around, spotted Felix, and called across the room. “Monsieur Brinkmann! Do come here. I’ve some questions for you.”

He was at her side in no time, kissed her hand and then mine before giving us a little bow. “Anything for two such lovely ladies. I’m at your service.”

“That is a relief profonde, monsieur,” she said. “Our situation is difficile, n’est-ce pas? Sigrid’s murder has shocked us all to the core, but the police cannot reach us in this isolated location during a blizzard, which means we’re all trapped with the murderer. How is one to bear it?”

“It may not be so bad as all that,” he said. “First, there’s no blizzard, just an ordinary storm. The roads will be passable again before you know it. Further, it may be that the killer is not—and never has been—in the house. He may have a base of some sort nearby. A mountain hut or some sort of thing. I understand Mahler had several which he used for composing.”

“I fear your optimism is unfounded, monsieur. Monsieur Mahler, whom I know well, utilizes his huts only in the warmer months, which, if one were in possession of a hut, is what would be necessary here, as well. I fear there’s no logic that suggests the murderer isn’t among us. But I did not draw you to my side to speak of such things. What I need is distraction, Monsieur Brinkmann. Tell me about your boat. Where you’ve traveled in it. The people you’ve met along the way.”

“You’d be interested in all that?”

“Alors, monsieur, have I not just made that clear?”

“My experience is that most people who aren’t nautical have an aversion to such details.”

“I am not most people.” She bestowed upon him a glittering smile and held up her empty flute so a footman passing by with a bottle of champagne could refill it.

Seeing she had the matter well in hand, I looked around the room. Liesel had arrived and was sitting by herself on a bench at the far end, beneath an elaborate medieval tapestry.

“May I join you?” I asked.

Her countenance brightened. “If you’d like, I’d be delighted.”

“How’s your headache?”

“Much better, thank you,” she said. “The baroness’s powders work a trick. I try to always bring some of my own when I travel but left them out of my case this time. I often go months without an attack. When you aren’t having them, you half expect they will never return. Wishful thinking.”

“Not a terrible quality,” I said.

“Please don’t feel obligated to sit here with me. You should go and be with your friends. What happened today is so awful. You all need each other. I’m nothing more than an intruder who’s outlasted my usefulness.”

“Not in the least. My husband and I knew none of the other guests save Madame du Lac when we arrived. We’re as much strangers to the others as you are.”

“I hadn’t realized that. Frau du Lac and the baroness have obviously been close for ages and the two couples must spend a great deal of time together. It’s always uncomfortable to arrive somewhere and find everyone else paired off. Not that it troubled me initially. I wasn’t here to socialize but rather to sell my paintings. When the baroness asked me to catalog her collection, I almost refused, but the temptation of spending more time in this magnificent gallery was too great. Then came the attacks on Herr Allerspach and the death of his wife, which made me more aware of my isolation from the rest of you than I’d been before. I find myself all alone.”

“That’s understandable,” I said. “Do remember, though, that Max is here on his own as well.”

“Forgive me for speaking so bluntly, Lady Emily, but I think we all know that’s not strictly true. Or wasn’t true before the sad events of this morning. Please don’t think I mean to complain. I’ve never before been in a situation like this and haven’t any idea of how to behave. It’s rather like being trapped in the midst of a swarm of bees. Terrifying and painful.”

“An accurate analogy,” I said.

“Is there anything I can do to help? I hate being useless and am conscious of not having known Frau Allerspach well enough to have the right to mourn her. I’m continuing my cataloging work, but it’s not all-consuming. If you and your husband require anything from me, I’m more than happy to assist in any way you’d like.”

“That’s a very kind offer. I shall keep it in mind.”

She closed her eyes for just a moment and then gave a little laugh. “As if I’ve any qualifications for being able to help. Whatever can I be thinking? I’d best stick to my art. I understand you’re a collector. Tell me about your interests.”

“Ancient art,” I said, “specifically fifth century BC Greek pottery and sculpture.” We spent a pleasant half hour discussing the subject, on which she was reasonably well informed, more so than I would’ve expected for someone focused on contemporary works.

When the gong sounded, we filed into the dining room. The first course was Flädlesuppe, rich beef broth filled with leeks and delicate ribbons of savory pancakes. Kaspar, who’d loitered behind the rest of us on the way in, took his seat and whipped the linen napkin off the table and into his lap just as a footman appeared behind him with a steaming bowl of the soup. A slip of paper fluttered to the ground.

“What’s this?” Kaspar asked, reaching down for it. He looked at it and frowned. “Don’t rest easy. Next time I won’t miss.”

“Where did that come from?” Ursula asked.

“It was under my napkin.”

A place card on a sterling silver holder marked each seat; anyone could’ve known where Kaspar would sit. “May I see it?” I asked. He passed it to me. There was nothing noteworthy about the paper itself and the text was typed.

“Give it to me.” Ursula rose from her chair and held out her hand. I brought it to her. “It was done with my typewriter. The m always mis-strikes a bit and leaves off the serif on the far right.”

“You mean this is not all over?” Birgit’s voice rose in frustration. Her face was white as porcelain and her hands shook. “This is too much to bear.” She stood up, knocking over her chair, and flew to the door. Then she stopped, a picture of confusion, tears streaming down her face.

Cécile went to her and took her hands. “There’s no call for hysterics. They won’t help anything.”

“Are we to face more violence? Sigrid’s death wasn’t enough? I’m not going to sit here at a table with a murderer and wait to be poisoned.” She sniffed. “Unless my room isn’t any safer. Do you think it’s more dangerous there? How are any of us to know what to do?”

Colin was more than capable of taking matters in hand in the dining room, so I left the table and crossed to Cécile and Birgit. “We’ll take you upstairs.” I looped an arm through Birgit’s and guided her to her room, Cécile following after she’d instructed a footman to send up tea for our distressed companion.

Birgit regained her composure with astonishing speed once she’d closed and locked the door behind us. “I’ll not leave it open again,” she said. “I’ve half a mind to refuse to come out until I can make the trip back to Munich. The servants could leave food for me outside the door. Although that could be poisoned, too, couldn’t it?” Her face was ghost white. Her eyes darted around the room, frantic. “I don’t know why I ever agreed to come to this wretched place. There’s nothing in it for me, which is not at all how it was presented.”

“How was it presented?” I asked.

“As a little romantic escape.”

“Is Monsieur Brinkmann a romantic sort?” Cécile asked. “He does not strike me as so.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea and I don’t care.”

“Is there no understanding between you?” I asked. Felix had told me as much, but I knew better than to rely solely on the opinion of a gentleman when it came to such things.

“Understanding? As in a promise to marry? Good heavens, no. I can hardly stand the man.”

“Then why travel with him?” I asked.

She flopped onto her bed, lying flat with her arms stretched out. “It’s all going to come out anyway, so I might as well tell you everything. First, though, you must know that I never liked the idea.”

“What idea?”

“Coming here and pretending to be mad for him.”

“Was that your object?” Cécile was nonplussed. “I never would have drawn such a conclusion.”

“I’m no actress nor is Felix much of an actor. None of us thought anyone would notice. I came here to be near Kaspar, of course, but you’ve probably figured that out already. It’s the way he looks at me; it’s intoxicating. No girl in her right mind could resist the man. He couldn’t stand the thought of being trapped out in the wilderness with no one but his wife to amuse him for a whole week, so he told Sigrid he wanted to bring Felix and that Felix wanted to bring me.”

“Kaspar is your lover?” Cécile was nearly bowled over with astonishment.

“Is that so surprising?” Birgit’s eyelashes fluttered. “He’s the most handsome man I’ve ever seen and so strong he can do nearly anything. Once he carried me all the way across the English Garden in Munich. Well, perhaps not all the way across, but a very long distance all the same.”

“How long has this been going on between you?” I asked.

“Eons,” she said.

I was shocked. “Could you be more specific?”

“Longer than I can remember.”

“That’s not helpful, Birgit,” I said. “How long.”

“It will be two years this spring. Practically my entire life.”

It didn’t require an affinity for mathematics to recognize the inanity of this statement.

“It is not right for you to trifle with a married man,” Cécile said, “and it is not right for a married man to trifle with anyone, particularly an unattached young lady.”

“He wasn’t trifling with me, nor I with him,” Birgit said. “He loves me and I adore him.”

“Be that as it may, he’s married,” I said. “There can be no future for the two of you.”

“I probably ought not point out the obvious fact that he’s no longer married. It’s bound to give you the wrong idea. Regardless of the events of this morning, you’re both too old to see that the world has changed. He was going to leave Sigrid. They could barely tolerate being around each other. We were arranging everything so she could have Max and Kaspar could have me.”

“What did Sigrid have to say about all of this?” Cécile asked.

“We hadn’t told her yet,” Birgit said. “Kaspar meant to do it before the party in the gallery. We both thought that would be a good time, because if Sigrid was upset—not that she would’ve been; she didn’t care one fig for him—she’d have to contain her emotion in front of her mother’s guests. Neither of us wanted a scene.”

I already knew Kaspar was a boor, but I couldn’t imagine even him agreeing to such a scheme. “If that was your plan, why didn’t he tell her before the party?”

“They’d got in an argument about some minuscule thing when they were dressing and he didn’t want her to think he was leaving because of that. Instead, he decided to tell her on their sleigh ride.”

“Wasn’t the sleigh ride Sigrid’s idea?” I asked.

“It was,” she said. “She was driving him half mad over it. Kaspar told me he was worried she wanted to speak with him about something serious and was using it as a pretext to get him alone. She’s disgracefully manipulative. In the end, it didn’t matter, though. He told her about us before she could bring up whatever it is she wanted to talk about with him. She wasn’t even upset and told him she hoped he would be happy with me. She realized she’d never made him happy. And then, not five minutes after all that happened, a shot rang out and she was dead. I feel a bit sorry for her, of course, but it does make things far easier for everyone involved, doesn’t it? Sometimes, fate knows exactly what it’s doing. The world is a glorious place, even when it seems like things are going terribly wrong.”