Villa von Düchtel
1906
One could not describe being trapped in a house with a murderer as pleasant, so Colin and I invited Cécile to retreat with us to our room, the only place in the villa we could be guaranteed a measure of privacy. I didn’t trust any of the others. I voiced this concern and my friend contradicted me.
“Mais, non,” she said. “Ursula is utterly trustworthy and she did not murder her daughter.”
“If she believes Kaspar did and that he staged the attacks against himself to make him appear innocent, she’d have ample motive to want him dead,” I said.
“I can understand that, oui.” She sighed. “So what are we to do?”
“Someone in the house killed Sigrid,” Colin said, “and it’s inconceivable that no one saw or heard anything.”
“The murder took place outside,” I said.
“Yes, but the killer had to leave and get there.”
“You have spoken to everyone,” Cécile said, “including the servants. What else is there to do?”
“We can’t sit around waiting for another murder.” Colin was pacing, his voice low and calm, a sure indication of how upset he was. “Birgit and Gerda both have strong motives for wanting Kaspar dead.”
“As does Max,” I said. “He was having an affair with Sigrid.”
“It does not appear that Kaspar is aware Birgit is with child,” Cécile said. “If he were, he surely would not have said he has no reason left to live.”
“Unless he’s being deliberately deceitful or cruel,” Colin said.
“I saw her reaction to his words,” I said. “She was shocked, more so than she would’ve been if he knew about the baby.”
“If he did, he’s got a double motive for killing his wife.” Colin crossed his arms. “First, having her out of the way would free him to be with his mistress, and second, he’d be spared the humiliation—and financial consequences—of Sigrid’s leaving him in dramatic fashion if she learned about the baby.”
“Whoever killed her must be a skilled skier in order to have reached the sleigh,” I said. “What if, after sequestering ourselves here for a decent interval, we inform everyone in the house—the staff included—that we’ve determined the murderer is not one of us. That you’ve discovered evidence of someone hiding near the site of Sigrid’s death. If we concoct a fiction they’ll believe, it may put the killer off guard. He won’t be concerned with disguising the fact that he slipped out of the house on his murderous deed. Then we can start testing everyone’s aptitude for skiing.”
“And whoever is the most skilled is guilty?” Cécile asked.
“Not necessarily, but it would enable us to narrow down the field of suspects,” Colin said.
“We already know Kaspar and Felix excel at the sport,” I said. “You as well, my dear, but we’ve acknowledged that you’re no murderer.”
“Surely Birgit would not be capable of such a feat in her condition,” Cécile said. “The morning we all went out, she could barely keep upright.”
“Neither could Liesel,” I said, “but either of them could’ve been feigning incompetence. Birgit isn’t exhibiting any of the usual negative symptoms of pregnancy, so there’s no reason to assume she’s physically incapable.”
“That’s an interesting observation, Emily,” Colin said. “We have no corroborating evidence to confirm her claim. She might not be with child.”
“Why fabricate such a lie?” I asked. “It only gives her stronger motive for wanting Sigrid dead.”
“C’est vrai,” Cécile said, “but the girl is not the most intelligent I’ve ever met. Perhaps she invented the story because now that Sigrid is dead, she hopes knowledge of her condition may persuade Kaspar to marry her.”
“He would become aware eventually that it’s a falsehood,” Colin said.
Cécile shrugged. “She can claim an unfortunate loss shortly after the wedding.”
There were too many unknowns, too many lies, too many people with dodgy credibility. Time was not working in our favor; we had to find the killer before he struck again.
Rather than construct an elaborate fiction, we kept things simple. Colin went out for a ski, without telling any of the others what he was doing. When he returned, he gathered everyone in Ursula’s study and announced that he had discovered a snow cave dug into the side of a mountain not two hundred yards from the site of the murder.
“Inside was a multitude of evidence indicating that whomever constructed it spent several nights there.” He was leaning against the table Ursula used as a desk. “There were remains of meals, a sleeping pad, and, most significantly, a box of ammunition that matches the sort used in the gun Emily found. I’ve retrieved it all and locked it away. It’s now evident that Sigrid was the victim of a random maniac.”
“What about all the attacks on Kaspar?” Felix asked. “They weren’t the work of a random maniac.”
“No, they weren’t,” I said, “but given the complicated relationships among the people in this room, it’s hardly shocking that someone wants to torment him.”
“We can elaborate if you’d like,” Colin continued, “but I suspect you’d all prefer that your peccadillos remain private.”
I was watching everyone as Colin spoke. Max’s entire body relaxed. Birgit chewed on her bottom lip. Ursula narrowed her eyes. Liesel stared at her lap. Kaspar, who’d started using a cane to get around, tapped it on the floor. Felix rose to his feet, unconvinced.
“Are you sure about all this?” he asked. “Why didn’t anyone notice this snow cave the day of the murder? It had to be more difficult to find now. It’s snowed at least another foot.”
“A keen observation,” Colin said. “The fresh snow settled differently in the area around the cave. I spotted that and investigated.”
“But your wife saw no footprints leading from there to the site of the murder,” Felix said.
“The killer must have taken a circuitous route, looping around to the sleigh track.”
“But he fired from above,” Kaspar said. “I’m certain of that.”
“So he climbed a tree.” Colin shrugged. “In all the confusion after the shooting, he fled. Given how hard it was snowing, his footprints filled in enough that they weren’t visible.”
“You’re quite sure?” Ursula asked. “It all seems too straightforward.”
“Ptolemy said he considered it a good principle to explain phenomena by the simplest hypothesis possible,” I said. “It appears that’s applicable here. We’re faced with a terrible tragedy, but at least it’s not compounded by one of us being responsible for Sigrid’s death.”
“That’s something of a relief,” Felix said, “but it still doesn’t sit quite right with me—”
“What you’re feeling tugging at you is caused by the fact that we still don’t know who’s been tormenting Allerspach,” Colin said. “Perhaps whoever is responsible would like to confess so that we can all move on?”
“As no serious physical harm has been done, perhaps Kaspar would be willing to forget the whole thing,” Cécile said.
“I suppose it makes no difference,” he said, shaking his head and then looking up at the group. “Which of you did it, then?”
No one said a word. After two minutes passed—an eternity when one is sitting and waiting—I spoke.
“It’s your choice, Kaspar. Would you like us to interrogate everyone?”
He huffed. “What’s the point? It won’t bring Sigrid back. I don’t really care.”
“You should,” Birgit said. “How do we know you won’t be attacked again?”
“I must agree,” Liesel said.
“I have a feeling the individual’s motive is no longer pertinent,” Colin said. “Let’s put it all behind us.”
And so they did, with shockingly little effort. Max went off to the music room with his tuba. Kaspar and Felix retired to the sitting room for schnapps and cigars, insisting that Colin join them. Liesel returned to her work in the gallery. Birgit went to her room. Only Ursula remained with Cécile and me.
“I don’t believe any of this,” she said. “Sigrid was not killed by some wandering madman. You told us all yesterday such a prospect was impossible. What’s really going on?”
I hesitated, still not convinced I could trust her. No, I didn’t believe she’d murdered her own daughter, but that didn’t preclude her involvement with the attacks on Kaspar. While I weighed how to respond, Cécile answered.
“It is of course not true,” she said, “but these fools will believe anything so long as it removes them from suspicion. We are giving them rope to hang themselves. Is that the correct expression? They will all relax and reveal sides of themselves they’ve been trying to hide.”
“And you believe that one among them may show us he’s a murderer?” The baroness let out a long, tortured sigh. “It’s too much to bear. I cannot stand that this criminal is a guest in my house.”
An idea suddenly struck me. “Ursula, is it possible that Sigrid was killed to hurt you?”
“No one here bears me a grudge.”
“Not even Kaspar?” I asked.
“Especially not Kaspar. We do not and never will enjoy each other’s company, but he wouldn’t have killed his own wife, particularly as her death brings to an end the generous allowance upon which he relies. He won’t be destitute. He’ll inherit Sigrid’s capital, but that’s not enough to live in an extravagant fashion.”
“What about the others?” I asked. “The connections between the people in this house are fraught and complicated. Affairs and jealousy, rivalries and betrayal. There might be something, seemingly insignificant or buried so far in the past it appears irrelevant, that connects the killer to you or Sigrid. Tell me the story of your life.”
“What good will that do?” she asked.
“I don’t know precisely, but my instinct tells me I’m missing something because I’m caught up in the minutiae of the interpersonal relationships of your guests. Perhaps the clue we need lies further in someone’s past. We may as well start with yours.”
Ursula threw up her arms and went to the tea trolley on the other side of the room that, instead of the trappings of the genial beverage, held a crystal decanter and matching glasses. She filled two of them and pressed one into my hand before sitting on the settee across from us.
“It’s kirsch. I can ring for champagne if you’d like, Cécile.”
“That is not necessary. Tell your story first.”
Ursula took a gulp—not a ladylike sip—before she continued, looking out the window. “I’ve always loved this land. The mountains and the lakes, the flowers and the forest. Although that’s not quite true. Before I came to love it, I hated it with a passion that nearly consumed me. I’d always preferred Munich. Its energy fueled me. My family home was filled with art, but aside from a handful of mediocre landscapes, it was limited to uninspired portraits of dour ancestors. Not that I particularly noticed, at least not until I visited the city’s art museums, the Alte Pinakothek and the Neue Pinakothek. Their collections showed me what art could be. I spent hours in them both. Seeing how the works of Dürer and Rubens, Memling and Fragonard contrasted so beautifully with contemporary pieces mesmerized me. It ignited a fuse, a fuse I didn’t know I had, and sparked a passion for art of all kinds.”
“She is too modest to tell you she studied at the Academy of Art,” Cécile said.
“Not officially,” Ursula said. “They allowed me to sit in on classes, only because of my family’s wealth and influence. I had no talent, only desire, which isn’t enough to make a serious artist. I was a fair sculptor, but couldn’t sketch to save my life. I realized this soon enough and abandoned the pursuit in favor of collecting. Initially, this amused my parents, who considered it an acceptable way to channel my abundant energy. Before, they’d often expressed a fear that I would follow some fruitless obsession to the point of destruction. Art was genteel enough to soothe their worries.”
“Until your mother took you to Paris,” Cécile said.
“Yes.” Ursula looked into the distance, her eyes unfocused. “Paris had a transcendent effect on me. I fell in love with it as soon as I laid eyes on the Île Saint-Louis. As I gazed at Notre-Dame, I knew I’d found the home of my soul, the place my spirit would be happy, and I refused to return to Munich.”
“I do not blame you,” Cécile said. “There is no place on earth more magnifique than Paris.”
“I believe my mother would have once, long ago, agreed with you. She loved the city as well. I’d always had a generous allowance, but within three months, I’d spent a year’s worth on paintings, and she began to think I was showing signs of profligacy. She wrote to my father, who ordered us home.”
“And you didn’t want to go,” I said.
“I could imagine nothing worse. My mother pointed out that I was in no position to set up a household in a foreign country and that my budding collection would make a fine addition to my marital home in Munich. I can still picture the expression on her face when she said marital home. Until then, I hadn’t had even an inkling that there was such a place awaiting me.”
“Her father arranged the engagement without first telling even her mother,” Cécile said. “I’ve always thought he feared you might marry a Frenchman if left to your own devices. It is a course I cannot recommend, although my own experience has rather colored my view of husbands, French and otherwise.”
“I was infuriated,” Ursula said, “and too strong-willed for my own good. I tried to run away, but was stopped by the servants in the house my mother had rented. She canceled the lease and announced that we would leave for Munich the next day, even if she had to tie me up.”
“She didn’t tie you up, I hope,” I said.
“No, she applied a generous dose of chloroform and had a footman put me in the carriage. She gave me more every time I stirred, and I didn’t wake up until we’d entered Germany. When we arrived in Munich, my father explained that my allowance was no more and that I would be welcome to live in the house only until my marriage, which was scheduled to take place three days hence.”
“To a man she had never met,” Cécile said.
“That’s outrageous. Why did your father so violently overreact to your passion for Paris? It makes no sense.”
Ursula shrugged. “Who could ever understand the motivation of men? Until then, he’d been a kind parent, doting even. Evidently, my desire to move to France was too much for him. He thought I was abandoning him and my heritage. I was meant to meet my fiancé the following day. He and his family arrived for luncheon, but I refused to come down. I believed it was the last time in my life I’d have control over any decision that affected me. This infuriated my father all the more. He didn’t speak to me until after the wedding, and then, only in the most perfunctory way. We never had another meaningful conversation.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “How could he treat you that way?”
“In the end, does it matter? My life was ruined. It was then that I learned there is nothing more important than freedom. Without it, one may as well be dead.”