CHAPTER XIV

The Last (Not Counting the Epilogue)

In which Zofia Turbotyńska, bourgeois citizen of Cracow, solves the mystery of the murders at Helcel House, brings punishment to the crime, and in the process obtains the raffle prizes for her lottery for the benefit of scrofulous children.

On November the eleventh, at ten o’clock on the dot, a sizeable group of the dramatis personae gathered in the office at Helcel House under the watchful gaze of its founders, each having been persuaded to attend by slightly different means. Their host, Mother Zaleska, had agreed to this stratagem when told that she would find out who had killed the residents, and that the names of the falsely accused employees would be cleared, benefiting the reputation of the entire institution. And then she would no longer be threatened with a return to the hot sands of Smyrna.

This morning Sister Alojza – now standing by the door, leaning against one leaf of it – had gone about the rooms with the invitations. She had simply summoned Sister Bibianna on official business. In keeping with Zofia’s instructions, she had told Countess Żeleńska there was an interesting piece of information that Mother Zaleska would like to share with her; she had uttered the word ‘information’ in such an alluring way that it sounded like ‘gossip’, and so the countess had duly presented herself ahead of time and was sitting in the most comfortable armchair. Next to enter, at an even pace, were Baroness Banffy and her maid, who had been asked to come supposedly in connection with a letter that had come from Hungary; she had invited Lidia Walaszek née Campiani and Alfons Fikalski jointly, as ‘closely associated’, purportedly to discuss financial matters.

Each person or couple that entered the room was surprised to find the others there, but for the time being nobody spoke except to exchange greetings and to comment on the weather – which was foul. Even greater amazement was prompted by Zofia Turbotyńska, who came in at three minutes to ten with Baroness Banffy’s nephew (who nodded to his aunt in the first place, and then made a single bow to everyone else), and also with investigating magistrate Klossowitz, impeccably dressed as usual in a perfectly cut uniform. Now the whole room and the assembled company were reflected in the toes of his highly polished boots: the three nuns, four residents, the maid, the relative, and the tireless busybody whose clever ploys had lured them all here.

‘I am pleased you’ve all found the time to come to this meeting,’ she began, ‘and to sacrifice half an hour or more to hearing a few words I’d like to say about the dramatic incidents that have recently occurred at this august institution . . .’

Klossowitz crossed his legs. Fikalski, who had been standing until now, leaning on his cane, finally sat down on a chair dragged in from another room by Alojza. The baroness’s nephew unceremoniously moved some papers to the edge of a desk and sat down on it, which Mother Zaleska noted with a scowl of disapproval.

So now they were almost all sitting in silence – some fidgeting nervously, others with an indifferent look on their faces, yet others excited. Only Zofia, in a specially chosen, smart green taffeta dress, was circling the room like a satellite, now and then diving into the middle before returning to the outer ring around the chairs, her skirts shuffling across the floor.

As we know, she was a self-confident person and had a special way with words. But she would never have dreamed of being so bold as to enter the province of esteemed scholars and professors, nor did she see herself as speaking ex cathedra; nevertheless, she had decided to deliver something akin to a university lecture, combining elements of criminology, ethics, and even aesthetics. She kept telling herself that as it was a serious matter, she should talk about it with due respect. She brought out her notebook, now filled with tiny script, cocked her head a little and began in a calm, but ever so slightly trembling voice:

‘Just as an antiquarian expert on Renaissance painting can ascribe a work of art to the hand of a particular master, so too a felon commits a crime in an individual way, applying his own personal style, so to speak . . .’ At this point Klossowitz rolled his eyes. ‘What exactly is it that surprises us about the mystery of Helcel House? Here we have three deaths: Mrs Mohr, poisoned on the sly and removed to the attic, so that no one noticed it was murder. Then Mrs Krzywda, brutally strangled in broad daylight, almost in sight of other residents. And finally, Mrs Czystogórska, who has gone missing without trace.’ She paused to glance at the notes she had made the day before, poring over an album in Ignacy’s library. ‘First a discreet nocturne, then a battle scene full of blood and passion, and finally . . . finally a white square on a white background, as if anyone were to think of painting such a thing,’ she said, laughing. ‘The perfect vacuum. Where is the consistent, recognisable style, the murderer’s signature?’

Klossowitz was clearly impatient to interrupt her; first he started tugging at his moustache, and then he opened his mouth, but Zofia shot him an angry look. And picked up her thread again.

‘Nothing here makes sense, because the murderer must have changed his method, by force of circumstances. As we know, Mrs Mohr was poisoned . . .’

‘By Mrs Sedlaczek, the cook,’ said Klossowitz, unable to restrain himself.

‘We shall come to that later, if you will allow me to continue. She was poisoned with cyanide, served in a goblet of almond mousse. Not by Mrs Sedlaczek, but, as I am about to prove, by Mrs Krzywda, who worked in the kitchen.’ Mother Zaleska almost leapt from her seat. ‘The presence of poison has been confirmed by a medical expert, as not all of you may be aware; the body was then dragged up to the attic after death had occurred, or at least after the loss of consciousness. Those were the thumping noises Mrs Wężyk complained about. Evidently, even a deranged person sometimes talks sense. Could Mrs Krzywda have managed to lug a corpse up those stairs? She wasn’t a weak person, whereas Mrs Mohr was small, sickly, and light as a feather; but while it may be possible to creep along a corridor silently, nobody can drag a body wrapped in a blanket along one if there’s a vigilant guard in the little room by the door.’ Sister Bibianna went a deep shade of crimson. ‘But that was not the case, because, as the guard on duty that night has admitted to me in person, she experienced a moment of spiritual alarm and ran down to the chapel to pray, lying prostrate.’ A look of immense relief appeared on the nun’s face, though she knew Mother Zaleska would not pardon this neglect of duty, even if the cause was religious in nature. ‘Taking full advantage, Mrs Krzywda dumped the body in the attic and went back to her room without being seen. But why on earth would she kill the innocent old lady? Mrs Sedlaczek did at least have a motive, because the victim was the widow of the judge who sent her to prison for poisoning her husband long ago. It all looks very neat – poison then and poison now – but the desperate woman who puts rat poison in her husband’s food would do it the same way again – she’d use the first poison to hand in the kitchen, and not a sophisticated, undetectable substance like cyanide . . . please let me finish, Dr Klossowitz,’ said Zofia, heading off an attack. ‘It will all become clear. But what about Mrs Krzywda?’

At this point she paused and cast her gaze around the gathering.

‘Let us suppose for the time being that a person exists whom we have invented. An artist, to return to our earlier metaphor, acting not in person, but by means of the brush of an apprentice whom he has instructed to produce a painting. Let us imagine this vile person who issues a contract for the death of Mrs Mohr. Why? I’ll come to that in a moment. Suffice it to say that he either bribes or terrorises the impoverished Julia Krzywda into committing murder. He supplies a suitable poison and makes sure he won’t be suspected of complicity.’

‘But can we just invent somebody out of the blue?’ asked Mother Zaleska hesitantly.

‘Only in theory, please have no fear. Let us also suppose that Mrs Krzywda then has pangs of conscience. Or the contractor, who promised her some money, now skimps on it . . . she threatens to expose the crime, the contractor has to act quickly, there’s no time for subtle methods like poison . . . knowing the design of Helcel House and its residents’ occupations, he slips into the room and rapidly, brutally strangles Mrs Krzywda; it’s dangerous, but he’s desperate – he too is at imminent risk of the scaffold. He takes a risk and carries it off. No one noticed him, he can calmly go on enjoying life.’

‘You have thought this out very cleverly,’ said Baroness Banffy, ‘but does the person invented by us actually exist?’

‘The answer is yes, and no. Yet I can betray that he is here with us in this room.’

A murmur ran through the office: whispers, offended sighs, the shuffling of chair legs, people fidgeting in their armchairs.

‘So why does he kill Mrs Czystogórska?’ Zofia continued. ‘And how does he do it, seeing that the Cracow police have still not found her body? If the contractor were Mrs Sedlaczek, we might suspect that Mrs Czystogórska witnessed the second murder and was then craftily eliminated by the cook and made into veal stew.’

‘Mrs Turbotyńska!’ said the countess indignantly, but in a tone that was too excited to sound convincing.

‘On the day when Mrs Czystogórska’s disappearance was discovered, veal stew was indeed served. But Mrs Sedlaczek couldn’t have had a hand in it because the police had already arrested her. The fact that Mrs Czystogórska was not made into a stew is proved by facts that I would venture to call key evidence. While Dr Klossowitz’s subordinates have failed to find the body, I, or rather my maid, has succeeded. The body is . . .’

Klossowitz frowned and tried to speak again, but this time she didn’t have to restrain him because he wasn’t entirely sure what to say.

‘Alive and well. That’s to say, Mrs Czystogórska is living with her relatives, the Orawiec family, in a cottage beyond Krowodrza.’

‘Thanks be to the Lord,’ cried the nuns in unison, and their exclamation merged with Klossowitz’s shout: ‘That’s impossible! My men checked that cottage!’

‘They’re obviously not as bright as my Franciszka. Which frankly’ – here she fixed her gaze on him – ‘I don’t find particularly surprising. There’s a wardrobe with a rug hanging behind it, the rug conceals an alcove, and Mrs Czystogórska is in the alcove, alive and well, though somewhat alarmed by the murders; she got it into her head that she would be the next victim. Thus we have solved the riddle of one “murder”, but we still have two left, far more serious because they’re real. Could there be someone among us who’d be suitable as the contractor of the murder? Indeed there is. He’s sitting right here,’ she said, pointing a finger at Fikalski, whose face expressed outrage.

‘Enough of this tomfoolery,’ he shouted, ‘enough of these fairy tales! This isn’t a game of charades – you’re putting on some sort of theatrical performance here, all very well and good, I’m fond of the theatre myself, but you’re making serious allegations against people of spotless honesty! And in front of the ladies!’

‘Spotless honesty? Indeed? So you won’t deny that you were personally acquainted with Mrs Mohr?’

‘That’s not a crime!’

‘And that you quarrelled with her . . .’

‘I had every right to do so, just like the next person!’

‘Because, out of concern for Mrs Walaszek here present’ – at this point the Italian, until now eagerly supporting Fikalski with a series of snorts and grunts, stiffened – ‘she had threatened to tell her a certain secret that would have frustrated your matrimonial plans?’

‘Alfonso? What does thees mean?’ Mrs Walaszek stared in surprise, now at her beau, now at his accuser.

‘I haven’t a clue . . . These are vile insinuations!’ insisted Fikalski.

‘So you won’t deny that you are already married? That your wife, whom you drove out of her mind, is living out her days in seclusion, with nothing for her keep but a small pension left her by Mrs Mohr, who not only took pity on that poor soul, but also on another – your victim here, whom you wanted to wed, committing the crime of bigamy, and then grab her fortune?’

Countess Żeleńska, so very keen on gossip, all but blushed with contentment; the nuns were horrified, Baron Banffy watched with some amusement, while his aunt and her maid seemed bored. Fikalski, at the centre of attention, of course, suddenly lost his composure; turning red, he pulled at the tight collar pinching his thick neck and gasped for air.

‘I never . . . I . . . I never intended . . . it wasn’t . . . it wasn’t for a dowry . . . no bigamy . . . never . . . at a certain age a man . . . needs affection, love . . . he needs attention, flirtation . . . a pretty little foot in a slipper, peeping from under a skirt . . .’ At this point Mrs Walaszek couldn’t stop herself; she leapt to her feet and whacked him on the head with her fan with such force that some slivers of ivory fell to the floor, and the comb-over covering his bald pate was completely ruined.

‘You will move thees over there!’ she said to the young Banffy, showing him her chair, which he immediately shifted as she demanded, to the opposite corner of the room, as far from Fikalski as possible.

‘I may be flattering myself,’ Zofia continued, ‘but by mentioning the fact that some individuals try to trick unfortunate single women by luring them with the vision of a marital idyll, I think I am fulfilling Mrs Mohr’s last unwritten wish, which was to deprive Mr Fikalski of a lucrative marriage to Mrs Campiani . . .’

‘Walaszek,’ came a muffled, teary voice.

‘Walaszek. We have a motive . . .’

‘I won’t stand for it!’ the failed bigamist quietly protested, but no one took any notice of his grumbles.

‘But here too nothing fits, because Mr Fikalski not only suffers from gout and would have extreme trouble making a quick getaway, but on the night of Mrs Krzywda’s murder, like many of us he was at the gala opening of the Municipal Theatre. Countess Żeleńska, Baroness Banffy and I were there too, and we all . . .’

‘So was I,’ said Klossowitz, raising a finger.

‘We all saw each other and can provide alibis for one another. You too?’

‘Yes,’ confirmed the magistrate.

‘Well, we didn’t all see everyone else, but even so, there were enough people at the theatre to certify that we couldn’t have murdered Mrs Krzywda with our own hands.’

‘But he could easily have commissioned the watchman to do the killing,’ said Klossowitz, brightening. ‘And Morawski happens to be in jail, tracked down by the city police, and is waiting for a fair sentence. Of course, if it turns out he was urged to commit the crime by Mr Fikalski . . .’

‘And that Italian,’ exclaimed Polcia the maid, who had been following it all closely, but without understanding everything. ‘Case solved!’

‘I won’t stand for it!’ spluttered the dejected beau. ‘I certainly didn’t commission a murder!’

Mrs Walaszek merely snorted.

‘There may be mitigating circumstances,’ Klossowitz continued, ‘and yet the action taken by the police . . .’

‘Has brought nothing good,’ said Zofia, finishing his sentence, ‘because the watchman did not have a hand in it.’

‘Is that a fact?’ said Klossowitz, laughing. ‘If he didn’t, he’d have made a statement. He was seen in the building, in rooms where he claimed never to have set foot . . .’

‘Because he had other reasons for saying that. And I must say, as far as I know this city, which Countess Żeleńska describes as a hornet’s nest, his decision to keep silent was entirely justified. Though of course for him it could have had tragic consequences. Fortunately I am in possession of his statement, which I hereby submit to the police for the purposes of the trial.’ She took two handwritten pages out of a document case and passed them to Klossowitz, who wasn’t sure how to behave in this situation, so he took the sheets of paper in his fingertips, like a fragile object made of glass, and held them like that for a while; finally he came to his senses, scanned the text, folded the statement in four and put it in his uniform pocket.

‘So far we have assumed that the key to the riddle of the murders is the killing of Mrs Mohr – who was determined to kill her, who caused her poisoning, and later murdered the poisoner too. However, dear ladies and gentlemen, absolutely nobody was out to kill Mrs Mohr.’

The silence that followed these words was only broken by a plaintive, ‘But how can that be?’ from Sister Alojza, who was being very careful not to get in Zofia’s way, but this time couldn’t hold back.

‘Because she was poisoned quite accidentally,’ Zofia went on. ‘A while ago a Brazilian tried to assassinate Admiral’ – she glanced at her notes – ‘Mello by sending him a gift, an album filled with dynamite.’

‘Mother of God!’ cried Sister Bibianna.

‘Imagine what would have happened if a careless postman had delivered the packet to someone else. So it was in our case. Countess, do you remember that on the evening before she vanished Mrs Mohr had a quarrel with her sister, just after dinner?’

‘Perhaps,’ replied the countess hesitantly. ‘That was a month ago . . . one can’t possibly remember every quarrel one overhears in this institution. There’s someone arguing about something every day here.’ Then she added: ‘I thought I was going to live out my days in if not idyllic, at least comfortable surroundings, not in an old people’s unrest home!’

Still mindful of the lottery, Zofia let the countess make this theatrical gesture, and then picked up her broken thread: ‘Either way, the first time we spoke, you told me you had heard the two sisters quarrelling that evening. Indeed, the younger one often reproached the older for not looking after herself, for eating too little and starving herself to death. What an irony – she perished not because of fasting but eating. If she had refused the pudding that evening . . . But I’m jumping ahead. Two women really did have an argument in the room next to yours, but Mrs Mohr’s sister had long since left for the spa by then. The other person you heard was the almswoman, Mrs Krzywda.’

‘Was she trying to feed her by force?’ asked Sister Bibianna, an experienced nurse after all.

‘Quite the opposite. She was trying to take the pudding away from her.’

A murmur ran through the room.

‘Are you saying she must have been the murderer, because she knew the pudding was poisoned, but she also knew it had ended up in Mrs Mohr’s room by accident?’ asked the young Banffy.

‘That’s it. By an unfortunate coincidence, which I will explain shortly. She must have implored Mrs Mohr by everything she held dear . . . we can only guess what arguments she used, though we know it didn’t come to fisticuffs because the minor abrasions on the dead woman’s body were caused when it fell behind the trunk, and not by a fight. Suffice it to say that Mrs Mohr had simply turned Mrs Krzywda out of her room. She may have threatened to kick up a fuss, but Krzywda couldn’t let that happen because she was counting on keeping things quiet. So ultimately, in a panic, she decided to steal in there at night, once Mrs Mohr had died of cyanide poisoning, and hide the body. Quite unnecessarily, in fact, because if she had simply left her corpse in the bed, the old lady’s death would have been regarded as quite unsurprising and natural, her funeral would have been held, and she’d have been laid in her grave. But panic is not the best counsel for a murderer,’ she moralised.

‘Why would somebody want to poison one of us?’ asked the countess. ‘We ladies who live on the top floor have our faults, each of us might give cause, maybe not for murder, but certainly for irritation . . . in spite of all . . .’

‘There could have been various reasons. For example, on the day when we buried both victims, Baroness Banffy’s maid came up to me and revealed that her mistress had been anxious for a long time . . .’ At this the baroness started jabbering to Polcia in Hungarian, unfamiliar to anyone in the room except for the Banffy family members. ‘She said it was to do with vengeance from the past, to do with Italian avengers.’

‘Sciacallo di Piacenza!’ cried the ideal person to produce the right effect at this point – Lidia Campiani-Walaszek.

‘Quite so! Could it have been to do with hatred of her husband, infamous for commanding the brutal slaughter of the citizens of Piacenza?’ The young Banffy looked amazed; clearly he had never heard about his own uncle’s inglorious youth. ‘Did she receive letters containing threats? Here in Cracow she has a close relative by marriage,’ Zofia continued ironically, ‘her husband’s nephew, who’s living at a second-rate hotel . . .’

‘Do we really have to . . .’ Banffy tried to object.

‘Which one?’ said Fikalski, cheering up; he found everything to do with hotels, restaurants, theatres, and entertainment deeply fascinating.

‘The Krakowski,’ said Zofia emphatically, to which the countess responded with a meaningful gesture, covering her eyes with a slender, ring-adorned hand. ‘Nevertheless, as you can see, he leads the life of a bon vivant and certainly wouldn’t spurn the family fortune, his own part of which he has lost by some twist of fate, though not in the way he claims.’ She turned to face him before continuing: ‘He found the story about aristocrats fighting for the favours of a beautiful circus rider in a newspaper. I had a feeling my husband had read it to me some time ago, and indeed, I found the report in his book of cuttings. However, the central character was not Baron Banffy, but Count Tibor Sztaray.’

‘Sztaray?’ said the countess. ‘I knew a Sztaray, I danced with him once at a ball at the Pálffy de Erdöd Palace!’

‘That isn’t really relevant to the case,’ said Klossowitz, who was now bursting with impatience.

‘It is and it isn’t,’ said Zofia. ‘Very few people are who they claim to be, Dr Klossowitz. Each of us plays various roles. We present ourselves to others from the best side, but sometimes we take it too far. Mr Banffy here had no idea about his own uncle’s military past and thought he had spent his entire life on his estates . . . Whatever, if he were to inherit from the baroness, he could expect to patch up his financial affairs. So too the maid, Polcia, who was counting on a large legacy in her employer’s will . . .’

‘But I would never harm the baroness, not for anything in the world,’ swore Polcia. ‘Of course we’ve sometimes had our differences – that’s normal among members of the same household, but the idea that I would poison her . . .’

‘Or maybe it dates back to the days of parties held in Transylvania, with a dancing bear in attendance? Or even further back in time, to her childhood spent in a convent? Maybe that was when someone first developed the desire for murder?’

‘The desire for murder, in a convent? But that’s impossible,’ protested Mother Zaleska, ‘amid such spiritual wealth and the care of the sisters . . .’

‘It’s perfectly possible.’

‘Where is all this heading?’ said the baroness, who had behaved fairly indifferently until now, but had clearly lost patience when Zofia began to talk about her. ‘Please focus on the real perpetrator of the crime, whom somehow you still haven’t reached, and not made-up or irrelevant details of my life!’

‘Made-up! Indeed they are,’ Zofia interrupted her, ‘not by me, however, but by you. You were never in a convent, you weren’t left an orphan in childhood . . .’

‘Madam! I refuse to listen to any more!’ protested the loyal Polcia. ‘I’ve heard plenty already, but for a commoner to speak like that to those who are highly born . . .’

‘You’re not going anywhere,’ said Klossowitz, standing up and applying the argument of his general bulk, moustache and dark eyes, which gave him the look of a tenacious warrior. ‘Sit down and listen, please. Do go on,’ he said, turning to Zofia.

‘And so: you never lived in a convent . . . your life as we know it, as we can read in the Almanach de Gotha and the social columns of the Hungarian press, starts very late, but your earlier history is known only from stories that are hard to connect with any people or places. And no wonder, because you quite simply stole your biography from someone else!’

Baroness Banffy didn’t say a word, but if looks could kill, not just Zofia but all the witnesses to these words would have been dead on the spot (except perhaps for the loyal Polcia, who still wouldn’t have squeaked a word to anyone); Countess Żeleńska settled more comfortably in her chair, looking forward to a real treat. She was sure she’d have plenty to say at her tea parties for the next month. The young Banffy didn’t even bat an eyelid.

‘It’s the life story of another woman, a real aristocrat, who also lived in this house.’ The countess adopted a look of doubt, but Zofia immediately explained: ‘The life story of Countess Julia Krzywda-Wielhorska, who swore vengeance many years ago and who served at Helcel House as an ordinary almswoman, Mrs Krzywda . . .’

Briefly most of the assembled company began whispering to each other, talking and exclaiming, causing a terrible commotion; peace was only restored by Alojza, who jingled a bunch of keys, clanging them against the brass door handle.

‘In the February of 1846, that memorable year of rebellions, in a village called Krzeptów, the entire Wielhorski family was murdered: the count, by then an old man of eighty, and his wife, for many years bedridden by paralysis, their son, the only one left since the other had gone into exile in France as a national insurgent and died there without issue, and their daughter-in-law and two grandsons. The only family member to survive was their ten-year-old granddaughter, Julia, who was hiding in a wardrobe, though when she heard them start to smash the furniture, she crept up a chimney above a hearth where no one had lit a fire that morning. At one point the looting peasants threw some documents onto the hearth, thinking they were property registers and wanting to set them alight, but luckily the thick covers wouldn’t catch fire so they soon dropped the idea. The girl . . . You’re not going anywhere,’ she said to the baroness, who had risen from her seat. ‘There’s one policeman under the window and another by the door, please don’t fret, just listen carefully . . . The girl was spared just one thing – she didn’t have to watch her family being murdered, because she was hiding in one of her parents’ bedrooms. But she did happen to see something she’d never forget for the rest of her life: Marychna, who used to work in the palace as a chambermaid, and who now, at her fiancé’s side, was the chief instigator of the massacre at Krzeptów. Even from inside the wardrobe the little girl could hear Marychna, barely ten years her senior, loudly inciting the rest to hit harder and harder until their victims’ brains burst. But above all Marychna had a precise and cunning plan of her own, for she was a sly creature: when the crowd poured into the palace, she didn’t head for the drawing room, into which the Wielhorskis were herded, but set about ransacking the rooms. She told some of the others to guard certain areas to make sure nobody else could grab the most valuable items – for she knew where they were hidden. She removed all the jewellery, the bank documents and the cash in gold from every nook, leaving the rest of the looters with nothing but the earrings, wedding and signet rings they tore from the victims. Through a chink in the wardrobe door, little Julia saw Marychna opening the secret drawers in the escritoire, filling her apron with necklace cases, watches and strings of pearls, and stuffing valuables down her fiancé’s shirt front as he walked about the rooms hesitantly, awkwardly, gaping at everything in amazement. And that was when Julia swore that if she survived, she would not rest until she had taken revenge on Marychna, in memory of her parents.’

Zofia paused to catch her breath.

‘And then what happened to her?’ asked Alojza, who was listening with flushed cheeks.

‘The victim, or the aggressor? The victim slipped away after dark, before the palace was set on fire. She was cared for by relatives who sent her to a convent school, and who took over the property, though they soon mortgaged it and lost it. When she grew up, she couldn’t rely on making a good match, so first she became a companion to an old lady near Lemberg, then later she worked as a governess, in Lemberg and its environs. She lived extremely modestly, which won her the gratitude and respect of her employers. She never married, and led an innocent, virtuous life. But that was just a front. She saved a small legacy from a distant aunt and all the money she earned, setting it aside for her life’s main goal: to take revenge in keeping with her oath. One could say that she stalked Marychna worldwide, hiring various adventurers and spies, even bribing the police in various countries. What did she establish? That Marychna, who was supposed to share the booty with her fiancé, had apparently moved the treasure to a safe place behind his back, then, without stopping to wave him goodbye, had set off around Europe. In Prague she had set up a shop, then another. She gained refinement and took lessons in manners. She married an old, but very respectable citizen. Seeing her wealth, he knew that she wasn’t marrying him for his money. And indeed, she did it for his name. The old man left this vale of tears . . .’ – she glanced at her notes – ‘only six months after the ceremony . . .’ – she looked at the notebook again – ‘. . . held at St Nicholas’ church . . .’

‘I don’t think we need such precise details,’ said Klossowitz impatiently.

‘Dr Klossowitz, on the contrary: I think we do need them. They say the devil is in the detail. If one explores them properly, one can pick the devil out of the detail. Of course, Countess Wielhorska did not learn all these facts at once – various scraps of information reached her from different sources – some were lies, some mistakes, some plain gossip. Suffice it to say that at least ten years ago she found out that her sworn enemy was now called Baroness Maria Banffy, was residing comfortably in Transylvania at her husband’s side and was on splendid form. The jewellery and cash looted from the Krzeptów palace had been the foundation for a substantial fortune, increased by both her marriages. This bloodthirsty coun-try bump-kin,’ she chanted into the face of the furious Banffy, ‘brazenly putting on airs and lording it over others, had managed to achieve her aim, and married a real baron with a real castle.’

‘It wasn’t much of a castle,’ hissed Polcia venomously, ‘it was just a provincial manor. Just a shell.’

‘And she knew all this from a clever young man, a quarter Polish, a quarter Czech and half Hungarian, whom she went to find in a low dive in Prague, because she had heard a lot about his stalking skills. He was thin and down at heel, and time and again he would lose everything he had at cards or on other pleasures . . .’

‘And there’s nothing wrong with that either!’ said Fikalski brightly.

‘There are varying opinions on that matter,’ snapped Mother Zaleska.

‘But he had a legendary talent for locating missing sons who were losing their health in bordellos, finding dishonoured daughters who were hiding from their parents’ rage in highland cottages, and discovering the hideouts of counterfeiters and handlers of stolen goods. He not only tracked down Marychna, but also discovered her plan to live out her old age in Cracow. Right here’ – she cast her eyes around the company – ‘in the charitable institution founded by Mr and Mrs Helcel. At that point things began to pick up speed.’

It was so quiet in the office that the only sounds to be heard were Fikalski’s gasps of amazement and voices and shuffling from the corridor on the other side of the wall.

‘While it would have been extremely difficult for Countess Wielhorska to kill Marychna at her own estate in distant Hungary among numerous servants, Helcel House seemed a far easier place to do it. But she knew that to carry out the murder she couldn’t just come from Lemberg, go through the main entrance, pass this door’ – she pointed at Alojza, standing in front of it – ‘and find the victim. She had to get to know the place, its routine and its floor plan. She wrote a letter to the administration in her own name, asking for the admission of a Mrs Krzywda, a woman of impeccable character. I do not know and I shall never find out why she used her own letterhead. She was acting with intent, after all. Could it be that in her heart of hearts she wanted to be discovered and restrained? She knew that Helcel House only accepted residents of Cracow and the immediate area – maybe she had no one to recommend her, so she decided to put her own title on the line? Or perhaps, in fact rightly, she foresaw that the letter would be put away in this large cupboard, where no one – well, almost no one – would bother to look at it? Whatever the case, Julia Krzywda was assigned a place at Helcel House, so she moved here, and billeted her assistant at a cheap hotel. But he . . . but you’ – she turned to the young man calling himself Banffy – ‘had no intention of leaving well alone, did you?’

Still sitting on Mother Zaleska’s desk in the same nonchalant pose, the young man merely shrugged. After a while, he unfolded his arms and said: ‘Life has taught me to grab each opportunity on the wing. If I didn’t, I’d have been dead long ago, but like a good Christian, I’d be lying in a pauper’s grave.’

‘But at least as an honest man,’ Polcia hissed through clenched teeth.

‘You preferred to blackmail Baroness Banffy,’ Zofia went on. ‘Not for huge sums of money, because she wouldn’t have paid them. And not about major issues. You never threatened to reveal her part in the massacre of the Wielhorski family, because after all these years nobody would take her to court any more. No – you threatened to reveal her origin, to drag out the peasant Marychna from under all the velvet and jewellery, from under that title, from under the polish. All your life, my lady’ – she turned to the frowning baroness, sunk deep into her armchair – ‘you took care to rise in the world and to look down on others, just as you had been regarded. You learned manners, refinement and languages, you worked your way up through successive levels of wealth, from one marriage to another, and there you were, at the summit, from which a young whippersnapper was threatening to topple you into ridicule by spreading gossip about the simple peasant from near Tarnów who’d made herself rich, beguiled an old Czech and then a Hungarian baron and was trying hard to shine as a great aristocrat . . . there are too many recently self-appointed aristocrats in Galicia for you to be forgiven that.’ Zofia was standing right over her, staring at the woman’s hands as they gripped the folds of her dress, but then she turned on her heel and addressed the so-called nephew again: ‘So you sucked out your share, like a leech. Not too much, but just enough to get by and enjoy yourself. As long as she was alive, you had your bit of money coming in. And enough decency to appear at Countess Wielhorska’s funeral, maybe out of gratitude for bringing you to this goose that laid golden . . . well, silver eggs. For you offered Baroness Banffy not just silence but also your help to track down the person who’d been sending her anonymous death threats, which were pushing her towards a nervous breakdown . . . and which until not so long ago you yourself had been sending on the orders of your employer, Countess Wielhorska.’

‘Yes! Yes!’ cried the baroness at last, raising her head proudly. ‘I was getting anonymous letters! Lots! I’d been mistaken for someone else, I can show you those vile messages threatening to kill me, telling me to go to confession, to humiliate myself and apologise for crimes committed almost fifty years ago! But it is no dishonour to be the victim of blackmail when one is accused of crimes one didn’t commit! As you said yourself, we all saw each other at the theatre, the countess, Mr Fikalski . . . I even drove you home in my carriage.’

‘Indeed,’ agreed Zofia, ‘you’re quite right. We did all see each other, oh yes, from one box to another and in the grand foyer at the Municipal Theatre. We were all at the theatre – apart from your maid, who’d do anything for her mistress. Maybe she would even kill?’

‘I wasn’t at Helcel House!’ cried the terrified Polcia, seeing where this was heading; the baroness grabbed her arm with fingers gripping like a vulture’s talons.

‘Of course you weren’t,’ laughed Zofia. ‘You were at the theatre. Ladies and gentlemen,’ she said, approaching the desk and turning to face the entire company, ‘this is exactly what happened. Julia Wielhorska, known here as Mrs Krzywda, an ordinary almswoman, applied for a job in the kitchen by pretending to be a cook, which, of course, she was not, and then waited for the right opportunity. On the day the almond mousse was served in glass cups, she poisoned one of the helpings with cyanide. Unfortunately, Baroness Banffy’s maid argued with her and insisted on taking a different one for her mistress – she was convinced that portion was smaller or inferior in some way, and at the last moment swapped it for another. That was how the poisoned pudding ended up with the entirely blameless Mrs Mohr. Mrs Krzywda may have been a murderer, but guided by her own peculiar sense of justice, she did not want to cause the death of an accidental victim. So she hastened to try and remove the glass cup, which led to her quarrel with Mrs Mohr, which Countess Żeleńska overheard. But when the old lady threatened to kick up a fuss, eventually she gave in. She came back after midnight to hide the body in the attic. It was only found by me.’

‘By the watchman,’ protested Klossowitz.

‘By the watchman, sent to the attic by me. Meanwhile the baroness, whose maid had mentioned in passing her argument about the pudding, realised that the time had come for the threats in the letters to be fulfilled, and that sooner or later she would fall victim to poisoning. And knowing who had argued with her maid about the two apparently identical portions of almond mousse, she identified who was out to kill her. So she confided in her maid . . .’

‘Oh yes, indeed she did! She told me everything!’ cried Polcia. ‘She told me conspirators were after her, Italians, the Carbonari, she said they wanted to murder her, so I must pretend to be her at the theatre, and meanwhile she would see to an important matter that would save her life. And she gave me lots of jewellery. These’ – she showed her earrings – ‘and this’ – a ring – ‘and plenty more, which I keep in a casket . . .’

‘Far too much,’ hissed the baroness.

‘I realised the truth when I remembered what my clever Franciszka had said: “In hats all the ladies look alike”. Especially in a hat with a thick veil. Both are of similar build, they could easily swap dresses. The baroness used the time to strangle Mrs Krzywda, which explains the brutality of the murder. Above all, she was in a hurry, and besides, unaccustomed to subtlety, she had always been a tough woman who had cleared a path for herself through life with her elbows. And that’s the reason why the two killings were so very different in style. They were the work of two different artists. Or rather, botchers: both were interestingly planned, but the first misfired, while the second has now been detected. During the interval she entered the theatre by claiming to be a messenger with an urgent telegram for her master, exchanged dresses with her maid in the washroom, and calmly returned to Helcel House after the show. That’s why she couldn’t comment on the first half of the programme. Why have you and your mistress fallen out so often lately?’ she turned to Polcia. ‘Could it be that you began to suspect her of something?’

‘First she told me those assassins had come and strangled Mrs Krzywda by mistake,’ said the maid, clearly upset. ‘I even prayed for the poor woman, grateful that thanks to her my mistress was still alive . . . I went on fearing that something would happen to her, and then I spoke to you, madam . . . at the cemetery. But yes, yes, after that I started to guess . . .’

‘And what did she say?’

‘ “Go to the police on Mikołajska Street”, she said. “Tell them your mistress killed Krzywda. Then I’ll say all Cracow saw me at the gala opening. But it was you who had a quarrel with Krzywda, you were at odds with her” ’ – her chin was quivering with emotion – ‘ “and who are the magistrates going to believe? A baroness, or a common drudge?” That’s what she told me. So what could I do? Just go to the gallows?’ She looked at each and every one. ‘Well, what was I to do?’

‘It’s enough that you’re speaking now,’ Klossowitz reassured her.

‘Of course, one other person could have given the baroness away,’ said Zofia. ‘Her “nephew”. But he was too fond of a comfortable life to have to be quite so loyal to the woman who used to provide his bread and butter . . .’

‘Oh, how wise you are,’ said the so-called nephew, switching into German, ‘how moral. Loyal to the woman who provided me with bread and butter! Indeed, for the money she paid me I’d only have had bread. Without the butter. I should have been loyal to a murderer, should I? A poisoner? The one was as bad as the other, except that one was a real aristocrat disguised as a pauper and the other was a pauper disguised as an aristocrat. And what advantage would it have given her, eh? I came to the funeral, I did, and I’m not ashamed of it. But I wouldn’t have got her back out of the ground by informing on her killer. She’d have gone on rotting in there anyway . . .’ On hearing these words, Countess Żeleńska and Mother Zaleska raised their hands to their mouths in unison, like two puppets operated by a single string. ‘Just as she is now.’

‘But you’d certainly have lost your source of income. Just as you’re losing it now. I’d advise you to start looking for an honest job . . .’ said Zofia.

‘The job will find me of its own accord,’ he interrupted her. ‘I won’t croak from hunger.’

‘But you were afraid of croaking, as you put it. Because, ladies and gentlemen’ – she turned to them all, speaking in Polish again – ‘I wouldn’t have known half of this story if I hadn’t warned this man that Baroness Banffy had hired some men who were going to kill him and then drown his body in one of the bathtubs at the Hotel Krakowski.’

‘That’s not true!’ said the outraged baroness, who finally had a real reason to be outraged.

‘Of course it’s not,’ said Zofia, casting a triumphant glance at the young man. ‘He let himself be taken in like a child! I only had to scare him a little by making up the nicknames of a couple of rogues supposedly prowling the dark alleys of Cracow, and he started to spill the beans like anything.’

While glaring at the alleged nephew she didn’t notice Klossowitz leave his seat, pass Sister Alojza and open the door; when Zofia turned around, she saw a policeman leading Baroness Banffy out by the arm.

‘Well, I see things are advancing at a giddy pace, and you have found a reason to believe my words again, Dr Klossowitz. It’s a great honour for me,’ she said, and bowed with an ironical smile. ‘But ladies and gentlemen, please allow me to finish with a moral. And I’d like the baroness to hear it too.’ She raised a finger which acted like a magic wand, stopping the policeman who was towing the baroness towards the door. ‘If you had gone to the police at once, told them that Mrs Krzywda was trying to kill you but had slain the innocent Mrs Mohr by mistake, your persecutor would have gone to prison for murder, and you’d have continued to live in peace. Though not with the same respect as before. Your maid would no longer have treated you like a goddess, the nuns would have stopped whispering in corners that here at Helcel House they had a genuine countess and a baroness, and every almswoman would be able to say, “Don’t put on airs”. It wasn’t the crime you committed years ago that destroyed you, but your own conceit.’

The great scene was at an end. Exhausted, the new Sarah Bernhardt sat down comfortably in the only free seat: the armchair in which Baroness Banffy had been sitting until now.

‘Well then, Mother Zaleska,’ said Zofia, tilting her head to glance at the nun, ‘Mrs Sedlaczek is coming out of prison and so is Mr Morawski. We’ll have those raffle prizes, I presume?’

‘I cannot imagine any other decision,’ said Countess Żeleńska firmly from her place; she hadn’t seen such an exciting show in a long time, and as she was used to paying for her entertainment, she’d decided to do so with her support.

‘Amen,’ said Mother Zaleska curtly and with no great enthusiasm, though she was clearly happy with the outcome of the case. ‘I simply need to discuss it with Mother Juhel.’

‘Splendid,’ said the countess, clapping her hands to say that the matter was settled. ‘Now please forgive us, everyone, but Mrs Turbotyńska and I are due at a celebration.’

As their amazement began to subside, everyone gathered in the office, including the nuns, began to talk, shouting each other down as they voiced their thoughts and grievances. They needed time to let off steam. The so-called Banffy was now standing by the door, pulling on his fine leather gloves.

‘Congratulations,’ he said, smiling sourly at Zofia as she passed him by, ‘I think I’ve met my match.’

Zofia laughed radiantly. ‘Do tell me,’ she replied, ‘what will you do now? And what are you really called? What are you? Austrian, Polish, Hungarian or Ruthenian?’

At this point Mrs Walaszek pushed her way past them, determined not to leave with Fikalski at any cost.

‘What does it matter? There’s no such thing as a nation, there are only kingdoms and empires. Under one power, under one crown. We’re no more different than the citizens of Lemberg are from the citizens of Cracow. You’ll see that in twenty, at most fifty years from now there won’t be any nations. I am myself. Now here, now there. What will I do? Whatever’s needed. I won’t perish.’

‘There can be no doubt about that.’

‘Zofia, Zofia,’ called the countess, and Zofia’s heart skipped a beat on hearing her use her first name, ‘come along now, we can’t be late.’

Zofia turned again, nodded to Mother Zaleska and Sister Alojza, then ran down the stone steps. The strangest month in her life to date was over, crowned with undeniable success. It occurred to her that now she could dismiss the latest maid, whose indolence had been getting on her nerves for a good few days.

Outside Helcel House the carriage was waiting, with young Tadeusz Żeleński inside, who jumped out to meet the ladies, bowing low; then, with quite an effort, he helped his venerable cousin to get in and placed her on the upholstered seat.

‘No, thank you very much,’ said Zofia, smiling, when he offered to help her too, then she nimbly hopped inside. She was as happy as a bubble in champagne.