‘Show Herr Stiffeniis what you showed to me.’ Gurten’s voice was imperative.
Bylsma nodded, caught hold of the edge of the scarlet cloth, and threw it back.
‘The collection of Philipp Jakob Spener,’ he announced.
The drawer had been divided into compartments of various sizes, lined with the same bright scarlet material, though it was irregular and puffy like a well-worn cushion. Fifteen or sixteen pieces of amber rested on top of the cloth, though there was room for more. Vague, impressed outlines seemed to suggest that certain pieces had been recently removed. Some were dark in colour, others a rich, bright yellow; some were large, others smaller. Some of these objects had been carved into forms which were recognisable: a figurine of a woman with a distended belly; a head of a wolf, its tongue protruding from its jaws. The largest piece of all was a crucifix made of red amber; the body of Christ had been cut in a paler yellow. All of the pieces had been polished to highlight their natural beauty. And yet, there was a blasphemous, pagan element in every one. They contained a fly, a beetle, or some other insect form which was entirely new to me.
‘The treasure of Jakob Spener,’ Gurten whispered passionately.
We studied the collection in silence, each man lost in his own thoughts.
‘Spener was strongly attracted to amber,’ Gurten explained, his eyes fixed on the display. ‘He found great religious significance in it. Clearly, he was influenced by the likes of Nettesheim and Paracelsus. If amber had survived, together with the creatures that it contained, Spener said, then there must be a reason. It was God’s will, His gift. On the other side, Spener was intrigued by the strange physical properties of the material, in particular the crackling force that it gives off when rubbed with a dry cloth. The ancient
Greeks were equally fascinated, and had a name for it.
Elektron
. . . Why, Spener asked himself, was there such a vast quantity of amber in the Baltic Sea? What place was this in those lost days before the Prophets? What unknown world was being revealed, piece by piece, by the action of the erosive sea? Pastor Bylsma was telling me just last night that Spener wrote many beautiful pages on the mystery of amber.’
I thought of Edviga Lornerssen. She, too, had spoken of amber as a gift from the Baltic. Yet she sold amber, and she had told me something of the unscrupulous passion with which men searched for it.
I pointed with my finger at the empty spaces.
‘Was he planning to add other pieces here?’ I asked.
Pastor Bylsma looked gravely at me. ‘The reliquary has been violated,’ he said. ‘These three pieces were the finest in the whole collection.’
Tears stood out in his grey eyes.
‘What happened to them?’ I asked.
‘Robbed.’
‘Four or five months ago, sir,’ Gurten specified.
‘They’ve been here since 1687!’ Bylsma cried, appealing to me as a magistrate. ‘Here! In this secret drawer. My custodial position requires me to examine the collection. I have to remove the dust, and make certain that damp does not invade the reliquary and damage the contents. To reduce the danger of cracking, I polish them twice a year with fish oil.’ He sobbed, and raised his sleeve to his eyes. ‘Last month, I came to clean them, sir. Today is the memorial day, you see. Once a year this treasure is shown to the faithful of Nordcopp. They’ll come in through that door at four o’clock this afternoon to pray before the relics. Oh, the shame of it! Nothing has ever been stolen before. It is a sacrilege . . .’
Again, Gurten cut him off.
‘You know who did it, do you not?’
If a witness was being questioned, Gurten was leading the enquiry.
‘I would not wish to put the blame on any person,’ Bylsma
whined. ‘It’s just that . . . well, as I mentioned to Herr Gurten, there is a certain . . . well, a
coincidence
that cannot be ignored. Nothing more . . .’
He glanced at me as if he wished to be reassured.
‘Whatever you tell me will remain between the three of us,’ I forced myself to say.
‘Two Prussian girls came here seeking sanctuary, sir,’ he admitted. He might have been spitting out needles. ‘They said that they had run away from the French camp on the coast.’
‘This was in the month of March, Herr Stiffeniis,’ Gurten added.
Gurten knew the story, but he wanted me to hear it from the lips of Pastor Bylsma. Indeed, he added details that the clergyman forgot or glossed, details which Gurten clearly thought were important. I was impressed with the young man’s discreet manner of going about things. He was intuitive, relentless. I knew that I would make a magistrate of him.
‘It wasn’t the first time we’ve had fugitives,’ the pastor explained. ‘Most of them have no place to go. They are girls doing men’s work, foreign conquerors watching over them like hawks. No law protects them inside the French camp.’
I thought of Edviga. The girl was tall, and strong. A woman doing the work of a man. The French were certainly watching her. Colonel les Halles was digging for the opportunity to punish and demean her.
Foreign conquerors
. Bylsma had summed up the situation well. But Edviga had spoken only of cabins that were cold and damp. How far did the French idea of punishment extend? Long ago, as every Prussian knows, the Teutonic Order punished amber theft with death by hanging on the seashore.
‘They said they were afraid for their lives,’ the pastor continued.
‘Did the French come looking for them here?’ I insisted.
Pastor Bylsma shook his head.
‘Perhaps they had no need to look, sir,’ Gurten observed.
‘I do not understand your argument,’ I said to him.
‘Maybe the French
knew
that the girls were here,’ Gurten continued
with a wry smile. ‘The French may have sent them, commissioned them, so to speak, told them exactly what to steal.’
‘How did those women know where the treasure was?’ I asked.
Bylsma’s cheeks began to colour. ‘I . . . Well, that is, I got them to wash all the windows. Not just in the church. In here, as well.’ He paused for a beat, looked away, and caught the eye of Gurten. ‘Like I told you, Herr Gurten. They were very . . . well, it was very difficult to say no . . . diabolical, I suppose . . .’
Gurten stepped into Bylsma’s shoes. ‘They won his trust, sir. He let them come in here to wash the windows and dust off the books in Jakob Spener’s library.’
Magda Ansbach swore that the amber-girls were a danger to celibate men. And chastity played no part in the rules that Spener had laid down for his followers. How easily might two handsome temptresses have played upon the weaknesses of a middle-aged priest like Bylsma? If the girls had come intent on theft and seduction, I did not doubt that they had succeeded in their ploy.
Were they Kati Rodendahl and Ilse Bruen?
‘They stayed for two days only,’ Bylsma mumbled on. ‘They helped with meals, cleaned the church, worked in the kitchen. Then, suddenly they disappeared without a trace. I did not understand it then. But the next time I came to open up the relic-box, I found those pieces missing.’
He halted suddenly, as if the tale had robbed him of his energy.
‘What could I do, sir? Could I tell the French? If the soldiers had seen the treasure, they’d have seized the rest of it. And then, some days ago, a girl was murdered down on Nordcopp shore. Another one died just yesterday.’ He shook his head, and peered at me uncertainly. ‘Could the victims be the same two girls who stayed here in the convent?’
‘What names did your visitors give?’
‘Annalise and Megrete, sir.’
‘Those are not the names of the dead women,’ I said.
‘They may have given false ones,’ Gurten quickly interposed.
‘Can you describe them?’ I asked.
The small man raised his shoulders, as if to suggest that he had not paid much attention. But his pale cheeks began to flush very red. ‘Very tall girls, sir. Big, strong, healthy girls with callused hands. Working girls with long blonde hair . . . that is, I noticed the fact, though they were always wearing scarves.’
‘You told me last night that they were both very beautiful, Herr Pastor.’
Gurten spoke as if to add a forgotten detail, but he sought my eyes out, and he held my gaze. He glanced at the priest, who was agitating his hands, rubbing them nervously together. He was clearly in a state of acute embarrassment, thinking of his recent guests. I might have blushed myself, I thought, remembering Edviga as she sat beside me on the bed the night before.
‘Can you describe the missing pieces of amber?’ I asked the priest.
Bylsma bent his head very low over the reliquary. ‘They didn’t take the oldest pieces, the ones that are elaborately carved,’ he said. ‘They took three pieces only, but they were large ones, each containing an insect. Big, black bugs. The largest insects in the collection. The amber was the colour of gold, and incredibly beautiful.’
‘And you’ve no idea where those women went afterwards?’ I insisted.
Pastor Bylsma pressed his hand to his mouth and shook his head, but Gurten had an answer.
‘They may have gone back where they came from,’ he said. ‘If that was the game, whoever sent them would have welcomed back the thieves with open arms. Until they’d laid their hands on what the girls had stolen, that is. At that point, they could be dispensed with.’
‘If the French sent the girls to steal Spener’s treasure,’ I countered, seeing the holes in his argument, ‘why content themselves with three pieces? They could have stormed in here with a troop of soldiers and seized the lot. Still, there is a way to settle the business,’ I said, taking Kati Rodendahl’s piece of amber out of my pocket. ‘Pastor Bylsma, is this specimen one of the stolen pieces?’
Gurten’s hand shot out. Instinctively, I closed my fist around it.
‘I . . . I thought it was about to fall, sir,’ Gurten said apologetically.
‘Pastor Bylsma,’ I said again, turning to him, indicating that he should open his palm and stretch it out. As he did so, I placed the nugget in his hand.
Gurten leant forward and peered at the amber.
‘A wasp . . . a bee of some sort, sir,’ he said. ‘But absolutely enormous.’
If eyes had hands, I thought, that gaze of his would have carried the prize away.
Bylsma shook his head. ‘The size is right, it’s pretty enough,’ he said, obviously caring little for amber that had not belonged to Jakob Spener, ‘but this is not one of the pieces missing from the reliquary.’
‘Where did you find a piece of that quality, sir?’ Gurten asked.
I picked the amber up between my thumb and forefinger, and put it safely away in my pocket. ‘On the body of the girl who was murdered three days ago,’ I told him. ‘The killer did not find it. If he was looking, that is.’
Bylsma made a rapid sign of the cross.
‘Pastor Bylsma,’ I said, ‘I need your help, sir. Would you direct me to the office in Nordcopp where the amber-gatherers are recruited. I believe it is called the Round Fort.’
Edviga had mentioned the place the night before.
I intended to see it for myself.
‘I
T’S OUT ALONG
the coast road, going east, sir.’
Pastor Bylsma turned to me with an approving smile. ‘You have chosen well, Herr Procurator,’ he said. ‘This assistant of yours knows the area better than many of the local inhabitants. No one goes to the Round Fort very much these days.’
‘I went there with my father several times for the fur-trading,’ Gurten explained.
Bylsma’s words rang in my ears as we left the convent. Had I chosen Gurten, or had he chosen me? As for whether I would allow him to assist me in the investigation, the question was still unresolved in my own mind.
We left town by the South Gate, where four French soldiers were on guard.
‘Had your fill of praying, then?’ one of them barked at me.
I did not reply, as we hurried out onto the dusty Königsberg turnpike. Johannes Gurten wore a stylish dark brown corduroy riding-jacket. An unstoppable fountain of news and information all morning, now he walked in brooding silence at my side. His eyes were fixed on the road, his brow was dark, and he had nothing at all to say for himself.
‘Is something troubling you?’ I asked him.
‘The French, sir!’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘They care nothing for our traditions.’
‘You’ll have to get used to them if you hope to work for me,’ I warned him.
‘Our religion means nothing to them,’ he burst out.
‘The less they know about Jakob Spener and his treasure,’ I replied, ‘the better.’
Gurten stopped short and stared at me.
‘Surely they must learn to respect Pietism?’ he challenged.
I thought for a moment of sending him back to where he had come from. I had trouble enough with the French. I did not need a Prussian
provocateur
at my side to make matters worse.
‘Listen to me,’ I said sharply. ‘I’m not employed to teach the French our history and traditions. Don’t you understand my position? The French authorities ordered me to come here. I must give a good account of myself to them. There is a murderer in Nordcopp, and he will not be caught without their help. This is a criminal case. You said this morning that you chose me as your tutor. Let me offer you another choice. Stay here and help me, or take the next coach to Berlin. I’m sure they can still find a place for you in the offices of Otto von Rautigan!’
Gurten looked up sharply.
‘I would not wish to make your task more onerous than it is, Herr Stiffeniis,’ he said. ‘But my heart ran away with my tongue. I can never forget that you were once the confidant of Herr Professor Kant. He recognised your qualities. Indeed, sir, I believe that he saw talents in you that no lesser man would ever have guessed at.’
He spread his hands wide as if to display the sincerity of his sentiments.
‘That’s why I wish to become a magistrate, sir. That is why I hoped to serve you, to learn from you what you had learnt from Professor Kant. Why, even now I feel as though he is listening to our conversation!’
I hoped that Kant was deaf to all living voices. As deaf as he was dead. My only wish was to cancel from my memory the days that I
had spent in Königsberg. I wanted to forget that Kant had ever chosen me to work at his side. Instead, Gurten threw the fact in my face, expecting me to boast proudly of all that I had learnt under the tutelage of the philosopher whom he admired without reserve. If I had one desire, one ardent wish that I did not dare confess—I hardly dared admit it to myself—it was that the French would extirpate the name of Immanuel Kant from the history of Prussia.