The thought of my tools intruded, and I crossed to where I’d left my rucksack. It was, I saw at once, open; I knelt and rummaged through it, cursing under my breath as my worst fears were realized.
My tools were gone. Stolen.
9
Herr Doppler
ONLY A FELLOW
horologist can grasp the meaning of such a loss. To anyone else, a clockman’s tools might seem no more than mute instruments of metal and wood, but to us they are repositories of knowledge and experience, imbued with memories, with hopes and dreams. More than mere possessions, they are expressions of who we are, extensions of our deepest selves. Some of those tools were my own inventions. Others had come to me from Magnus himself. I felt their loss most keenly. Without them, my examination of Wachter’s Folly would be perfunctory, all but useless.
So much for Inge’s assurances! And yet she’d invited me to place my valuables with her for safekeeping. Had she, then, known or suspected that I might be visited by a thief? Had she been trying to warn me?
I would confront her, of course … but shouting and accusations would accomplish nothing. I had to practise tact, diplomacy. I was a stranger in Märchen, a foreigner; I didn’t know whom to trust. The law was on my side, but that didn’t mean I could count on the burgomeister’s help. Märchen was isolated by the mountains and further cut off by the snowstorm; thus, I reasoned, the tools must still be somewhere in town, and it should be possible, with the proper inducement, to procure their safe return. A generous reward … though it galled me to think that I would be paying a thief’s ransom.
Returning to the table, I lit a candle from the lamp there and then went back to the door. To my surprise, it was locked. What kind of
burglar
picks the lock to an occupied room, slips inside and performs his thievery, then, upon leaving, takes the time to lock the door behind him? I didn’t see the sense of it. But for that matter, I didn’t understand why the burglar hadn’t taken the trouble to ensure that he didn’t leave a trail of puddled snow-melt behind, either. If the crime had been committed by a fellow guest at the inn, the trail might very well lead me to him.
I unlocked the door, swung it open, and stepped out into the empty passage. Then paused, the candle upraised as though I might hear better by its light. The wind howled outside, and the inn groaned around me like a ship riding out a tempest. Someone was snoring near by, but I heard nothing from the common room below. I started forward, following the watery trail, then stopped and turned back to lock the door – not that there was anything in the room worth stealing now … or that a locked door would afford any protection. Still, the sound of the key turning in the lock was reassuring. Then, feeling like a thief myself, I crept past the closed doors of other rooms to the end of the passage and descended the creaking stairs to the common room.
It was eerily like my dream; all that was missing was the fog. Aside from my candle, the only light came from the still-smouldering fire, which illuminated the sleeping form of Hesta, curled beside the hearth. I started at what seemed at first a gathering of silent, hooded figures by the door, like some grim convocation of monks, then recognized my cloak hanging in the company of several others. At least that had not been stolen.
Someone had taken a mop to the floor, splashing water about … and covering the thief’s tracks. So much for my hopes of following the trail to his door. Meanwhile, though, I was hungrier than ever. I crept towards the kitchen, not wanting to awaken the dog, who would in turn awaken the rest of the inn with her barking. But it was no use; her ears pricked and her head came up, followed by the rest of her. She yawned, shook herself from nose to tail-tip, then ambled over to me, toenails clicking across the stone floor. But she did not bark or growl. Instead, tail wagging, she looked up at me, seeming almost to grin.
‘Poor old Hesta,’ I whispered and reached to scratch behind her ears. ‘Not much of a watchdog, are you, with just one eye? Are you
hungry
, girl? Let’s see what we can scrounge up to eat around here.’
The dog followed as I slipped behind the long wooden bar, past the cuckoo clock, and through a swinging door that led, or so I assumed, to the kitchen.
It did. The floor had been mopped here as well, and the smooth but uneven stones held pockets of water that glittered like scattered coins in the candlelight. The tables were clear and clean; metal pots hung from hooks in the walls and in the beams overhead. Dishes, glasses and silverware had been set out to dry beside a sink that was larger than some bathtubs I have seen. A huge black cast-iron stove radiated a moderate heat, while orange coals glowed like watchful eyes in the depths of a fireplace that dwarfed the one in the common room. Suspended there by thick chains was a cauldron from which savoury aromas of stewed meat and vegetables spilled.
‘Looks as though we’re in luck, old girl.’
Hesta wagged her tail, eye bright with anticipation.
Setting the candle on a table, I took a bowl from the dishes laid out to dry. Then I crossed to the fireplace, Hesta at my heels. The cauldron was covered, and the heat rising from the lid discouraged me from removing it with my bare hands. But after a moment’s search I found a rag that provided sufficient insulation for the task. A steamy exhalation of mouth-watering odours accompanied the lifting of the lid. I set it down, leaning it against the stones of the mantel. I took a copper ladle from a hook near by and filled my bowl; then, after replacing ladle and lid, made my way back to the drying dishes and silverware. All the while, Hesta’s eye was fixed upon me, as if she hadn’t eaten in days, and though that was plainly not the case, I was moved to set the bowl down on the floor for her. Magnus’s weakness was cats, but I confess I cannot resist the importuning of a dog, provided it is politely done.
‘Ladies first,’ I told her. As she dug in, I fetched a spoon and another bowl, which I filled and brought to the table where the candle was burning. I pulled up a stool and followed Hesta’s example, albeit in a more civilized fashion.
The stew was delicious. I do not think I have ever tasted better. There were chunks of tender beef, potatoes, tomatoes, carrots, peas and chopped onions, as well as an array of spices that ranged from the
recognizable
to the mysterious, all blended with sublime skill. Almost as miraculous as the use to which they had been put was the mere fact that fresh and exotic vegetables should be obtainable in Märchen at this time of year. I wolfed down the contents of my bowl nearly as fast as Hesta did hers, then went back for seconds.
After another spoonful, it occurred to me that a bit of ale would not come amiss. I pushed back the stool, picked up the candle, and left the kitchen through the swinging door. When I returned a moment later, it was with a foamy moustache affixed to my upper lip and a mug brimming with ale from the tap behind the bar.
I stopped short at the sight of a stranger sitting at the table and eating from a bowl of stew.
My
bowl of stew. The man must have entered through a back door, though I had heard no one come in and Hesta had raised no alarm. Snow clung to the contours of his cloak and, melting, dripped to the floor around the stool on which he sat. His boots, too, were shedding puddles. A large tricorn, capped with snow like a miniature model of the glacier that presided over the town, lay on the table beside a pair of yellowish leather gloves. A lantern had been hung from an iron hook on the wall beside the fireplace, and it shone with a buttery yellow light. As for Hesta, she was stretched on her side next to the fireplace, soaking up its heat; the dog lifted her head as I entered, then lowered it again, unconcerned. I confess I did not share her equanimity.
The stranger appeared to be in his mid-sixties or so, but robust. Despite the inclement weather and the lateness of the hour, he wore a silver club wig whose long tail reached his broad shoulders. With his bristling white moustache, mottled red complexion, and fierce dark eyes, now glaring over the top of the wooden spoon raised partway to his lips, he put me in mind of certain old soldiers I had encountered in my travels, men unable or unwilling to relinquish the habits of military life long after their separation from the service.
‘So,’ he said in heavily accented English, ‘you are the thief who has been making himself at home in Inge’s kitchen.’
I replied in German. ‘I am a guest at the inn. Who are you?’
The man smiled, but did not appear any less menacing on account of it. ‘Who am I?’ He, too, spoke in German now. Setting down the spoon,
he
removed a white handkerchief from within his left sleeve, dabbed the ends of his moustache, then tucked the handkerchief back in place. ‘You say you are a guest; that makes me your host.’
My confusion deepened. ‘You’re Inge’s … husband?’ A shiver ran through me, as if I were conversing with a ghost, a revenant crawled from out of an icy tomb.
He laughed, and Hesta’s tail thumped at the sound. ‘His successor … though not in the matrimonial sense. I am Inge’s business partner, co-owner of the Hearth and Home. And you are Herr Michael Gray, journeyman of the Worshipful Company.’ Seeing my surprise, he added, ‘There are no secrets in our little town, Herr Gray!’
‘You have me at a disadvantage, Herr …’
‘Doppler.’ The man rose, stepped to one side of the stool, and clicked the heels of his boots together while inclining his torso in a crisp, fractional bow, eyes never leaving my face. His movements shook the last clumps of snow from his cloak. ‘Colonel, retired. I’m the burgomeister here.’ He gestured towards a nearby stool. ‘Please, join me.’
This, I perceived, was not a request. Herr Doppler was a man used to being obeyed. Nor was I, as a stranger precariously situated, inclined to challenge his authority. I settled my candle and mug on the table, pulled up the stool, and sat.
Doppler remained standing. He gazed down the length of his nose at me, a sardonic gleam in his eyes, which I saw now were of a strikingly deep blue, almost purple. ‘I apologize for poaching on your supper, Herr Gray. I’m afflicted with insomnia, and when I cannot sleep I like to walk about the town, making sure everything is as it should be – even on a night like this. Inge knows of my nocturnal perambulations and will often leave me a bite to eat, so when I saw the bowl of stew, I assumed it was intended for me.’
I did not believe he was sharing the entire truth. It seemed to me that it would take more than insomnia to send a man out into the middle of a blizzard. Had I interrupted a tryst? Was the setting out of food a prearranged signal between Inge and Doppler, alerting him that the door to his business partner’s bedchamber would be unlocked? ‘You’re welcome to the stew,’ I said. ‘And I was stealing nothing, by the way. I
would
have told Inge in the morning, so she could add it to my account.’
‘No doubt, no doubt,’ Doppler said dismissively. He flipped up the back of his cloak and resumed his seat. ‘I was speaking in jest when I called you a thief. I knew who you were the instant I laid eyes on you, though I confess I didn’t expect to have the pleasure of meeting you tonight.’ As he spoke, he produced a silver pocket watch from within his coat, glanced at it, and placed it beside him on the table with the lid open. ‘Or this morning, I should say.’
My gaze was drawn to the timepiece; it seemed ordinary enough, the silver case monogrammed with a design I could not make out in the candlelight: Doppler’s initials, perhaps. ‘While we’re on the subject of thieves, Herr Doppler, I’m afraid I’ve been the victim of one.’
The spoon halted halfway to Doppler’s mouth. His gaze turned hard – or, rather, harder. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘My tool kit was stolen as I slept.’
‘Are you sure you did not simply mislay it?’
‘Quite sure,’ I told him and explained the circumstances, though I said nothing of my dream. ‘I hate to accuse anyone, but the locked door, the trail of melted snow …’ I shrugged and took a sip of ale.
‘Yes, yes, it’s all very suggestive,’ Doppler agreed. He pushed the half-finished bowl of stew to one side as if disgusted by the taste of it. ‘Damn her eyes!’
‘Are you referring to Inge?’ I asked.
‘Inge?’ Doppler plucked at one end of his bristling moustache. ‘No, not Inge. My daughter, Corinna. I’ll lay odds on it, the incorrigible minx!’
‘But why should your daughter want to steal my tool kit?’ I asked in perplexity. ‘And for that matter, how could she have done so? My door was locked. Is she an accomplished burglar, Herr Doppler?’
He chuckled and shook his head, his anger as swift to wane as it had been to wax. Now he appeared amused, flush with a father’s indulgent pride. ‘The how is easy enough, Herr Gray. My daughter helps out here at the inn. She has access to all the keys. As to the why, well, I’m afraid she was present when Adolpheus came to tell me of your arrival. Corinna is quite attached to our wayward clock. All of us are, but my
daughter
especially so. She sees it as a kindred spirit. Certainly, she can be equally mercurial in her moods and actions, as this latest misadventure demonstrates only too well.’
‘But I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘Does she think I mean to harm the clock?’
‘Do you not?’ Doppler demanded. ‘Can you deny that the journeymen of your Worshipful Company are charged with the collection and, if need be, suppression of horological curiosities?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Doppler’s wolfish smile returned. ‘Please, Herr Gray. Do me the courtesy of an honest reply. I have been to England. I know the ways of the Worshipful Company of Clockmakers.’
‘I won’t deny that we must sometimes take action to protect the patents of our guild,’ I admitted, choosing my words with care. ‘We have every lawful right to do so. Our authority in these matters, as you must know, derives from the king himself. However, we are not in England, sir. I am a visitor to your country, bound by your laws and the obligations of a guest.’
‘Yes, but you remain an Englishman for all that. You do not change loyalties, I think, as easily as you do languages. And old habits, so they say, are hard to break. Harder to break than clocks.’