The Left-Handed God Page 17

  “Augusta!” He sounded impatient. “Come back here a moment. I want to make certain that you understand‌—‌” he broke off because‌—‌blessedly‌—‌the sound of a carriage stopping outside sent him to the front door instead.

  Augusta waited as long as she dared, then emerged to wave goodbye from the door. But Franz had his back to her and was supervising the loading of his portemanteau, and only Doctor Stiebel raised his cocked hat and smiled. Franz climbed inside and slammed the door without another glance.

  Augusta dropped her raised hand and looked after them as they disappeared down Fischergasse. Her brother had not even raised his hand to wave farewell. She mattered less to him than Elsbeth‌—‌except in so far as she was an embarrassment to his pride. With a sigh, she went inside and closed the door.

  Elsbeth appeared soon after, having been woken by the sound of the carriage, and soon Max also arrived. The three of them set about the daily chores.

  When Augusta’s mother came downstairs much later, she was dressed for going into town. Augusta wished her a good morning. Her mother pursed her lips and did not respond. Her face was set in a tragic expression as she sipped her morning coffee interspersing every sip with deep sighs. Augusta made no attempt to carry on a conversation. She felt that in this instance she had been‌—‌and still was‌—‌the victim. Between sighs, Frau von Langsdorff made a good meal of her coffee and several slices of yeast bread spread liberally with butter and peach jam, then left on her errand.

  Augusta, having nothing else to do, went out into the garden with one of the books that had belonged to her father. She had chosen it because she felt a need to be close to her father in her loneliness.

  The day was warm, but autumn had already brought chill nights, and she had to brush yellow leaves off the bench before sitting down. She found that that the book contained poetry by Angelus Silesius. Opening it in the middle, she read:

  Jesu, du mächtiger Liebesgott,

  Nah’ dich zu mir,

  Denn ich verschmachte fast bis in Tod

  Für Liebesgier;

  Ergreif’ die Waffen und in Eil’

  Durchstich mein Herz mit deinem Pfeil,

  Verwunde mich!

  She was profoundly astonished that a Christian poet should address Christ as the god of love, speak of languishing in desire, beg to be overcome, to be wounded, to be pierced by His arrow. Just thinking about it made her feel warm.

  Was loving God like loving a man? If so, she did not love God as Silesius had. She was not even sure that she loved Jakob with such fervor. Confused, she looked up into the pear tree where the blue of the sky mingled with the gold and green of the leaves and searched her heart for such passion.

  “There you are, Miss.”

  She started, shutting the book quickly. Max was striding down the garden walk. With the sun on his curls, he resembled the archangel again, an archangel who carried a nosegay of red roses and smiled in that way which always made her heart beat faster.

  “What is it, Max?” she asked in an unsteady voice, clutching Silesius to herself.

  He extended the roses. “For you, Miss.”

  “More flowers? Why?” she cried, uncomfortable with such attentions because she was not sure that she did not want them, and that wanting them was surely wrong.

  “For helping me with the letter…‌and because it pleased me.” He gave her a melting glance.

  She put her nose into the roses so she would not have to look at him. The petals were cool as silk against her lips, as deep a red as blood, and their scent was sweeter than any she could remember. “Thank you, Max,” she murmured, “but you mustn’t bring me flowers. Did you put the letter in the mail?”

  “Yes, Miss. Auntie’ll have it before the sun sets. Isn’t it a grand thing how fast the post is these days?”

  “It is indeed, Max.” She did not know how to end this conversation but knew she must.

  “Augusta! Where are you?”

  For once, her mother’s call was welcome. “I must go,” she murmured and, holding Max’s roses and the Silesius pressed to her breast where Jakob’s ring also rested, she dashed into the house.

  Her mother was in the parlor, taking off a fetching new bonnet. On the settee lay a number of parcels. She looked excited and happy. Apparently she had soothed her wounded feelings by spending money on herself.

  Augusta meant to avoid irritating her again at all costs and said, “”Yes, Mama,” as humbly as she could manage.

  “What have you there? Roses? Very pretty. Wasted under the circumstances, but it shows the right spirit.” She came and took the bouquet from Augusta and smelled it. “And a book? Such an old one. Is it a romance?”

  “No, Mama. It is one of Papa’s. I was reading it when you called.”

  “Oh.” She tossed the book on a chair. “Sit down. I’ve come to a decision.”

  This did not sound like her mother and made Augusta uneasy, but she sat down and waited.

  “I’ve taken two seats on tomorrow’s coach,” announced her mother triumphantly. “We are going to Mannheim!”

  “What?”

  Her mother twirled around the room with a happy laugh. “We are going, my girl. You and I. Why should Franz have all the fun? I’m quite angry with him for being so selfish. In fact, I was unable to sleep and felt very ill this morning, but the fresh air did me good. I was in the middle of trying on some bonnets at Madame Annette’s…” She interrupted herself to peer into the mirror between the windows. “What do you think? Isn’t it most charming? The violet ribbons match my eyes. Anyway, I was trying on bonnets when I had my idea. Why can’t we follow Franz by post coach? He’ll be glad to see us, and even if he’s put out, it will be too late by then.” She turned around, smiling broadly at Augusta. “Now what do you say?”

  Augusta had listened in horror. “You can’t, Mama,” she said. “Think of what it will cost. And what will we do when we get there? I’m sure a city like Mannheim will be much more expensive than Lindau. You know we must manage our money, especially now that we have to pay wages.”

  “Tralala!” sang her mother, picking up a heavy purse from among her purchases and shaking it so that Augusta could hear the clinking of coins. “We have plenty of money. One hundred gulden.”

  “One hu…‌how did you get that?”

  “Look around you, girl. I’m a property owner. I borrowed the gold on the house. Quite easy.”

  “Oh, Mama! What will Franz say? Oh, you shouldn’t have done that.”

  “And why not? The house is mine. I can do with it as I wish. I cannot imagine why I didn’t think of it before.”

  “But Mama, how will we pay back the money?”

  “Don’t be silly. We won’t have to.”

  Augusta tried again. “Mama, it is a loan. You have to pay back the money. With interest. How will you do that?”

  Her mother laughed. “Foolish girl. Once we get to Mannheim, we’ll find you a rich husband. Someone of good birth and with a position at court. Someone who will help Franz with his career and see to it that I’m taken care of.”

  Augusta was aghast. “What makes you think some stranger in Mannheim will want to marry me?”

  Her mother cocked her head and eyed her speculatively. “You’re not bad looking, you know,” she said, astonishing Augusta who had never heard her mother say anything of the sort and thought herself plain. “With the right clothes and hair style you’ll look charming. Franz must seek entrée among the best people at court and introduce you to his friends. Nothing could be simpler.” She laughed and raised the fat purse again, shaking the gold inside. “We’ll order new gowns to be made in the latest fashion and have our hair done once we get to Mannheim. Now go and pack your best dress and enough shifts and stockings for a week. You can wear your second best in the coach.”

  It was mad. And awkward. And somewhat laughable. Here she was, secretly betrothed to Jakob, a man as wealthy as even her mother could wish, but she would be snatched away fro
m him and paraded in Mannheim as if she were a heifer at a cattle market because her mother was piqued that Jakob had preferred her daughter.

  Of course, she had no choice but to make this foolish trip. If she refused, her mother would go by herself, and Augusta was afraid of what would happen then.

  She would have to let Jakob know of her mother’s plan, but there was little chance of slipping away while Mama was organizing her madcap journey. In her room Augusta sat down and wrote to him, her first love letter. It did not read like any love letter she had ever read in books, and after rereading the matter-of-fact statements about her imminent departure (she did not mention her mother’s intentions of finding her a husband), she added, “I shall miss being near you, dear Jakob, but surely it won’t be long until I may see you again.” It was true, even if it lacked the warmth of desire expressed by Angelus Silesius. She sealed the missive and, still feeling it inadequate, she kissed it, though Jakob would not know that she had done so. Then she put it in the pocket of her apron and went in search of Elsbeth.

  But Elsbeth was busy with her mother. They were sorting through her mother’s wardrobe and gathering a large pile of skirts, shifts, caps, and kerchiefs that Frau von Langsdorff wanted mended, taken in, washed, pressed, or otherwise improved before their departure.

  Elsbeth was not a safe messenger in any case. The girl could not keep her mouth shut. Augusta looked for Max instead and found him stacking firewood behind the shed.

  “Max,” she said, blushing a little, “would you take this note to Herr Seutter for me? Be sure to give it into his own hand. It seems we are to go on a journey tomorrow and neither Mama nor I have time to see him before we leave.”

  Max took the letter, but he looked angry. Perhaps he did not like being sent about like her errand boy. “I’m sorry, Max,” she said. “I wouldn’t ask this favor if I had another way to send the message.”

  “You should not go running off to Mannheim like that,” Max said. “It’s not safe for two females to travel on their own. It’s especially not safe when one is taking quite a lot of money.”

  So her mother had already shared the news with her servants. What else had she shared? That she planned to find a husband for her daughter? Augusta said, “We won’t be gone long, and my brother is in Mannheim. But I thank you for your concern. We shall be careful.”

  *

  The assassin had made up his mind to murder the old man only because he had no choice. What happened at Freiberg had been easy and safe, but this was different. He nearly panicked several times and was in a state of nerves all the way to Schwetzingen, his hands so wet with perspiration that he could hardly hold the reins.

  Thank God, horses were sure-footed creatures in the dark, or he might have taken an awkward tumble. His mind was not on the road but on what he was about to do.

  He was very comfortable with a gun, a marksman of distinction, but a gun would not serve this time. This must look like a natural death. He was neither a burglar, nor could he claim any experience with the garrote, but that was what he carried in his pocket. He thought to string the body up by a noose afterward, somewhere near a toppled chair to make it look as though the old man had hanged himself out of grief over the loss of his only son.

  But strangling a man required getting close enough to the victim to lay hands on him. What if he did not cooperate and raised an outcry? And even if he was quiet, what of having to hold him as he choked to death? He felt nausea rising from his stomach and swallowed down bile.

  He pictured the bulging eyes, a mouth wide open in a silent scream, a swollen tongue pushing out like some slimy creature. He imagined the choking, rasping sound coming from a collapsed windpipe, the smell of sour old age, the weak struggle faltering, and the worn-out body sagging in his arms. To come so close to the moment of death should never have been part of his service to the great man’s cause.

  And there was the danger. He might be caught. Even if he was not caught, he might not be able to do it. He hardly dared to think what another failure would mean. The old one knew far too much to be allowed to live.

  The manor lay quiet in the moonlight. Not even a dog barked.

  Trembling a little with nerves, he left his horse out of sight from the road and walked cautiously toward the main house. All was silent and peaceful. He had prepared an explanation, should he be stopped, but no one stopped him. The baron shared the house with an elderly couple, who occupied the top floor, while he had his rooms downstairs. Old people sleep soundly, he thought, trying to give himself courage.

  The baron’s rooms were in the back. He walked around the building into the small, formal garden and was momentarily unnerved by the black shapes of trimmed bushes, standing there like so many strategically placed sentries. He stopped to calm his breathing. Somewhere water trickled‌—‌a fountain. The gravel crunched softly under his soles, and he moved off the path and onto the dirt of a bed of late roses that shone ghostly white in the moonlight. The scent of roses was in the air, and somewhere an owl hooted.

  The rooms on the lower floor opened by glass doors onto the terrace. He tried the doors one by one. Somewhat to his surprise, the door to the old man’s room was unlatched. Very careless, thought the assassin and was suddenly filled with confidence.

  He eased open one wing. It squeaked a little, and he stopped to put his ear to the opening: nothing but a soft snoring sound. The old were deaf, but what if there was a servant sleeping nearby? His information about the inhabitants of the house might be faulty. He bit his lip and slowly opened the door a little more until it was stopped by heavy velvet draperies. A thin line of light showed between them. Pushing the curtain aside, he slipped into the room. The draft caused a candle to flicker beside the curtained bed, but the sleeper still snored.

  No sign of a servant, and the door to the adjoining room was closed.

  Inside the bed curtains, he could make out the form of the sleeper. A book he had been reading when he fell asleep lay open on the turkey carpet next to a pair of slippers. A chamber pot peeked out from under the bed. On the small table beside the candle stood a brown medicine bottle and an empty glass with a spoon in it. A sleeping potion, the assassin hoped.

  He crept up to the bed and peered at his victim. The old man slept on his back, his mouth slack under the white mustache, a trail of saliva trickling on the pillow.

  Disgusting. The old had no business clinging to their miserable lives. The assassin felt for the garrote in his pocket when he saw the large bolster beside the sleeper. Perhaps it had propped up the old man’s back earlier while he was reading.

  Holding his breath, he reached across, his eyes on the sleeping man’s face. The snoring sound changed, became more guttural, then stopped. The assassin snatched the bolster, pushed it down over his victim’s head, and pressed.

  A hoarse cry, followed by a mewling sound, came from under the pillow, then the old man’s sticklike arms came up to push and tear at the pillow and flail about. His legs pulled up and kicked at the cover. His body arched.

  Damn! The old bastard was stronger than he had expected and making more noise than was desirable. Climbing onto the bed, the assassin straddled the heaving, twisting body and forced his weight down hard on the bolster. The arms flailed more violently and one caught the glass. It fell with a clatter of the spoon but did not break. Nearly frantic now, the assassin lay down bodily on top of the old man to stop his thrashing. He pinned down the old man’s legs with his, caught the flailing arm, and held the bolster in place with his weight, pressing his face down on it.

  As he lay thus, feeling the convulsions of the other body beneath his, he thought that this murder was astonishingly similar to rape. The struggle against his body felt just like having an unwilling woman under him, an exciting experience he had savored several times in his life. He felt himself grow hard. At first this reaction shocked him and he tried to control it, but the urge was too powerful and the stimulus too insistent. He came just as all movement ceased under him.<
br />
  He staggered off the corpse and out of the room, hardly aware of what he was doing. Not until he was well clear of the estate, galloping back to Mannheim as fast as he could make his horse go, did he regain some mental equilibrium.

  He had ridden like this on moonlit nights after spending a night with a woman. Not all those times had involved rapes, of course, but several of the women had been married, and the excitement of secrecy and danger had been similar. And so was the feeling of physical well-being, of satisfaction, of pleasure consumed. In fact, murder had been more exhilarating, had brought such a rush of energy and such an orgasm that it exceeded all sexual encounters in his life.

  *

  Max was angry. How dare the old biddy pack up his angel and depart for Mannheim to find her a husband. Someone should keep an eye on silly females. And she had that great bag of money with her. A very tempting bag of money. He had been tempted himself.

  His first instinct was to follow them, but he could not go to Mannheim. Koehl was there and had paid him to kill his angel’s brother.

  That did not mean that he intended to deliver her letter. After having seen the ladies and their bags and trunks safely stowed in the post coach, he returned to the house. In the empty kitchen, he took the letter from his pocket and kissed it. He thought he still detected a trace of her scent, though he had slept with it under his cheek all night. He wanted to keep it, knew it was much safer not to, but in the end he tucked it back in his pocket.

  Then he went out to dig over the vegetable garden. Elsbeth was there, bent over to pour some milk into a bowl for the cat. The wind lifted her skirts and petticoat, revealing sturdy legs and thighs. The white wool stockings stopped above the knee. Max eyed the firm rosy flesh appreciatively. Perhaps waiting for their employers’ return would not be without its compensations.