‘I’m sure it is. How marvellous.’
‘This way. I am afraid there is a little way to go down the passage here, towards the kitchens, but you will understand the Count did not wish such modern things to spoil the centre part of the castle. It would have been a pity to cut the panelling in the hall.’
As he spoke he was leading us down a long dim corridor, its flagged floor covered with rush matting. I said: ‘The Count?’
‘The Count and Countess still live here,’ the man explained. ‘You understand this has been their family home for many generations. They have, themselves, their own rooms in that part of the castle, the other side.’ He nodded his head back the way we had come, indicating the rooms to the opposite side of the central hall. The kitchen corridors we were traversing were in the north wing; no doubt the Count and Countess had kept the southern wing for themselves, while the main block of the castle, the centre block which faced the entrance and the bridge, was used as a hotel.
I said: ‘Do they run the hotel themselves, then?’
‘No, madam, there is a manager, but the Countess herself takes a great interest. Here is the lift.’
He had stopped in front of what looked like a massive pine door with the huge iron studs and hinges which I was beginning to expect everywhere in Austria. Hidden in the stone to one side of it, in another tangle of wrought iron, was an electric push button. The lift arrived without a sound, and proved to be one of the most modern possible variety, the self-service kind of which I am always stupidly terrified, and which has a panel of controls and buttons and switches that look every bit as complicated as the business end of a computer. But it took us safely and smoothly and, it seemed, in about three seconds, to the third floor.
My room was impressive and rather beautiful, placed about centrally on the main corridor, in a jut of the eastern wall which allowed its windows a magnificent view of the valley. It also appeared to include one of the charming pepperpot turrets that give the castle its fairy-tale appearance, the main part of the room being square, but with a wide round embrasure in one corner which had been charmingly furnished with a little writing table and two chairs. There was also in the embrasure a narrow door which must give on to some kind of balcony, or more probably – and much more romantically – the battlements.
Just as I had finished my unpacking, a tap on the door heralded Timothy.
‘This is a smashing place, isn’t it? But I must say it scares me a bit. Do you suppose one dares to ask for some tea?’
‘I expect so, though heaven knows how. Perhaps you blow a peal on a slughorn, or beat on your shield with your sword – or, I’ll tell you what, if you look around you’ll find a long embroidered tassel, and if you pull it you’ll hear a bell clanging hollowly in some dark corridor a million miles away, and then some bent old servitor will come shuffling in—’
‘There’s a telephone by the bed,’ said Timothy.
‘Good heavens, so there is. How disappointing. Never mind, you go ahead and order tea. Do you want it up here? I want to look outside this little door if I can.’
The turret door was unlocked, and it did indeed lead to the battlements. There was a narrow walk which joined my turret with another about fifty yards away on the south-east corner of the castle. The walk ran along the eastern wall of the castle, between the battlements on one side which crowned the sheer drop to the river, and the steep pitch of the roof, and ended at the south-east turret in a narrow spiral of stone steps which corkscrewed up round the outside wall and led presumably to the tiny battlemented roof at the top. My own turret was charmingly crowned with a spire like a witch’s hat, and had as weathercock a flying dragon. The roof slopes and gables were tiled with red, the castle walls were of honey-coloured stone, and every spire was tipped with gold – here a globe, there a flying swan, above my head a dragon. I leaned over the battlements: the stone was hot with the afternoon sun. A cool little breeze stirred the air, and in it I could hear the deep sound of the river below the cliff.
Timothy said behind me: ‘Tea’s coming. I say, what a terrific view! Can you see the village?’
‘No, but those farms down there must be on the very edge of it. Look, can you see that little white chalet affair, up in the pines on the other side? I think the circus field must be somewhere below that. I remember noticing the chalet as we came past.’
‘How far away do you suppose it is?’
‘As the crow flies, only about a mile, but by that road, heaven knows. Isn’t it a heavenly place?’
‘Couldn’t be better. Your husband’s a picker, isn’t he?’
‘Invariably.’
‘All right,’ said Tim, grinning, ‘I bought that one. Well, I agree. What time do you expect him?’
‘I don’t know, and they told me nothing when I phoned. I suppose it’s even possible he won’t be able to come tonight, but he did say he would for sure, and the circus goes tomorrow. I’m just hoping.’ I didn’t add that I was praying, too. It was also still possible that he would have to follow the circus into Yugoslavia, and the prospect filled me with fears that were probably absurd, but none the less real. ‘I’ll ring up later,’ I added. ‘If he’s already on his way I suppose they’ll tell me.’
‘At least I’m supposed to know him now. I’m sure it would have been a bit of a strain.’
‘On me, perhaps,’ I said dryly. ‘You two seem to take deception in your stride; it’s horrifying.’
‘I got the impression he’d take most things in his stride, as a matter of fact.’
‘You could be right.’
‘So our next move – after tea that is – is the circus?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘There’s bags of time, it’s only three now. We can talk to them before the first house.’
We had discussed the affair of the old piebald at some length that morning on our leisurely drive from Hohenwald in the circus’s wake, and had made what was really the only decision, that we would have to tell Herr Wagner and Annalisa what we had discovered, without waiting for Lewis’s possible arrival.
(‘Because after all,’ Timothy had said, ‘Franz Wagner’s dead, and he’s the criminal, not them. And the circus crosses into Yugoslavia in the morning, and after that into Hungary, so if there’s to be any question of returning the horse it’ll have to be decided today.’)
‘Yes,’ I said now, ‘we can be down there well before four. Oh, listen, isn’t that the tea coming now? Go and let him in, there’s a dear.’
It was the same servant with the green baize apron. He carried an enormous tray on which was a beautiful antique silver tea service, and on a Dresden plate some remarkably small and rather dry-looking biscuits
I had followed Timothy back into the room. ‘Oh, thank you very much. Would you mind putting it here, on the writing table? Thanks. Are you doing all the work here today?’
He grinned as he set the tray down. ‘It feels like it, madam, but you could say that this was almost a holiday for us. We’ve had a big party of Americans who left this morning, and now there is nobody but yourselves, so many of our people are taking time off. There’s a circus in the village, and most of them want to go to see it.’
‘It’s a very good circus, too,’ said Tim. ‘We saw it at Hohenwald.’
‘Oh, indeed? I shall go myself at five o’clock, and then come back to let others go. Most of the servants here are from the village, and they go back to sleep at their homes at night.’
An exclamation from Timothy made me turn. He had been standing beside the window embrasure, and now stared out northward. ‘What in the wide world’s that? Look over there, over the top of the trees, clouds of smoke. Do you suppose it’s a forest fire?’
I looked over his shoulder. Farther north, up the valley, in the opposite direction from the village, there were indeed clouds of black smoke apparently pouring out from among the trees, high up on the hillside.
I said: ‘Surely there are no houses up there. What on earth can it be? Do you really think it could
be a forest fire, er –?’ This to the servant.
‘My name is Josef, madam. No, that is not a fire, it’s just what we call Die Feuerwehr, the “fire-engine”.’
‘The “fire-engine”?’
‘It has a lot of names, Der Flügelzug, the “flying train”, or some people call it Der Feurige Elias, “Fiery Elijah”, after the other one in the Salzkammergut. It is a little mountain train.’
‘You mean a train, a real train?’ asked Timothy. ‘Right up there? Why, that’s hundreds of feet up, maybe thousands.’
‘Yes, it is high, but this is one of those mountain railways, I don’t know the English word for them – nowadays they build cable cars, and chair lifts, to go up these slopes, that’s the modern way, but this old railway was built, oh, many many years ago, nearly a hundred years ago. It runs up on a small wheel that holds it, a cog, is that the word?’
‘Rack and pinion,’ said Timothy. ‘Works on a pinion wheel and a cogged rail. We call it a rack railway.’
Josef nodded. ‘That is it. A rack railway, I’ll remember that. It’s very popular, partly’ – he laughed – ‘because it’s so old-fashioned; the Americans like it. It starts, oh, away down the valley, perhaps five or six kilometres from the village here. There’s a little lake farther along, and one or two small hotels, a place for tourists. It’s called Zweibrunn Am See. In the summer it can be very crowded.’
‘Where does the railway go to? Right up the mountain?’ I asked.
‘Yes, right to the top.’ He pointed again. ‘You cannot see the summit from here, though you can from the back rooms. From your room, sir, you will see it. The railway goes right up between this hill and the next, to the highest peak, and up there there is a little Gasthaus – a place where you can have refreshments. You can imagine the panorama. You can see right across the mountains into Yugoslavia, and into Hungary. If you are going to be here for a few days, madam, you must make this trip. The best time is early in the morning; the first train goes up at seven.’
I said: ‘I should love to go up, but I’m quite sure I shan’t manage it at seven. Well, thank you very much, Josef.’
‘Is that all, madam?’
‘Yes, thank you. Oh, no, just a moment, please. Has there been any word when my husband is expected, Mr Lewis March?’
‘I had no message, madam, and there is nothing at the desk.’
‘I see. Thank you.’
As the door shut behind him I turned to see Timothy eyeing the tea-tray with dismay. ‘Is that what they call tea?’
‘For goodness’ sake, it’s barely three o’clock. Don’t tell me you’re hungry again after that colossal lunch?’
‘That was hours ago. I say, do you suppose he’s gone? Do you think I could nip along to my room and get some of the things I bought? Thank goodness I had the sense to lay in some stores. You wouldn’t say no to some really nice Gugelhupf, would you?’
‘As a matter of fact, no, I’d love it. Where is your room, anyway? Next door?’
‘No, it’s on the other side, about two down the corridor. The single rooms aren’t nearly as grand as this, and mine looks out over the courtyard, but it’s still lovely. You can see right away up to the mountain tops. D’you think it’s safe to go now?’
The door shut cautiously behind him. I sat down and began to pour tea.
There was nobody in the hall. Somewhat to Timothy’s derision, I refused to go down in the lift with him, but the descent of the wide staircase was sufficiently rewarding in itself, giving as it did on every floor a magnificent and slightly different view of the valley. Timothy had already gone out to the car, and I didn’t follow him immediately, but went down the dim corridor towards the kitchen.
I got as far as the lift door without catching any glimpse of the man in the baize apron, or anyone else. Ahead of me the corridor stretched blankly with the doors shut and silent. I went along as far as the next corner and there hesitated for a moment, but just as I turned to go back towards the hall I heard a door open, and next moment an old man came into view. He saw me hesitating there, and approached.
‘Good afternoon. Is there anything I can do for you?’ His English was only very slightly accented, and his voice was gentle. He had a thin face and white hair worn rather long, and he walked stoopingly. His clothes – of some foreign-looking country tweed – were of curiously old-fashioned cut.
I said: ‘Oh thank you, but I didn’t want to bother anyone. I know you’re short-handed today; I just wanted to give a message to Josef – the man who took our luggage up.’
‘Ah, yes, he has gone to the other part of the house. If you come this way I will send him to you.’ As we went back the way I had come, towards the hall, the old man added: ‘My wife sent for him, but I don’t think she will keep him long.’
I realised then who he must be. ‘Forgive me, but are you – perhaps you are—?’ I hesitated, not sure how properly to address an Austrian Count. He bent his head in a courteous gesture, which was at once a nod and slight bow. ‘I am Graf Zechstein, at your service.’
We had reached the hall, and he was leading the way across this towards a heavy carved door on the opposite side with ‘Private’ engraved on it in Gothic type, but I stopped.
‘Then perhaps – if you could spare me a moment, please, it was actually you I was wanting. I was only looking for Josef to ask him to take a message to you.’
‘Of course. Is there some way in which I can help you?’
I hesitated. ‘It’s rather a long story, and of course I’ll willingly tell it to you, but what I wanted to ask you was simply this: is there a stable here at the castle, or anywhere a horse could be housed for a night or two – or perhaps, better still, somewhere where it could be put to graze? You might say I’ve . . . well, sort of come by a horse, and I need somewhere to put it at least for tonight. If it’s at all possible?’ I finished a little doubtfully.
He showed not the slightest surprise. ‘But certainly there are stables, and if you wish to stable your horse, naturally there will be a place. You have only to tell Josef. And if you wish to graze him there is no difficulty about that; anywhere outside on the mountain you will find grazing; we are not so very high here, and there are many spaces in the forest where the grass is good. Josef will see to this for you. When your horse is brought, just ask Josef where everything is. I myself will give him the message now.’
I had opened my mouth to explain a little further when I realised that he neither required nor expected any further explanation. It could be that one simply did not query the eccentricities of one’s guests, or perhaps he himself still vividly remembered a past when everyone arrived with horses; or it might simply be that he as Count Zechstein had never had to deal with any such request before in person. This was for Josef – like, it appeared, everything else. The Count was already nodding and smiling to me and turning away, so I contented myself with thanking him, and then went out to where Timothy waited with the car.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting, but I was finding out if we could house old Piebald, if the circus does decide to leave him with us. I saw the Count himself, and it’s all right; there’s a stable still in commission, and he says there’s plenty of grazing outside. He never even raised an eyebrow – in fact, I’ve a strong feeling that he rather expects his guests to roll up in barouches, or coaches and six, or something of that sort. Anyway, poor Josef’s got to see to it. I’m wondering if he’ll get to the circus after all. Are you going to drive?’
‘Driving up that little road is one thing,’ said Timothy, ‘and driving down is another. I rather think it’s your turn. I don’t want to be selfish. And I may say if you think a coach and six ever got up to this castle in its whole history you’ve a stronger imagination than I have.’
‘One thing has been occurring to me,’ I said. ‘If you’re really serious about wanting a job at the Spanish Riding School, you could hardly make a better start than by bringing home one of their long-lost stallions.’
He gr
inned. ‘The thought had entered my twisted little mind.’
‘Then you are serious? Good for you. Well, in you get, then, let’s be on our way. I wonder if they’ve ever had a Lippizzan stallion stabled here before?’
‘“Airs above the ground”,’ he quoted, as the little car nosed its way across the narrow bridge. ‘Well, I’ll bet the great Neapolitano Petra’s never been stabled higher in his life, that’s one thing. Incidentally, how is he going to get up here?’
‘You’re young and strong,’ I said cheerfully, ‘you’re going to lead him. I’m sorry I can’t say ride him, but that’s not possible yet.’
‘I had a feeling you had something like this laid up for me,’ said Timothy, ‘when you said you couldn’t do without me. There’s always a comeback to that one. What a good thing I had that Gugelhupf for tea, isn’t it?’
12
When the foeman bares his steel,
Tarantara, tarantara!
We uncomfortable feel,
Tarantara.
W. S. Gilbert: Pirates of Penzance
‘But what on earth are we going to do?’ asked Annalisa.
It was barely half an hour before the first performance was due to start. We were all in her wagon, Timothy, myself and Herr Wagner, rotund and perspiring, already dressed for the ring and looking extremely worried. Annalisa, in her cowgirl’s costume for the first act, was hurriedly making up her face in front of the mirror. Timothy and I had told our story, and to our surprise Herr Wagner had accepted it immediately.
‘I believe you,’ he said, ‘I believe you. I do not even need to see the brands . . . No, no, I knew nothing, and I suspected nothing, but you might say I felt it . . . here.’ A hand gestured perfunctorily towards his brawny chest. ‘I do not pretend that I ever thought about Franzl’s horse, why should I? I am not a curious man . . . and what a man has done, where he has been, that is his own affair. If my dear wife had been alive, ah, that would have been different. But I, I ask nothing.’
He paused, head bent, apparently studying the tabletop, then looked up and nodded at us, slowly, though neither Timothy nor I had spoken.