The Ludwig Conspiracy

  “Us?”

  Steven pointed to Sara and Zöller. “I’d need my assistant and photographer with me, of course.”

  “If you like.” Luise Manstein sounded several degrees cooler now. “I have to go in again myself. The new CCTV cameras were installed only yesterday, and there are still a few minor glitches in the alarm system. I’m one of those annoying bosses who likes to check up on everything herself.” Her eyes twinkled again. “And I must admit I’d be really interested to see Neuschwanstein by night, particularly the king’s bedroom.” The tinted window on the driver’s side of the car went slowly up again. “Think it over, Mr. Landsdale. I’ll be up there at the gatehouse at nine this evening. Maybe we could get a martini after. So long!”

  The car’s engine roared, and the Maserati disappeared past the nearest souvenir shop.

  “Peggy and Adolf!” Sara blurted. “I suppose you couldn’t think up anything sillier? Sounds like Stan and Ollie, or Tom and Jerry. And what do you mean, I’m your assistant? You should be so lucky.”

  “I couldn’t think up anything else on the spur of the moment,” Steven replied. “Anyway, she bought it, and now we have a way to get into the castle when it’s empty, so stop complaining.”

  “Oh, I’m to stop complaining, am I?” Sara said crossly. “The old cow has the hots for you, and you’re going along with her game.”

  “Only because it’s a way to get us into the castle, damn it!”

  “Would one of you be kind enough to tell me what’s going on?” Zöller asked. “Why am I suddenly a photographer called Adolf?”

  Steven mopped his brow. “It’s a long story,” he said with a sigh. “I’d better tell you while Sara books us a hotel. It looks like we’ll be here at least until tomorrow.”

  AFTER SOME SEARCHING, they found an overpriced, old-fashioned place to stay in the town center of Schwangau, not far from Neuschwanstein. When Steven saw the shabby hotel furnishings down in the lobby, dating from the 1960s, he was reminded of what Luise Manstein had said. The place really was still stuck in the last century. If terrorists bombed it, there wouldn’t be much loss, apart from the two castles.

  This time they booked a double room and a single room, so that Sara and Steven had a little time to themselves during the next few hours. However, their friendly conversation soon died away, and they lay in silence on the bed, staring at the wood-paneled ceiling.

  “One way or another all this will soon be over,” Steven said.

  Sara turned to look at him. “How do you mean?”

  “Well, either we crack the puzzle of the third keyword tonight and find out what Theodor Marot was trying to say, or . . .”

  “Or?”

  “Or I go to the police with that damn diary. I’ve reached the point where I don’t care whether I’m wanted for two murders or even three. I just want it to be over.”

  Sara sat up. “You can’t say a thing like that!” she exclaimed. “Not so close to finding the answer. Do you want it all to be for nothing? And what’s more . . .” She took Marot’s diary off the bedside table and held it in front of Steven’s nose. “Didn’t you yourself say the book held a magical fascination for you? That something about it seems to have to do with your past? If you give up now, Steven Lukas, you’ll never learn the whole truth about yourself.”

  “Do I want to?” he asked. “The whole truth? I’ve managed okay without it so far.” He looked thoughtfully at Sara. “Besides, people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. Who are you, Sara Lengfeld? Everything I know about you would fit on a postcard. So don’t you talk to me about secrecy.”

  For a moment Sara seemed about to say something, but then she dropped a kiss on his forehead and got off the bed. “All in good time. Right now I’m too busy making sure that wrinkled old industrialist doesn’t seduce my Parsifal. She’s crazy for you.” Her eyes sparkled. “Now let’s go for something to eat. I have a feeling we’ll both need to keep our strength up.”

  On the hotel terrace, they met Uncle Lu. The wiener schnitzels were so tough that they could hardly chew them, and the beer tasted like dishwater. After that they had to kill time somehow until their date at the castle.

  As if by mutual consent, neither Sara nor Steven said any more about the diary. There was tense expectation in the air. While the art detective surfed the Internet in the hotel lobby, and Uncle Lu rummaged in his crate for books about Neuschwanstein and the medieval legends, Steven went up to his room. He picked up the account written by Theodor Marot and made himself as comfortable as he could on the creaking hotel bed. There were only a few chapters left to read. Steven felt that he would soon discover the real background to the death of Ludwig II.

  And maybe, also, the truth about himself.

  28

  JTI, JG

  Time in the castle ran on inexorably slowly, like the sand in an hourglass.

  In retrospect, those hours seem to me the real turning-point in the life of Ludwig. How different the history of this country would have been if he had only acted with decision! But like Hamlet, he hesitated, and when the king finally made up his mind to flee, it was already too late.

  Directly after the arrest of the doctors and officials in the tower building, Ludwig telegraphed his loyal adjutant, Count Dürckheim, who was still in Steingaden after his suspension from his duties. It turned out that the Füssen telegraph office was not, as we had expected, in the hands of the enemy. Furthermore, the traitors had even neglected to tell the local gendarmes in advance about the change of regime. Yet instead of firmly giving the signal to attack, the king continued to vacillate between boundless hatred and weary apathy. Like a caged panther, he paced up and down the throne room, uttering fearsome curses.

  “Put out the traitors’ eyes; whip them until the blood comes!” he shouted, as spittle flew from his lips. But the next moment, lowering his voice, he was asking the servant Mayr for the key to the tower so that he could throw himself from it.

  “Your Majesty, the key . . . the key has been mislaid,” stammered Mayr, bowing low several times. Like many of the servants, he had long ago gone over to the enemy, although as yet Ludwig had no idea of this. “I . . . I’ll send people to look for it at once.”

  Ludwig merely nodded in silence and went on pacing. It was as if he were waiting for his downfall.

  The disaster began with Sonntag, chief district officer of Füssen. Shoulders hunched, kneading his green felt hat in his fingers, he turned up at the castle toward noon. The portly official was visibly embarrassed, but nonetheless he walked with a rapid tread over to the chamber in the tower building where the prisoners were being held.

  “Set these gentlemen free,” Sonntag ordered the local gendarmes guarding them. He flourished a document that was wet with rain. “Prince Luitpold’s proclamation has just been telegraphed to Füssen. The gentlemen in there are correct: King Ludwig the Second has indeed been deposed.”

  The chief district officer handed the document to the surprised gendarmes and firefighters, and then unlocked the prison door with his own hands. Holnstein came out, his eyes flashing.

  “And high time, too,” growled the count. “This has gone on long enough. Now let’s put an end to this farce.”

  “I would advise you to leave the castle one by one, and secretly,” whispered Sonntag. “The king does not know that you have been freed, and I can’t guarantee the conduct of the populace.”

  Holnstein nodded in silence, but his glare let the local gendarmes standing around know that he would have liked to put them all up against the wall. When the count saw me in the second row, his mouth twisted into a scornful grin.

  “Don’t think I’m unaware who’s behind all this, Marot,” he said sharply. “You’d better find yourself a position as a horse-doctor. That is, if the prince regent leaves your fine friend the equerry a few horses after what’s happened.”

  I bowed and looked as if I had no idea what he meant. “I’m sorry, Your Excellency, but I really don’t know wh
at you are talking about.”

  “The devil with you, Marot.” Count Holnstein was so close to my face now that I could see his mustache bristling. “Did you think your little conspiracy was a secret from us? We didn’t eliminate your group only because you’re none of you anything but squealing rats.” He laughed contemptuously. “What difference did it make whether you warned the king or not? The man’s deranged—surely you can see that by now. He won’t accept help from anyone. So now good day to you; we’ll be seeing each other again soon.”

  The count turned away, and I raised my hat to him with a smile, hoping that he did not see my fear.

  One by one, the prisoners left the castle. Dr. Gudden kept looking nervously up to where the throne room stood, as if the king might yet scratch his eyes out at the last minute. A hunting carriage was waiting outside the portal to take the gentlemen back to Munich, by way of Peissenberg.

  The first act of the tragedy was over.

  I had been watching the liberation of the officials in horror from the courtyard side of the gatehouse, when a rider suddenly galloped through the entrance on a whinnying horse. It was Count Dürckheim! On seeing me, he waved me over, and I told him briefly what had happened in the last few hours.

  “It may not be too late,” said the count, tearing his sweat-drenched army cap off his head. He had ridden all the way from Steingaden to Füssen at a full gallop. “Take me to the king at once.”

  We found Ludwig in his study, bent over a sheet of paper on his desk. As we entered the room, he was just imprinting his seal on a large envelope with his signet ring. A second and considerably smaller letter lay beside it, looking more like a folded message. Ludwig pushed both documents aside and looked at us with happy surprise.

  “Count Dürckheim! How good to see you here,” he cried, rising from his chair. “I hadn’t expected you so soon.”

  “I rode like the devil, Your Majesty,” replied Dürckheim, bowing. “At this moment, we are in haste. You must come to Munich at once.”

  The king looked at him in surprise. “To Munich? But why?”

  For a moment it seemed that the count’s face fell, but then he pulled himself together. “Because it is your last chance to escape deposition,” he said in a calm, objective tone. “If you show yourself to the people, the ministers will never dare to have you declared insane. We will write a proclamation of our own, arraign Prince Luitpold for high treason, and . . .”

  “Oh, Dürckheim. Munich!” the king interrupted. “Look at me. I am tired and sick. City air does not agree with me.”

  “Then . . . then at least take refuge in the Tyrol,” I begged him fervently. “The empress of Austria is your cousin. She will help you. In a few hours’ time, Count Holnstein will have sent a battalion of Munich police officers here to surround the whole castle.”

  “My dear Marot, what would I do in Austria?” Shaking his head, Ludwig returned to his desk. “Look down from the mountains at my castles, which wouldn’t be mine anymore? Write a counter-proclamation on my behalf if you think it really necessary, but don’t trouble me any further with it. I have other plans.” He put the larger letter into Count Dürckheim’s hand. “My dear count, I have only two requests to make of you. This sealed document must be taken to Linderhof as fast as possible. It may well be the most important missive I have ever written in my life, so take good care of it. This message,” he added, picking up the smaller, folded sheet of paper that had been lying on the table, “tells you to whom you are to hand the document. Do not read it until you have reached Linderhof. Compris?”

  Count Dürckheim nodded. “I understand, Your Majesty. And your second request?”

  “Get me some cyanide.”

  Neither Dürckheim nor I said anything for some time; the king’s words had taken our breath away.

  “My king, you mustn’t do a thing like that!” the count finally exclaimed. “Bavaria needs you. What is to follow you?”

  “Other times,” said Ludwig quietly. “Times in which I do not want to live.”

  Count Dürckheim clicked his heels. “Majesty, forgive me, but that is the first order you have ever given me that I cannot obey.”

  The king smiled mildly at him. He seemed to be in a distant world once again. It was as if, in his mind, he had withdrawn into one of the mural paintings of the Tannhäuser saga that surrounded us on all sides in the study, an ideal medieval world in which knights, minstrels, and real kings still existed. “Very well, Dürckheim, very well,” he said at last. “Leave me alone now.”

  The last thing I saw as I turned away was Ludwig throwing letters one by one into the fire burning on the hearth, where they briefly flared up blue and green, and finally fell to ashes.

  JG, J

  The next blow of fate came hurrying toward us in the form of a battalion of police officers from Munich. They arrived at the castle at eight o’clock that evening and promptly took control of it.

  By now all letters to or from the king had been intercepted. From this point on, he was entirely cut off from the outside world, and his orders held sway only as far as the castle gate. However, that did not seem to trouble him much. He had spent all afternoon burning old letters in the study, and then he wandered lethargically around the great halls of his castle. Sometimes he stared through the window for minutes on end, so that I began to fear he might jump out. But since asking for cyanide, he had expressed no more thoughts of suicide. Ludwig seemed to be resigned to his fate. A leaden weight lay over the castle; it was like being in the castle of the Sleeping Beauty, in expectation not of a prince but of the arrival of the traitors. The first of the servants had already left.

  The thirty Munich police, commanded by four officers, sent the last of the loyal local police home and barred the castle gate. They cut off the telephone, that newfangled invention with which Ludwig might have telegraphed messages to Füssen. They turned off the warm-air heating system, and forbade the king to go for walks. From this point on Ludwig II was a prisoner.

  At midnight I lay down to rest in one of the second-floor servants’ rooms, but I could not sleep properly. I tossed and turned restlessly; in my dreams I saw Maria, who was running away from me as I pursued her. But whenever I had almost caught up, and tried to reach for her, she was several steps ahead again. Suddenly she stopped, turning to me, and her face was the face of a rotting corpse. Her mouth opened, maggots crawled out of it, and I heard her hoarse voice in my mind.

  He’ll kill me . . .

  Suddenly I was awoken by someone shaking me hard. When I opened my eyes, I saw Count Dürckheim standing over me. He wore his uniform, his coat, and his officer’s cap, as if he were about to leave. Outside, it was nearly dawn.

  “We must talk,” he whispered. When I opened my mouth, he put a finger to his lips. “Not here—the walls have ears. The police from Munich are all over the castle. Follow me.”

  Drowsily, I pulled myself upright and accompanied him to the stairway, which we climbed in silence. On the fourth floor, the count led me through the various rooms until finally we were outside the door of the king’s bedchamber.

  “But . . .” I began as Dürckheim pressed down the door handle.

  “Never fear,” he told me. “The king is not here. He is pacing up and down in the Singers’ Hall like one of the undead. At the moment the bedchamber is the safest place. The servants know that the king never spends the night here, only the day. So no one will think of spying on us.”

  His Majesty’s adjutant pushed me into the cold room and closed the door behind us. With the gray light of morning falling through the window, the outline of the huge bed with its magnificently carved canopy could just be seen. All around us were imposing murals telling the tragic story of Tristan and Isolde, from the fatal love potion to their union in death. The two ceramic figures above and at the side of the tiled stove also showed the lovers. I could not help thinking of Maria and myself; in one of the paintings the loving couple embraced as closely as the two of us had done a few mo
nths earlier at Herrenchiemsee.

  Count Dürckheim, exhausted, sat down in one of the armchairs and looked at me with red-rimmed eyes. He did not seem to have had a wink of sleep.

  “The counter-proclamation is written and printed,” he said, rubbing his temples. “We have had thirty thousand copies distributed, but, to be honest, I don’t think it is going to work. Presumably the police will confiscate most of the pamphlets before they get into circulation.”

  “Then what are we to do?” I asked.

  “We?” The count smiled wearily. “You overestimate my powers. I’ve already received orders from the War Ministry, three times, to return to Munich at once, on pain of arraignment for high treason. Now that Luitpold has taken over as regent, I serve another master.” He sighed at length. “The way it looks, Marot, you will soon be the last of our little group of conspirators able to stand by the king.”

  “My God, Dürckheim, don’t leave Ludwig now, when he needs you most,” I exclaimed. In desperation, I sat down on the blue damask coverlet and ran my hands through my hair. For a moment I entirely forgot that I was sitting on the king’s bed.

  The count raised a hand to soothe me. “Don’t be alarmed. I am going to leave, but before I reach Munich, I’ll make sure a message gets to the equerry Hornig and a few friends to tell them to do all they can to prepare for the king’s flight.”

  I frowned. “For that, we’d need to know first where Gudden and Holnstein mean to take His Majesty.”

  “Ah, here at least, there’s a glimmer of hope.” For the first time a slight smile passed over Dürckheim’s face. “I still have a few reliable sources of information, and they report interesting news. Dr. Gudden plans to detain Ludwig at Linderhof Castle. They intend to make the place a kind of prison. So we must act fast.” He stood up, smoothing down his uniform jacket. “I have several capable people in the Linderhof area, and they will organize an escape. From the castle, it is not far to the Tyrol. All is not yet lost, Marot.”