Circle of Shadows Read online

  Copyright © 2012 Imogen Robertson

  The right of Imogen Robertson to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2012

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN : 9780755372096

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Imogen Robertson

  Praise for Imogen Robertson

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Map

  Prologue

  Part I

  Chapter I.1

  Chapter I.2

  Chapter I.3

  Part II

  Chapter II.1

  Chapter II.2

  Chapter II.3

  Chapter II.4

  Chapter II.5

  Chapter II.6

  Chapter II.7

  Chapter II.8

  Part III

  Chapter III.1

  Chapter III.2

  Chapter III.3

  Chapter III.4

  Chapter III.5

  Chapter III.6

  Part IV

  Chapter IV.1

  Chapter IV.2

  Chapter IV.3

  Chapter IV.4

  Chapter IV.5

  Part V

  Chapter V.1

  Chapter V.2

  Chapter V.3

  Chapter V.4

  Chapter V.5

  Chapter V.6

  Chapter V.7

  Chapter V.8

  Chapter V.9

  Chapter V.10

  Chapter V.11

  Chapter V.12

  Chapter V.13

  Part VI

  Chapter VI.1

  Chapter VI.2

  Chapter VI.3

  Chapter VI.4

  Chapter VI.5

  Chapter VI.6

  Chapter VI.7

  Chapter VI.8

  Chapter VI.9

  Chapter VI.10

  Chapter VI.11

  Part VII

  Chapter VII.1

  Chapter VII.2

  Chapter VII.3

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  DEATH AT THE CARNIVAL

  Shrove Tuesday, 1783. While the nobility dance at a masked ball in a small market town, the beautiful Lady Martesen is murdered. Daniel Clode is found by her body, his wrists slit and his memories blurred and nightmarish. What has he done?

  A DESPERATE MISSION

  Harriet Westerman and Gabriel Crowther race to the Duchy of Maulberg to save Daniel from the executioner’s axe. There they find a capricious Duke on the point of marriage, a court consumed by luxury and intrigue, and a bitter enemy from the past.

  RIDDLE, RITUAL AND MURDER

  After another cruel death, Harriet and Crowther must discover the truth, no matter how horrific it is. Does the answer lie with the alchemist seeking the elixir of life? With the automata makers in the Duke’s fake rural idyll? Or in the poisonous rumours oozing around the court as the elite strive for power?

  Imogen Robertson grew up in Darlington, studied Russian and German at Cambridge, and now lives in London. She directed for TV, film and radio before becoming a full-time author, and also writes and reviews poetry. Imogen won the Telegraph’s ‘First thousand words of a novel competition’ in 2007 with the opening of Instruments of Darkness, her debut. Anatomy of Murder and Island of Bones, which was shortlisted for the CWA Ellis Peters Historical Award 2011, were also richly praised.

  Want to know more? Visit www.imogenrobertson.com and follow Imogen’s blog.

  Also by Imogen Robertson

  Instruments of Darkness

  Anatomy of Murder

  Island of Bones

  Circle of Shadows

  ‘Matchless storytelling, gripping and moving in equal measure. Addictive’ Nicci French

  ‘[An] audacious mix of a cultural gloss and uncomplicated, straight-ahead storytelling. The multi-layered nuance of Peter Ackroyd and the buttonholing narrative grasp of Stephen King are stirred into the mix. Although such a combination shouldn’t really work, Robertson makes the various elements coalesce to striking effect’ Independent

  ‘Authentic naval settings, the noises and smells of London, the opera – all are given the benefit of Robertson’s outstanding attention to detail’ Daily Mail

  ‘Extremely impressive…a story, told by Robertson with great panache, of jealousy, greed and unkindness among the upper classes’ The Times

  ‘Chillingly memorable. Imogen Robertson is an exquisite writer, and this is an extraordinary thriller’ Tess Gerritsen

  ‘Imogen Robertson is annual delight. Her quirky detectives strike sparks off each other as they sleuth the length of Georgian England at its most genteel, and deadly’ Amanda Craig

  ‘Stylish, enigmatic and wonderfully atmospheric…a story of secrecy and shame, reason and passion, that resonates long after you reach the final page’ Francis Wheen

  For Charles and Adam

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Huge thanks as always to my friends and family for their support. Much needed, much appreciated. Also to my editor Flora Rees and everyone at Headline, my agent Annette Green, Goldsboro Books, Richard Foreman and the angels.

  Thank you too to the staff of the library at the German Historical Institute in Bloomsbury, the Freemasons’ Hall in Covent Garden and, as always, to the British Library. To Andrew again for his advice on the esoteric, and particular thanks to Michael and Maria Start at the House of Automata, for their hospitality and kindness, and for showing us their wonderful collection. I also want to thank whoever handed in my wallet to the police station in Karlsruhe in September 2010. A lot. Iestyn Davies and his recordings remain an inspiration for all that is best in Manzerotti. And again, all my thanks to Ned who fell in love with Germany, promised me a cage of singing birds, and is very tolerant of me leaving Seals of Solomon lying about the place. I’m very lucky to have him.

  PROLOGUE

  17 July 1782, Ulrichsberg, Duchy of Maulberg, Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation

  THE ROOM IS DARK, lit only by a single candle on the surface of a rough wooden table. The air is perfumed, like church, and heavy with the heat of the day now gone. On one side of the table sits a woman, hardly more than a girl, in a dark blue dress. A gold cross glints at her throat. Her hair, black as pitch and combed to a sleek shine, frames her face and hangs loose over her shoulders. Her face is white and thin. She looks up and smiles.

  ‘Are we prepared?’

  Opposite her, seated in a line like children at their lessons, are four other young people. Two men, two women. They do not look as brightly confident as she. Their shoulders are hunched, their eyes wide. To judge by their clothes, they work for a living. The cloth that covers them is of good quality, but earthy in its tones. No silk. No jewellery to throw the light around. The candle flutters suddenly and one of the women jumps, startle
d by the movement in the still air, but she feels the girl’s eyes on her and nods bravely. The girl places her hands flat on the table and the four others copy her. Their fingers creep towards each other till they touch lightly, little finger to little finger, thumb to thumb till the outstretched hands form a circle around the base of the candle, the fronds of their fingers reaching towards the light. The shadows leap and play around them, weaving back and forth as if driven by something more than the flame, running towards them and away like waves. The girl in blue breathes deeply and tosses her dark hair from her face. She begins to speak.

  ‘Sagar, Adona, Egolo, Catan, by our Lord and God, by His holy angels, by the Light of the World, I ask you to come to us. Show what is hidden, tell the truths concealed, open the tomb, pull back the terrible veil of night, and let the dead speak …’ Her voice begins in a sing-song, then sinks to a low, guttural command. It no longer sounds entirely human. Her eyes are half-closed. One of the women opposite begins to tremble and the light flickers again. The strange floral scent in the air has grown stronger. The girl in blue lifts her head and the table starts shaking violently then settles, suddenly. The girl’s companions are as white as she now. The older woman has started to recite the Lord’s Prayer very quietly.

  ‘The spirits are with us.’ The girl’s eyes are blank, but she tilts her head slightly. ‘Who is it that comes?’ She looks as if she is trying to hear something far off. ‘A lady, noble … she is tall, young. Were you taken from this world in childbirth, madam?’ The youngest of the men flinches, and the girl in blue sees it. ‘She looks so sad.’ Her companions glance about them, furtively searching the rising and falling shadows, but afraid of what they might see. ‘What is your name, madam? Sarah?’ No, she shakes her head. ‘Anne?’ The young man, barely more than a boy, wets his lips and stares at the girl intently. The girl in blue frowns. ‘Anna …’

  The boy opens his mouth. ‘Antonia, madam? Is it Antonia?’

  The girl in blue nods. ‘Antonia. Antonia sends greetings to her most faithful servant, and friend.’ The boy flushes, his eyes fill with tears. ‘Antonia is come to hear news of those she left behind. She fears for them, their grief. Her concern draws her out of the darkness of death to speak to us.’ The boy is crying now, but he keeps his hands where they are and nods his head.

  ‘Is her son with her?’ he asks.

  ‘He plays by her side.’

  ‘Praise be.’

  The girl in blue is silent, listening. From the copse outside an owl calls, its rising voice like a lost question. The woman opposite shudders and continues with her prayers.

  ‘We hear you, madam. She says you have helped her before, and she asks your assistance again. Will you help her?’

  ‘With all my heart, and tell her … tell her I’m sorry.’

  The girl in blue smiles so kindly, all her companions feel a little of their guilt, their worry roll off their shoulders and into the shadows.

  ‘She knows, and she thanks you.’

  PART I

  I.1

  25 February 1784, Oberbach, Duchy of Maulberg

  DISTRICT OFFICER BENEDICT VON KRALL lowered his weight onto the stool with a grunt and lit his pipe, all the while watching the young Englishman sitting on the other side of the table. The man was leaning his head against the wall and staring blankly in front of him. The oil lamp sputtered and settled. He gave no sign of having heard Krall enter the room, but he seemed calm enough. Krall jerked his head and heard a shuffle as the guard retreated into the shadows a pace. The ties at the neck of the Englishman’s shirt were loose, showing the hollows around his throat and collarbone. Krall thought of a portrait he had seen once at the palace of a young man, similarly perfect in looks. The high cheekbones, large eyes, full mouth – a strange mix of the innocent and the sensuous. Here, tucked under the Town Hall of Oberbach with its rough plaster walls and earth floors, they could, like that youth caught on canvas, be from any age, any time. The lamp between them sputtered again and the darkness crossed the young man’s face like the wing of a crow, and away. The Englishman was twenty-five – twenty-six, perhaps. His smooth forehead was smeared with blood.

  ‘Why did you kill her, Mr Clode?’

  No answer.

  English felt like a forgotten taste on Krall’s tongue. The words were rusty with lack of use, but there they were, as soon as he called on them. For a moment he thought he caught the stink of the Thames at Black Wharf. He sniffed sharply and looked down. The Englishman’s hands lay on the table in front of him, his bandaged wrists uppermost with dark blooms showing, the wounds declaring themselves, as if he were offering them up, asking for some explanation, but then his face was turned away. Not a request for enlightenment then. More an appeal. See what you have made me do. The palms of his hands looked very white. Not the hands of a working man.

  Krall had had thick dark hair once, had it when he spent his years in London, learning trade, learning the language till for a while it was as familiar as his mother tongue. That was long ago, before war and worry turned his hair grey and cut deep lines into his forehead, around his eyes and mouth. Then, during his ten years as District Officer in Oberbach, he’d heard enough stories to turn his grey hair white. Women who’d smothered their bastard children; men who had taken a life over a game of cards, or lashed out at a friend to find a moment later that hell had chosen them in that second and they were damned. Nothing quite like this though. He blew the smoke out of his nose, feeling old.

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ he said more sharply. The floor and walls seemed to muffle his voice, steal it away from the air, so Krall brought his fist down hard on the wooden table, making the timbers dance.

  It startled the younger man. He blinked and looked about the cellar as if seeing it for the first time. The cellar smelled of damp earth and wood-smoke. The air here still belonged to winter, as if the town were keeping some of the cold as a souvenir of the season passed.

  The Englishman was still dressed in Carnival costume, in the chequered blue and yellow motley of the Fool. He seemed to notice this as Krall watched him, and rubbed the cotton with his fingers. His wooden mask lay on the table between them with its wide carved grin, a nose long and hooked like a beak.

  ‘There was a party.’

  Krall blew out another lung-full of smoke. ‘Yes, there was a party. It is Festennacht, Carnival.’

  The young man had a slight smile on his lips. He began to sing under his breath. ‘Girl, come to my side, pretty as milk and blood.’

  Krall crossed his arms over his body. The singing scraped his nerves. He thought of the woman in white stretched out across the floor of the haberdasher’s back room. Her bloodshot eyes, open and amazed. The slice across the wrist. The pool of blood shed by the Englishman before Colonel Padfield had beaten down the locked door and rescued him. The open razor, slicked with it.

  ‘The woman,’ he said loudly, trying to drown out the tune. ‘Did you smother her? Did you smother her and then try to kill yourself?’ The young man was still mouthing the words of the folk tune. Krall leaned forward. ‘Listen to me!’

  The young man flinched away. The song stopped.

  ‘There was blood,’ he said, and lifted his arms and wrapped them around his head as if fending off a beating. ‘A man …’

  ‘What man?’

  ‘Masked! He said he would help me. I did not feel … Things were wrong. I was frightened …’ He suddenly gasped and his eyes widened. For a moment it seemed to Krall there was some sense there. ‘Where is my wife?’ Suddenly the young man had thrown himself across the table and grabbed at the lapels of Krall’s coat. Krall heard a movement behind him and lifted his hand, telling the guard to keep back. The Englishman’s blue eyes were glittering, feverish, an inch from Krall’s own. ‘Where is my wife?’ There was a strange tang to his scent. Something floral.

  ‘Mrs Clode is safe,’ Krall said quietly. ‘Release me. Release me before the guard knocks you senseless.’

  The intell
igence behind the young man’s eyes seemed to fade. He looked at his fingers and gradually uncurled them, retreated to his stool. Krall exhaled, slowly. ‘The lady dressed in white, Mr Clode. You knew her, did you not? You met at court, in Ulrichsberg. Lady Martesen. You were found with her body. Did you smother her?’

  ‘There were fires everywhere.’

  ‘Torches. For the Fool’s Parade. Listen, Mr Clode. The lady in white.’

  The prisoner looked up and met Krall’s gaze. Again, the District Officer sensed a struggle for understanding, for reason. The man’s lips began to move again. ‘What is it?’ Krall asked.

  ‘Water … water …’

  ‘You want water?’ Krall twisted in his chair to nod to the guard. The Englishman grasped at his throat.

  ‘I am drowning.’

  ‘No, Mr Clode.’ The Englishman stumbled upright, but at once his legs gave way. He spat onto the floor and hauled himself into a corner, retching and gasping. Krall watched him, frowning deeply, but making no movement. He had seen men drunk, he had seen them mad with grief or rage. He had not seen this. Had the horror of the killing simply snapped the prisoner’s mind? The man’s breathing evened out. He looked up at Krall from his corner. ‘Wake me. Please. I am dreaming. Wake me.’

  The room became silent. Outside, Krall could hear singing – drunks banishing winter with schnapps and country songs of growth and fertility.

  ‘Why did you cut her wrist before you sliced your own?’

  The young man held his hands at the sides of his head and began to rock back and forth. There was something unnerving about the movement, its insistent repetition. There was no sense in this. Krall sighed and stuck his pipe into the hanging pockets of his coat.

  ‘I cannot wake you, you are not dreaming.’ Krall stood up. ‘Mr Daniel Clode, in the name of the Duke of Maulberg I am arresting you for the murder of Her Grace Agatha Aralia Maria Martesen, Countess of Fraken-Lichtenberg.’ He turned to the guard behind him. ‘Get him out of that damn costume, and wash his face.’