The Ludwig Conspiracy (19 page)

“Marot,” I stammered. “Theodor Marot. I am assistant to the royal physician.”

“Marot.” She put her head on one side and blinked into the sun. “A handsome name and a handsome man to bear it.” She took her leave of me with a little curtsey and a slight glint of mockery in her eyes. “My name is Maria. Always at your service, sir.”

Then she turned and ran toward the rim of the fountain opposite.

“Maria is . . . is a beautiful name, too,” I murmured, and waved to her, but she already had hold of her little boy, and they had disappeared into the bushes.

Still dazed, and weary after two days of riding, I let myself slide down the trunk of the linden tree to the ground, from where I stared up at the white Temple of Venus.

“Maria,”
I whispered.

All my anger, my bad luck, the quarrel with Ludwig, were forgotten. I closed my eyes and abandoned myself to pleasant daydreams, in which Maria ran through the meadow with me as she had just been running with her child. A veil came down over my consciousness, and I had to admit to myself that, against all the dictates of reason, I had fallen head over heels in love.

I really cannot have been of sound mind, because the next thing I did was distinctly childish—and it would cost me my king’s favor if he were ever to hear of it. I took my knife out of my pocket and began to carve that day’s date and the name of the clever black-haired girl into the bark of the king’s linden tree.

MARIA 10.9.1885

When I had finished, I ran my forefinger over the letters and softly whispered her name. How was I to guess, at the time, that this girl would determine the fate of so many of us long after our deaths?

RLLKH, XEXMNPE, NACTAPE

A
KNOCK ON THE DOOR WOKE
Steven. Alarmed, he sat up in bed abruptly and for a moment didn’t know where he was.

The Cowled Men!
The thought shot through his mind.
They’re coming to get the book!

“Who . . . who’s there?” he croaked.

“Housekeeping,” a gentle voice fluted. “I’ll come back later.”

Drowsily, Steven groped for his watch beside the bed. It said nine thirty. At the same moment he remembered where he was, and why he was there. The memory did not improve his temper very much.

Good morning, Herr Lukas. We have the police downstairs. They want you for torture and murder. There are also a couple of gentlemen in black hooded robes who want a word with you. Would you like orange juice for breakfast?

He had gone on working on the diary until late into the night, finally going to bed around two in the morning. By then Sara was fast asleep, with the headphones still over her ears, while on the TV screen busty women silently promised carnal pleasures.

Sara . . .

Steven looked to his right, but the other side of the bed was empty. He stretched and rubbed his eyes. The art detective was probably down in the breakfast room by now. Finally he went into the bathroom and spread shaving cream on his face, humming while contemplating Marot’s experiences at Linderhof. The transliteration of Shelton’s shorthand had not brought anything conclusive to light. There had been eight new words in cipher in those passages, but no clue to the means of decoding them. All the same, Marot had mentioned the Grotto of Venus.

Venus . . .

Could a clue perhaps be hidden
in
the grotto? But how was Steven to check, when the grotto was closed to visitors?

After he had shaved carefully, Steven put on the torn pants again, with the printed T-shirt, and leather jacket. He put the notebook containing the decoded diary pages away in his inside pocket, then set off down to the almost-empty breakfast room. Two of the hotel staff were hanging garlands and lanterns for some kind of party. Yesterday’s elderly waiter was shuffling around the room, looking morose and pouring coffee from a large pot. To his surprise, Steven saw that Sara wasn’t there yet. He asked in the lobby, where he was told that the lady had driven away at eight that morning. No, she hadn’t left any message.

Thoroughly bewildered, Steven sat down at a table and sipped the black coffee, which was far too bitter. Where could Sara be? Why hadn’t she told him where she was going? Once again, he had a feeling that the art detective was hiding something from him. He remembered how calmly Sara had searched the body of that hit man in his bookshop. What had she said at the time?

Why don’t you just assume I have a certain amount of experience . . .

Steven quickly skimmed through the local paper, until on one of the back pages he found a headline that ruined his appetite.

BOOKSELLER MURDER SUSPECT: THE SEARCH GOES ON

The story under it didn’t contain much news; it simply reiterated that a certain Steven Lukas had disappeared, and the police were still in the dark. Steven sighed and put the paper down in revulsion. At least they’d refrained from printing a photo of him this time. He got to his feet, deciding to follow up his suspicions of the Grotto of Venus, even without Sara.

Outside the hotel, the October sky was gray and cloudy, and with only a thin T-shirt under the leather jacket, Steven immediately began shivering. A notice on the nearby entrance to the park announced, as he expected, that the castle and the upper part of the grounds were closed; otherwise, however, there seemed to be free access. The bookseller passed the wrought-iron gate and walked through the little wood, which was surrounded by bushes. He met only a few tourists at this early hour, and soon he was on his own among the tall trees. A curious squirrel scurried past his feet, and somewhere he heard the cawing of a crow. Morning mist lay over the hedges and arbors, from which brightly colored leaves fell to the ground.

Steven left the little pond and walked east until a red and white plastic tape barred his way. Beyond it he saw several limousines outside the castle, and the shrill laughter of women reached his ears. Half a dozen domestic staff were setting up little cocktail tables.

Nice place for a party,
Steven thought.
And in this outfit, I could pass for an invited guest, maybe a rock star.

“Hey, you! What are you doing here?”

A powerfully built steward in a gray suit was coming toward him. A walkie-talkie at his side was chirping.

“I’m . . . er . . . going for a walk,” Steven replied. “Is that forbidden?”

“So long as you stay this side of the barrier, it’s okay,” growled the man. “There’s a private event here today.”

“Manstein, yes, I know.” Steven nodded and pointed up at the Grotto of Venus. “Listen, couldn’t I take a little look all the same?”

“Forget it,” the steward said. “Better find somewhere else to go for a walk.” His walkie-talkie squawked, and he turned abruptly away as he muttered unintelligibly into it.

Steven waited for the man to be out of sight, and then he turned around. He walked back the way he had come, until a narrow path turned off into the wood to the right. There was another tape barrier here, too, with a notice in red lettering dangling on it.

NO ENTRY. PRIVATE FUNCTION.

Rather undecided, Steven stopped in front of it, but there was no steward to be seen.

What the hell,
he thought.
It’s not like they’re going to shoot me.

After looking carefully around once more, he slipped under the tape and climbed the steep path that led to the upper part of the park. He heard laughter and the occasional car engine in the distance, but apart from that, it was quiet among the beech, spruce, and linden trees.

Another shady path branched off to the right, leading Steven to a small mound of rocks. Past it was a door-shaped stone slab with a keyhole. Knocking gently, he sensed a hollow space behind the slab.

The entrance to the Grotto of Venus.

Should he just go in? Once again Steven looked around, but apart from a few curious squirrels, he couldn’t see a soul. He took a deep breath and pushed the stone slab.

At the same moment, the revolving door concealed in the rock opened in front of him, and a woman in her midforties with short gray hair came out.

“Can I help you?” she asked sharply, inspecting Steven as if he were a piece of garbage.

The bookseller was so surprised that at first he was at a loss for words. Only after what felt like an eternity did he finally get his mouth open. “I . . . I only wanted to see the grotto,” he stammered.

“Forget it. It’s closed today.” The gray-haired woman folded her arms and looked challengingly at him. Her close-fitting pantsuit and lack of makeup gave her an austere, masculine appearance.

“Oh, how stupid,” Steven said. “Now what am I going to tell my boss when I come home without a story?”

“Story?” The stranger, probably another steward herself, raised her right eyebrow. Apart from that, her attitude had not thawed one bit.

“Er . . . I’m Greg Landsdale from the
Wisconsin News.
” Following a sudden inspiration, Steven brought out his crumpled notepad and a pencil, and bowed to her slightly. “I’m writing a story for our readers in Milwaukee about Ludwig’s fairy-tale castles. Neuschwanstein, Herrenchiemsee, Linderhof . . . A great many people locally are descended from German immigrants who are interested in that kind of thing. Oh man . . . I fly back to the States tomorrow, and my boss said I absolutely had to visit the Grotto of Venus or he’d have my head.”

Steven spoke with a strong American accent, trying to sound like a provincial Milwaukee reporter who had studied German for a few semesters. He had remembered, just in time, that David, Sara’s ex-boyfriend, had traveled in these clothes as a magazine journalist. Steven gave the woman a beaming all-American smile—
the world belongs to me
—while sweat dripped into the collar of his leather jacket.

“Just a little look?” he asked, twinkling at her. “The United States of America will be grateful to you.”

The woman eyed him suspiciously, and then without a word went back inside the cave. Unsure what to do, the bookseller was lingering at the entrance when he heard the woman’s voice come out of the grotto, with a slight echo.

“Well, come on then. Hurry up before I change my mind.”

Steven breathed a sigh of relief. The woman hadn’t even asked to see his press pass. He followed her into the cave, which at first was only a narrow passage with a few niches in the rock, but broadened into a large hall. It was all exactly as it had been described in Marot’s diary. The shell-shaped golden boat rocked gently on the lake. Beyond it, at the back of the cave, was the painting from Wagner’s opera
Tannhäuser,
and in front of the painting there was a small stage made of artificial stone. Only the lighting, the swell of the waves, and the swans were missing.

“It . . . it’s
magnificent!
” Steven cried enthusiastically as he looked around desperately for any sign left by Marot.

“It is indeed. A magnificent illusion, and a masterpiece of technology,” said the woman, pointing to the stalactites hanging from the roof. “All that is only linen sprayed with cement. There was a machine to make artificial waves, and a device to project a rainbow. The lighting installation responsible for the red and blue light in the grotto was driven by twenty-four dynamos.”

“Dynamos? Lighting installation?” Steven was intrigued. “I thought the king lived in the nineteenth century?”

“And was well ahead of his time,” the woman said. “Neuschwanstein Castle has one of the first telephones, the moon-lamp of his sleigh was battery-powered, and he even planned to build a flying machine. Ludwig tried to unite technology and nature into a single whole.”

“You obviously know a lot about it,” Steven said, smiling. “Is it a hobby or your profession?”

The woman’s lips narrowed in a thin smile. “My vocation, if you like. Only those who know the roots of technology can see its future.”

“I’m afraid I don’t entirely understand,” the bookseller replied. “Are you responsible for maintaining this grotto?”

At this the woman genuinely laughed, a soft, gurgling sound like a babbling brook. “Not entirely; my business is with computers.” She gave him a small bow. “Luise Manstein of Manstein Systems.”

Steven nearly dropped his notepad. “You . . . you’re Herr . . . I mean Frau Manstein?” he stammered. Only now did he register the fact that the middle-aged lady’s suit was perfectly cut, and she was wearing an expensive perfume. “But I thought . . .”

“That I would be a man.” The head of Manstein Systems nodded. “Women in leading positions always have to contend with that prejudice. The fact is that my dear husband died more than ten years ago. I have been running the company since then, and I think I may say that I do it well.” She gave Steven a sharp look. “Our revenue has increased by almost fifty percent in that time, and we have expanded considerably.”

“Forgive me, I didn’t . . .”

Luise Manstein waved this away. “Forget it. I don’t have much time. As you probably know, I have planned a private birthday party for today. Part of it will take place in here, too. So if there’s anything else you want to know, please hurry up.”

Steven industriously brought out his pencil and concentrated on where Theodor Marot might have hidden a clue. In his mind he went through everything that the assistant doctor had written about the grotto.

The king’s favorite spot . . . the boat like a huge seashell . . . the red and blue light . . . the painting from
Tannhäuser
 . . .

The bookseller started. Sure enough, Marot had written at some length about the picture. Could there be something hidden in it? Maybe hinting at a theme that would get him and Sara farther forward? Some legendary figure, relating to the subject of love, that they had forgotten? A name of some kind?

“Er . . . the painting over there?” He pointed to the large canvas, which showed a handsome man enchanted by the scene and surrounded by half-naked women and cherubs. “What does it mean?”

“Interesting that you ask about that in particular,” Luise said. “It is known as
Tannhäuser with Lady Venus
and illustrates the first act of Wagner’s famous opera. The knight Tannhäuser visits the pagan goddess and stays in her cave.” She pointed to the stalactites under the roof. “This hall is intended to be Venus’s Cave, and at the same time it is modeled on the Blue Grotto of Capri. Ludwig took refuge here from the modern world when he found it too menacing.” She looked at Steven, who was busily pretending to make notes as she talked. “How about yourself, Mr. Landsdale? Don’t you, too, sometimes feel that the present day is threatening?”