“We were hoping you would, Herr Schoenfeld,” replied Thomas. Who was happiest being generous with other peoples’ money: “A drink?”
“No, thank you. No time for that.” He sat and leaned forward briskly: all business, he seemed to forget that one of his hands was withered. “I have been encountering some puzzling circumstances, which may or may not bear upon the frustrations you have been experiencing as well.”
“Oh?” asked Larry mildly.
“Yes. My sister-in-law Anna, usually so cheery, has been quite depressed. According to those who know her, it has been going on for some time now. They fear for her coming child. But at my other brother’s house—Hans Jakob, who is also a member of the Rat—I am now expressly forbidden to speak of it. And I had only asked if it might help to bring little Gisela back for a visit with her mother: by all accounts, they were inseparable, a smile from one being sure of receiving a like return from the other.”
Larry nodded. “And that was when you were told not to speak of Gisela any more.”
“Exactly. Or of Anna’s depression.” Schoenfeld looked from one to the other. “And neither of you are surprised at this. In the least.”
Thomas was wondering how best to respond to that frank observation without giving too much away when the door banged open and the two garrison soldiers entered. Their swagger and bold sweeping glance about the room stopped when it fell upon Thomas and Quinn. Suddenly circumspect, they made their way to the bar and ordered.
Schoenfeld kept to the topic. “You have encountered something similar. You have suspicions.”
Thomas kept his eyes on the soldiers, watched the exchange at the bar. “Suspicions, yes. But no answers.”
“What else have you learned?”
Larry seemed to gauge Schoenfeld carefully. “That Gisela isn’t the only little girl who was sent to school suddenly, just before the Rat decided to cancel the aerodrome deal. It seems that the daughters of Hanss Lay and Ignaz von Pflummern also departed for Nuremburg without anyone noticing.”
Schoenfeld banged his good hand on the table. “I knew it!” he announced.
“Knew what?”
“That there was something odd about this early schooling nonsense. Gisela is a little strip of a girl, barely three. So how would she get to Nuremburg without special arrangements being made long beforehand? It is not as if Biberach has one of your marvelous trains running to and from Nuremburg, after all. Even so, someone from the family would travel with her. And when I offered to bring a letter to her, my younger brother seemed ready to throttle me.”
Quinn leaned forward. “You are traveling to Nuremburg? Why?”
Schoenfeld actually blushed. “Since I was not to become an artist in Italy, then perhaps in Germany, in Grantville, maybe in the Netherlands . . .”
Quinn smiled. “Perhaps so. But at least travel with me, when you go: I would not like to see you hazard the Jakobsweg on your own. And travel is always more pleasant with company, no?”
It was Thomas who answered. “And it is always far more pleasant to travel with well-funded friends.”
Quinn quirked a sour smile. “You mean, like me?”
“Actually, right now, I meant like them.” Thomas pointed surreptitiously at the backs of the two soldiers at the bar.
Larry frowned. “What do you mean?”
“While you’ve been discussing disappearing daughters with Herr Schoenfeld, I’ve been watching those two. Who have already knocked back two of the house’s finest. And are now chasing it down with a double helping of schnapps, each. And they paid full price. For all of it.”
Quinn’s frown went away, replaced by a carefully neutral expression. “Hmm. Not such a poor, threadbare garrison after all.”
“No, indeed. And look at their gear.”
Quinn did. “All new. Local manufacture, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You’re not,” put in Schoenfeld. “I know the work of our weavers and tanners, their marks, their cuts and patterns. That’s their work all right. Of course, they’d have had plenty of time to purchase some, by now. From what my brothers tell me, they’re in town twice a week to pick up provisions.”
Quinn turned, saw where the soldiers had left the wagon, which was now being loaded—none too eagerly—by a handful of the nearby victualers. “But why get their goods here? Why not in the market?”
Schoenfeld shrugged. “My brothers tell me that the Rat is worried that there could be a riot. Biberach has not had it so bad as other towns, but food is still dear. If the townspeople had to routinely watch soldiers who do nothing but sit on their hands six miles away, getting food for free—”