The Ludwig Conspiracy(123)

“Whom, incidentally, you suspected for no good reason,” Steven interjected with annoyance.

“As if that matters now.” Sara rolled her eyes. “I guess we’ll never find out what he was doing with that private detective agency, and those phone calls to the States. Or at least, not if Uncle Lu doesn’t get to see a doctor very soon.”

Steven frowned. “What did he mean when he said it was no coincidence that your uncle came to see me?” he asked. “He said Paul Liebermann had known my parents. How could that be?”

“Who knows,” Sara said. “Luise shot Zöller the moment she heard him. Obviously she didn’t want you to know any more.”

“More about what? Uncle Lu said it was time I learned something very important about myself. What the hell was it?” Steven sighed and rummaged listlessly around in Zöller’s books, which were scattered all over the mosaic floor. There were smeared bloodstains on some of them. “We’ve solved the third puzzle, we’ve made it to Neuschwanstein, and we still don’t know any more than we did at the start.”

He stared at the picture of St. George fighting a green dragon in front of a small castle on a rock. That was just how Steven felt: he was fighting, struggling, thrashing about, and still he didn’t move from the spot.

“I’m beginning to feel fairly sure that all this is to do with my childhood memories,” Steven said quietly. “I don’t know how and why, but there’s some kind of connection between me and the diary. The sensation of dizziness that I get when I read it, the memories of earlier times . . . it’s as if something were knocking at the door to my consciousness with all its might. The diary takes me back to my childhood. And Zöller knows what the connection is.” His voice rose, echoing in the high cupola. “Hell, why didn’t he say something sooner? How does he know what I’m not supposed to know?”

“Crazy Luise was talking about a hiding place just now,” Sara said. “Presumably the ballad puzzle takes us there. But what can the something be? A treasure? Obviously it’s something that’s extremely important to her.”

Steven cleared his throat. “Up to this point we’ve always thought that finding out about the true background to Ludwig’s death was all that mattered. But maybe it’s something else. Something to do with my own past.” He picked up the diary, which bore a large drop of blood. “Only one thing to do,” he said, wiping the drop away with his last white handkerchief. “I have to finish reading the damn book. Luckily there are only a few pages left.”

“If Uncle Lu’s going to have any chance, you’ll have to read fast,” Sara told him, mopping the sweat off Zöller’s forehead. “I don’t think he has much time left.”

“Then you’d better listen to the end of Marot’s story. Maybe you’ll spot something that I’d miss.”

Steven sat down on the steps up to the gallery, opened the book, and read the penultimate entry in the diary out loud.





32





JG, JG, JG





They came at midnight to take the king away.

By now most of the servants had already left the castle. Only four had stayed with Ludwig, and an almost unreal silence reigned. Even before this, Neuschwanstein—with its scaffolding and half-finished rooms, its bare corridors floored only with loose boards, and its fairy-tale furnishings—had seemed to me like a ghost castle. Now I actually thought I felt a touch of evil seeping through its walls.

I had lain down to get a little rest in one of the servants’ bedrooms and had fallen into a restless state of half sleep, from which I was awoken by the sudden sound of several loud voices. When I hurried up the steep spiral staircase, I saw Ludwig’s massive form standing in the bedroom doorway. Two attendants were positioned, one on his right, the other on his left, holding the king with their strong arms. Ludwig himself looked pale and bloated; he had clearly been drinking. His voice sounded soft and apathetic, as if he were already resigned to the inevitable.

“What . . . what do you want?” he stammered. “What does this mean? Let go of me!”

Dr. von Gudden, with his assistant, Dr. Müller, beside him, stepped out of the group of madhouse attendants and addressed the king.

“Your Majesty, what I have undertaken to do is the saddest task in my life. Your Majesty has been certified by four doctors who are specialists in insanity, and on the basis of their opinions, Prince Luitpold has assumed the regency.”

“But how can you call me insane?” asked Ludwig in a muted voice. “You did not come to see me and examine me first.”