In the king’s fourth castle a scion shows the dearest of his treasures.
The bookseller frowned. “What in the world . . .” he began.
“Fluch really did stand for Ludwig Uhland’s poem ‘Des Sängers Fluch,’ ‘The Singer’s Curse,’ just as you suspected,” Sara said. “‘Legende’ and ‘Ballade’ are two not very well-known poems by Goethe. The most difficult ones to track down were Thal and Winsperg. But thank goodness, there are also a few ballads now rightly forgotten in that little old book.” Sara triumphantly held up Zöller’s volume of poetry. “Thal is Der Graf von Thal, The Count von Thal, by Annette von Droste-Hülshoff, and Winsperg refers to a rather boring poem by Adalbert von Chamisso called ‘Die Weiber von Winsperg,’ ‘The Women of Winsperg.’ Taken together with the roman numerals for lines and words, we get this sentence . . .” She emphasized every single word. “In the king’s fourth castle a scion shows the dearest of his treasures. We’ve finally solved the puzzle. That’s the place that crazy Luise was blathering on about.”
Sara gave a V for victory sign, grinning broadly. “Now we just have to go to the king’s fourth castle and . . .”
Steven raised his eyebrows. “Fourth castle? As far as I know, Ludwig built only three castles. Linderhof, Herrenchiemsee, and this one, Neuschwanstein.”
Sara bit her lip. “Damn it, you’re right,” she said quietly. “There’s something wrong.” She frowned. “How about Ludwig’s hunting lodge on the Schachen, in the Wetterstein mountains? Or Berg, maybe? It’s a castle, after all, even if Ludwig didn’t build it himself. Could that be it?”
“I don’t know. It strikes me as illogical. All that trouble, just to lead us to Berg. We might as well start at the Residence Palace in Munich itself.” Steven sighed. “Whatever we do, we have to do it fast.” He glanced at Albert Zöller, who was still lying on the cold mosaic floor. His large paunch rose and fell like a pair of bellows, sweat poured over his face, which was white as a sheet, and he was breathing heavily. “Uncle Lu isn’t going to last much longer.”
“Do the last pages of the diary maybe give any information about this fourth castle?” Sara asked, nervously crumpling up her cigarette pack.
“Not so far.” Steven opened the diary again. There was only one last entry to read. “But at least I think I now know what’s driving our dear friend Luise, and what that treasure really is.”
“You know . . . ?” Sara stared at him, wide-eyed. “Come on, then, what is it? Gold? A crown? The truth about Ludwig’s death?”
Steven shook his head. “That’s just what we’re supposed to think. Yes, Marot tells us how the king lost his life. But that’s not Ludwig’s greatest secret, not by a long shot.”
“Then what is?”
“Solving the puzzle has already given us the first clue,” replied Steven. He ran his fingers over Marot’s closely written lines. “But suppose you give me another five minutes to read this, out loud if you like. Then we’ll know the whole truth.”
36
I reached Linderhof castle late that morning. The meadows were wet with rain and dew, and the morning heat of the summer’s day made the moisture rise as mist. The whole park was embedded in white clouds. It was like a dream world through which I trudged, weary and feverish, in search of my beloved.
I found Maria by the linden tree where we had first met. She was playing with her son, Leopold. The boy, laughing, was running away from his mother, who had tied a white scarf around her eyes and was groping about in a circle like a dancing bear. Quietly, I stole up behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Ludwig, is that you?” she whispered. “Have you come back from Neuschwanstein at last? We’ve missed you.”
I took her blindfold off and turned her firmly to face me. Her eyes looked at me in confusion as she blinked in the sudden bright light.
“You? But . . . ?”
“Ludwig is dead,” I said quietly. “His pursuers killed him.” I gave her the sealed letter. “He asked me to give you this. Maria, why didn’t you tell me that . . .”
My voice died away as her eyes told me that I had been right. Seeing the pain in her face hurt me almost more than the loss of my beloved king.
She took the envelope in silence, incapable of any movement. In a few brief words, I finally told her what had happened. Then we stood beside the linden tree for a long time without a word, until I saw that tears were falling on the letter.