“Your boy does indeed seem to be a real scamp,” I said only half seriously. “I expect his father has to read him a lecture pretty often. Where is his papa, by the way?”
The girl went on picking marguerite daisies, bellflowers, and red poppies in silence. Only after a few moments did she turn to me, shaking her head sadly.
“Leopold has never had a father. The king was kind enough to take us in.”
“I . . . I’m sorry about that,” I replied, at the same time ashamed of myself for feeling something like relief. “An accident?”
“No, it’s only that . . . Leo, get down from there at once!”
She had called the last words to the boy, who was now trying to balance on the rim of the fountain. She looked at me, and at least she was smiling again now.
“I’ll have to go and save my little scamp’s life again. I’m pleased to have made your acquaintance, sir. May I ask the gentleman’s name?”
“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
14
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.