The Ludwig Conspiracy(65)

“What became of this countess?” Steven asked.

“She died in an unexplained fire in her apartment. Luckily the coat was saved from the flames.”

Sara frowned. “Do you really mean she was killed because she knew the truth about the king’s death?”

“I don’t mean anything.” Uncle Lu shrugged. “All the same, I think it’s better for as few people as possible to know that this coat is in my hands.”

“But what does all this have to do with Marot’s diary?” interrupted Steven impatiently.

“Wait a minute,” Zöller snapped. “You’ll see soon enough.”

Once again he went to the little safe, and this time he came back with three notebook-sized portrait sketches mounted on a piece of cardboard. They looked old and were stained. Steven thought he saw the marks left by water when it dried.

“These drawings are by the portrait painter Hermann Kaulbach, who carried out many commissions for Ludwig the Second,” Uncle Lu said. With his fat fingers, he pointed to the two outer pictures. “These two are the personal physician, Max Schleiss von Loewenfeld, and the king’s equerry, Richard Hornig. There are rumors that they were on Lake Starnberg, with Marot and Kaulbach, on the night of the murder. The sketches were done in the rain, very fast, probably on that ill-omened day, the thirteenth of June 1886. You ought to recognize the man in the central picture for yourselves.” Zöller paused while Steven and Sara stared at the portrait of a stout middle-aged gentleman with a beard. His eyes were closed, his mouth open in a silent scream. Dark blood flowed from the left corner of his mouth.

It was the face of the king.

“Some people claim that Kaulbach sketched Ludwig the Second only minutes after his death,” Zöller said in a low voice. “Loewenfeld and Marot are said to have been there, and were, so to speak, the first eyewitnesses. The physician’s assistant spoke of murder later, and so did Hornig, the equerry. And Loewenfeld was silenced.” He heaved a deep sigh. “I haven’t been able to prove all this yet. But now here you are, with this diary . . .”

“Can you explain why Uncle Paul had to die for the sake of that little box?” Sara asked. “Obviously someone still cares a lot about this little book, even after more than a century.”

Uncle Lu scratched his unshaven, fleshy face and looked up at the ceiling.

“Let me think. A scholar perhaps, wanting to grab the glory for himself? Or maybe the Wittelsbachs. Large parts of the archive of the royal house are still not accessible to the public. The family is very anxious for Ludwig’s death to remain a mystery.”

“Do you think they would kill for it?” Steven asked skeptically.

Zöller shook his head. “Not really. Although I’m sure the Wittelsbachs would very much like to know what’s in the book. But they have barred all access to any form of enlightenment about the matter for decades. If it were finally possible to examine Ludwig’s body in St. Michael’s Church in Munich, then the cause of his death could surely be established.” He sighed deeply. “But you might as well ask them to sell Neuschwanstein to the Japanese. The Wittelsbachs don’t play games, especially when it’s about Ludwig, a member of their family.”

“How about the Cowled Men?” Sara asked.” Could they have anything to do with it?”

Uncle Lu laughed so much that his cheeks shook like a fat dog’s jowls. “Those crazy bastards? The last time I heard anything of them, they wanted to mint euros with Ludwig on them, because they don’t like the Prussian eagle.” He leaned over to Sara. “Did you know there’s a theory that the Cowled Men are just the invention of a Cologne advertising agency? An interesting idea.”

Steven was tempted for a moment to tell Albert Zöller that that crazy bunch had lain in wait for him twice already, but he decided against it. They wanted Uncle Lu to help them. It would be better not to alarm the old man unnecessarily, not that he looked afraid of very much.

Sara changed the subject. “If your story is true, and Loewenfeld and Marot really were eyewitnesses, then it will certainly say so in the book,” she began. “And someone or other wants to prevent its coming to light. Only who, and why? And what about those coded words? Obviously there’s some far greater secret they don’t want aired.” Wearily, she rubbed her eyes. “I suppose there’s no other option—we must decipher the rest of the diary. Maybe we’ll discover the murderer that way.” She pointed to Steven’s backpack, which held the diary. “Herr Lukas and I think the next keyword is hidden at Herrenchiemsee.”