Anarchistbanjo's World

Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

Schiereisen stood. His gaze caught a mark. At
head height, on the dust layer, was a tiny rust-red
splash—a crusted fleck of liquid-mixed dust, a sign
that erased all doubt.
“Who found the victim?” Schiereisen asked.
Ruprecht’s eyes now questioned too. His body began
to obey a will again. “We have an old woman in the
castle. She’s not quite right in the head. Early
mornings, she goes to church. On her way, she found
Jana.”
“He was already dead?”
“Yes.” Ruprecht’s gaze no longer dropped; it
searched intently.
“Who was second to him?”
“My valet, Lorenz.”
“Right—let’s go down,” Schiereisen said. Lorenz
and the overseer stood in the courtyard as Boschan
and his guest passed. They’d been discussing Jana.
The overseer pitied him: a quiet, gentle man who
bothered no one. Easy to like, despite being a
heathen. Village girls had chased him like mad.
Once, the overseer found him in the garden, staring
silently, tracing signs on a stone with brown fingers,
as if writing.
“I think he longed for his homeland,” Lorenz said.
“Poor fellow! Well, he’s found rest and peace now.”
They fell silent, straightening as the master
passed.
“Who’s that man?” the overseer asked.
“A scholar. Someone who wants to know
everything that’s none of his business.”
“A halfwit, then,” the overseer chuckled. Lorenz
found Schiereisen’s curiosity grating. Boschan and
the scholar entered the garden.
“Aha, he wants to see where Jana fell,” the
overseer said. Beneath the wooden gallery, between
tower and castle, a broad paved path led to a hidden
garden shed storing tools. Jana had fallen onto these
stones. Schiereisen gauged the height—not so great
that a fall should kill. The blood had been washed
away, but traces lingered in the stone joints. The
grass on either side was heavily trampled. Beyond,
primroses and crocuses bloomed, then dense rose
hedges hinted at early buds.
Schiereisen scanned it all with rapid, tense
glances. Then Ruprecht saw his expression shift—the
scholar looked horrified, grieved, wretched, like a
man facing the unbearable. “No,” he said, “it’s awful,
I can’t bear it… ghastly. Come away.” He tugged
Ruprecht’s arm, pulling him along.
Schiereisen had noticed a watcher. Lorenz stood at
the low wall separating garden from courtyard,
looking over. Now he turned slowly, crossing the
courtyard as if chance had brought him there. No,
Lorenz thought smugly, this man’s no iron—he’s an
old woman, like all scholars, like Dankwardt was.
At the main wing’s entrance, Ruprecht paused,
expecting Schiereisen to leave. But he re-entered,
leading Ruprecht to his study. Sitting opposite in the
Renaissance chair, Schiereisen resumed questioning.
“Tell me, Herr Baron, where are the… rotten
planks that broke with Jana?”
Ruprecht pondered before answering. His
alertness stirred, his body’s weakness overcome by a
forceful rally of will, refusing defeat. He decided to
respond, to see where Schiereisen’s questions led.
“The planks? They were cleared away… I think
Lorenz removed them. He was there soon after the
accident was found…”
“So the commission didn’t see those damaged
planks?”
“Likely not.”
“Don’t you think that hurt the investigation’s
thoroughness? How could the commission determine
how an accident occurred—or if it was an accident—
without all the evidence?”
Ruprecht said slowly, firmly, “No one doubted it
was an accident.”
“Well, I mean… in general. Another thing matters
here… didn’t any commission member ask what your
servant was doing on the gallery at night? You sent
him there, perhaps…?”
“No, I didn’t send him.”
“That’s odd, isn’t it? What was Jana doing up
there? His room was on the ground floor, like the
other servants. Doesn’t one ask what drew him there?
He dies at night on a gallery linking an empty wing to
a tower ruin. Other details were overlooked. Did Jana
have a light? Is it likely he went in the dark? If so,
why? To avoid being seen? Or, if he had a light,
where was it found?”
“I don’t know.”
“Finally: when did Jana die? On his way there or
back? Had he been in the tower, or was he going to
it?”
Ruprecht shrugged.
Schiereisen faced an impenetrable wall. Was
Ruprecht so utterly blind, so wholly innocent and
trusting, that he couldn’t grasp the suspicion
Schiereisen had brought so close? These were
questions anyone would notice. Or did he refuse to
know, to see, to suspect? What drove him, then?
He fell silent for a long time, and Ruprecht didn’t
break the quiet. His head drooped forward again.
Schiereisen saw the reddened patch on his crown, the
wilted, singed hairs.
“Listen, Herr Baron,” he said suddenly, “you’re
ill.”
Startled, Ruprecht lifted his head. Then he
managed a smile. “You’re mistaken… I’m not ill.”
Undeterred, Schiereisen pressed on. “You’re ill.
You just won’t admit it. Your whole mood, the
fatigue you can’t hide… this listlessness… You
should see a doctor…”
“I’m not ill. I don’t need a doctor.”
“Follow my advice, dear Baron, see a doctor. All
sick people are stubborn. They reject help.”
Schiereisen leaned forward, locking eyes with
Ruprecht, stressing each word. “Until—it’s—
sometimes—too—late.”
“I’m telling you, I won’t hear of a doctor.”
“Forgive me, but I must say: it’s not a sign of
refinement to fear a doctor. Children and peasants
flee at the word. What’s the harm? What’ll happen?
He’ll examine you. He’ll either find you healthy, or,
if you’re ill, tell you how to recover. Maybe just
prescribe a diet. A proper diet works wonders. Aren’t
you careful enough with your food?”
In that moment, a mysterious connection formed.
Their gazes merged. Ruprecht understood—this was
Schiereisen’s aim. Schiereisen felt he was finally
understood. For a second, their inner rhythms aligned
perfectly.
“Yes,” Ruprecht said after a pause, “I eat
whatever’s on the table… when I have an appetite.
The same as everyone else,” he added. “I don’t think
a special diet’s necessary.”
Ah—he was slipping away again. But Schiereisen
pursued relentlessly. “Yet your condition’s
concerning. Perhaps it’s a severe nervous disorder.
Your servant’s death has shaken you. A doctor might
suggest a short trip. That’d do you good. You used to
spend most of the year traveling. Now you’re stuck
here. Leave your duties as husband and farmer for a
bit. A few weeks away from Vorderschluder would
help.”
Ruprecht parried with a smile. “I’ve taken on
much here that I must see through. I can’t do half a
job.”
“But, my God, dear Baron, I know you’re very
nervous. You took a separate bedroom for that
reason.”
“Yes—that’s true. I didn’t want to disturb my
wife. But don’t draw conclusions about my health.
I’ll overcome it soon.”
Schiereisen propped his head on his hand. Beneath
his furrowed brow, shrewd eyes peered. “Tell me,
Baron, which room did you choose for sleeping?”
Puzzled, Ruprecht stared at the scholar. The
question’s purpose wasn’t clear at first. Hesitantly, he
answered, “A room on this floor. The last one in the
left corridor.”
Schiereisen nodded thoughtfully. “That’s good. A
quiet room. You won’t be disturbed there.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well… your castle’s full of hidden romance.
Vorderschluder’s a model of it. So many secret doors
and passages. But your bedroom has none of that. It’s
enclosed by four solid walls.”
Ruprecht’s astonishment broke through his calm.
“How do you know that?” he asked sharply.
“Simple. I found a book in your library describing
it all. A fascinating book, I tell you. I could sketch
the castle’s layout from memory. I know my way
around. For instance, I know one can reach the
wooden gallery where Jana died through hidden
routes from your valet Lorenz’s room.”
“You study such things too?”
“What can I say?” Schiereisen smiled. “One has
antiquarian quirks. Back to your bedroom, a veritable
fortress, it’s ideal for restful sleep, as I said. Still,
don’t neglect the small things. Every detail matters.
The bed should stand free in the room. It’s a bad
habit to push it against a wall. And the bed itself… it
must be flawless. I’d prefer if you’d let me inspect
your bedroom. I’m an expert in these matters. When
you need sleep as much as I do, you learn to mind
everything… you build practical wisdom…”
“Thank you,” Ruprecht replied, “but I won’t
trouble you. No, no, that’s too much… a Celt-chasing
scholar as a chambermaid! You forget I lived years in
wild places, always my own servant. I’m used to
checking carefully before I sleep.”
Schiereisen bowed and rose. “I won’t keep you,
Baron! But allow me to continue my studies in your
library.”
“I’m not sure I’d wish you to finish your studies
soon. That’d rob me of company I’ve come to value.”
As Schiereisen descended the stairs, Frau Helmina
approached, fresh from the tennis court by the paper
factory, where she’d played with the clerks. She
radiated the vigor of healthy exertion. Schiereisen
paused, doffing his hat. His face wore the shy
geniality of a scholar. He mumbled condolences for
the tragedy. Helmina looked startled, then said, “Oh,
yes, Jana…” offering her fingertips. A urge seized
him to crush those slender fingers, but he restrained
himself, looking sadder, shaking his head, and
walking off wordlessly. He was a detached scholar,
unaware a servant’s death isn’t a family mourning.
Between newly greened chestnut trees, he strode
down the castle hill, crossing the bridge with its
baroque saints to the graveyard, to view Jana’s body
in the mortuary.