Had Erika's deformity saved her from a similar fate, I wondered. Was he more concerned to study her than to cut her up into little pieces?

'How many bodies do you need to make a single model?' I managed to ask.

DeWitz looked at me with a complacent smile. 'Just to make that hand,' he said, glancing at the modeller as if he were talking about the manufacture of a bit of furniture, 'Maria will have used at least a dozen. A fair-sized medical school will work its way through a hundred bodies every year.'

I asked him where he found them all.

'In times of war, supply is plentiful,' he said with a shrug. 'In times of peace, any person, male or female, who dies in the poorhouse ends up here. Any corpse that is found within the city limits. All executed criminals are brought to me. That body over there belonged to a nameless vagrant.'

'So, the authorities approve . . .'

'They know that time will end our work,' he insisted. 'When the museum is complete, public dissection will still be necessary, but the need will be greatly reduced. Young doctors will learn about the human body from wax models, then they'll attend a dissection or two to learn in detail what they are about. If cutting up meat were the only criterion, they could work for a week in a butcher's shop!'

'Isn't that what your workers are doing? Chopping up . . .'

'That is not exact!' DeWitz objected, staunchly defending Enlightened science. 'Dissection is an extremely wasteful business. The body is hacked to pieces, decaying in a very short time to a state where it is fit for burial, and nothing else. As you see, I have seven artists-eight, when Vulpius is here-working from a single body. That corpse will keep them busy for days.'

'Supplying bodies would be a profitable trade,' I began to say.

'Oh no. There's no shortage of supply,' he interrupted quickly again. 'While poverty is rife, Nature's toll is a heavy one. Disease, illness, accidents . . .'

'Are female cadavers easy to come by?'

'Two a penny,' he replied bluntly. 'A peasant will sell the body of his mother, wife, or daughter for a pittance. We rarely bother to buy them, though. The port is a hive of prost.i.tutes. We get one or two a week from that source.'

So why did Heinrich-Vulpius kill and mutilate the amber-gatherers?

I could not shake off the image of Kati Rodendahl's face, the cavity hacked in Ilse Bruen's throat. What I had discovered in De-Witz's workshop should have given me a sense of triumph. But I felt nothing of the sort. Another question rumbled in my mind, instead, and not even DeWitz could answer it. Was there some connection between amber and the mutilations?

And if so, what might it be?

'You have been most helpful, sir,' I admitted. 'I have just one final question, then I will leave you to your work.'

'Questions seem to be your business.' DeWitz smiled broadly. 'You did not come to order a death mask, or purchase candles. And my anatomical models would not hang well on your parlour wall. What can I do for you?'

I took my sketching-alb.u.m from my bag.

'Does this remind you of Herr Vulpius?' I asked, showing him the picture that I had drawn with Ludvigssen's help.

'Not a lot,' he replied quickly. 'Indeed, not at all.'

I flicked to the next page, and the portrait that Frau Poborovsky had helped me to make. The two faces had little in common, but I hoped that he might be able to resolve the enigma for me. If De-Witz recognised either face, I would report the fact at once to General Malaport and the French.

But the Dutchman showed no enthusiasm for the second portrait, either.

He turned back to the first, and his uncertainty seemed to mount even more.

'I cannot say that either picture resembles him much,' he said, as he handed the alb.u.m back. 'The second sketch . . . well, there is a tenuous likeness, but it's very slight.'

I took the alb.u.m from his hand, turned to a blank page, then handed it back to him.

'With your experience in handling human flesh, you must be an expert physiognomist,' I said in a categorical way. 'You can accurately describe a face, and draw it, too.'

DeWitz frowned, as if he were considering the proposal.

Then, his hand dived into his pocket, and came up holding a piece of charcoal.

'You exaggerate my skills,' he replied. Nonetheless, he began to trace the contours of a face with rapid, dashing strokes on the paper. 'I am not the artist in this workshop. We do not use drawings as a rule, though Vulpius sometimes makes a sketch for his own use.'

The portrait that DeWitz produced was smaller than the others. But as the features began to materialise in a flurry of lines and hatchings, I almost led myself to believe that I saw the eyes, nose and lips of Dr Heinrich taking shape upon the page. There was an ironic, slanting set to the mouth which recalled the proud, bluff confidence of the surgeon of Nordcopp to my mind.

The work was quickly finished.

His sketch showed no resemblance to the other portraits, however. This Vulpius was thin, gaunt. His cheekbones were high, his gaze challenging. His chin was speckled with a dark stubble.

Dr Heinrich?

'I hope you find him,' DeWitz remarked. 'He's in no trouble, I hope?'

I should have expected the question. 'No trouble,' I replied neutrally.

The Dutchman took stock of me. 'Vulpius knows the secrets of the human body, Herr Procurator. He is a first-cla.s.s artist in the modelling of wax. A stickler after perfection. Why are you looking for him?'

'Why?' I snapped my alb.u.m shut and remained in silence for some moments. 'For the very reasons you just mentioned. Because he is an anatomist and an expert modeller.'

32.

I LAID GENERAL Malaport's laissez-pa.s.ser flat on the counter.

'I must send an urgent message,' I announced.

The French corporal sitting behind the despatch counter looked up. His uniform appeared to have been used for the purpose of greasing axles. His kepi tilted down over his right ear as if he had just been walloped by his superior officer. There was nothing military about his appearance. Nor did his counter inspire confidence. A mound of letters lay scattered in a haphazard heap, a dagger planted upright in the wood like the sword in the oak of German legend.

'Are you a Prussian?' he said, propping his elbows on the counter, looking me up and down, as if to a.s.sess the value of my clothes and boots.

'A Prussian magistrate,' I specified.

'That doesn't change the rules,' he warned me in laboured German. 'If you want to send a despatch by way of this office, I'll have to read it first. Censorship.'

I tapped my forefinger on General Malaport's letter. 'I would advise you to read this authorisation with care,' I said in my very best French.

He glanced at the contents, then let out a sigh.

'General Malaport, right. Save us a bit of time, that will. Got a date with a Prussian sausage,' he added, as if it were a task of unimaginable importance.

As he reached for a pen and a despatch paper, I saw what he was talking about. On the table behind him lay a piece of black bread, and a garlic-seasoned sausage which he had probably sliced with that same dagger. The slender blade was greasy with pork fat.

'What's your name, then?' he asked carelessly.

'I can write my own messages,' I replied.

'Name,' he insisted, dipping his pen into the inkwell.

'Hanno Stiffeniis of Lotingen.'

'Stiffeniis?' he asked aggressively, dropping his pen, and clasping the handle of the dagger as if he meant to attack me with it. 'Lotingen?'

I pointed my finger at Malaport's note.

'My name is written here,' I insisted.

'If that's the case,' he replied, flicking at the letters in the pile, using the filthy blade of his knife to turn them over one by one, 'a message came for you this afternoon.'

Suddenly, he jabbed hard, and held a letter dangling on the point of his blade.

'Here we are,' he said, jerking it away as I reached out to take it. 'We don't get much mail with Prussian names on. Fear of the censor, I suppose. All too busy plotting, aren't you?'

I could have seized the knife, and rammed it down his throat.

I struggled to control my temper. Every contact with the French was a trial. Daily humiliation of this sort rankled most of all. The more lowly the soldiers were, the greater their pride, the worse their disdain for us. That a clerk could be so arrogant to a Prussian magistrate acting on behalf of a French general was beyond belief.

He let the letter drop on the counter.

'Thank you,' I said, s.n.a.t.c.hing it up, turning away.

I expected a note from Helena, but I recognised the plain upright hand of Johannes Gurten instead. Could this be his reply? Already? I had consigned the letters to Rickert just the evening before. I felt a rush of anxiety. Had something happened in Lotingen?

I broke the seal.

Herr Stiffeniis, I arrived safely, and can report that your wife and children are in good health, according to your clerk, Herr Knutzen. He found me decent lodgings at an inn close by your office, and directed me to the estate of Count Dittersdorf. That gentleman placed his library at my disposal, as you requested, and I began to examine the collected editions of the various French journals which are in his possession.

So far as I can tell, there is nothing published which relates to Erika Linder, nor any description of a medical condition similar to hers, but there is a great deal written on the subject of Baltic amber!

Until three years ago, there was little mention of it in the French papers. Almost none, indeed. But since the invasion, articles have been appearing regularly in the most important Parisian scientific publications, i.e. Le Moniteur des sciences, and Le Journal pour l'encouragement des industries. This seems to support my conjecture that there is serious scientific interest in amber in French universities, and suggests that restrictions on the exportation of Prussian amber containing insects are being widely flouted.

French scientists are particularly interested in the creatures contained in amber because they play an important role in two conflicting theories, as regards the laws of the Natural World and its Ancient History. As everyone knows, the debate centres on the contrasting opinions of the Swedish naturalist, Linnaeus, and the Frenchman, Lamarck, concerning the cla.s.sification of animal species.

Amber has a.s.sumed a central role in the proofs and counter-proofs since Baltic amber first came flooding into France in 1806. Clearly, large amounts are now being smuggled into France. This we knew. What we did not know is: a) the extent of the trade; b) the precise nature of the amber being actively sought; c) the vast amount of money which is available for the purchase of any amber specimen which seems to provide another link in what they call 'the Chain of Creation.'

And now we come to Dr Heinrich.

I turned the page.

Johannes Gurten had made himself master of the complex world of French science, as he had promised, while never losing sight of his objective, which was to find the proof that Dr Heinrich had killed the women on the coast. I had been reluctant to follow his reasoning. We had both been right and wrong, I thought. Gurten had been right to point an accusing finger at Heinrich, wrong in suggesting why he might have killed. In Konigsberg I had found the true motive. What would Gurten say when I told him that Heinrich was not in league with the French, but with our own Prussian nationalists?

I read on: A fair number of the best-ill.u.s.trated articles about amber in Le Moniteur appear to have been submitted by an unidentified expert. The editor employs the term 'our correspondent in Prussia' to identify the mystery writer. In one instance, referring specifically to amber as a fertility symbol, the writer mentions the town of Nordcopp as a place where the ceremonial blessing of the swollen womb of a pregnant woman with an amber insert has been carried on for centuries. If this fact is commonly known, I have never heard it. And who more likely than a doctor in Nordcopp would have discovered this pagan practice? And in the next issue, the same writer mentions the use of amber containing animal insertions by 'wise women' to induce the spontaneous abortion of an unwanted foetus. In the very same geographical location! I would swear that one of the ill.u.s.trations in Le Moniteur (19.01.1807) is the very same piece of amber that we observed together in the surgery of Herr Doctor Heinrich.

I have finished my work here, sir, and will immediately return to NordcoppI believe that I may safely antic.i.p.ate your instructionswhere I will keep the doctor under sureveillance.

I will be staying in my old room at the Pietist convent.

In faith, Johannes Gurten.

My heart was in my throat. Gurten had returned to Nordcopp. He might be in danger. I was well aware of his impetuous nature. At the same time, I was glad that somebody in Nordcopp knew about Heinrich, and what he was up to. When the case was concluded, my official report would reflect the facts. I would not decry Gurten's merits in order to exalt my own more feeble achievements. He would be given all due credit for his labour.

'I need that despatch form,' I snapped.

The clerk frowned resentfully, and put down his bread and sausage. His fingers were slick with grease as he pushed a paper, pen and a cob of red wax across the counter. That note for Gurten would be tainted with the stink of pork and garlic.

'Vulpius is the name that Dr Heinrich uses here in Konigsberg,' I wrote quickly. 'Do not alert him to our suspicions. I will come to you on the coast at the very earliest opportunity.'

I read again what I had written.

For a moment a wave of doubts washed over me again. I was doing exactly what the French expected me to do: I was handing them a guilty Prussian. I had searched the room of Vulpius. I had seen his drawings, the obscene transformations that his graphite had worked on animals and men alike. I saw again the contents of the storage jars, the organs and other appendages floating in a sea of yellow spirit. He was fascinated by all monstrous forms, and had studied Nature for no other purpose. I shuddered to think of the laboratory of DeWitz, and the gruesome work that Vulpius had been doing there. Had I seen anything in Konigsberg that I had not already seen in Dr Heinrich's house in Nordcopp?

Before I closed the despatch, I added three words to Gurten.

'Prudence-prudence-prudence!'

Had there been more s.p.a.ce, I would have written more along the same lines. But I was afraid of communicating the fact to Gurten that I was not in complete control of the situation.

I melted wax in the flame of the candle next to the inkwell, and sealed the note.

'This must be delivered by the first transport going west,' I ordered sternly. 'If it arrives quickly,' I added, 'General Malaport will not be told of the reek of your breath, or the deplorable state of your jacket. You are a disgrace to the colours that you wear.'

The man threw me a startled look.

'It will leave in twenty minutes, sir,' he said in a subdued whisper.

As he began to brush the crumbs from his chest, and wipe his greasy hands on his trousers, I turned away. At last, there was a man who appreciated the power of General Malaport. But it was a hollow victory. I regretted the erosion of my own authority as a Prussian magistrate, and resented the need to rely on the fear which only a French name could inspire.

The bells of the city churches were ringing the hour of seven. The light was fading. The days were darkening rapidly as August drew towards its close. And yet, my heart felt lighter. With so few days remaining before the delivery of the baby, I could hope to be there at Helena's side, as I had promised her.

Within hours, I intended to consign my findings and the name of the murderer to General Malaport. But there was still one thing that I had to do in Konigsberg first.

Dr Rickert.

He appeared to be a sort of recruiter of nationalistic lost souls. He picked them out at the Albertina University, then redirected them to the sanctuary of the Kantstudiensaal, where they would meet other like-minded individuals.

I turned towards 'the Graves,' and began to walk quickly along the quay.

Early that morning, I had heard Rickert moving about in his sitting-room. Before leaving the house, he had called through the greasy curtain: 'Until this evening, then, Herr Procurator. Bread and broth will be served at seven-thirty prompt.'