"Herta! Child, are you all right?"
Herta recognized Father Edmund's concerned voice, and, moments later, his bulk, as she tried to uncross her eyes. Tentatively, she tried to rise, but firm hands pushed her down.
"Lie still until we check you over." That was Krista's voice.
"I'm fine," Herta protested and levered herself to a sitting position, her back against the wall. "Honestly, I'm all right."
Krista sat back on her haunches. "What happened?"
Herta sighed and then grimaced. " I tried to walk with both legs asleep. One decided to go back to sleep halfway down the stairs." She looked up and chuckled. "I promise not to claim police brutality or anything, Krista."
"You could have been killed."
"Yeah, and I'll probably try that stupid stunt at least a dozen times more before I'm too old to climb the stairs," she said with some asperity.
"If you live that long," Krista snapped back.
Father Edmund's laugh interrupted them. "You sound just like my mother, Krista. Herta's only hurt enough for you to be cranky. She'll live."
Before Krista's dark look could be translated into harsh truth, Herta spoke. "The tumble wasn't such a bad thing, you know. Look what I found." She pointed to the metre-square bulge of wallpaper above her.
"The ashpit!"
Herta nodded, the movement making her a bit dizzy, but not pained. "I've been thinking about it, too. If Gunther had had his hands full with a bucket of ashes, he'd need another way to open the door." She shrugged and then winced. "I just didn't expect to find it the hard way."
Edmund frowned. "A foot pedal of some kind? Like a garbage pail?"
Herta shook her head. "More like a kickplate, I thought. A foot pedal would have been noticed by both the Nazis and the police who searched the place when Hans died."
Krista nodded confirmation. "We checked the entire stairwell for anything that might have contributed to his fall - loose boards, moisture or some kind of slippery substance, everything and anything." She shrugged. "The only thing we found was a small bit of animal hair. What kind of pet did he have, Edmund?"
Father Edmund looked surprised. "He didn't have one as far as I know." His eyes took on a faraway look. "I remember Gunther and I bringing home a stray dog one day. Hans was livid." He tipped his head in puzzlement and looked at the two women in turn. "Come to think of it, his anger seemed out of proportion to the size of the dog. I wondered about it at the time, but Gunther just shrugged it off."
"Maybe he mellowed in his old age?" Herta offered, not quite believing her statement.
Krista shook her head. "I don't think so. We only found the few hairs. There was no other indication of an animal being in the house and we didn't find any evidence of other visitors in the house. We assumed that they were old." The officer sighed. "I don't even think they were mentioned in the report. They should have been listed in the things we found, but I can't be sure. I'd have to check."
"They were only in here?" Herta waved a hand to indicate the stairwell, not sure where the question was taking her.
Krista pursed her lips. "We didn't look. The place wasn't in the greatest of shape, you understand. Hans wasn't much of a housekeeper."
"Really?" Herta asked, her tone incredulous. "I hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary when I arrived. Someone did a wonderful job of keeping up the place, then."
Krista looked taken aback. "But—" She stopped and glared as both Herta and Edmund burst out laughing.
"I'm sorry, Krista," Herta said when she could speak clearly again. "I shouldn't tease you about the state of this place. It wasn't your fault." She lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. "I'm not the world's greatest housekeeper, either, but I think even Hans would have drawn the line at dust inches thick on everything."
"At? Or in?" Edmund asked, chuckling.
Herta didn't answer, didn't even smile. Something about her first evening had finally registered. There had been one clean place in the entire house, she remembered. The 'why', she thought she knew; the 'what', she had a good idea. It was the 'how' that was confusing. And the 'why' of that pattern. Maybe the answer wasn't that far away?
Herta slid around onto her knees. "Krista? In the large, green trunk in the kitchen, you'll find a retractable carpet knife in the lid, third pocket from the left. I'll need that, a bowl of water and a sponge, if you would, please. Father Edmund, I'll need my camera bag, the black one from my office, if you would be so kind." As she spoke, Herta's fingers and eyes were searching the wall beneath the protrusion.
Edmund and Krista exchanged slightly mystified, slightly amused glances and did as they were bid.
Edmund was the first to return. "Digital or SLR?" he asked, setting the bag on the first step above the landing and unzipping it. He snorted, miffed, at her astonished stare. "I'm a priest, not an ecclesiatical monk. I do know some things."
Herta blushed. "My apologies."
He shrugged. "Which one?"
Herta sat back. "Both, I think. There should be a roll of black and white film in the holder and the Olympus is empty. And I'll need the external flash."
Krista returned with the water, sponge and knife. A battery powered lantern dangled from one finger. She stopped halfway up the stairs. "Try about ten centimetres from the baseboard, Herta. I can see a bit of a depression from here."
Herta nodded, obediently lowering her hands to the proper distance, and felt what she could not see. The design of the wallpaper was such that the depression was almost invisible. She reached for the sponge.
"Cut the paper up here?" Krista asked.
Herta didn't answer, her frowning concentration on the small square in front of her.
"One has to wonder why local legend doesn't mention the ashpit," Edmund mused as he set the film cartridge into the camera. "I can't say as I know of any other house in the area that has one."
"And the Nazis didn't notice it, either," Krista added. "I did a paper on them in university, and there was no mention of such a thing in their records."
"They never searched the house," Herta muttered absently.
"What!"
She glanced up. "I've been going through Hans' papers, sorting them out. I remember seeing an entry to the effect that Hans was glad the war was over before the Nazis couljd search the house properly. He seemed really ticked that it hadn't ended before Gunther died, though."
"And you blame him?"
Herta grinned over her shoulder at the priest. "Not in the least. But that particular entry is far less vitriolic than some of his other references to the war. I think that's why I noticed it."
"It still doesn't explain why no one noticed either the door or this kickplate before," Krista persisted.
"Two reasons, I think. One, I'd hazard a guess and say that when the door is completely closed, the kickplate is flush with the wall. When the plate is pressed, the door opens. Sort of like an old-fashioned light switch. Hand me the knife, will you?"
"And the second reason?"
Herta, seated cross-legged on the landing, folded over to make two incisions into the edge of the dampened paper, carefully slid the knife blade beneath the resulting corner, and peeled back the covering. "This is the second reason," she said with satisfaction.
They stared, amazed, at the simplistic camoflauge. Beneath the paper lay an intricate puzzle of marquetry, small squares of wood pieced together like a giant mosaic.
"You knew!" Krista accused.
Herta shook her head and flipped the knife around in her hand. "I guessed." She handed the knife up to Krista and moved out of the way. "Just cut the paper. If I'm right, the entire stairwell is done like this."
"What makes you say that?" Edmund asked. He couldn't figure out how Herta, who had never lived in Germany, would know these things.
Herta propped herself against the wall. "Again, two reasons. One, it makes sense. What better way to hide a square opening than to make it from a square and hide it amongst other squares?"
"How did you know it would be a square opening, though?"
Herta shrugged. "I don't. I'm guessing. There were a couple of buckets left in the bathing room. Both are almost twice as tall as they are wide. A square opening, if the ash buckets were similarly made, would give you room to put the bucket it and space for your hands to reach over to tip it. The kickplate was a bit easier to figure out, but, again, it's based on a guess. Gunther would have been wearing some sort of workboot, I thik. Making the opening wide enough to fit the toe of a boot would be easy, but it might not always be possible to see exactly where you're putting your foot. A square plate would require less accuracy than a rectangular one." She looked up. "Even if a rectangular opening would better fit the boot."
Krista snorted derisively. "And the fact that the decorations in your bedroom are based on squares wouldn't have anything to do with your reasons, would it?"
Herta laughed. "Not in the least."
"Uh-huh."
Edmund, meanwhile, had been frowning at the door Krista's cutting had revealed. Despite being freed from the restraining wallpaper, it still didn't open entirely. He tried to remember if Gunther had mentioned anything about a second latch.
Herta's shoulders slumped as she followed Edmund's gaze. "Maybe the kickplate needs to be cut loose, too." She held her hand out for the knife. "Give me a moment and we'll try it again."
The two women alternated between pushing the door closed and kicking the plate in. It wasn't until Father Edmund drew back his own foot and placed a powerful kick on the plate that the door opened.
Herta looked from the boot to Edmund's face and tried to stifle a laugh. "Practice with recalcitrant parishoners?" she asked.
"And disrespectful ones," he growled.
Krista laughed. "It's more likely that he's completely disgusted with both of us for not wearing the proper footwear for ventures such as this." She indicated Herta's stockinged feet and her own sneakers.
"Well, shall we see what we've found, ladies?" Edmund asked over the women's laughter. He preferred to have the topic of conversation changed before the accuracy of Krista's statement was called into question.
Krista handed Herta the lantern. "Well?" she prompted when Herta hesitated. The door had swung out and up, revealing a disquieting expanse of blackness.
The two women exchanged a long look that Edmund found curious. There was obviously more between these two than he'd first thought. He didn't like to pry, but in this case... "And perhaps when you've discovered all you can from here, you would be so kind as to enlighten this poor cleric?"
After glancing at Krista, Herta nodded. "If what I think is true, this won't take long," she said. She took a deep breath and moved closer to the opening. "And to be honest, I'm not sure what scares me more - what I'll find, what I think I'll find or what I hope to find." Before any questions could be framed, she thrust her head and shoulders into the blackness.
As she'd expected, the space was more like a chimney than a room. What did surprise her was the beauty of it. Ash coated everything, the walls, the sloping ledge beneath her, even the sides of the flue she could see on the opposite wall. That would be the parlour, she thought, noticing the slant to the flue. It was like being inside a dream, the light from the lantern making the ash-coated walls seem more like the fuzzy edges of a vignette than the solid foundations they were. Or like being trapped inside a huge dust bunny, she thought.
Below, the ashes lay piled up against the far wall, as if thrown there by a giant's hand. Her eyes crinkled in amusement. Gunther must really have hated the job if he put that much enthusiasm into getting rid of the ashes.
She glanced up and to her right. The flue for the fireplace Hans had boarded up was there, too. It looked odd, sitting up that high with nothing beneath it. Almost like Juliet's balcony, Herta thought whimsically. But it was a sentiment that would fit, if the tales of Hans' devotion to his wife were even half-true.
She studied the area again, this time with a photographer's eye. It took a moment for her to realize what was wrong with the walls. The stone shouldn't be so evenly coated with ashes. At the very least, there should be runnels where condensation dripped down. She took a closer look at the pile of ashes at the bottom of thepit. Thrown with force against the far wall? From here? Was it possible?
She leaned back to look at the rim of the opening. It was clean. Well, given European standards, that was to be expected, right? Make sure all the ashes went into the pit because you don't want them tracked back through the house. But why wear boots, then?
Herta frowned and leaned one elbow on the opening, the lantern dangling from her fingers, and thought. Ash coated everything as high as she could see. The house had been abandoned and unheated for the winter. By rights, there should be streaks of moisture on the walls. But there weren't? Why? A tunnel? That didn't quite sound right. No mere breeze from a tunnel would do that. There was a cloying softness to everything. And there shouldn't be.
A memory tickled. She'd seen this pattern before. She was sure of it. But where?
She withdrew and handed the lantern to Krista.
"What is it?" the other woman asked, catching sight of Herta's confusion. "What's wrong?"
"I'm not sure. You tell me. It looks okay, but it doesn't feel right. There's ash on the walls."
Edmund and Krista didn't understand. In turn, they looked into the ashpit as Herta had done.
Herta couldn't stand still to wait for their impressions. "Close it up when you're done, will you? We'll have lunch first, before I tackle taking pictures," she said casually, starting down the stairs to the kitchen.
It had become habit for her to put her hand over the wood stove to check the level of heat each time she passed it. With a start, she realized that it had been hours since she'd tended it. She opened the firebox to add more wood and let out a shriek. "That's it! That's what's wrong!"
She took the stairs two at a time, shoving past the two on the landing to get to her camera bag. With frantic fingers, she adjusted the settings on the Olympus, estimating the focussing distance. She'd need two hands to find out for sure. The digital had an autofocus feature, but no external flash as had the Olympus. The digital would prove her point immediately, but Herta wanted un-editable, tamper-proof evidence. Like negatives.
She attached the flash cord to the camera and thrust both at Krista. "Hold this until I'm in," she said, ignoring Krista's excited questions.
"Herta?" Edmund asked softly.
Herta stopped, her back to the opening, arms inside, searching for a secure hand-hold. She grinned. "Hans mentioned this in his letter, but I just didn't know what it meant. A leap into the pits of Hell. You wanna bet we saw the same movie?" And with that, she jumped up to sit on the sill, legs splayed to keep her secure. One hand came out to demand the camera.
Krista exchanged a mystified look with Edmund and placed the camera in Herta's hand. She balanced the flash on the other woman's thigh.
Father Edmund stepped forward to brace one leg as Herta leaned back until her body was horizontal. Krista braced the other leg, as the flash exploded several times.
To Krista's horror, Herta leaned even further, dangling almost vertical to take her next shots.
Anticipating her, Edmund snaked one foot out to draw the camera bag closer. The digital camera lay on top.
Herta levered herself up long enough to exchange cameras. Getting images of what lay below the ledge would be tricky. The digital's autofocus would help. Marginally. Herta twisted around to look over her shoulder at the ledge and then straightened. She 'lay' parallel to the floor, hands over her head, camera pointing down in what she hoped was the right direction. With her stomach muscles protesting the mistreatment, Herta lowered herself to a forty-five degree angle. With luck, she'd get at least one shot of what she needed.
Eager hands helped her back onto the landing when she was done.
"One last set and I'm done," she gasped as her feet hit the floor. She spun and, elbows on the sill for steadiness, she took a few more pictures of the opposite corner.
Edmund chuckled. "Krista," he said quietly. "See if you can find her some clean clothes. I'll see what I can find for lunch."
Krista's eyes gleamed. "Let's hope she has hot water on, or that clean up is going to be most unpleasant."
Herta was astonished to find the landing empty when she turned around again. A metallic clang indicated that someone was at the wood stove. She descended the stairs to find Father Edmund lifting the kettle onto the stove.
He waved a hand in the direction of the bathing room. "There's hot water in there and Krista is getting you some clean clothes." He raised one eyebrow. "Are you always so enthusiastic about photography?"
She blushed. "I'm sorry. It's just that&emdash;"
His laugh interrupted her. "Go get cleaned up and you can tell us about it over lunch."
"Better than that," she grinned back. "I think I can show you."
Twenty minutes later, the three were in the office, staring in fascination at the computer screen, mugs of soup and plates of sandwiches almost forgotten on the desk.
"It was the firebox that reminded me," Herta explained. "I knew I'd seen that kind of..." One hand fluttered as she searched for the right word. "That kind of ash-fall, if you like. In a steel mill museum. More specifically, in an old blast furnace."
"I'm not sure I understand," Krista said. "How can you say the ashes fell when they're all over everything?"
Herta took a couple of deep breaths to control her excitement and settled back in her chair. "That's what I mean. When I looked into the firebox, the rush of air from me opening the door threw the ashes upward.
"Just like the walls of the pit," Edmund nodded. "So you're saying there's a source of air at the bottom of the pit, blowing the ashes as if they were in a blast furnace."
"Well, we had that figured out long ago," Krista said. "I still don't see what all the excitement is about, though."
Edmund frowned. "Tunnel, yes. but how do we get to it and where does it go?"
"And why," Krista added.
Herta and Edmund exchanged glances. It was the priest who dropped his gaze with a small shrug. It would be Herta's call.
Herta frowned thoughtfully. "I should probably start from the beginning." She shot a glance at Krista.
Awaiting, Edmund thought, permission to continue. Interesting.
"No."
Edmund and Herta both stared at Krista. The woman was official now, her expression and body language tense.
"You will not start from the beginning. Only from the beginning of what you have learned here."
Herta leaned forward. "Truth for truth and off the record both ways."
"No." Krista smiled thinly. "Unless, of course, you'd rather have your visa revoked."
"That's blackmail!" Herta sputtered.
"It's a police investigation," came the hard response.
Herta sat back and narrowed her eyes. After a moment of silence, her chin came up. "As you wish." Edmund had never heard that cold a tone from anyone. It shook him.
"As I was saying," Herta began, with a nod to Krista. "From the beginning. I received a letter from my great-grandfather, Hans Theiner. It was addressed to only to 'Anna's oldest child'. In it, Hans listed some of the duties and obligations of the family." She tipped her head, thoughtfully. "It was the responsibility of the oldest child to fulfill those obligations, including - and I'm not sure if this is really a relevant matter any more, but the duties included protecting the existence of a tunnel placed somewhere in the house. It didn't say where the tunnel was located or where it ended up, only that 'a leap into the pits of Hell' would bring you to it.
"From what I know of local legend, specifically the ones about the undead and people disappearing without a trace, the tunnel was probably used as an escape route during the war, and possibly..." Herta's eyes unfocussed as another thought struck her. "It's entirely possible that the dead were transported through the tunnel. If, as I suspect, the tunnel leads to the cemetary just outside town, someone in the family may have once indulged in medical graverobbing. Or at the very least, keeping watch on the non-Christians who may have interred while in a coma, rather than honest death. That would fit in with the 'undead' legends, or people coming back to life."
Herta sniffed. "I can see why a non-Christian might not want to live in this community after having been buried alive. And the locals, no doubt, would blame it on the non-Christianity of the victim." She shrugged. "Although, why Hans would insist on keeping that duty alive is beyond me."
"You're lying."
Herta faced Krista squarely. "I told you once already. I do not lie to either my friends or to the authorities."
"Then you are not telling the entire truth," Krista persisted.
"No, I am not," Herta admitted calmly. "You have forbidden me to do so."
Shocked silence.
Edmund, sitting between the two women, took the risk of speaking up. "Secrecy works against us, you know," he began. "Perhaps&emdash;"
"You know what she is hiding," Krista snapped. "Tell me."
Edmund shook his head. "I cannot. Ecclesiastical confidentiality," he said softly.
"Don't give me that nonsense," Krista snarled. "She hasn't been to see you since that first morning, and she's never been inside the church properly."
Herta stiffened. "You've had me followed?"
Krista gave her a scornful look. "Of course. It is my job to know what's going on."
Herta stared, slack-jawed, at this admitted betrayal.
"Detective Zwitzer." Edmund's voice was sharp. "What I know didn't come from Fräulein Tanner. It was Hans Theiner who spoke to me of these matters. It was he who told me of the tunnel and what lies at the end of it. He did not, however, tell me how to get into the tunnel from either end. I only know the area which I was asked to ... to monitor, if you like. That, until Anna grew up enough to take the responsibility, I was to have care of the secret and to tell no one of it. It is a promise I have kept for half a century. And one I will continue to keep until Herta is prepared to take up the entirety of her inheritance. Such information is not your privilege to know."
Somehow, the information didn't come as a surprise to Herta. It had been, after all, Father Edmund who had given her the letter from her great-grandfather. And it had been Father Edmund who had taken care of Turan. It made sense that he knew more than he let on.
Krista, on the other hand, looked ready to explode with fury and frustration. She had one murder and possibly two more to solve and this.... this priest was withholding what could be a vital clue!
Herta broke the silence that followed Father Edmund's revelations. She sighed loudly and dragged her hands through her hair. "This isn't getting us anywhere. Krista, we both have a job to do and fighting amongst ourselves doesn't help. Either you trust me to help or our partnership is dissolved as of right now."
Her expression hardened. "And you can get your search warrant, take up where the Nazis left off and will still be no further ahead than you are now." She turned to the computer, dragged the folder of images she'd just downloaded from the computer over the trashcan icon, hit two keys and waited.
Krista stared at the message on the screen. "Are you sure you want to empty the trash?"
She shrugged. "Go ahead. I can get a subpoena to get another set of images, as well as the ones in your camera."
"And this subpoena will help you translate the images into something with meaning? It will show you how to access the tunnel without tearing my house apart? Or will the subpoena permit you to do that, as well? And repair any damages you inflict in what may well prove to be a fruitless search?"
Herta sat back in her chair. "You have already searched this house once. Without either subpoena or my permission, I might add, and you found nothing to connect me with your investigations. It is proven fact that I was in Canada when both Hans and whatshisname, Ilyana Hörst's son, were killed. I also had neither motive nor opportunity to kill Ilyana Hörst."
"You have no verifiable alibi for that night," Krista persisted.
"And a polygraph will confirm that I had no opportunity. I did not know, until it was mentioned yesterday, that Ilyana had a heart condition. I also, and still do not, know where the Hörsts live."
"Are you two quite through?" Edmund's impatience cut through their discussion. "Herta, you're as stubborn as Hans. And you're not much better, Krista. Now, aside from the fact that Herta is obviously no stranger to you, Krista, and just as obviously no reporter, what else is there that needs to be known?"
Both women stared at the priest. He chuckled. "It's not hard to figure out. For 'investigating officer' and 'suspect', you two get along far too well. And Herta, while you may well do some writing, you are far too well prepared for a mere reporter. And far too lax." He cocked an eyebrow at her. "No self-respecting reporter would have an empty camera in her bag, nor an external microphone for a hidden tape recorder."
Herta shook her head, amazed. "So what am I?"
"At a guess? A private investigator," came the quick response.
Krista groaned and buried her face in her hands.
"Well?" Father Edmund prompted.
Herta made a face. "We may as well tell him, Krista. Before his guesses get any wilder, or the wrong people hear of them."
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