Chapter 13
As light streams through the inn’s sunroom windows, Berend reads over the materials de Haas provided.
His look of growing horror reminds me that not all the world is gore and terror.
Most people—even police officers—see almost none of it.
Which means that it really is rare, isn’t it?
Steeped in violence as I am, it’s sometimes hard to remember that much of the world is beauty and light and life.
How can Diavola appreciate those things more than I do, when she’s the source of so much suffering?
“Will we—” Berend pauses and swallows to regulate his voice, but it comes out just as tightly on the second attempt. “Will we see the bodies?”
“They were discovered three days ago, so they’ve all been taken away by now.
But I do want to visit the scene and compare it to the photographs they took.
” To München’s credit, whoever took images of the crime did a thorough job.
Too thorough for Berend’s stomach. He runs from the sunroom toward the bathroom.
I hope he makes it in time so the old woman who runs this place doesn’t begin disliking us.
We booked a lovely little inn with only four guest rooms and only one way in and out so it’s easy to monitor.
There were no letters waiting for me when we arrived.
As long as none of the officers here have one, I’m officially ahead of Diavola.
And with Berend on the job with me, no one is at the desk to helpfully pass along my information.
When we finish, Berend goes home, informs Diavola I stayed behind in München, and I get ready to spring my trap.
My plan does require solving this case first, though.
I look over the photographs and descriptions once again.
Three bodies—a boy, a girl, and their aunt—all with their livers removed while they lay in bed.
There’s some evidence of struggle, but not as much as one would expect.
Which makes me think whoever took their livers did so swiftly.
They weren’t cut out, though. I examine the photograph with the clearest image of a wound. The edges are ragged and torn, with uneven punctures resembling bite marks. It looks like someone tore open the abdomens with their teeth and removed the livers that way.
A flash of my father’s notebooks appears in my mind once more, and I firmly ignore it.
There was no other damage to the bodies, and a startlingly low amount of blood on the beds. But the angles of the photographs could be to blame.
As soon as Berend has collected himself, we head out to meet the detective who requested me.
I feel a shiver of anticipation as we walk past the entrance to the inn, knowing this time I’ve left a letter for Diavola.
She shouldn’t arrive until after Berend leaves, but I’m not taking any chances.
Inge pointed out that in the letters Diavola seems almost bored.
So, I’m giving her a challenge—coordinates in the form of a riddle.
As soon as the letter is claimed, I’ll know to secrete myself in the secluded cemetery I’ve chosen for Diavola’s death.
Focus, Anneke. First things first.
The detective, a stocky man with dark brown hair, pale skin, and sleepy eyes, is waiting for us right outside the inn. I’d hoped for a walk, but he has a carriage waiting.
“Miss Van Helsing, and…?” He pauses expectantly.
“Berend van Zijl.” Berend sticks his hand out and vigorously shakes the detective’s hand. We share a quick, silently amused look over Berend’s enthusiasm. I’m hardly an old woman at twenty-seven, but bearded or not, Berend is the type of man who will always resemble an overgrown puppy.
“I’m Detective Goldstein. Thank you for coming.
” He offers a hand to help me into the carriage.
I situate myself with the materials in my lap.
Berend hesitates, unsure whether he should sit beside me or across from me.
I quickly gesture that he should sit beside so I can more easily talk with the detective.
Berend holds himself rigid, as though afraid he might accidentally touch me.
He was the same on the train. Poor, sweet, respectful Berend.
I wonder if he thinks me a virginal martyr, married to my work.
It’s tempting to shock him with casual mention of my carnal experiences, but then again, I’ve given up on those since my work began in earnest. So, he’s not entirely wrong.
“Any other wounds on the bodies?” I ask.
Detective Goldstein seems happy to dispense with small talk as well. “None. I have photos of the autopsies. They weren’t done in time to send with the original request.” He pulls them out of his worn leather bag and passes them to me.
“Were the bodies washed before these photos?”
“No.”
“Interesting,” I murmur. I expected the bodies to be covered with blood, but other than some flaking black smears around the wounds, I can’t see any. “Tell me, how much blood soaked into the mattresses and bedsheets?”
Goldstein’s smile is grim. “You’ve figured out why we asked for you. There wasn’t any.”
Despite my determination to use this as a way to catch Diavola, I’m intrigued. The wheels in my head are already turning.
“Is there a chance they were killed elsewhere and moved to the beds?”
“That’s one theory.”
“And the other theories?”
He shrugs. “Nachzehrer.”
I search my vocabulary, but come up short. “I don’t know that word.”
“Because you’re not a superstitious peasant.” His mouth disappears into a single serious line. “It’s a vampire.”
The hair on the back of my neck rises. Not because I think vampires exist, but because my father definitely did. I clear my throat. “Do a lot of people here believe in them?”
“Not a lot. A stubborn remnant of old beliefs clinging on as people move from remote villages and into the city. Like fleas.”
“Who is floating this theory of nachzehrer attack?”
“The surviving family members.”
“Interesting.”
It’s a bumpy ride to the house where the victims died. München is well-ordered and pleasant, not so different from Amsterdam, minus the canals. We travel alongside a dense green space for what feels like miles.
“Is this where the city ends?” Berend asks now that there’s a lull in the conversation. I appreciate that he didn’t interject thoughts or theories earlier. He’s respectful of my authority.
“No, that’s our park,” Goldstein says.
“A park? This long?” Berend leans closer to the window, shocked.
“It’s a beautiful city. A modern city,” Goldstein emphasizes. I’m surprised by how bothered he is by the vampire theory. Most men would merely laugh it off, but he seems almost offended.
The coveted row houses give way to a more industrial area, then scattered residences.
We stop in front of one. Though the home appears to be well-maintained, there’s a sense of foreboding.
Perhaps it’s that the windows are all shuttered, like the whole building is in mourning.
Or perhaps it’s the fact that the only person walking on the street goes out of her way to cross to the other side rather than pass directly in front of the house.
Berend exits the carriage first and extends his hand to help me. His deliberately neutral face makes it obvious how thrilled he is at this minute physical contact. I’ll have to do something about this infatuation of his soon.
Goldstein escorts us up the walk. There’s a small garden in front. This is a less affluent neighborhood, so they probably grow much of their own food. Something about the rows of plants feels unnatural, though. Even the delicate flowers bordering the vegetables are spaced with ruthless precision.
Goldstein pushes the front door open.
“You left it unlocked?” I ask.
He shrugs. “You saw that woman in the street avoid even the house’s shadow. No one’s coming in.”
Fair enough. I step inside. The air is hot and close, and I wish I didn’t have to be in here, either. “Berend, please open all the shutters. We need as much light as we can get.”
Happy to have a task, Berend steps back outside to get to work.
The front room is as tidy as the garden. The furniture is lined up in right angles to the walls. A kitchen table, spotless, has several chairs pushed in so neatly I can imagine someone moving between each with a ruler to make certain they’re the exact same distance apart. “Who lived here?”
“Up until ten days ago, Kurt Schauerhammer, his wife, her sister, and their three children.”
“Until ten days ago? I thought the deaths happened three days ago.”
“They did. Kurt Schauerhammer died ten days ago.”
“Of?”
“Heart failure, we think. Not getting his liver ripped out. That much I’m certain of.”
I nod, taking in the information as I inspect the room.
The one exception to the orderly placement of furniture is a high-backed leather chair.
It still retains the shape of the body that sat in it, and looms over the room like it’s watching the rest of the furniture to make certain nothing is out of place.
The sofa, sagging and soft, seems to cower in front of it.
There are no out-of-place fibers, no residue on any surface, no scuff marks or even disturbed cushions. The stone fireplace is swept. “Your men didn’t clean this, did they?” I ask, leaning close and swiping my finger along the grate.
“No.”
It makes sense that the fireplace wouldn’t have ash built up in August. But it also indicates that no one burned anything recently, which means no one was getting rid of evidence inside the house.