Deadlight Hall (Nell West/Michael Flint #5)(37)

But we cannot explain how the furnace itself fired.

As we went up the stone steps to the main hall, Sch?nbrunn said, ‘There was no trace of the twins here, was there?’ and I heard a note of appeal in his voice.

‘No trace whatsoever. We’ve done all we can here to find them.’

‘Did he really know anything, do you suppose?’ I said, as we crossed the big hall. ‘Because there was that hesitation when we asked him.’

‘I marked that, as well. But …’ He stopped. ‘Listen.’

‘I can’t hear anything,’ I began, then broke off, because I was hearing it now. Through the dim dereliction of Deadlight Hall came the strange and vaguely sinister call we had heard earlier.

‘Children, where are you?’

‘It’s Mr Battersby,’ I said, but even I could hear the uncertain note in my voice.

‘I don’t think it is,’ said Sch?nbrunn, speaking quietly as if fearful of being overheard.

‘Then who?’

‘I have no idea.’

We went out of the old house without waiting to find out who was calling for the children – I don’t think either of us really wanted to know who it was. We stood for a moment, thankfully breathing in the fresh air, then we drove back to Oxford and our lodgings.

As to Sophie and Susannah Reiss, we still have no information. Porringer wanted us to believe Mengele had them, of that we are sure. And yet there was that hesitation. But we shall not stop trying to find out what happened to them.

Tomorrow I am going to London, and I will follow the twins’ trail from another source – that of the Prague golem that they took when they were smuggled out of Warsaw. It is just faintly possible that whoever took the girls will have tried to sell it – it’s so obviously valuable that it would be a considerable temptation. It’s also sufficiently unusual to be remembered. I have a few contacts in the jewellery quarter of London and I shall approach them – using extreme discretion, of course. I am not very optimistic about finding anything, but it is an avenue that must be explored.

As always, my best regards to you,

M.B.

London 1944

Dear J.W.

Forgive the rather long silence between letters, but since reaching London I have been very much involved in the search for the golem. Sadly, my cautious forays into the jewellery quarters of London have provided no information at all. My approaches met with courtesy and efficiency, but no one could help. One fine old auction house here – Ashby’s by name – has promised to correspond with me if they do hear of such an item being offered, and I have given the name and address of my bank for any possible letters. I am not, though, very hopeful.

I had to put off writing this letter for a while – the Luftwaffe had mounted one of their raids on London, and it was necessary to make for the nearest air-raid shelter. It was full of all kinds of people, and they passed round beer and sandwiches, after which they sang an extraordinary song which referred in the most derogatory of fashions to the physical, and very personal, limitations of the Führer and Herr Himmler. Sch?nbrunn sang as enthusiastically as anyone (I have no idea how he knew the words) and after the second verse I too found myself joining in. Then the All Clear sirens sounded and everyone went back into the streets and on their separate ways. These are remarkable experiences, even for people such as Sch?nbrunn and myself, who have seen cities laid waste and devastating tragedy across half of Europe.

Three days ago Sch?nbrunn heard, through one of his networks of informers and spies, that Dr Mengele currently has three sets of twins in his laboratories – and that two of the sets are girls around the age of the Reiss twins and closely match their descriptions. I do not need to tell you what a bitter blow this is. It may not be Sophie and Susannah, of course, but we dare not take any chances. Sch?nbrunn is making plans to leave England. His eyes shine with that reckless light, and there is the sense that the air around him crackles with an electrical force.

He has not asked if I will accompany him when he leaves England. I have no idea what I shall say if he does.

My good wishes to you,

M.B

London

1944

My dear J.W.

This morning a letter was delivered to my lodgings from Sch?nbrunn.

It seems that he left England four days ago and is now on his way to Oswiecim. My heart sinks even to write the name. For you and I, my good friend, know that the name of Oswiecim has been changed by the Nazis. And that it is now known as Auschwitz.

Auschwitz. The name strikes such terror into the soul.

Sch?nbrunn, cautious as a cat, puts no details of his plans in the letter, and clearly he arranged for it to be delivered after he had left, so that I could not try to dissuade him. Would I have done so? I have no idea.

He says nothing of how he intends to get into the camp, but of course that is what he means to do. You and I know he has got into other concentration camps, and has managed to bring out several of our people. But this is Auschwitz.

He has said he does not wish me to accompany him. ‘You would never pass unnoticed, my friend,’ he says, and I know this to be true. I cannot blend into a crowd; I cannot appear or sound anonymous. He also writes, ‘If you do not hear from me, do not assume I have failed.’

I think I do not need to say he will rescue the children whether they are Sophie and Susannah Reiss or not – assuming any rescue to be possible, you understand. But, as with everyone who has ever known Sch?nbrunn, I have utter faith in him. I cannot imagine he will go unchallenged on his journey, but you and I both know his capacity for creating an illusion – both of appearance and of nationality.