Murder at the Castle E-Book

Safier David

• Herausgeber: Old Street Publishing
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Miss Merkel Mystery
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 310

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

'Delightful... if you love Richard Osman's books, this will be right up your street' TRIP FICTION After a gruelling stint as the most powerful woman in the world, Angela can finally put her feet up. With her quantum-chemist husband Achim, her bodyguard Mike and their new pug Putin, she has retired to the idyllic north German village of Kleinfreudenstadt-on-Dumpfsee. But it isn't easy to settle into country life. Baking and hiking just aren't as exciting as global financial meltdowns or deranged American presidents. And Angela's fellow villagers all seem to want something, from her xenophobic AfD-voting namesake to the local aristocrat desperate to bury her family's Nazi past. So when the eccentric Baron von Baugenwitz is found poisoned in a castle dungeon locked from the inside, new life stirs in Angela. Finally, a problem to solve! Supported by her team of helpers – foremost among them the doughty Putin – she embarks on a perilous hunt for the killer. Will she succeed? Or will one of the six women suspects finish her off first? This is a warm, funny and sometimes touching read with a compelling mystery at its core – cosy crime Deutschland-style!

Leseprobe

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For Marion, the love of my life. For Ben and Daniel, the other two shining lights in my life. I’m so proud of you! And, of course, for Max too.vi

Contents

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1

1

‘Whew! I must have a little sit-down!’ said Angela, and sat down on a weathered bench by a narrow gravel path with a magnificent view of the lake: the Dumpfsee. She wiped the sweat from her brow with the small handkerchief the Dalai Lama had given her. If only she could say she’d been hiking for hours in the unbearable heat of summer, rather than taking a short stroll in pleasant May sunshine. After all those years in Berlin, when the only time she would hit ten thousand steps per day was pacing up and down in her vast office during the pandemic, she was not in great shape. It was going to be some time before her body, victim of around three thousand state banquets, approached anything like fitness again.

Angela gazed at the Dumpfsee. The small lake was charming in just the ordinary way she liked. There was the perfect proportion of reeds and they wafted elegantly in a perfectly mild breeze. The water was a perfect blue, while the flight of the birds was more graceful than any ballet she’d ever seen. And Angela had seen a lot of ballets in the course of her state visits around the world. It was one of the greatest feats of her life to have stayed awake beside the president of China through all seven hours of a Beijing opera – and this despite being seriously jet-lagged.

Here on this bench, by this lake, in this weather, she didn’t miss Berlin at all, even if she hadn’t quite got used to life in her new home of Klein-Freudenstadt. Not that 2there was anything surprising about that. After all, she’d only been here for six weeks. She’d taken a few walks through the village – which was charming in the same modest way as the lake – but she didn’t feel at home yet. She couldn’t help wondering whether she ever would.

What if she started to crave her old hectic life in Berlin? This was her husband’s biggest fear, and secretly hers too. She had made him a solemn promise that they would enjoy a peaceful retirement together. For decades he’d had to take a back-seat role – could their marriage survive if she were to break her promise?

‘Is everything alright, darling?’ asked Achim. Her husband’s real name was Joachim, but as a student he’d decided that Achim was a cool nickname (which of course it wasn’t, but then he was a quantum chemist). Now he stood in front of her in a white, short-sleeved shirt and blue cropped trousers that exposed his short, hairy legs. On his feet was a pair of grey walking boots. His cluelessness about fashion was one of the things Angela adored about her husband. She also loved his total honesty: he simply wasn’t capable of lying. She often found herself wondering why all men weren’t like Achim, but she never wondered for long: if they were, the human race would never have survived.

‘Darling, I asked you a question.’ He was always worrying about her.

‘Everything’s fine, Muffin. I’m just feeling a bit hot.’

From his rucksack, which he’d had since East German days, Achim took an old water bottle, from which his father had drunk before East Germany had even existed. 3The water always tasted metallic. Still, Angela found it refreshing.

‘Maybe you should try a new outfit?’

Angela was dressed the same way she had been throughout her years as chancellor: in black cloth trousers and one of her many colourful blazers – today’s was green. The hiking clothes she’d bought five years ago were too tight, and in any case they were still languishing in one of the many unpacked removal boxes.

‘When we go to Templin at the weekend, I’ll get something more suitable.’ There was no way she was going to buy anything on the internet. Thanks to the endless briefings from cyber-security experts in her former life, Angela knew far too much about what happened to the data of online customers. Anyway, what business of Amazon’s was her dress size?

‘Whatever you say, darling,’ Achim replied. It was a phrase he frequently resorted to, and one that he found made life much easier.

‘Ahem… Putin has made a mess,’ announced a voice behind them. It belonged to an imposing man, well over six feet tall and sporting a crew cut, sunglasses and a black suit whose jacket was buttoned up to disguise a slight paunch. This was Mike, Angela’s 45-year-old bodyguard. Only six weeks ago the mere mention of the P-word would have been enough to give her a sleepless night, but now she just fished a small poo bag from her blazer pocket. For this Putin wasn’t the Russian president, but a small pug with a black splodge over his left eye. Achim had got him from an animal shelter and given him to 4Angela on the day she retired. With the help of this cute little creature, she was hoping to get over her fear of dogs. She’d named him Putin because the real version had once let his large black Labrador loose on her in a ploy to take advantage of her phobia.

‘I can pick it up if you like,’ said Mike.

Angela was highly skilled at detecting when someone was making a genuine offer, and it was clear to her that Mike was not.

‘That’s very kind of you,’ she said, holding out the small black plastic bag.

‘Em… of course… my pleasure…’ No doubt the man would have been less fazed by an Islamist terrorist – after all, he had been trained to reduce the fiercest attacker to a snivelling heap with a single blow. He was on the point of taking the bag when Angela bent down and said, ‘Don’t worry, I’m used to clearing up Putin’s messes.’

She looked around. There was never a bin nearby when you needed one.

‘Shall I take it?’ asked Achim, who was not a man easily disgusted. ‘Those who love doggies carry their loggies.’

‘What have I told you about your little jokes, Achim?’

‘Keep them to myself?’

‘Correct.’

Angela stroked his cheek fondly with her free hand, then turned to Mike. ‘Is there a shorter way back to the village? I want to pick up some apples for a cake and the shops will be shutting soon.’

The early closing times were just one of many differences between Klein-Freudenstadt and Berlin. Angela 5wasn’t sure whether to find them endearingly quaint or just plain irritating.

‘Apple cake?’ said Mike.

Angela knew her bodyguard loved cakes and rated her baking skills highly. At the same time he was worried about losing his athletic physique. Since being assigned to the Merkels he’d gained 2 kilos and 358 grams, despite rigorous physical training. Achim had no such issues. He could eat whatever he liked without putting on a gram. It was one of her husband’s qualities Angela had always been slightly envious of.

Ever since coming to Klein-Freudenstadt she’d baked a cake almost every day: strawberry, pear, plum. Whatever the fruit stalls in the market square had to offer. Baking wasn’t just a way to fill the hours that, until a few weeks ago, she’d spent in meetings – it was a genuine passion. In another life she might have been a pastry chef rather than a scientist and a politician. In a parallel universe – and as a physicist she endorsed the theory that such things existed – there might well be an Angela who happily spent all day long making butter cake and quark doughnuts. Perhaps there was even a universe in which she could eat all the cakes she wanted without putting on any weight.

‘We can take a short cut through the woods,’ said Mike.

Angela set off purposefully, followed by Achim, Mike and Putin, who despite his short, bandy legs could easily keep up with his mistress.

They’d barely gone one hundred metres when they heard the sound of thundering hooves, followed soon afterwards by the appearance of horse and rider. She 6couldn’t know it at the time, but this was Angela’s first encounter with the man whose dead body she would find in a dungeon only hours later.

2

‘Whoah, Ferdinand!

The most surprising thing about Baron Philipp von Baugenwitz wasn’t his black stallion, whose thoroughbred physique would have given the other runners at Ascot an instant inferiority complex. Nor the fact that this magnificent beast went by the incongruous name of Ferdinand. It was that Philipp von Baugenwitz was clad in a suit of armour.

‘And I thought I’d seen every nutter under the sun,’ muttered Mike, having quickly identified the knight on horseback as harmless.

Her years in politics had taught Angela that there was always a bigger nutter just around the corner. But even she couldn’t hide a degree of astonishment. Meanwhile Putin sought refuge from the horse behind her legs and Achim raised an eyebrow. It was a skill he’d learned as a child from Commander Spock in Star Trek.

‘It really is you!’ said the helmet. ‘Ever since I heard you’d moved to our lovely little village I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.’

Angela deduced from his voice that the man in the helmet was in his early fifties. She noted approvingly that he had the good manners not to mention the poo bag in her hand, although he must have spotted it. 7

‘I expect you’re wondering why I’m in a suit of armour.’

‘The question had crossed my mind.’

‘This evening I’m hosting a medieval wine festival at my castle and I wanted to see how it felt. It belonged to my ancestor Balduin. And, I have to say, it feels really, really good! I’m definitely going to wear it this evening. You must have seen the posters for the festival?’

‘I have. And I received the flyer too.’ This had stuck in her memory because she’d been handed the paper by a teenager with dyed-blue hair who was so fixated by her mobile phone that she hadn’t clocked who Angela was. The last time someone had failed to recognise her was decades ago. At first it had felt strange, then liberating.

‘May I count on your presence this evening?’

Angela and Achim had planned to settle into their new timber-framed cottage before venturing further afield. But how was she going to settle into her new house if she didn’t also settle into the village it was part of? And where better to start than at a festival attended by most of the village?

‘It sounds interesting,’ she said. She heard her bodyguard give a faint sigh behind her. It was his night off and he’d been hoping to treat himself to a nice drink in Aladdin’s Gin. This was the classiest bar in Klein-Freudenstadt, and also the only bar in Klein-Freudenstadt. Apart from that there was just the village inn, which was called Village Inn. Angela knew that if Mike had to keep an eye on her at the festival he wouldn’t allow himself even a sip of wine. No drinking on duty. It was hardly surprising that he was less than thrilled. 8

Angela looked at Achim, who again raised an eyebrow – the other one this time. Over the years he’d really perfected the art. She remembered that she’d promised him they’d watch La Traviata on live transmission from the New York Metropolitan Opera, for which he’d specifically bought a new large-screen television (on special offer of course). Angela recalled his efforts to set up the remote control, as he proved once again that quantum chemists are totally clueless when it comes to everyday technology. It was only when Putin trotted all over it with his little paws that the gadget started to work.

So, neither Achim nor Mike was exactly head over heels with excitement at the prospect of the wine festival that evening. In her husband’s case this was just as well, since he would certainly crick his neck if he tried to put his head anywhere near his heels. Yet Angela was reluctant to turn down the baron’s invitation. She was curious, and even had high hopes that she’d enjoy this event in her new neighbourhood.

‘You won’t regret it. I hope to see you this evening!’ said the baron tinnily, and rode off.

‘And I hope not,’ muttered Achim.

‘It might be fun,’ said Angela.

‘But we were going to watch La Traviata!’

‘We still can,’ said Angela. ‘There’s something called a record button. I’m sure Putin could find it.’

‘Ha ha,’ was Achim’s reply. He was many things, but quick-witted wasn’t one of them.

‘Come on, Muffin. Let’s see how people party here.’ Angela employed this pet name strategically. That is, 9whenever she needed to get her husband to do things he didn’t want to. A well-timed ‘Muffin’ could make him join in with the WAGs’ activities at G7 conferences, even after Melania Trump had replaced Michelle Obama.

Still, Achim hesitated.

Angela deployed a smile. ‘Aren’t you at all curious to see what the face beneath the helmet looks like?’

‘I could google that,’ said Achim.

‘I’ll do it now,’ said Mike, whipping out his mobile again. ‘And if I can’t find a picture of him online I’ll ask my colleagues at the Federal Police Bureau. And if they don’t have one they could hack into his mobile or send a drone with a high-resolution camera to—’

‘We will all see him in the flesh tonight,’ said Angela, laying down the law like the pro she was. Ignoring the scowls of the two men, she bent down to pat Putin’s head. ‘And you’re going to get a yummy bit of chicken this evening.’

Putin was delighted. ‘Chicken’ was one of the sounds he understood, like ‘Sit’, ‘Lie down’ and ‘Yes, you can sit on the sofa even though Achim is raising an eyebrow.’

Angela set off, poo bag still in hand. As she walked, she pondered which blazer she should wear to the festival.

3

Over the past six weeks the people of Klein-Freudenstadt had gradually become accustomed to Angela’s presence. Of course they noticed the former chancellor when she turned up in the old market square – as now with husband, 10pug and bodyguard – but they no longer queued for selfies with her. They rarely gawped or whispered comments, kind or (as had sometimes been the case) otherwise. Within two or three months, Angela was sure they would be completely used to her.

After finally depositing the black bag in a bin, she wandered through the small market. Even to a woman like Angela, who didn’t go overboard with sentimentality, it looked idyllic. There were ten stalls selling produce from the surrounding Uckermark region: cheese, organic meat, fruit and vegetables, honey and even wine from the baron’s vineyard. Angela bypassed this – no doubt she’d be sampling the rare vintage later at the festival – and instead made for an organic fruit stall attended by a jovial-looking, rather chubby woman in her late forties, dressed in blue dungarees and a blue-and-white headscarf.

‘Good afternoon,’ she said. ‘I’d like seven apples, please.’

‘Take eight!’ said the stallholder.

‘Does that make it cheaper per apple?’

‘No, but you’d have one more.’

Angela couldn’t help laughing. ‘I’ll take eight, then.’

‘You won’t regret it.’

While Angela was being served, Achim waited at the wine stall. He had taken the panting dog into his arms. Putin was in even worse shape than his mistress. If things went on like this they’d both have to go on a diet.

Achim was probably finding out all about viticulture in the Uckermark. Her husband loved doing this: asking endless questions and then not buying anything. It 11was astonishing that he’d never been banned from any shop.

Mike stood a few metres away, scanning the market square for danger. Angela thought he might as well save himself the bother. What could possibly happen to her here? The idea of an assassin in a sleepy place like Klein-Freudenstadt was absurd. Besides, who would benefit from killing her? Angela had made a conscious decision to step out of the public eye, and was determined to keep it this way. She had no intention of annoying her successors by appearing on talk shows, writing newspaper columns or giving lectures. Nor did she feel the need, unlike certain other ex-chancellors, to sit on endless supervisory boards, lucrative as they might be. What was the point of earning more money than a normal person could ever require?

Angela was about to tell her bodyguard to relax when a pregnant woman approached her. She was black, perhaps in her mid-thirties, and was wearing a loose-fitting, green-and-pink spring dress. In her long, smooth hair was a green headband. Angela hadn’t come across many immigrants, of any generation, in Klein-Freudenstadt. There was the man who ran the Italian ice-cream parlour, who came from Serbia; the owner of Müller’s butcher’s, who was from Taiwan; and the sales assistant in the stationery shop, who was from somewhere near Stuttgart. Angela assumed the woman must have some connection with one of East Germany’s socialist brother countries: Mozambique, Ethiopia, Benin…

‘Hello. May I have a word?’ the woman asked with a friendly smile. 12

‘Of course,’ Angela said, returning the smile. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘It’s me who can do something for you! My name is Marie Horstmann and I run the tourist office here.’

Angela hid her surprise at the woman’s Teutonic name. ‘Klein-Freudenstadt has a tourist office?’

‘Yes, but it’s only open for two hours twice a week. Unfortunately the job doesn’t pay enough to live on.’

‘So what are you going to do for me?’

‘Well, I can offer you a guided tour of the village and tell you everything you need to know about it that you won’t find on Wikipedia.’

‘Half of the Wikipedia entry is a warning not to get Klein-Freudenstadt mixed up with Klein-Freudenstedt in Baden-Württemberg!’

‘True! I assume whoever wrote it was led astray by their SatNav.’

Angela nodded. It was a plausible theory. ‘It’s a plausible theory,’ she said.

Marie pointed at the village church. ‘For example, I can tell you which pastor drank all the communion wine then spent the rest of the day ringing the bells without any clothes on. And why the black stone in front of the church is called the Stone of Tears. Not to mention how Balduin von Baugenwitz died in his suit of armour.’

Angela winced. So the baron had been wearing the very suit of armour his ancestor had died in. Either the man had a morbid streak or he lacked imagination.

‘That does all sound very exciting.’ None of the things the young woman had mentioned had been in the dossier 13on the village Angela had been sent by the intelligence service. It was while reading through this dossier at her desk in the chancellery that she had first had the thought: this ordinary place could suit me just perfectly!

‘Does tomorrow afternoon at four work for you?’ asked Marie.

‘I have no other plans,’ said Angela, uttering these words for the first time since the previous millennium. ‘My husband and bodyguard will come along too.’

‘Three tickets sold. A new record!’ beamed Marie.

Achim approached. ‘I have some good news,’ he said.

‘I love good news,’ said Angela. She had learned from experience just how rare it was.

‘We can watch La Traviata live after all.’

‘Did you get the day wrong?’ Angela couldn’t help sounding surprised even as she realised this was impossible. Achim never made mistakes when it came to dates, numbers and facts.

‘No, the performance is tonight. But we don’t have to go to the wine festival.’

‘No?’

‘The wine they make at the castle is mediocre. To put it generously.’

‘Muffin, we aren’t going to the wine festival for the wine.’

‘We aren’t?’ Achim was confused.

‘It’s about meeting our neighbours. And while we’re on the subject, this is Marie Horstmann. She runs the Klein-Freudenstadt tourist office.’

‘Pleased to meet you. Achim Sauer – Sauer as in sweet, only the opposite.’ 14

‘Pleased to meet you too,’ said Marie.

‘You must be coming to the festival this evening?’ said Angela. To her consternation, Marie’s face, until then so cheerful, hardened at a stroke. Angela even fancied she detected a shudder.

‘No,’ she said.

‘Are you doing something else, like us?’ asked Achim.

‘We aren’t doing anything else,’ said Angela, turning to Marie. ‘See you tomorrow then,’ she said kindly, to give her a chance to get away without further distress.

‘Yes… four p.m. on the dot,’ said Marie. She tried and failed to produce a smile. ‘See you then.’

‘And I thought I hated bad wine!’ said Achim.

‘I don’t think Marie is avoiding the festival because of the quality of the wine.’

‘It would be perfectly logical if she were.’

‘I fear she has a deeper reason.’ Angela wondered what had made the pregnant woman shudder. Was there a husband who didn’t let her go out? Or was it something about the festival itself? Would somebody be there who she didn’t want to bump into?

Angela decided to broach the question discreetly during tomorrow’s tour. She instinctively liked Marie, and was eager to help her in any way she could.

4

Angela had donned her favourite red blazer, the one she’d worn to the 2014 World Cup final. Achim, who could scarcely remember who had won that game, let alone 15who the opposition had been, was wearing his best and only suit. He’d bought it in 1997, the first time he’d had to accompany Angela to an official function. The occasion had confirmed his hypothesis that he wouldn’t find such events remotely fun.

The three of them – Angela, Achim and Mike – were in the living room of the Merkels’ timber-framed house, built in 1789. It had low ceilings, and according to Achim’s calculations Mike hit his head on the beams on average 3.73 times per day. Still, it was a cosy place. They had acquired much of the previous owners’ furniture, including nineteenth-century cupboards, a rustic dining table with even more rustic chairs, and an insanely comfortable armchair. Achim had envisaged spending long hours in it reading his books on particle theory, but Putin had turned the armchair into his favourite sleeping place.

I’m going to have to work out for an extra half hour tomorrow,’ sighed Mike, polishing off his third slice of Angela’s freshly baked apple cake.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Angela, who in fact derived a certain wicked pleasure in undermining the man’s iron self-discipline.

She covered the cake, while Achim loaded the dishwasher according to a complex mathematical system that his wife never questioned. Not only did she have no desire to listen to him expound his method – which supposedly saved them every 12.7th washing cycle – but more importantly, she didn’t want to do anything to shake Achim’s conviction that only he could load the 16dishwasher perfectly, thus freeing her from this task for the rest of her life.

‘Should I give the leftovers to those two homeless guys in the village again?’ asked Mike.

‘Of course.’

Mike grinned. ‘They’ve put on a few pounds too over the last few weeks.’

You couldn’t tell by looking at him, but Mike had a big heart. He was divorced, and when interviewing him for the job Angela had been swung by how utterly devoted he was to his young daughter in Kiel. Another bonus was that, unlike the other candidates, he didn’t look as though he’d slaughter a puppy without batting an eyelid if given the order to do so. She had no wish to subject herself or her darling pet to men like that.

She glanced over at Putin, who was just curling up in his basket – insofar as a pug could curl up. When he finally found his ideal position his guts let out a sigh of comfort that everyone in the room could hear. And smell.

‘I think,’ said Angela, ‘that is the signal for us to leave.’

Mike and Achim were only too happy to agree. The three of them went outside, took a deep breath of fresh air and set off towards the castle. As she trotted along the cobbled street with its quaint houses, Angela realised how much she was looking forward to meeting her fellow villagers. She was sure it would help her feel at home. And the sooner she felt at home, the sooner that little part of her which longed to go back to Berlin – something she hid from Achim – would be silenced. 17

5

Their route took them past St Petri Church and out of the village onto a little-used country road. Up ahead was the seventeenth-century Castle Baugenwitz on its hilltop. The white masonry gleamed in the late-afternoon sun, and the scarlet roofs shone vibrantly.

Angela, Achim and Mike joined the crowd of people walking up the tree-lined drive towards the castle. A tractor chugged past. On it sat four farmers, along with the fruit-seller from the market, all wearing grim expressions. A large banner was fixed to the back of the machine: don’t sell our land!

Naturally Angela had read in the intelligence dossier that the baron was in dire financial straits. It was only thanks to all the subsidies he had received that the castle gleamed so brightly. The hotel business that was supposed to cover the maintenance costs had been shut down after huge losses. The small vineyard and the rent from the farmers barely made a dent in the deficit the property was running. Von Baugenwitz was forever assuring the local press that the castle and estate were not up for sale, and that he wished to preserve the centuries-old tradition of his family in the Uckermark. Not long ago, however, a lucrative offer had come in from an eccentric American electric car manufacturer, who planned to turn the estate into a home with a golf course – his seventeenth home with a golf course. The villagers suspected that the baron’s attachment to his ancestral estate might not be robust enough to resist the lure of the dollar.

When Angela, Achim and Mike arrived at the castle 18gate, the farmers were setting up their protest: banners, flyers and a megaphone that whined when it was switched on and gave feedback every five seconds. Undeterred, one particularly irate-looking farmer yelled into it: ‘The Uckermark belongs to us! The Uckermark belongs to us!’

‘Strictly speaking,’ said Achim, ‘what that man is saying is not true. Unfortunately much of the land doesn’t belong to the Uckermarkers, but to a small number of private individuals such as the baron, or to the state.’

‘I don’t think you should mention that to the protesters.’

‘Why not?’

‘What did I always tell my ministers?’

‘Nobody likes a smart-arse?’

‘Precisely.’ Noticing that Mike was eyeing the protesters suspiciously, Angela said to him, ‘I don’t think there’s any danger here.’

‘No danger? There’s danger lurking everywhere! Like in Johannesburg when that dog – the one that seemed so cute – suddenly attacked the foreign minister and made a huge hole in his trousers, so you could see his test—’

‘Mike!’ Angela interrupted him.

‘Too much information?’

‘Too much information.’

Angela went over to where the protesters were gathered. ‘May I have a flyer?’ she asked the friendly fruit-seller.

‘Take two.’

‘Because then I’ll have one more?’

‘You’re a fast learner.’

The two women grinned at each other. It might be 19nice to get to know this woman better, thought Angela. Maybe she liked baking apple cake too? A baking friend would certainly help her settle in.

A friend…

Angela had never had a best friend. Not even in primary school, where the other girls often made fun of her. Yuck, yuck, tut-tut, Angela’s got a bowl cut.

Achim had Tommy, his best friend since university, who he played Scrabble with via Skype every couple of days. But the women with whom Angela had spent the past few decades were defence ministers, prime ministers and bureau chiefs. No real friend could be found amongst those. Not that it had ever bothered her. Achim had been more than enough of a best friend to fill her meagre spare time. But now what? What would she do with herself when Achim and Tommy went off on their annual three-week hiking tour in the Alps? Angela could already see herself paying secret visits to Berlin to avoid vegetating on her own in Klein-Freudenstadt. Or she could stay and bake cakes with a real friend. That was a better option.

‘What do you think my name is?’ asked the woman. ‘I’ll give you three guesses.’

Angela thought about it.

‘Just please don’t say Mandy!’ said the woman.

‘Sandy? Or Candy?’ joked Angela.

‘No!’ the woman laughed.

‘Brandy?’ When she felt at ease, Angela enjoyed a bit of silliness as much as the next person.

The fruit-seller laughed even louder. ‘No, I’m called Angela too!’ 20

‘Really?’

‘Really!’

Now they both laughed.

Achim interrupted their fun. ‘Shall we go to the wine festival?’

‘While you’re at the castle,’ said the other Angela, ‘please tell his noble Lordship that he mustn’t sell the estate. It’s not just that our livelihoods depend on it, the environment would suffer too. The Yank wants to drain the lake behind the castle, but it’s an important spawning ground for lots of species.’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ promised Angela without really promising anything. It was a simple manoeuvre, almost second nature after so many years in politics.

She, Achim and Mike went through the gate into the courtyard. On the back of the flyer was a photograph of the friendly fruit-seller. She was indeed called Angela. Angela Kessler. And not only was she a farmer and fruit-seller, she was also a music teacher. And on top of that, she was deputy district chair of the hard-right Alternative für Deutschland party!

So much for baking cakes together with her new friend.

6

The castle courtyard was teeming with Klein-Freudenstadters being served wine by men in medieval Harlequin costumes, and small wild boar sausages by women, also in medieval outfits. Angela knew she wouldn’t get 21the barbecue smell out of her red blazer in a hurry. She glanced at Mike, who had been momentarily mesmerised by a sausage. He was probably wondering how many extra minutes of exercise it would add to tomorrow’s workout.

At the rear of the courtyard, men with long beards were playing a version of ‘La Cucaracha’ on historical instruments. It wasn’t exactly an easy listen. The guests, numbering two hundred perhaps, were having a splendid time. And in the centre of it all, wearing the suit of armour in which his ancestor had perished, stood the baron himself. Beside him was an attractive blonde, early thirties, in a tight-fitting black dress that was not remotely medieval. In a single, elegant movement she downed a glass of champagne and replaced it jauntily on the tray of a passing Harlequin while simultaneously grabbing another with her free hand.

‘You came!’ the baron called out delightedly, teetering and rattling over.

The young woman in the black dress followed, swigging champagne. Her ring, with its super-sized diamond, suggested she was his wife. Just as the baron was about to speak, she said under her breath: ‘Take that stupid thing off!’ It was clearly meant as a command.

‘You’re quite right,’ said her husband, freeing his head from the heavy helmet. A greying man in his early fifties appeared. Angela noted with surprise that he looked like a cross between Roger Moore and Norbert Röttgen.

‘May I introduce to you my wife, Alexa von Baugenwitz,’ he said with a smile straight out of a toothpaste ad. Doubtless over the years it had bewitched many a woman. 22

‘No doubt better known to you,’ said the baroness with a dazzling smile of her own, ‘as Alexa Morgen.’

‘No. The name means nothing to me,’ said Achim, who would not have been a strong candidate for the diplomatic service.

‘From Red Roses,’ prompted the woman.

Angela, who was well aware that her husband was as clueless about Red Roses as he was about Red Noses or for that matter anything relating to popular culture, said: ‘It’s a TV series.’

‘My darling Alexa was in it until I rode to her rescue and made her my wife,’ said the baron.

‘Rescue? I was the star!’ The forced smile failed to mask the anger she felt at her husband’s condescension. Alexa Morgen clearly believed she was a great actress.

‘Whatever you say, dearest,’ said the baron. Angela half-expected him to pat his wife’s head.

‘I played Dr Beate Borg, the doctor adored by all her female patients even though she has an alcohol problem.’

Here at least was a point where actress and role could come together.

‘The doctor abhorred by all her female patients, more like,’ said her husband. It was obvious that he thought he’d made a brilliant witticism.

‘Don’t laugh too hard or your teeth might fall out,’ said his wife.

The baron stopped laughing. ‘You shouldn’t drink so much,’ he said.

‘There are one or two things you shouldn’t do either!’

‘Perhaps we could discuss this later?’ 23

‘Why not now, in front of all these good people?’

Angela moved to de-escalate. ‘But perhaps not all these good people want to hear about it,’ she said.

‘I certainly don’t,’ said Achim.

‘The thing is, my darling husband here—’

Just then a female voice interrupted. ‘Philipp! It’s time for you to open the festival!’

All heads turned towards a dark-haired woman around fifty. Her black trouser suit and clipboard suggested she was in charge of the evening’s festivities.

‘In that case I’d better open the festival,’ said the baron, clanking noisily off in his armour without saying goodbye. His eagerness to escape the unpleasant scene his wife had created was only too apparent. Also without another word, Alexa departed in search of more champagne.

‘I’m sorry you had to witness that,’ said the woman with the clipboard.

‘It’s not your fault,’ said Angela. The woman looked smart and educated, with a stylishness you wouldn’t necessarily expect to find in Klein-Freudenstadt. Angela had sensed right away that she was her equal in intelligence; her instinct for such things rarely let her down. Maybe she should suggest meeting up with her? If not to bake, then to discuss Goethe, Rilke or even Shakespeare over a cup of tea.

‘May I introduce myself? Katharina von Baugenwitz.’

‘I thought that other woman was the baron’s wife,’ said Achim.

‘I was his first wife.’ 24

‘Do you all live here together?’

‘It’s a big castle. If you want to it’s easy to avoid one another for weeks on end. My apartment is in the west wing. As is my office – I look after the business side of things.’

Angela wondered whether she was involved in the sale of the castle to the American car manufacturer.

‘I’ll give you a little tour afterwards if you like.’

‘That would be lovely,’ said Angela. She was keen to get to know this woman better.

‘Wonderful. We can do it in half an hour. But may I ask you something first?’

‘Of course.’

‘With your contacts in the ministry of justice there’s a matter you might be able to help me with.’

Angela had moved away from Berlin precisely to avoid conversations of this kind, but she put on a brave smile and once again promised something without promising anything. Still, she was disappointed. She no longer felt like having a cup of tea with this woman.

‘Pia!’ Katharina von Baugenwitz motioned to a teenager with blue hair and a black leather jacket. It was the young girl who’d given Angela the flyer for the wine festival yesterday without recognising her.

‘What?’ asked the girl in a tone of thorough boredom.

‘Please would you take a photo of me and this lady for our website?’

‘If you like.’ The girl sounded about as enthusiastic as David Cameron had when they were discussing the free movement of people in the European Union. 25

‘Pia is my daughter from my first marriage,’ Katharina von Baugenwitz said.

‘Don Quixote’s daughter, then?’ asked Achim.

‘No, Philipp was my second husband.’ Katharina’s tone made her feelings about the marriage clear. ‘My first husband died in a car accident.’

‘I’m very sorry,’ Achim said.

‘I’m very sorry too,’ said Angela, to the blue-haired girl as well. Without replying, she began to fiddle with her smartphone. It was as if her father’s death was no concern of hers. ‘That must have been difficult for your daughter,’ said Angela, turning back to the mother.

‘Yes, she worshipped her father.’ There was a tremor in Katharina’s voice. ‘But she knows I’m there for her. And that I’d do anything for her. Anything!’

Angela looked at the girl. It couldn’t have been easy when her mother had married Philipp, making him her stepfather. Since her mother’s divorce poor Pia had lost two fathers, albeit in different ways.