Borrower of the Night: The First Vicky Bliss Mystery by Elizabeth Peters

strike me as intellectuals. This is Trithemius; this one is Albert of Cologne, better known as Albertus Magnus—”
    “The great magician!” Schmidt exclaimed. “Fascinating! May I please—”
    I handed him the book. He glanced at it, and shook his head.
    “I cannot make it out. You two perhaps understand?”
    “I read medieval Latin,” Tony said. Schmidt let him have the volume, and he opened it.
    I was too distracted to indulge in my usual bragging. Of course I read Latin, classical and medieval, as well as most of the European languages. I had a feeling Schmidt did, too. Whatever his other talents, he had no gift for dissimulation. In other words, he was a lousy liar. When he said he couldn’t read the book, his eyes shifted and he changed color, the way Matthew Finch did back in fifth grade when he was trying to psych the teacher.
    I left Tony deep in the heresies of Trithemius, and turned to the object that interested me most. If papers could survive for four centuries, it would be in just such a metal box.
    The box was locked, but the key proved to be on the countess’s ring. I tackled lock and top cautiously; air, admitted to a formerly sealed container, can be destructive to items within. But it was clear that this box had been opened in the recent past. The lock had been oiled, and the lid lifted easily.
    After a minute I turned to Schmidt, who was hovering.
    “Nothing much,” I said, as casually as I was able. “A couple of old diaries and some account lists.”
    Tony’s head came up. His nose was quivering.
    “I’ll have a close look at them some other time,” I said, before he could speak. “Must be almost time for dinner. Shall we?”
    I hated to put that box back in the Schrank . I didn’t trust Schmidt as far as I could throw him. Not nearly as far—I could have thrown him quite a distance. His shifty looks and inconsistent behavior were not proof of guilt; but whether he was witting or ignorant, my safest attitude was one of indifference to anything I found. I felt sure the metal box had once contained the letters which had been reprinted in The Peasants’ Revolt . Therefore someone had already searched its contents. And the box was as safe in the Schrank , under lock and key, as it was anywhere.

    Having reached that conclusion, I was able to meet George’s smiling curiosity at dinner with relative calm. We fenced through the meal, with innuendoes falling thick and fast, and Tony glaring, and Blankenhagen watching all three of us as if he suspected our sanity. We had reached the coffee stage when Irma came to the table. As soon as I looked at her, I knew something was up.
    “My aunt asks that you spend an hour with her this evening,” she said, addressing Tony.
    “This evening? Sure… Is there any particular… I mean, why does she…?”
    The girl’s face got even paler.
    “I cannot say, Herr Professor . It is not for me…She asks the others to come also. Fräulein , Herr Nolan, and you, Herr Doktor Blankenhagen.”
    Blankenhagen was watching her curiously.
    “The Gräfin has not honored me before,” he said. “I think this is not a social occasion. I will come; but I too ask you, why?”
    The repetition of the question was too much for Irma. She shook her head speechlessly and turned away.
    “I think I know why,” I said coyly, as Blankenhagen, still on his feet, stared after her slim form.
    “So do I,” said Tony, with a dismal groan.
    We were correct in our assumption; but I was surprised when Irma led us to one of the guest rooms instead of the Gräfin ’s aerie in the tower. The room was the one occupied by Schmidt. He stood modestly to one side while Miss Burton bustled about, arranging the setting for a séance. A heavy round table had been pulled out into the center of the room and a pack of alphabet cards was arranged in a circle on its top. In the center of the circle, looking as menacing and squatty as a toad, was a planchette.
    The Gräfin was seated in a high