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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Prologue

  September 1863

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Ten Days Later

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Author’s Note

  Also by Haydn Middleton

  Copyright

  To my children and my parents

  Once upon a time, there was no Germany.

  For centuries the German people lived in a patchwork of principalities, duchies and kingdoms, some of them so small that one ruling prince was said to have accidentally dropped his realm from his pocket and lost it forever while out on an afternoon stroll. At the other end of the scale stood militaristic Prussia, with its capital at Berlin.

  But as the age of the railway and the factory dawned, there lay beyond the map another Germany: a timeless land of the heart and mind, full of dark forests and sometimes even darker fairytales.

  Prologue

  From a distance the pines looked heather-blue, soaring away from the wall of his small town like a vast tilted ocean. On breezy moonlit nights he watched spellbound as they rippled in gently majestic tides, and afterwards he would see the elms outside the Rathaus, the beeches in the market square and the lone peach tree by his own window as sorry bits of jetsam swept in and left behind.

  While still a child he was forbidden to go far into the forest, but often he went to gather brushwood at its fringes. He loved to be there when the sun sank low, and briefly its fireball brilliance was trapped beneath the canopy. No artist ever mixed colours quite like the ones he saw then.

  Warm tendrils and tubers gleamed on fat beds of sphagnum. Opalescent shrubs caught the sparks from swaying creepers. In dank mulchy hollows, ochre turned to auburn, amber to copper, emerald to olive then darker into sage, until the black of night swallowed even these last shining embers.

  But for all the forest’s beauty, its siren call was silence. Further in, an old pedlar woman once said, it was so quiet you could hear a heart-string snap. Yet to him the trees’ stillness was attentive, and this in turn encouraged him to listen harder, to believe only in what his own ears told him.

  And that was how he picked up the first faint disturbance: a dry insistent clacking, far out in the depths of the needle-leaf sea. For a while it sounded like a clock’s pendulum, though never quite so regular. Then it was more like a distant boot-heel coming down on stone – again, again, again – until finally the silence closed over it once more.

  For years afterwards he did not hear the noise again. But from that evening on, however hard he tried to forget, he knew that it was there.

  September 1863

  ONE

  They arrived in Hanau at dusk, but did not make straight for the inn. Kummel thought old Professor Grimm was eager to find their rooms as soon as possible. But with a girlish grin his niece led him down past the Rathaus then along a narrow street of pointed-gabled houses with huge wooden doors.

  Kummel followed at ten paces, occasionally setting their portmanteaux down on the cobbles to improve his grip, or to adjust the straps of Fräulein Auguste’s hat boxes, which he wore across each shoulder. The heavier, less valuable luggage had been carted on ahead to their night’s lodgings. Even so, the twenty-five-year-old servant – craving tobacco – could have done without this detour.

  The three of them stepped aside to let a bullock wagon pass from the opposite direction. Apart from a water-carrier and several smocked men returning from the fields, the streets were deserted in the bilious gloaming. As she walked on, the Fräulein turned to right and left like a crinolined clockwork doll, pointing, nodding, asking the Professor inaudible questions. In their usual fashion they stayed very close without actually touching, as if they feared a profound magnetic reaction should they so much as brush cuffs in public.

  Finally the pair halted in front of a comfortable-looking, freestanding house, distinguished from all the others only by its garishly yellow front door. Since there were lights upstairs, Kummel expected one of them to step up and knock, then indicate to him whether to follow or wait. But when neither moved he put down the cases, rolled his shoulders in the dark grey morning coat that had once belonged to the Fräulein’s dead father, and turned around in his hands her jewellery case, which was attached to his wrist by a chain.

  Some hushed words passed between his temporary master and mistress, but mainly they stood in silence, staring up at the house as if it were preparing to perform a trick. Kummel sniffed the thick country smells of woodsmoke, sweet damp hay and animal dung and looked around as he waited. It was all a far cry from the arrow-straight thoroughfares of Berlin, with their promenading soldiery and the deafening clatter of droshkies, but he had been through many similar backwaters on his involuntary travels. All these houses would have a yard for domestic livestock: hens, geese, possibly pigs. If a cow fell sick here, a pastor was probably still called in to bless it.

  The Professor was the first to turn and move on again. For a man of almost eighty he was very nimble. During the holiday with the rest of the family in the Harz Mountains over the previous fortnight, he had refused to use a cane even on the steepest walks. He walked hunched forward now, his right hand balled at the small of his back. The slender Fräulein was slower to peel herself away from the yellow-doored house. Then she glided back into step in her alpaca travelling coat, smiling almost apologetically back at Kummel as he set off again in their wake.

  On reaching the modest half-timbered inn, its keeper – a moustachioed man built like a herring-barrel and very nearly as oily – had gathered his staff at the back of the foyer for a formal introduction to so honoured a guest. Kummel meanwhile was directed up to the higher storey, where the three of them had been given adjoining rooms. His own was a mere cubbyhole filled by a truckle bed and a sour latrine stink, but it would do for a single night.

  Setting down the bags, he peered over the banister at the porters and grooms, some of whom gnawed on radishes while the keeper seemed to be listing every book the venerable Jacob Grimm had ever written. Works on language, literature, law and history, as well as the famous Tales for Young and Old in collaboration with his younger brother Wilhelm, and the still incomplete Deutsches Wörterbuch, a gargantuan dictionary that would finally contain every German word. It appeared he had also once been political: a member of the ‘ill-fated’ German National Assembly of 1848, and, a decade before that, one of the ‘celebrated Göttingen Seven’, who sounded to Kummel like the title of one of his fairytales.

  The hawk-faced Professor listened patiently.
Although he must have been used to this kind of acclaim, he looked as embarrassed as his audience looked bemused. From up above he also gave an impression of extreme fragility: small, stooped and skinny, with cotton-wafts of hair straggling down to his shoulders, his legs bowed but seeming to bear hardly any weight from his upper body and, for all the brains inside it, even his high-domed head with its Napoleonic nose and sunken cheeks looked light and deflatable.

  Finally, after polite applause, his face broke into a warm smile. ‘It’s good to be back in my beloved Hesse,’ he rasped, throwing back his coat-skirts from the waist and inspecting the Kurd rug at his feet. ‘Thank you for your welcome.’

  As the crowd dispersed the keeper asked if his guests cared to take dinner immediately. Kummel watched the Professor grin. ‘Ach, first I must wash and change. We’ve spent most of today inside clouds of locomotive steam and dust scuffed up by coach horses. If you’d be so good, I yearn for some hot water.’

  The keeper called out instructions to his maids, and Kummel backed into the antechamber to the Professor’s bedroom to secure the windows and close the coarse linen curtains. The old man certainly liked to keep clean; in the Harz he had often bathed himself twice a day. And Kummel had noticed that sometimes when he woke from dozing he would rub at the skin on his hands and even his cuffs, as if he could see stains.

  By the light of a smoky candle lamp on the bureau, he began to unpack his master’s clothes. Soon afterwards the Professor passed behind him. Kummel glanced up and watched him take off his frock coat, lay it on the turned-down bed, then stand rapt in front of an oval hinged mirror on a gilt occasional table. He did not seem altogether pleased with what he saw.

  Ancient though he was, he did not miss much. Aware of being watched, his eyes darted to the doorway. ‘I am quite shockingly filthy, Kummel,’ he smiled, touching his fingertips to his cravat, inspecting them as if he expected to find soot then shaking his hoary head. ‘Mein Gott, you could almost take me for a Turk!’

  * * *

  From his tub on the floor Jacob could see the whole fuggy room. Marie had one jug, Gretchen another. While the first maid poured in heated water, the second slipped in small measures of green wine that stood warming in a pan on the stove. ‘May I drink the wine, Mother?’ Jacob shouted, attracted by its sweet smell, mixing it in with the flat of his hand, then putting his fingers to his lips and pretending to suck off the drops.

  ‘Rub it on yourself, child,’ she called back from her low stool by the stove, ‘or do you want to end up like poor weak-chested Willi here?’

  Jacob dropped his hand at once and waited for her to smile, dark-eyed, across at him. But her attention had already turned to his younger brother, often mistaken for his twin, freshly bathed and lodged between her fleshy knees. She unfastened his pigtail, dragged apart his hair with her fingernails then began to nip at his scalp for nits. The simple act of watching made Jacob’s own head prickle. His turn would come later – a few days’ blessed respite. ‘More wine, Gretchen,’ he shouted, drawing up his knees to his ribs. He watched the liquid splash in, then cried in delight as the maid ran the last of it down his shoulder.

  ‘Story, story, story now,’ little Wilhelm chanted in his hoarse, breathless way.

  ‘Story, story, story,’ their mother echoed in mock weariness.

  ‘Story!’ Jacob yelled from the tub. ‘Oh please, Mother. Please Mother Goose!’

  He glimpsed her teeth as she smiled behind her long tumble of thick, loosened hair. Teeth and tales, always teeth and tales. Jacob would watch her mouth so closely during the tellings that he almost felt sucked inside. ‘Which story?’ she asked.

  ‘Butcher! Butcher! Butcher!’ For Willi there was only ever one choice.

  ‘Surely not Butcher again?’ she teased, smearing tiny insect forms on to the leg of the stool under her skirts. ‘I don’t know that I can tell such a terrible tale again.’

  ‘Yes, Butcher!’ Jacob pleaded, smacking his palm against the tubwater. And as soon as he said it, and Willi ceased his racket, and even before their mother tossed back her hair and purred the first magical words up at the nursery ceiling, the room became different. Calmer, cooler, more spacious, older.

  ‘A long time ago, when wishing was still of use…’ She paused just to tantalize them. Jacob felt his own breath and that of his ailing brother rush out into the even deeper stillness, freezing the maids with the jugs, the nits in their hair, the collection of bird feathers on the desk by the window, everything, just for the length of time she needed to take them there and back. ‘All that time ago,’ she went on, with Jacob’s eyes fastened on her lips, ‘a man slaughtered a pig while his children were watching. Then later, when the children started playing, one child said to the other…’

  Both brothers knew their cue: ‘“You be the little pig and I’ll be the butcher!”’

  ‘Whereupon,’ she took both dimpled hands from Wilhelm’s hair and folded them in her lap, ‘the first child took an open blade and thrust it into the other’s neck.’

  ‘Gottes Willen!’ gasped Gretchen, rushing a hand up to her throat, and at once the boys hissed at her to hush.

  ‘And their mother, who was upstairs,’ she widened her glinting eyes across the room at Jacob, ‘bathing the youngest child in a tub, heard the cries and quickly she ran downstairs. And when she saw what had happened, she drew the knife out of the child’s neck and – in a fierce rage – thrust it…’

  ‘Into the heart of the child who had been the butcher!’

  She nodded. ‘Then she rushed back to the house to see what the other child was doing in the tub…’

  ‘Nein, ach nein,’ winced Marie.

  ‘Ssh!’ hissed the brothers, Jacob sliding a little lower in the tubwater.

  ‘But in the meantime it had drowned in the water. And the woman was so horrified that she fell into a state of utter despair, refused to be consoled by the servants, and hanged herself. Then…’

  She paused again, which surprised Jacob. The goosebumps were up on his shoulders and knees, ready for her final line, but again she was looking at him, so piercingly and with her lips so uncharacteristically pursed, that he opened his own mouth and heard himself finishing the story all by himself: ‘Then when her husband returned home from the fields and he saw this, he was so distraught that he died shortly after.’

  She nodded, solemn-eyed, satisfied. ‘This is my story,’ she concluded, ‘I’ve told it, and in your hands I leave it.’ Then her face broke apart in its loveliest, toothiest smile and poor panting Willi reached up and clasped both her hands, half in anxiety, half in elation.

  Jacob needed more warmth in the tub. Although he grinned and his cheeks were flushed, the goosebumps had not gone down. Even another jugful made no difference. He clenched his teeth to stop his jaw from quivering. In speaking that last sentence on his own, the words had seemed to sweep through him from some other place entirely, leaving an unfamiliar, almost peaty flavour in his mouth.

  ‘You spoke well there, Jacob,’ his mother said. ‘Soon you will be able to tell the stories to us, ja?’

  ‘No, no, no!’ Willi protested. ‘Boys don’t tell stories. Not men either. There’s no Father Goose, is there? Only maids and mothers!’ This little sally so overstrained him that he broke into the hacking cough which Jacob always felt ripping at his own chest too, in sympathy. Their mother chuckled, ruffled his deloused hair and drew him back tighter against her knees until the spasm passed.

  Jacob curled smaller in the tub. ‘Can I come out now, Mother?’ he asked.

  ‘Come out?’ snorted Marie behind him. ‘But you’re still quite shockingly filthy, young man. If I didn’t know who you were, I’d take you for a Turk!’

  * * *

  After dinner the Professor withdrew to his room to ‘chop wood’. This was how he always described his work on the great Wörterbuch, presumably to set it apart from the fine carving of his less monumental books. Back in Berlin Kummel had helped Grimm’s besotted niece to pack th
e Wörterbuch papers and related legal documents, chapbooks and romances through which he trawled for words. Already, she said, he had been slaving at the project for twenty-five years and now he was supervising the work of over ninety contributors. ‘Yet he takes such little pleasure in it!’ she whispered with a fraught, embarrassed smile. ‘He took it on originally, you see, only to secure a regular income for our family. My Apapa has always been quite the most selfless of men.’

  The Fräulein went out on to the veranda alone for chicory coffee, and when Kummel arrived with the jug and glass, she quickly set aside the green gilt-edged book that she had been reading throughout their stay in the Harz.

  ‘It’s a pleasant evening,’ she smiled at him in greeting, ‘if a little humid. But at least we seem to have left the rain up in the mountains.’ She had an almost English fascination with the weather. In the Harz Kummel had heard her discussing it at length with her mother, her brothers and her sister-in-law. She brought the same intensity to her chatter about the landscapes, the restorative quality of the air, even what clothes they might wear the next day. It seemed deliberately dull and impersonal to Kummel, but as a previous mistress had once loftily told him: Servants talk about people, gentlefolk discuss things. He poured the Fräulein’s coffee, but she did not take up the glass.

  ‘We must pray for no rain again tomorrow,’ she told him. ‘The Professor wishes to walk in the hills. I thought we might set out soon after breakfast, since we’re scheduled to travel on to Steinau in mid-afternoon. You know, Kummel, there’s some very beautiful country here in Hesse. I’m sure you’ll like it.’ She smiled more broadly, then went on as if reciting from one of the new Baedekers: ‘Steinau, tomorrow, is smaller again than Hanau, and really quite lovely. Then Marburg, where we are due on Friday, is a splendid university town in the hills. And finally Cassel has the most magnificent castle and parks.’

  She let her gaze wander past him to the silhouetted ridge of low hills where they would walk in the morning. Gustchen, her fond but undemonstrative uncle called her: Little Auguste. Although she had a shawl to hand, she was wearing the evening bodice to her best burgundy dress, which showed her slim arms under its short sleeves. Her chestnut hair was scraped back into a red crocheted chignon, which made her pale face look older.