The Ka of Mathias Schinkel

By H E Balinovsky

When the ghost of the murdered Professor Mathias Schinkel runs into the spiritualist meeting held by Evadne Pringle, it makes the news. But the killer is also watching the television and orders her death.

Saved by the mysterious F.F. von Strelitz, an associate of the murdered man, Evadne is given a new identity. But as events unfold, and his story keeps changing, she becomes convinced that she has been drawn into something illegal.

However, von Strelitz did have an ulterior motive, which neither Evadne nor The Ka could have guessed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jan 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9781496984272

Book preview

Chapter 1

A t 3.30 on the afternoon of 24 th December 1933, three sleek black cars drew up in front of an old whitewashed quinta on the coast of Portugal a hundred kilometres north of Oporto. Built on a small headland, this large and beautiful house was approached by a drive that skirted the cliff edge and overlooked a small cove in which had been constructed a boathouse which contained both the Efigenia , the 90ft Bermuda-rigged sloop with which the owner of this magnificent estate had triumphed in many international yacht races, and a small motorboat. The sun would soon set and the sky was a pale azure across which grey clouds were chased by a brisk wind. A sea was running and the waves rolled threateningly across the sandy beach at the foot of the cliffs.

Only one of the ten men who got out of the cars bothered to look at the sea and he did so with a secret smile, as if he knew something the other men did not. Suddenly he turned towards the house, pulled the collar of his coat closer around his neck, and having wiped the smirk from his face, fell into step beside the other men as they walked to the front door.

The door was opened by a manservant who inclined his head and bid them enter. He took a step away from them for although he did not know them by name, he recognised them as Salazar’s men.

Get me Xavier Casaubon de Sousa, one of the men said gruffly. He wore a brown fedora and a dark green cravat tucked into the neck of this overcoat.

A moment later Xavier, a man in his mid-sixties, appeared at the head of the stairs and walked slowly down. He was handsome, white-haired and of aristocratic bearing, quite the opposite of the men who waited below. He seemed calm and in control of the situation. A tall, elderly, African woman followed him onto the landing and stood looking down from the balustrade.

I am here, Xavier Casaubon said.

You will come with me, the man with the brown fedora said.

And who are you, Casaubon demanded.

State Security. We want your son as well.

Casaubon folded his hands delicately in front of his stomach. And just why do you want us to accompany you?

Who knows, brown fedora replied, just think of me as your driver.

Bonifacio Casaubon de Sousa came out onto the landing, looked down at the men, and then descended the steps to join his father.

Very well, Xavier Casaubon replied before turning and raising his hand towards the African woman still standing on the landing. Lousada, please bring down my grandson. I wish to kiss him goodnight.

Lousada entered one of the rooms and returned with Lorenzo, a handsome boy of five years. She took him by the hand and they walked slowly down the stairs.

Xavier Casaubon picked up the boy, whispered something his ear, kissed him and handed him to Lousada, whispering something into her ear as he did so. Then he turned to the men. We are at your disposal. It is Véspera de Natal, will we return tonight? I would like to see my grandson open his presents.

The man with the brown fedora shrugged and placed his hand on Xavier’s arm. Who knows?

The manservant opened the front door for them to leave and Lousada walked quickly to stand beside him. As their paths crossed Xavier placed his hand on hers and said in passing; You will have to find the manuscript.

She looked at him and a small frown puckered her forehead.

von Dresdener.

Lousada nodded her head very slightly and her face remained impassive until the last of the men had left the room and the manservant had shut the heavy, carved front door.

Magdalena de Sousa, a beautiful, dark-haired young woman in her late twenties, ran out onto the landing. She was on the verge of hysteria. Where have they gone, she cried. Where do you think they will take them?

Never mind that, Lousada said forcefully. Just pack your jewels and whatever money you can find. I will dress the boy warmly.

Why, Magdalena shouted. She watched the manservant slowly edging back towards the kitchen.

That’s what the Master told me to do.

Magdalena stood clutching the balustrade, nervously shifting her weight from one well-shod foot to the other. Lousada, what’s happening?

I don’t know, Madame, I only know I must get you and the boy away.

Suddenly a shot was fired outside. Bonifacio shouted a curse which was answered with another shot.

Facio! Magdalena screamed as she ran down the stairs and across the hall. Lousada stepped in front of the door and prevented her from opening it. Facio, Facio, Magdalena sobbed again as she tried to prise Lousada’s hands away from the handle.

They are dead, Lousada said dully. At that the manservant ran into the kitchen and slammed the door.

No, no, Magdalena bit the other woman’s wrist until she let go of the handle.

Do not let them see you, Lousada warned as Magdalena pulled open the door.

There, in the courtyard, she saw the bodies lying where they had fallen. And then Xavier Casaubon de Sousa, millionaire, intellectual, world-class yachtsman, confidant of royalty, and importer of some of the finest coffee in the world, along with his son Bonifacio, was dragged unceremoniously into a car which was then driven out into the road and pushed over the edge of the cliff.

Madam, we must leave immediately, Lousada said shutting the door.

Magdalena leaned back against the front door, tears streaming down her face. "You’d better call the driver and have my car prepared.

Driver? Madam, you will find that in half an hour we will be quite alone in this house. Your loyal staff will be gone from here as soon as they can pack their belongings.

What are we going to do?

We must sail to Spain and thence France. We will be safe there.

How?

On the boat, Madam.

On the boat, she said, her face becoming even paler. The weather is too bad.

Lousada caught the woman by the wrist. Madam, these men will undoubtedly block the road. There is only one way out of here, and that is by sea. We must make it to Spain and then on to St Jean de Luz, there we will find a safe harbour.

We cannot sail that boat.

You have often sailed it with your husband.

That was on a fine day.

Shall we then stay here and die? Would you like to fall into the clutches of that rat Manuel Pereira to be raped, violated, and then killed like a dog?

Magdalena stood looking at the other woman, tears streaming down her face, biting her lip. Finally she shook her head. We could take the launch; it’s just big enough for the three of us.

Lousada picked up the child and grasped Magdalena’s hand. Now quickly, gather your papers, your jewels and whatever you cannot live without.

The Crystal Ball

The room was dark, lit only by a single white candle. Evadne Pringle sat, eyes closed, in front of her crystal ball, as her breathing became deep and regular. Slowly she opened her eyes, looked at the sphere, and allowed her consciousness to be drawn to one particular spot. Slowly it filled with a light mist which condensed into clouds and then parted to show a moon path across a calm sea. Evadne spoke in a voice quite different from her normal speech; slowly, deliberately describing what she saw in the crystal. And her voice was heard by the cheap tape recorder on the small table behind her, as Evadne never remembered what she had seen.

A young child, a boy, stands beside his mother as she remarries.

The boy, now older, stands beside a hospital bed. His mother is dead.

The new husband stands up and takes a step away. The boy shouts, I see his mouth open wide, his hand outstretched towards a crib.

The man turns looks at them both, and walks away.

"I see the child outside a run-down block of flats. He holds the baby in his arms. A tall African woman stands with her hand on his shoulder. The wind catches a newspaper and blows it into the air. It is a French newspaper and the headline is La France et L’Angleterre sont en état de guerre avec l’Allemangne."

The scene clouded over and Evadne exhaled slowly as she waited. Then the clouds again parted to reveal a full moon shining on a still canal. A wisp of cloud crossed the moon.

A figure wearing a black cloak is walking across a bridge. It raises its head and lets the hood fall. It is a woman. She has dark hair cut into a bob and dark lipstick.

A dog is sitting beside the canal; it raises its head and howls at the moon.

I see a spider’s web hung with drops of dew sparking in the sunlight.

The ball clouded over a little and cleared to show a bed.

I see a bed. A bed? she asked the ball. But the bed stayed firmly within her vision. It is a four-poster bed, hung with thick curtains or tapestries.

Suddenly the ball was filled with clouds, turned black and then was as clear as a crystal ball should be.

Evadne let out her breath and pushed herself back from the table, stood up and turned on the light. She had been reading this crystal ball for years and yet still only saw through a glass and darkly, and usually did not remember what she had seen let alone understand it. She turned the tape recorder to rewind while she sipped a mug of lukewarm coffee. Then, sitting on a worn-out sofa she listened to the voice that she recognised as hers but which sounded so different when she was in a trance.

How did she know the woman had remarried? She had taken off her wedding ring and given it to the boy, that’s how. But who was this boy? And why had he suddenly entered the crystal ball?

Evadne glanced up at the clock, nearly 7.30. She took the crystal ball from its stand, wrapped it in a square of white silk, and placed it in its box while she listened to the end of the recording. And then she heard another voice. A soft voice, barely audible, whispered Helfen sie mir. Evadne rewound the tape a little and listened again. It was definitely another voice, a woman’s voice pleading for help.

Chapter 2

T he Westferry Spiritualist Church was little more than a tin shack in the middle of an ill-kempt car park in a run-down part of a borough on the western edge of London. Three women stood outside; the eldest, who was named Olive Ryan, was about 80 and determined to finish her cigarette, while the two other women, who were in their 50’s, waited impatiently.

Oh do hurry up, Mum, one said.

Dolores always let people smoke inside.

She had to, she was a chain smoker, her daughter replied. She couldn’t go for two hours without a fag.

You can say that again, her neighbour Sally Dinsdale chimed in. She didn’t need ectoplasm. One good drag and she could puff out a Red Indian complete with full headdress.

Dolores was a good medium, Mrs Ryan said taking a final puff of her cigarette.

Dolores has been dead twenty years, her daughter said. And anyway, I prefer Evadne. But I’ll be sorry to see this place go. I hear they’re going to pull it down and build flats.

Mrs Ryan dropped her cigarette and ground it into the potholed tarmac of the car park. Is he Spanish?

They walked towards the building.

Who, her daughter asked.

The bloke Evadne’s going to marry, Mrs Ryan asked, adjusting her handbag.

Where did you get that idea?

They’re going to live in Spain. But I think he’s just after her money.

And what money would that be, Sally snorted. She shops in Oxfam. I’ve seen her.

Mrs Ryan paused in front of the door. He’s a bit younger than her. Quite a fancy man, so I’ve heard. It’ll all end in tears. Honestly, you’d think she know better at her age.

I don’t know why we come here, her daughter remarked, you know more than the bloody psychics.

The interior of the Westferry Spiritualist Church was as dismal as its unprepossessing exterior suggested. It had been founded after the Second World War by the celebrated spiritualist Dolores Villanova. The land, which abutted an unfashionable stretch of the River Thames west of Chiswick, had originally housed a jam factory. Fruit had come from the surrounding market gardens and sugar had come down the river by barge from the Pool of London. The factory had been destroyed by a bomb in 1944 and never rebuilt; only various outbuildings remained standing. The owner of the land, a widow who had finally contacted the spirit of her dead son, gave Dolores the almost-derelict site. She also got rid of a tiresome tax liability. However, Dolores was never one to whinge. She gave thanks to the spirit world and eagerly set up her church in the fuel store – a large shed constructed of corrugated iron sheeting on a concrete floor and the only complete building left standing, but as these things so often turn out, there was very little money and the temporary became permanent and the permanent became more and more run down.

Evadne had attempted, with little success, to lay out a garden on the fertile fringe above the swathe of Thames mud that was covered each day by the tide, but this had been destroyed by spring tides and heavy storms and now lay overgrown and choked with weeds. A local beekeeping club had placed their hives on the mouldering jetty and Evadne leased an open-sided shed, the only other building still managing to hold itself erect, to an Italian so that he could garage his ice cream van. The car park was riddled with potholes and was known locally as a good place for fly tipping or for dumping unwanted cars. But this land that had been so unattractive to anyone except those wishing to communicate with the dead had suddenly become very attractive to a developer who saw its great potential as a site for another block of luxury flats overlooking the Thames.

The day-to-day running of the spiritualist church was undertaken by Miss Evadne Pringle, but the evening meetings had been organised by Miss Helga Reinhardt for the previous ten years. She was a plump spinster of late middle-age who had never outgrown her hippy youth, still dressing in flowing kaftans or peasant blouses billowing over faded jeans that she had embroidered herself. It was rumoured that she still possessed the original Afghan coat that she had bought in the King’s Road in 1967.

Many colourful stories were told about Miss Reinhardt, most of them simply wrong. She was not German but South African. Her English mother had married a Boer and they had been murdered by a former girlfriend who believed she had been jilted. Helga was only ten months old when her grandparents brought her to Twickenham. It was true that she had lived for many years with a now-forgotten television actor but the story that she had bedded all of the Rolling Stones was mere conjecture.

They expected no more than twenty people on a good night, if it was raining or there was a decent film on the TV, it would be less. Miss Reinhardt waited until 7.35 and then shut the doors. As she made her way to the back room Mrs Ryan waved her over.

Is it really Evadne’s last meeting? the old lady asked, placing her hand on Helga’s wrist.

Yes, the church has been sold and Evadne’s getting married.

"He’s not Spanish, is he? I hear she’s going to live in Spain.

No, Helga laughed, he’s from Bristol. And they are going to Spain on their honeymoon. Really, she said patting Mrs Ryan’s arm, I don’t know how these rumours get started.

She continued on up the aisle between the two blocks of second-hand, tubular-framed stacking chairs their plywood seats and backs already repainted several times to make them look less decrepit, until she reached Mrs Jones, a well-dressed middle-aged woman sitting in the front row with a shorthand notebook on her lap. She was a newcomer and had never received a message. Miss Reinhardt wondered if she was really interested in communicating with a relative or was simply an onlooker, perhaps a writer looking for authenticity or inspiration.

Oh hello, nice to see you again. It’s Mrs? . . .

The woman squirmed in her seat and was so obviously uncomfortable. Jones, she said sharply. Just Mrs Jones. Then she lowered her head and doodled on the notebook.

The congregation gradually settled down and Miss Reinhardt opened the door that led to a little sitting room, poked her head round, and said, They’re all ready for you, before going to sit beside the front door ready to deal with any drunks or late comers.

After a moment the lights dimmed, the hum of conversation died and Evadne Pringle entered the room. If anyone who visited the church ever expected someone along the lines of Madame Blavatsky or Edgar Cayce, they were in for a disappointment. Evadne was a washed-out, middle-aged spinster with over-long, golden brown hair heavily streaked with grey. She wore no make up other than the remains of some red lipstick that had faded to a line around the edge of her mouth. Her dress was a long, shapeless, rather faded thing that could have been a kaftan if it had tried very hard but leaned towards being an old, second-hand nightgown. She gave the impression of being put-upon, sexless, completely worn out and almost looked as if she was apologising for being a woman. The champagne of life had indeed passed her by.

She walked slowly past an old table, much used for spirit rapping in Victorian times, on which an antique planchette stood in the centre of a circle of alphabet cards that had been laid out for so long there was good a layer of dust across them. Stepping up onto the low dais in front of the congregation she looked across at the sixteen or so expectant faces and smiled.

Good evening everybody. She talked in a silly little voice, high-pitched and somewhat reminiscent of a rather bad impersonation of the Queen launching a ship in the 1950’s. ‘A spinster’s voice’, someone had unkindly labelled it, but then a spinster was what she was.

It’s nice to see you all here. Now if you would all like to sit quietly and open your hearts and minds to the spirits surrounding us. Prepare yourselves to receive their blessings. If you would now like to close your eyes, I will start with the opening prayer.

Something between a very light mist and a good shake of dust began to peel off the ceiling and coalesce behind her. It hung in the air in a thin column not quite visible but not quite invisible. It could have been a shadow, a trick of the light or just a case of tired eyes. Not many people noticed it, and those that did assumed it was her Spirit Guide.

She clasped her hands in front of her generous bosom and commenced the prayer.

"Blessed are they who work for peace,

They light the beacon of the darkness,

They open the oasis in the desert,

They