All photos of the underground waterworks on Mathildenhöhe copyright Lars Lambrecht

2/9 Free Chapters

Ike's wellies sent concentric ripples racing across the crystal-clear water in the subterranean reservoir until they broke on the massive brick pillars propping up the vault. After the arrival of the Litera Tours group in the disused reservoir under Darmstadt's famous art deco quarter, the cavern bought to mind a swimming pool on a bright summer's day.

Greg, the American boy, had already given up on the guide's explanations and was splashing from column to column in his bare feet, yelling at the top of his lungs. His parents waddled after him, hampered by their oversized rubber boots.

The boy might be noisy, but at least he seemed to enjoy himself. The same could not be said for the academic contingent. A battle stand had been drawn close to the nearest pillar, only a line was missing in the chalky sediment under their feet. The Oxfordians—Grimsby, a second professor whose name kept eluding Ike, and the lone female academic stood to the left, while Hucks and his Cambridge gang looked daggers from the right.

"And I'm telling you, there is no connection."The female professor's double chin wobbled with indignation, her strident tones cutting across the guide's gentler voice. Despite having staked their lines of battle well away from the others, the combatants were visibly annoying the rest of the guests, even if they were too polite to throw more than irritated glances across the cavern. Ike had stayed with the dons to dampen their ardour but had so far achieved zilch.

"Hear, hear," nodded the other two Oxfordians.

"Hah," Professor Hucks said.

That wasn't what the good lady seemed to have expected as a response to her gauntlet, so she upped the ante. "I mean, it's obvious, isn't it? The simple fact that the lab on the castle is underground proves—"

"It proves nothing, dearest Lydia," Hucks said, his fake Father Christmas smile morphing into the leer of a dyspeptic elf.

"Are there questions related to the lab's authenticity?" Everything about the second Cambridge don looked pinched, but his voice was both tempered and reasonable, which made for a pleasant change.

"Oh, no problems on that front," Hucks said. He cleared his throat and filled his chest, giving every impression of a man about to deliver a lengthy lecture.

Grimsby beat him to the post. "The laboratory has been linked with one Conrad Dippel, who conducted his experiments at the castle during the time Mary and Percy Bysshe were touring Germany en route to Geneva, where they were to meet Byron and his mistress, Claire Clairmont."

Behind them, Greg's yells stopped on a wail which made Ike guess his parents might have caught up with him.

Hucks had grown red in the face. It would clash with the Father Christmas coat if he only were wearing one. "Yes, yes, spare me the sermon. We're all aware of that. The only thing we need to know is that yes, there was an alchemist on the castle, and yes, he was trying to find what he called 'elixir of life'."

The quiet don interspersed again as if he had forgotten which faction he owed allegiances to. "That's not the same as creating artificial life or, in other words, a monster. Sounds more like a snake-oil producer."

"Hah," Hucks said again, glaring down his hapless colleague.

"You're missing my point. The lab we visited was underground," the female professor repeated doggedly. "Mary Shelley'snovel begins with the rain beating against the window panes of a laboratory in the upper story, separated from the rest of the dwelling."

"It was a dreary night in November'," one of the Oxford dons wistfully cited the start of Mary's famous masterpiece.

"Well, we should be grateful it's the beginning of October, shouldn't we?" Hucks said.

The rest of the group clustered around the guide was becoming restless, their vexed looks more pronounced, so Ike sloshed closer to the academics.

"Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, but I fear you will either have to quieten down or continue elsewhere. This vault amplifies voices, and it's hard for the others to hear the guide's presentation."

Most of the dons had the decency to look sheepish. Not so Professor Hucks.

"Young lady, it's an important academic argument we're embarking on here."

Ike drew a deep breath, tried for another one and gave up. The sheer delay would be taken as weakness. For a moment, she wished his lordship were here. He would raise an eyebrow and speak so calmly; everybody would be forced to listen. On the other hand, she wasn't convinced anything but brutal force would budge these buggers.

"I understand. All I'm asking you to do is to continue your argument more quietly or take it elsewhere. I'm afraid you're disturbing the other guests. Would you like to move back outside and wait?"

"No, we would not. I want to explore this place. Later," Grimsby said. He raised his chin towards the far end of the vault. "Let's move on, so these people stop fretting unnecessarily."

For a moment, it was unclear whether the Cambridge contingent would comply, but eventually the professors waded away from the others, their argument receding to a distant murmur.

Ike slumped with relief before she made her way closer to the tour group. Once she had stopped, she sensed a presence at her side.

Brigitte.

"Well done. Those people are very inconsiderate, non? What is their problem?" Unlike the profs, Brigitte spoke with a hushed voice.

"I don't get it. It's not even clear what thesis is getting them all het up. Something to do with our first stop on the trip. The blasted remains of Dippel's laboratory. Whether it's authentic. Which it is, otherwise we wouldn't have sent the tour there, right? And they kept quoting Mary Shelley, so I presume the whole argument has got something to do with the novel."

"Well, they are professors of literature."

"You're sure?"

"Gary said so."

Ike would have to reread the guest list, but she was sure it didn't list professions. "I thought they might be archaeologists. Makes it even less understandable why they are getting so wound up about things."

Brigitte did something with her shoulders that could only be a Gallic shrug. "Try not to worry so much. I'm glad I'm here. It seemed a silly idea to take the coach to cover the short distance from the tram stop to this place, but it gives me a chance to see things. I've never been to this part of Germany."

"If you hadn't clawed back so much of the delay, we might never have made it. The driver was rather worried about closing times."

Another shrug was the only response to Ike's attempt at flattery. But Brigitte had done a great job throwing her coach at the bends in the road like a thing demented. Even more impressive if she were new to these parts. The tram driver had followed her example, had clattered and rattled towards town at such speed; Ike's teeth still vibrated after the experience. The vote was out whether that or the odd food served on board the vintage vehicle had soured group dynamics. The tour of Mathildenhöhe, an art-deco hotspot with world heritage status, had helped to calm things down. But not enough. Two factions were forming, and soon it would be British academics versus the rest of the planet. At least the two singles seemed to be faring well, leaning against a pillar, lost in mutual admiration.

Ike felt a tug at her taupe blazer, a hasty last-minute buy from Harrods's summer sale too flimsy to keep out the chill of the cavern, and turned towards a shivering Mrs Banerjee and Mrs Ong.

"They are rather noisy, are they not?" the former said, peeping over her half-moon glasses in the general direction of the academics. They had disappeared and taken their arguments with them.

"They sure are," the American family father—Bob, or Bill or something—said, one freckled hand grabbing his son's shoulder. "Flew with them from London and they were locking horns all throughout the turbulence."

"Told you already, we must have been on the same flight," the Australian commented with a broad accent." Think I saw you, actually. The name is Evans. Evan Evans. And that's my wife, Lizzie." He pointed at a red-cheeked lady who raised a finger to her lips and turned once more towards the guide.

Her husband continued, but more subdued. "Sorry, dear. Well, she complained to the stewardess, but those horrors just refused to shut up."

Professors on the warpath, a catering crisis, and mutiny brewing among the guests. Gary would get an earful when she called him tonight.

Ike decided some warm fuzzies were in order to boost morale. "This is such an amazing place."

"Oh yes," the guide, a female student-type in an oversized mackintosh, said with the enthusiasm of the young. "Built in 1880 and the architect of the art deco colony used the foundations for his buildings. The wedding tower we visited is right above us."

"Oh dear. It's still watertight?" Mr Ishido knocked on a pillar.

"Oh, yes. Do you have an idea what the builders might have used in their lime mortar to prevent water damage?" the guide asked into the round.

With most of the group busy with searching for answers and Brigitte hanging around, Ike considered it safe to allow herself a precious few minutes of freedom. She turned and sloshed away under the archways, towards the far end with the metal steps they had clambered down in their loan rubber boots, seemingly designed for a gaggle of giants.

The group behind her stopped talking, and in the resulting hush, the guide's voice carried far, echoing through the arcades.

"You won't believe it, but they used the whites of eggs!"

Do let me know if you have questions or comments on my novel. Constructive suggestions and feedback are always welcome! And thank you for reading. In doing so, you give my writing a purpose.

The bit about the whites of eggs is true as well. Best water-proofing ever. 

 This chapter is dedicated to SallyMason1 who has betaread a solid part of this story and gave me some super feedback. Sal has so many great stories on her profile, so perhaps you just scoot across and have a look!