Murder in A-Major Read Online Free

Soon, very soon, we told ourselves, a carriage drawn by eight white horses would clatter up to our doorstep, and our father—the prince, that is—would sweep us off to our rightful palatial chambers.
    During much of my childhood and early youth, then, that was how our days were spent. My father nourished his fantasy that any day now the name “Wolfgang Preiss” would replace “Goethe” on the lips of Europe's literati. My mother nourished her fantasy that any day now she would become a widow and, with her looks still miraculously intact, attract a solid provider as a second husband. My sister and I shared a dream that, restored to noble surroundings, we would be brought up as all well-born children should be—by doting servants.
    The one fortunate aspect of my childhood was my scholastic prowess, especially in the sciences. My instructors in chemistry and physics at the Gymnasium discerned that I possessed an extraordinary aptitude for scientific investigation. In my senior year, they encouraged me to apply for the only scholarship available to a youth of my social station. And so it was that, shortly before my eighteenth birthday, I found myself at the tiny railway station in Zwicken, about to leave home for the first time. I was to attend the National Police Academy in Hamburg. At last, liberation!
    Overcome with uncontrollable grief, my mother and sister could not bring themselves to accompany me to the depot. (In moments when I feel less than charitable, I cannot resist the feeling that their recipe for uncontrollable grief consisted of one part sorrow and ninety-nine parts envy.)
    It was while I stood on the station platform awaiting the train that my father drew me aside, seized me by the shoulders and, gazing deeply into my eyes, intoned, “My boy, this above all—”
    He halted in mid-sentence. Whatever thought was on his mind seemed to be momentarily suspended above us like some enormous mudslide.
    â€œYes, father?” I said.
    â€œThis above all,” he repeated. Again there was a pause while he glanced about him to make certain there were no eavesdroppers, though we were the only people at the depot. Lowering his voice, he said, “If you remember nothing else, Hermann, remember this: avoid surprises!”
    Our relationship up to this point was such that I never questioned or challenged my father's advice or his perceptions about the world around us. This was so at first because of the strict rules of filial respect and obedience that prevailed in the God-fearing households of the day. Later it was so because the man was such a patent fool that there seemed no point in taking issue with him on any subject. Still, as we waited now for my train, the grave expression on his carelessly shaven face suggested that it was possible, just barely possible, that the man knew something I didn't. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, I repeated dutifully, “Avoid surprises.”
    â€œGood boy!” My father jerked his head with approval. “You see, Hermann,” he explained, “there is no such thing as a good surprise. Without exception they're bad, all of them. Death, infidelity, insolvency…a sudden knock on the door and—poof!—you're a corpse, or a cuckold, or some brazen bill collector makes off with your trousers. Then there are riots in the streets. And, of course, diseases. An innocent glass of water tonight, tomorrow morning your body is on fire and covered with purple spots!”
    Listening to these last-minute cautions, I was willing to bet the few humble banknotes sewn into the lining of my jacket that the old gent had taken one pinch too many of his beloved snuff and sneezed his brains into his hat. Though I'd never been more than ten kilometres in any direction from Zwicken, even I knew this much: of the countless evils to be shunned in a port city like Hamburg, surely innocent glasses of water were far from foremost. It was no secret