‘You have chosen well, Herr Procurator,’ he said. ‘This assistant of yours knows the area better than many of the local inhabitants. No one goes to the Round Fort very much these days.’ ‘I went there with my father several times for the fur-trading,’ Gurten explained. Bylsma’s words rang in my ears as we left the convent. Had I chosen Gurten, or had he chosen me? As for whether I would allow him to assist me in the investigation, the question was still unresolved in my own mind. We left town by the South Gate, where four French soldiers were on guard. ‘Had your fill of praying, then?’ one of them barked at me. I did not reply, as we hurried out onto the dusty Königsberg turnpike. Johannes Gurten wore a stylish dark brown corduroy riding-jacket. An unstoppable fountain of news and information all morning, now he walked in brooding silence at my side. His eyes were fixed on the road, his brow was dark, and he had nothing at all to say for himself.
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