“Indeed he did. Now,” said Tony patronizingly, “go on. What was old Nicolas doing down there with the count’s dagger between his ribs?”

“Hmm. How about this? The steward was not a faithful hound after all. He stole the shrine for himself, sneaked into the castle—which he knew well—at the dead of night. He was about to hide the shrine in the old count’s tomb when Burckhardt wandered in—to pray, or pay his respects, or something. Seized by rage at the sight of his double-dealing servant, and the shrine—which he assumed had been lost on the way from Rothenburg—Burckhardt stabbed Nicolas, tumbled him into the readymade grave, and hid the shrine himself. Then he got sick—wait, wait! Remember the testimony of the nurse? The murder must have happened that very night. Burckhardt was already ill, ill and delirious. That’s why he never told anyone where he put the shrine. It’s still hidden!”

“Not bad.”

“Not bad! What else could have happened?”

“You have fallen in love with your own theory,” said Tony severely. “A dangerous fault in a scholar. I can think of at least one other possibility. The count himself came home with the caravan and the shrine. He and the faithful steward hid it, at dead of night, as you so quaintly put it, in the old count’s tomb. Konstanze didn’t know a thing about this. Later the count got to worrying about the safety of the hiding place, and went down, with the steward, to move the shrine. They hid it somewhere else, and then the count stabbed the steward, etcetera, etcetera.”

“I don’t mind making the count the villain,” I said. “I never liked him anyway. But you have a slight credibility gap, bud. Why should Burckhardt hide his own property and kill his faithful retainer?”

“Remember what was supposed to happen to the shrine? Count Harald’s will left it to the church. The countess is definite about that in her letters, and she agrees that it should be done. Suppose Burckhardt didn’t agree. The jewels were worth a pile, you know. Maybe he needed money. He wouldn’t let anyone, especially his pious wife, know he wanted the shrine for himself. When the faithful steward realized what Burckhardt had in mind, he threatened to expose him, and Burckhardt murdered him. That way Konstanze never would know where the shrine was hidden, and Burckhardt wouldn’t be about to tell her.”

“Plausible,” I admitted. “But all the theories are plausible. You’re the one who used to lecture me about the difference between possibility and proof; judging by some of the articles I read in the journals, a lot of historians don’t know the difference. We have no proof, Tony. We can’t even be sure that the shrine was ever here, in the castle, much less in that vault.”

“Oh, yes, we can.” Tony was so proud of himself he swelled up like a toad. Reaching into his pocket, he carefully withdrew a small object.