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Jewish scullery maid in his employ to become public.
    And what of the other two victims? If von Hobarty killed Ursula Klein, were the other two an elaborate misdirection for the one murder with real motive? Werthen had investigated such a case in the past, but it seemed far too fanciful in this situation.
    ‘I told Thielman there was nothing more I can offer,’ von Hobart was saying to Gross. ‘A waste of everyone’s time.’
    ‘Not at all,’ Gross said. ‘It has been very instructive.’ He left the comment dangling, something for von Hobarty to mull over.
    ‘I believe I have contributed what I can,’ von Hobarty said. ‘And now I have a meeting with my gamekeeper.’
    They were making polite farewells when Stoker, silent until this moment and busy examining the books in von Hobarty’s library, suddenly spoke up.
    ‘I see you are a student of folklore and customs, Herr von Hobarty.’ Stoker nodded toward several shelves of books.
    ‘Ah, yes,’ von Hobarty said. ‘A hobby of mine since leaving politics. Styria is a land rich in tradition and custom.’
    ‘Some of it rather frightening in a modern context, wouldn’t you agree?’ Stoker said. ‘Belief in all sorts of superstition, witches, vampires, what have you.’
    ‘Parts of the province are admittedly yet to enter the twentieth century,’ von Hobarty allowed, but suspicion showed on his face at this line of questioning.
    ‘You will excuse me for asking, sir,’ Stoker continued, ‘but you wouldn’t be connected to the Bathory family, would you?’
    For once, von Hobarty showed some degree of reaction. His eyes squinted at Stoker.
    ‘I beg your pardon. What impertinence.’
    ‘We should be leaving, Herr Stoker,’ Werthen said, tapping his arm.
    But Stoker held his ground. ‘It is just the interesting spelling that comes to mind. You must forgive me, I am a word man. Your last name is an anagram of Bathory. You of course know of the Countess Erzsebet Bathory.’
    ‘I believe you know your way out,’ von Hobarty said dismissively. ‘I have business to conduct.’
    He sat at his desk and consulted a sheaf of papers, leaving them to take their leave.
    Once out the door, Gross said, ‘What may I ask was that about, Herr Stoker?’ This was delivered with the sort of edge to his voice reserved for extremely inept police.
    ‘The “Blood Countess”. You know the one. The sixteenth-century Transylvanian noble who supposedly tortured and killed over six hundred young maidens and then bathed in their blood.’
    ‘Of course I know of her,’ Gross said with great disdain. ‘But what do the events of three centuries ago have to do with this?’
    ‘Well, it’s the blood connection, right? During my researches I found how stories of her also informed the repute of Vlad the Impaler.’
    ‘Please, Herr Stoker. Your point?’
    ‘Vlad was the inspiration for my Count Dracula of course.’
    Gross sighed mightily, shaking his head at Werthen. ‘Would you please put a collar on your charge, Werthen.’
    ‘Now just a minute, Doktor Gross. I was only trying to help.’
    ‘Anagrams.’ Gross spat out the word.
    ‘It did get a rise out of him, Gross,’ Werthen said.
    ‘Yes.’ Stoker was cheered at Werthen’s tepid support. ‘It was worth a try. After all, there was Carmilla and the Countess Mircalla.’
    ‘That is fiction, Herr Stoker. What’s in a name, eh? Following your logic, I would assume you came from a long line of laborers tending boilers, or that Werthen here is from a particularly
worthy
family.’
    But Stoker did not respond to this. ‘It
was
worth a try,’ he muttered as they walked down the long hallway to the front door and their waiting fiaker.
    Gross shook his head again at Werthen. ‘The man does not know a Wallachian from a Transylvanian,’ he muttered.
    Stoker turned around suddenly, but not to reply to this comment.
    ‘He had your book, too, you know,’ he said to Gross. ‘Your
Criminal Investigations.
But he acted as if