The Council of Twelve

  Sophia cried louder and louder. Walburga still stood at the bridge railing with her, the stream rushing beneath. The hangman’s wife stroked the child. Her eyes became clear again, and for a moment she was the kindhearted woman Barbara had met a few days ago.

  “Don’t cry, my darling,” Walburga said to soothe little Sophia. “Everything’s going to be fine. Everything’s going to be better soon.”

  “Give me the child, Burgi,” Michael Deibler commanded.

  Walburga looked up with astonishment. “But . . . but she’s staying with me, isn’t she? She’s such a dear little child, same eyes as our Moni . . .”

  “She’s not our child,” Deibler said quietly. “Sophia is Magdalena’s daughter. And that’s why she’s going back to her mother, who loves her more than anything.”

  “The . . . the Lord gave me this child,” Walburga said, her voice weak. She held Sophia tight. “He took my Moni and gave me Sophia. You can’t take away a gift from God.”

  Deibler took another step toward his wife, sword raised. “Give me the child, Burgi.”

  Walburga lifted the crying girl into the air. “Not another step,” she threatened. “Or else . . . or else I’ll throw her into the stream.”

  “Then you’ll also be a child murderess, just like all your victims,” Deibler replied. “Is that what you want? Tell me, Burgi, is that what you want?”

  Walburga hesitated, wrestling with herself. Tears ran down her pale cheeks. Her fingers gripped Sophia’s legs hard, making the girl scream even louder. Finally, the hangman’s wife appeared to have reached a decision. Gently, she placed Sophia on the ground, as if the child were made of glass. Georg ran over and picked up his niece. He carried her away, speaking softly to her.

  Walburga now stood alone at the railing. Michael Deibler stood one or two steps away from her, sword still in hand. After a while, he dropped it. With a loud clanking, the sword fell onto the icy cobblestones. Deibler slowly stepped toward his wife.

  “My dear Burgi,” he said softly, as if talking to a child. “I’ve always loved you, and I still do, even after everything you’ve done.”

  “I know, Michl.” Walburga smiled. “I know. That’s why you’re my husband. My good husband and my hangman.”

  Michael Deibler nodded. He closed the gap between them and held his wife for a long time. Hangman and hangman’s wife stood at the railing like any loving old couple on a moonlit night. Then Deibler gave Walburga a little push, and she toppled over the hip-high railing without a sound. For a brief moment, her hands were still visible above the water’s surface, like a final goodbye. Then she disappeared in the ice-cold black waters of the city stream.

  “My only love,” Michael Deibler whispered.

  He left his sword lying where it was and walked away with his head hung low.

  A lonesome old man, aimless and without a future. All alone in this world.

  Georg ran to the bridge railing and looked down.

  “She’s gone,” he said. “She’ll probably turn up at one of the weirs tomorrow, frozen stiff.” He clenched his fists angrily. “She deserved a much harder death, damn it. All those poor girls she killed.”

  “Many who deserve a painful death live,” Kuisl replied. “And others who deserve to live, die. That’s just the way of the world.”

  “And you’re just letting him go?” Georg asked, pointing at the dark outline of Michael Deibler at the end of an alleyway. “He must have known something. He was her husband.”

  “Believe me, he has been punished enough. And I don’t think he knew anything for certain, even if he’d suspected for a while. Perhaps, secretly, he wanted all this to end. That’s why he always supported our investigation.”

  “I . . . I must thank you,” Valentin said, holding out his hand to Kuisl. “If it hadn’t been for you—”

  “I’ll deal with you later, lad,” Kuisl growled. “Now we’ll go and see how Eva is doing—and, most of all, we must find Magdalena. We ran here when we heard Sophia cry; we never even went inside the executioner’s house.” He turned to his daughter with a smile. “Your niece saved your life. If she hadn’t . . .”

  Barbara no longer listened. Something warm was running down her legs.

  In the light of the moon, she saw it was blood.

  About an hour later, Magdalena sat next to Peter on a bench upholstered with leather in the house of Dr. Malachias Geiger.

  She kept casting worried glances at the door to Geiger’s treatment room. The high-ceilinged hallway they sat in was hung with portraits of other Geigers, all of them physicians and scientists who enjoyed formidable reputations throughout Bavaria, as Magdalena had learned. Stairs led down to the ground floor and a large reception room. A massive green tiled stove spread a cozy warmth through the whole house. Somewhere a clock ticked quietly—a fashion becoming increasingly popular in the homes of patricians.

  Magdalena thought of her own house in Schongau. It was drafty, some of the windows were merely covered with tanned hides, and the floor of the treatment room was scratched and covered in old bloodstains. Dr. Geiger must have been making a fortune from his wealthy patients.

  And yet he had agreed to help the Kuisls—even though he knew they couldn’t pay more than a few battered coins.

  Jakob and Georg sat opposite her. The hangman kept picking up his pipe and sucking on the cold mouthpiece. Magdalena knew it calmed her father. He ground his teeth; his beard was gray and shaggy. At least both he and Georg were wearing shirts and vests again instead of their tattered costumes.

  They had met here at the doctor’s house and fallen into each other’s arms. Her father had never believed that his daughter was dead, but he’d thought she was still at the manufactory. As usual, he hadn’t been able to put his emotions into words. But Magdalena had known by his embrace how much her father loved her and had feared for her. He had almost suffocated her in his hug.

  So far, Jakob Kuisl had offered only a few brief words about what had happened at Nymphenburg Palace and at the Rossschwemme afterward. Magdalena’s suspicion had been right: Walburga was the serial killer they had been looking for. But now she was dead, drowned in one of Munich’s icy streams.

  Others were still fighting for their lives.

  “Is Barbara going to die?” Peter asked quietly.

  Magdalena gave a start. “Oh God, no!” She tried to smile, but didn’t succeed entirely. “What makes you think that?”

  Peter shrugged. “Georg said there was a lot of blood on Barbara’s legs. If a person loses too much blood, they die. That’s why Father always says cupping’s not good.”

  “Your father talks a lot of nonsense,” Kuisl grumbled. It was the first thing he’d said in a long while. But then he returned to his brooding silence and sucked on his pipe. The fact that he wasn’t treating his youngest daughter himself but was trusting a studied physician instead showed Magdalena how nervous he was. His hands were shaking, his gaze empty.

  “You’re right, my darling.” Magdalena wrapped her arms around her son. “But don’t worry, Barbara is going to be fine.”

  But Magdalena wasn’t entirely certain. Barbara appeared to have lost a lot of blood, and Magdalena had an idea why. But she didn’t know any details.

  At the silk manufactory, she’d made sure the girls learned about the crimes of Uffele and Joseffa. As promised, the Au and Anger boys had removed the two scoundrels’ restraints and left the building—but not before pocketing anything of value and, of course, taking with them the prince’s dog. They’d agreed that Peter would drop Arthur back at the Residenz in exchange for the reward the following day.

  Magdalena was disappointed by how few of the young women had chosen to leave the silk manufactory that night. Carlotta had stayed, too, probably in the hope of saving enough money to start a better life soon. At least Agnes had decided to turn her back on the manufactory for good and return home. She had hugged Magdalena tightly in farewell and wished her all the best.

  At Geiger’s ho
use, Magdalena had expected to find only Peter and Paul, but to her enormous surprise, she learned that Simon, Eva, and Barbara had been taken to the doctor as well.

  Since then they had sat here and waited for news from the treatment room.

  Paul was asleep in a chamber next door, freshly bandaged. There was nothing else Magdalena could do for him right now, but Dr. Geiger had reassured her that the bullet went clean through and wouldn’t leave any lasting damage. Paul would be able to move his arm again soon. And Eva was recovering, too.

  Geiger hadn’t told them anything about the conditions of Simon and Barbara, however, and had rushed straight back into the treatment room. Her father might know something, but he wasn’t saying.

  After a while, Kuisl cleared his throat. “Peter?” he said to his grandson. “Do me a favor and check on your brother, will you?”

  Peter looked surprised. “But Paul’s asleep . . .”

  “I said, go check on your brother.”

  Peter stood up tiredly and walked into the small room, the sweet smell of herbs in fire pans wafting over to them from the door. When Peter had gone, the hangman turned to his daughter.

  “We’re lucky this quack Geiger seems to like your Simon,” he began. “Apparently they drove back to Munich together, and your husband must have talked such nonsense that the doctor thought he might have been poisoned. That’s why he sent a messenger to the executioner’s house. Otherwise, we’d never have made it here this fast.”

  “Walburga poisoned Simon?” Magdalena shot up from her seat. “And you’re only telling me now?”

  “Judging by your husband’s babbling when we found him at the house, he was poisoned with devil’s trumpet—it’s rather harmless, though it causes nasty dreams. But I’m confident he’ll survive. And Eva, too, even though she was very cold. But Barbara . . .” Kuisl paused for a long moment, eyeballing Magdalena. “You knew, didn’t you? You all knew.”

  “What do you mean?” Magdalena asked reluctantly.

  The hangman brought down his fist on the armrest of his chair. “I may be old, but I’m no fool, damn it. I’ve been healing folks for too long not to know what the blood between Barbara’s legs means.” He pointed the stem of his pipe at Magdalena. “Barbara was pregnant and is miscarrying. She could die if the child has been in her womb for too long. How far along was she, huh?” He spun around and glared at Georg. “How far?”

  Georg raised his hands defensively. “I don’t know for sure, I swear. Two, three months?”

  “Three months,” Magdalena said. “It was one of the traveling jugglers from the Schongau church fair. He pushed her into the hay and took what he wanted.”

  “Jesus Christ, and you only tell me now?” Kuisl clenched his fists. “I’m doing everything I can to get Barbara a husband here in Munich, and now I find out she’s been pregnant all along? Do you have any idea what the shame and disgrace would have meant for our family? We may be dishonorable, but that would have robbed us of our last remaining scrap of dignity.”

  “We were hoping the fiancé would have thought the child was his,” Magdalena said. “That was the plan. But it no longer matters. There isn’t going to be a child now. Barbara may be dying. And all you can think of is some drivel about honor and dignity. Shame on you, old man.”

  Magdalena had never spoken this rudely to her father before. But instead of raising his hand against her, he slumped in his seat as if all strength had suddenly drained from him. The sight hurt Magdalena worse than any beating.

  Georg appeared to sense that this was something between father and daughter, and rose quietly.

  “I’ll go check on Paul, too,” he said. “And make sure Peter doesn’t do anything stupid.”

  They sat in silence for a while, listening to the ticking of the large clock downstairs.

  “I only ever wanted the best,” Kuisl said eventually. “For you, for Georg, for Barbara . . . Since your mother died, I’ve had to make so many decisions on my own.” He shook his head wearily. “Who knows what you womenfolk want? My Anna-Maria, yes, she understood you. But an old ass like me . . .”

  Magdalena took his calloused hand in hers. He was still trembling slightly. “You’ve made many good decisions, Father. For Barbara, too.” She sighed. “Can’t you understand why we didn’t want to tell you? You can be so . . . so . . . angry.”

  “I know.” Kuisl nodded. “You were probably right not to tell me.” He hesitated. “That young man who was in the sack with Barbara . . . I sent him away. But I’ve got a feeling he’ll be back. Do you know who he is?”

  Magdalena smiled thinly. “I’ve got a hunch. If I understood correctly, they went to see Walburga together. So she must have told him about her pregnancy. I think the two of them have become very close in the last couple of days.”

  “So he’s just another lousy good-for-nothing who—” Kuisl flared up.

  But just then, the door to the treatment room opened. Dr. Geiger came out. He wore a blood-smeared apron and looked at them seriously. Magdalena’s throat tightened.

  “So?” she croaked. She squeezed her father’s hand as hard as she could.

  “I think . . .” Geiger paused and wiped the sweat off his forehead. “Well, I think she’ll get through.”

  With slow movements, he untied his apron and hung it on a hook next to the door. “She lost a lot of blood, and unlike too many of my colleagues, I don’t believe in the benefits of bloodletting. But with wine and a lot of rest, she should recover. I’d like to have her taken to the Hospice of the Holy Ghost.” He gave them a sad look. “But she lost the child. And I can’t promise she’ll ever bear children again.”

  Despite this sad news, Magdalena felt a huge weight fall off her. She knew Barbara was in the best of hands with Dr. Geiger. There was probably no better doctor in all of Bavaria. Geiger had helped Paul, Simon, and Eva, who had already been taken to recover at the hospice. He’d heal Barbara, too.

  “We . . . we owe you our deepest gratitude,” she started awkwardly. “Unfortunately, our trip to Munich used up all our—”

  Geiger waved dismissively. “I don’t work at the hospice for money, either. Anyway, your husband already paid me.” He grinned, and Magdalena looked at him with astonishment.

  “How?” she asked.

  “Well, we had a little time to talk in the carriage back to Munich. Dr. Fronwieser was very agitated since I’d given him Walburga’s name. And I got the strange feeling that something wasn’t right. Nonetheless, he remembered to hand me a treatise. It appears he wrote it himself.” From the pocket of his apron, Geiger pulled out the pages Magdalena knew all too well.

  “I’ve only skimmed through it so far, but it sounds very interesting. I’d like to make it available to a wider readership.” He scratched his chin. “Though I still don’t understand how your husband came to be poisoned by devil’s trumpet. And why he was found holding a naked, half-frozen girl in his arms.” The doctor gave Magdalena a curious look. “Do you have any idea?”

  “Um, the thing with the naked girl is news to me, too,” Magdalena replied uncertainly. “But I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

  “Anyway”—Geiger shrugged—“your husband is welcome to spend the next few days in one of my spare rooms, until he feels better. I’m sure he’d like to tell me more about his treatise. It appears he also owns a book on microscoping. All very interesting stuff.” The doctor looked over at Jakob Kuisl, who was sitting with his eyes closed. Magdalena noticed he was holding a small amulet.

  An amulet of Saint Margaret.

  Magdalena guessed her father had found it at the executioner’s house. She might have been mistaken, but it looked as though her sullen, cynical giant of a father uttered a silent prayer of thanks.

  Wonders never cease, she thought. He must be getting old.

  “And this gentleman must be Dr. Fronwieser’s father-in-law?” Malachias Geiger asked. “May I ask what profession—”

  “My father also works as a healer,” Magdalena
said quickly. “It runs in the family.”

  “Oh? In the family?” Geiger raised an eyebrow. “Just like with my family.” He pointed at the numerous paintings in the hallway. “The Geigers are a dynasty of physicians, did you know that? Have been for centuries.”

  Reflectively, Magdalena gazed at the portraits, a long row of ancestors she couldn’t even see the end of in the dark of the sparsely lit hall. Then she smiled, and her voice was clear and steady.

  “I hope one day they’ll say the same about us Kuisls.”

  EPILOGUE

  THE HOSPICE OF THE HOLY GHOST, A FEW DAYS LATER

  WHEN BARBARA OPENED HER EYES, the sun shone warm and friendly through one of the windows in the hospice’s infirmary. A hint of spring lay in the air. The logs in the stove by the door crackled and filled the large, low-ceilinged room with a pleasant warmth.

  Barbara closed her eyes again for a moment, shutting out the smells and sounds around her: the groaning and soft whimpering of other patients, the occasional laughter and conversation of the visitors. About a dozen patients were currently being cared for at the infirmary, and until yesterday, Eva had been one of them. The two young women had gotten along well. Eva had told Barbara that she’d wanted to keep her child, but Mother Joseffa had pushed for an abortion. A pang shot through Barbara, and her hand went to her abdomen.

  My child . . .

  She felt guilty and didn’t know why.

  When Barbara opened her eyes again, Valentin sat by her bed. He smiled when he saw her look of surprise.

  “I just stepped out to fetch a little more hot water from the kitchen,” he explained and wiped a damp towel across her forehead. Barbara sighed with pleasure; the warmth felt good. Valentin had practically never left her side in the last few days. After the treatment at Dr. Geiger’s house, the young musician had taken her to the infirmary and cared for her like for a baby. The bleeding had stopped and she hadn’t become infected, as often happened with miscarriages. It really looked as if the worst was over—though Dr. Geiger had told her that she’d probably never have children.