He stood up, pulled his black robe around him, and struggled toward the exit.
A bit later, Simon and Samuel were strolling across the great square in front of the cathedral, where the construction work on the bishop’s palace proceeded unabated.
“What did you mean before when you said that for the most part patricians are the victims?” Simon asked his friend.
Samuel shrugged. “It’s just one piece of the puzzle, nothing more. Suppose these murders were not committed by a wild monster but by someone trying to target the ruling class? Did you ever think about that?”
Simon stopped to think, puzzled. “But why would anyone do something like that?”
“I don’t know. I only know there is a struggle for supremacy in the city, an attempt to do away with competitors, and, as you know, the end justifies the means.” Samuel nodded sadly. “Take, for example, this chancellor Korbinian Steinkübler. He paid a lot of money to obtain his new position, and I know that some patricians, among them the missing old councilor Thadäus Vasold, were not at all happy about that. Many would have preferred to have Sebastian Harsee in that position. He comes from an esteemed family, and his father before him was the chancellor.”
“By the way, Harsee didn’t look at all well in the meeting today,” Simon said, frowning. “He appears to be seriously ill, probably some kind of fever.”
“Which brings me to the dean of the cathedral,” Samuel replied. “For a long time he’s had his eye on the position of suffragan bishop. Did you see his expression just before that when Harsee nearly broke down? I’m sure he’d like to see him dead.” Samuel shook his head. “Believe me, Simon, this council is one big gang of cutthroats. It’s a dog-eat-dog group.”
“So you think this werewolf is a hired killer sent to dispose of any competitors?” Simon mused, rubbing his chin. “That could be so for the two councilors, but how about the prostitute and the miller’s wife, or the apothecary’s wife and the Gotzendörfer widow? The latter two come from patrician families, but they’re women and not competing with anyone for an appointment.”
Samuel sighed. “You’re right, of course. As I said, it was just a thought. Even if my suspicion was right, things are moving in a different direction now. See for yourself.”
They were just passing the front portal of the cathedral, where a city guard was nailing a piece of paper to the door. A large crowd had already gathered around while another guard loudly declaimed the text of the announcement.
“The city council will do everything in its power to stop the activities of the beast in this city!” he cried. “All able-bodied citizens are summoned to report to the city hall where a city militia will soon be established. Information leading to the capture of the werewolf will be rewarded at the rate of five guilders for each suspect.”
The crowd broke out in cheers, and a number of them headed down to the city hall, shouting and rejoicing.
The two friends walked by, shaking their heads. “I fear we’ll soon have many more werewolves here in Bamberg,” said Samuel. “When this is all over, the prince-bishop will be lucky if there are enough councilmen left to govern the city.”
Adelheid Rinswieser huddled down in the corner of her room, waiting to hear her captor approaching.
He’ll be coming to get me soon. The moment is almost here.
Since the day before, she’d been both yearning for and fearing this moment. She knew that only the death of the other prisoner—that poor creature who in the last hours of his life had screamed, cried, and finally just whimpered and moaned—made her own escape possible.
My only chance.
Yesterday, the screams had continued all day, interrupted only by occasional murmuring, and then abruptly, around evening, they had stopped. Shortly after that, Adelheid had heard a door slam and something being dragged along the ground, as if a heavy body were being carried away. Then it turned silent again.
And Adelheid waited.
The apothecary’s wife was still chained to the wall and couldn’t move more than a few steps. There was a rusty lock around her right ankle that so far had resisted all her efforts to open it. She knew that when the stranger came to drag her into the horrible chamber, he’d have to open this lock. He’d done it once before, shortly after he’d abducted her, when he’d taken her to view the chamber. At that time she’d been too weak to offer any resistance. He’d wound a leather strap around her neck and led her there, her hands in manacles, like a whipped animal. This time, things would be different; she would know how to defend herself.
Adelheid had a weapon.
Just yesterday she’d beaten her earthenware cup against the wall so that, in addition to the many small pieces, there was one especially long, large shard. The man saw the broken pieces and brought her a new cup, but he hadn’t noticed the largest piece lying in her bed under the straw. It was pointed and sharp, like a small dagger. Adelheid reached for it and made a fist so the sharp point protruded between her index and middle finger.
She’d use it to slit the man’s throat.
She trembled and tried to calm herself by reciting simple Bible verses.
“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want . . .”
The verses helped to control her wildly pounding heart and fill the long hours of waiting. Adelheid counted the hours using the small, flickering tallow candle that the man came in regularly to replace. Recently she thought she’d heard birds chirping or dogs barking, and one time even an angry growl. Was that perhaps the beast that had overpowered her? But it could also be her imagination playing tricks on her. Otherwise, an oppressive silence prevailed, like a heavy blanket stifling everything, interrupted only by her own voice.
“He makes me lie down in green meadows, he leads me beside the still waters . . .”
Suddenly she heard a door close. Steps drew nearer, became louder, and stopped outside her room. Then a key was inserted in the lock and the door squeaked as it opened.
Adelheid tried not to scream when she saw the man with the mask in the doorway. In the light of the flickering candle, all she could see of him was a dark silhouette.
“Now it’s your turn, witch,” he said, his voice sounding astonishingly tender. “We will now begin with the second degree. Are you ready?”
“Please, please . . . ,” she whimpered, turning toward the wall and secretly placing the shard in her hand. She tried to act as defenseless as possible. “I don’t know what you want from me . . .”
“You will soon find out.”
She could hear his shuffling feet in the dirty straw as he approached. He touched her gently, then wrapped the leather noose around her neck, pulling it so tight she could barely breathe.
If I move, he’ll tighten it all the way. I must be fast—faster than he is.
She was still turned away from her tormenter, listening to the rattling of the chains, whimpering and moaning to lull him into a false sense of security. Now the man reached for the lock, and she could hear the squeaking of the key as the lock opened, and the chain fell to the floor . . . Now!
Adelheid turned around. For a brief moment she couldn’t see exactly where the man was in the dim light. He was kneeling on her left, where the chain was attached to the wall. Shouting furiously, she attacked, and at the same time could feel the noose tightening around her neck. Before it could completely cut off her airway, however, she was already on top of her torturer.
“You . . . you devil,” she gasped.
She raised her fist with the splintered piece of the cup, ready to strike, while the man under her lashed out at her, trying to escape. He was much stronger than she, and she could feel his powerful arms trying to push her away. The whites of his eyes shimmered through the slits in the hood, and Adelheid thought she saw fear welling up in them.
“You devil!” she screamed again.
With a final, furious scream, she swung at him with the shard, but in that moment he released his grip on her and, when the shard was a mere hand’s breadt
h from his throat, blocked her blow with his arm. With sweat streaming down her face, Adelheid reached under the mask of her opponent to scratch his cheeks or stab him in the eyes with her fingers, but she only managed to hit his hood. She clutched at the mask, pulled it . . .
And tore it from his face.
The shock of this horror suddenly having a face caused Adelheid to hesitate just an instant.
It was the instant that cost her her freedom.
The man pushed her away like a dirty bundle of rags. Adelheid hit the wall behind her, bloodying her back as she slammed against the large stones, and the shard fell from her hand. Then she felt a strong pull, and the leather noose tightened around her neck.
Squinting, Adelheid saw the man standing over her, pulling on the strap. She gasped for air, desperately, in vain. She clawed at the noose around her neck, but the leather had dug itself too deep into her skin. Colored circles danced before her eyes, faster and faster, and then came the darkness.
This is the end . . . This is . . .
After what seemed like an eternity—or was it only seconds?—Adelheid emerged from a sea of darkness. She gasped and gagged, and wonderful cool air now entered her lungs. She reached for the strap, trembling, but it hung loose around her neck.
But why . . .
Suddenly she heard someone sobbing softly. It seemed to come from far away. Shortly before losing consciousness again, Adelheid summoned up her last bit of strength and turned to see the man crouched in a corner.
His hood lay beside him on the floor, and he was crying like a small child.
Then Adelheid finally collapsed.
Simon rushed as fast as possible from the cathedral mount to the new part of town. He absolutely had to speak with Magdalena again about the postponement of the wedding. After the meeting in the council chambers, he’d had a brief conversation with Samuel, who agreed he shouldn’t leave his bathhouse in Schongau closed much longer. Samuel himself had patients to see all day, so their discussions about the werewolf had to be put off to the next day.
When Simon finally arrived at the executioner’s house, the only one there was Jakob Kuisl, who was sitting at the table smoking and brooding. Before him lay a small, tattered book that he quickly shut when he saw Simon coming.
“Where are the others?” Simon asked in surprise, looking around the empty room.
Jakob Kuisl shrugged. “Bartholomäus and Georg have some stuff to do over at the council chamber. I’m sure you know that last night an old aristocrat’s widow died under mysterious circumstances. Now the noble gentlemen have announced the hunt, a number of arrests are expected, and the city dungeon is being readied for them. I can’t tell you where Magdalena and the two children are.”
He opened the book again and began to read, as if Simon were not even there. The bathhouse owner was familiar with that sort of behavior from his father-in-law and took no offense. It meant only that Jakob Kuisl was deep in thought, and for that he needed tobacco and complete silence.
Simon sat down silently on the bench next to the hangman. While pouring himself a cup of watered-down wine, he glanced over curiously at the dog-eared book. He recognized it at once: Lonitzer’s Herb and Plant Almanac, an illustrated work found in every hangman’s personal library. Apparently the little book came from Bartholomäus’s collection in the adjoining room. The book was opened to a marked article with notes in the margin, but Jakob’s hand was on top of the book and Simon couldn’t see anything else.
After a while, the hangman put the book aside angrily and glared at Simon. “How in the world am I going to concentrate when someone is staring at me the whole time?” he growled. “So what is it? If you have something to say, then say it, and don’t squirm around here as if you’d crapped in your pants.”
Simon smiled. Sarcastic grumbling from Jakob Kuisl was his way of extending an invitation to talk.
“I was only wondering why you were suddenly so interested in plants,” he replied. “Does that, by chance, have anything to do with this mysterious werewolf? Are you perhaps looking for an herb that will protect you from such creatures?”
“Bah, humbug! Wolfsbane or Saint John’s wort can give you confidence, perhaps, but can they really protect you? No.” Kuisl frowned. “The only thing that can help you is your reason, and that’s just what’s missing here in Bamberg.”
“Then you don’t believe in the werewolf? Earlier you weren’t so sure.”
Jakob Kuisl rolled his eyes impatiently, then turned to look Simon directly in the face. “I believe my own eyes and my common sense,” he said in a firm voice. “In this city, someone is abducting and killing people in a very cruel manner. Some people claim to have seen a furry creature—some in the city, others out in the forest—and someone bought a whole bunch of wolf skins from the furrier . . .”
“Wolf skins found among the possessions of the unfortunate Matheo,” Simon continued, absorbed in his thoughts. “Magdalena thinks that anyone could have put them there. Perhaps it was someone from that other group of actors.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps someone who was beginning to feel the heat and needed a scapegoat to deflect the suspicions.”
Simon frowned. “What do you mean?”
Kuisl slowly expelled the smoke from his pipe and held three chubby fingers up to Simon’s face. “There are three possibilities. First, there really is a mad beast out there. Second, there’s a madman out there, also a sort of beast. Or . . .” He paused and leaned back in his chair. “Or there’s somebody smart out there following a plan. I’m sitting here with my pipe, thinking, and asking myself what kind of plan that could be.”
Simon nodded. “My friend Samuel has some interesting ideas about that. What do you think of this?” He told Kuisl briefly about the meeting that morning and Samuel’s assumptions about the council members. “Perhaps there really is a struggle for power among the patricians,” the bathhouse owner concluded. “Someone is trying to do away with his enemies and is ready to accept the deaths of other completely innocent people. Perhaps the suffragan bishop, perhaps the chancellor, or one of the noblemen on the council?”
“And to do that he kills the wife of an ordinary miller and a prostitute to cover his tracks?” Kuisl spat into the reeds on the floor. “A daring plan. But there’s something wrong with that picture. Only two of the six missing or dead people were actually council members; the rest of them don’t fit in that category.”
Simon sighed. “Samuel said that, too. But do you have a better idea?”
“Perhaps I would have come up with something a lot sooner if you didn’t always interrupt me.” Growling, Kuisl picked up the little book again. “But, yes, I have an idea. There’s something I can’t get out of my mind . . .” He squinted. “The dead prostitute had a . . . strange odor, like the smell of a beast of prey . . .”
Simon felt the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. “A beast of prey?” he repeated anxiously. “And you’re only mentioning that now?”
“Because I refuse to believe in a werewolf. But, yes, it was the stench of wet fur,” Kuisl said. “It took a few days to figure out where I’ve smelled that before.”
“But if the prostitute smelled like a beast, that would mean that perhaps, after all, a werewolf—”
Jakob cut him off with an angry gesture. “For God’s sake, just forget the werewolf. You’re driving me crazy with your superstitious drivel.” The hangman pointed at the underlined section of the book in front of him. “There is only one herb that smells just like a beast of prey. Because of all this nonsense about the werewolf, I’ve overlooked the most obvious thing. But when you think about it . . .” Kuisl grinned as he always did when he was about to spring a surprise.
Simon drummed his fingers nervously on the table. He hated it when his father-in-law tortured him like this. “Just get to the point,” he pleaded. “Why do we always need to beg you to tell us what’s on your mind? What kind of herb is it?”
“Well, as a bathhouse owner you
really should know that. It’s henbane, also known as stinking nightshade or dog’s-piss root,” Kuisl elaborated with obvious satisfaction. “It’s found in many witch’s brews because it’s said to have magical power, but primarily it’s used as a strong anesthetic. Along with opium, mandrake, and hemlock, it is often used in sleeping sponges—things you no doubt have heard of.”
“Sleeping sponges?” Simon asked, perplexed. In fact, he did use such sponges himself occasionally. Soaked in narcotics, these sponges were placed over a patient’s face during operations to calm them down or, if necessary, make them unconscious. It was extremely hard to adjust the dosage—a bit too much of the liquid, and the patient would never wake up.
“Do you think someone drugged the prostitute first and then killed her?” he asked breathlessly.
Kuisl nodded. “Probably not just the prostitute. It had to be someone who knew a lot about medicine. The right quantity to use on a sleeping sponge is something known only to members of four guilds, in my opinion.” He counted them off on his fingers. “Doctors, bathhouse owners, midwives, and—”
“Hangmen,” Simon gasped.
“Indeed. I’ve used sleep sponges a few times myself to relieve a condemned man’s pain. It’s a drug preferred by hangmen and their journeymen. Anyone who understands suffering and death must also know about healing.”
Simon stared at the underlined paragraph describing the recipe for preparing such a sleep sponge. “I’m assuming you aren’t the person who underlined this paragraph and entered the notes in the margin?” he whispered.
Kuisl shook his head. “That was Bartholomäus, I know his handwriting.” The hangman knocked the dead ashes out of his pipe, stretched, and slowly rose to his feet like a giant who’d been sleeping for a long time in his cave.