“The members of the commission changed from one trial to the next,” Jeremias replied with a shrug, “but there were some who served every time, and I can remember very clearly who they were. One of them was Klaus Schwarzkontz, and I think also Thadäus Vasold and Egidius Gotzendörfer, the husband of Agnes Gotzendörfer.” He sighed. “But old Egidius is long gone, and all the other victims are naturally much too young. After all, all this happened nearly forty years ago.”
“What about the scribe, this Johannes Schramb?” Jakob asked. “Is he still living?”
Jeremias shook his head. “Surely not. Even then he was no youngster. I think he died more than ten years ago.”
“But his daughter . . . she passed away just recently,” Jakob replied, taking another deep drag on his pipe. He glared at old Jeremias. “Do you think there’s a way we can find out whether the two other young women had a father or grandfather who served on this commission? If they got married, then their surnames would be different, of course.”
Jeremias thought for a while. “It wouldn’t be especially difficult to find out their maiden names. Perhaps Berthold Lamprecht can help us with that. As the tavern keeper of the Wild Man, there isn’t a soul in Bamberg he doesn’t know.” He shrugged. “But whether their fathers or grandfathers were members of the commission then—”
Georg couldn’t contain himself any longer and jumped up urgently from his stool. “Let’s see if I’ve got this right. Do you seriously believe there’s someone out there deliberately targeting these former commission members? And once he disposes of them, he strings up their spouses, children, and grandchildren?”
“Good Lord, how often do I have to tell you to keep your mouth shut when adults are talking,” Jakob scolded, looking at Georg so angrily that the young man meekly returned to his seat.
“He’s fifteen, almost sixteen, Father,” Magdalena objected. “Georg is no longer a little boy. Besides, we have a lot to thank him for.” She gave her younger brother a sarcastic look. “Even though he’s unfortunately worthless as a babysitter.”
Jakob grunted his disapproval, then offered an explanation.
“I told you before, there are two possibilities. This alleged werewolf could be a madman who kills people indiscriminately. Or he could have a plan. If he has a plan, and I’m beginning to believe he does, then there’s some connection between all these murders. It can’t be an accident that among the victims there are two former inquisitors, the widow of another, and the daughter of one of the scribes. The other murders no doubt have some connection to it all, as well, and that’s what we have to find out.” He turned back to Jeremias. “So what can you tell me about the names of the commission members?”
Jeremias sighed wearily. “I already told you. There was not just one commission, but many—a new group was assembled for each trial. I can remember Schwarzkontz and the two old councilors, as well as the scribe Schramb, but as far as the others are concerned”—he hesitated—“for the life of me, I can’t remember who they were. Those were uncivil, barbaric times, and moreover, it all happened ages ago. You’d have to look at the old records to find out what lists all those inquisitors were on.”
“But why should we do that?” Georg asked, confused.
“How stupid are you, you numbskull?” Jakob snapped, pounding the table so hard that the chess pieces flew off in all directions. “If we can find the one trial where all of these inquisitors were present, we can perhaps prevent another calamity.”
“And you say that because—” Magdalena started to say.
“Because I sense there are a few more people on this list,” Jakob interrupted. He pointed at his nose. “And my nose here tells me our unknown suspect won’t stop killing until he’s gotten to the end of the list.”
“You can just forget about that,” replied Jeremias, shaking his head. “Those lists are ancient. They’re probably rotting away somewhere in the bishop’s archive. You can’t just walk in there and start looking around. The place is crawling with guards. Besides, you don’t know your way around there. You might just as well go looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“We got into the dungeon in the Old Residence, and we’ll make it into the bishop’s archive, as well,” Jakob replied firmly. “There’s always a way.” He pointed to Jeremias. “And you will help us in the search for the right document. I know that hangmen, too, often search the documentation about the questioning of condemned men. That’s what we do in Schongau.”
“And if I refuse?” Jeremias asked.
“If you refuse, we’ll turn you over to Captain Martin Lebrecht first thing tomorrow as a confessed murderer who is probably also the werewolf they’re looking for.”
Jeremias groaned and raised his hands in defeat. “Very well, it’s possible I could find the list in the archives—but as I said, we’ll never get in there. Never. You can forget about it.” Then he hesitated. “Unless . . .” A grin spread across his face.
“Unless what?” Magdalena and Georg asked at the same time.
“Well, perhaps there is a chance,” Jeremias replied, enjoying the moment as the others looked at him expectantly. “It’s really a dreadful thing, and if we decide to do it, we’ll need nerves of steel.”
The hangman nodded. “Don’t think twice about that. My nerves are as strong as a seaman’s rope.”
For a long time, Barbara and Markus Salter remained silent, cowering on the floor of the little room that smelled of mold and decay. The crates and chests all around them were covered in dust and had evidently been standing there for years. On the opposite side of the room, next to the archway that led down into the sandy tunnel, there was another door, which appeared much newer.
“Where are we?” Barbara asked as she felt her strength coming back and the trembling gradually subsiding.
“Probably in the Carmelite monastery on Kaulberg Hill,” Markus replied. He indicated the brown monk’s robe he was wearing. “I found this here in one of the trunks, along with a few old crucifixes and altar cloths. Most of the things have seen better days.”
Now Barbara noticed that there was a dark spot on the side of Salter’s robe, and she assumed it was blood. Evidently his injuries were worse than she’d thought.
“What happened?” she whispered. “The last time I saw you, you were outside in the courtyard just after everyone had fled the room.”
“They chased us like animals,” Salter responded in a monotone. “They caught fat Matthäus first, out in the courtyard. Karl and skinny Josef made it out to the street. I tried to help them, but it was hopeless.” Salter sniffled as he wiped the blood from his nose. “Finally, I ran up Kaulberg Hill and crawled into this wretched hole.” He pointed to the low archway and the rubble-strewn staircase. “I looked around a bit. The entire hill is like a piece of cheese—the Bambergers are digging up the sand here for all their new building sites. You can be glad that none of the tunnels have collapsed, or the monastery overhead.”
Apprehensively, Barbara looked up at the damp ceiling and the water dripping down from it.
“Did you say,” she asked, “we’re probably the only actors to have escaped this madness? What happened to Sir Malcolm? Did he perhaps also—”
Markus Salter sneered. “Don’t worry about him. He always saves his own skin. Malcolm has played so many roles in his life that he can easily play the part of the curious onlooker, a member of the angry mob, or God knows what—anything that crosses his mind. You don’t have to worry about him.”
“I’m much more worried about you,” Barbara said, pointing hesitantly at the dark spot on his robe. “It seems you had a hard time saving yourself.”
Salter waved dismissively. “Oh . . . that will get better. I’m glad I was able to at least save my skin. You should put on a monk’s robe like this, too. It scratches like hell, but it’s warm. It looks like we’ll be spending a while in here. No doubt the devil is at work down in the city.”
“Or, rather, the werewolf,” Barbara replied
bitterly. Anxiously, she glanced at Salter. “Did the suffragan bishop really turn into a werewolf during our performance? He looked so horrible.” She shuddered. “How can something like that happen? Perhaps these incidents do have something to do with the actors. First the pelts in Matheo’s room, and now this.”
“Well, I’m reluctant to say so, but I’ve had my suspicions for a long time,” Salter replied. “I had to wonder when I first saw the wolf pelts in Matheo’s luggage, but now . . .”
“What are you saying?” Barbara asked.
He hesitated but finally replied. “I’ve got to say, it’s not the first time we’ve encountered a werewolf.” He wrapped his arms tightly around his chest. He clearly was freezing, despite the heavy robe he was wearing.
“There were a few strange incidents after our performances in Cologne and Frankfurt as well,” he continued gloomily. “Peaceful citizens suddenly attacked others in the street for no apparent reason, a vagrant is said to have stolen an infant from its cradle and eaten it, a few young girls disappeared without a trace . . . I’ve had my suspicions for a long time, and then three days ago in the wagon I caught him red-handed.”
“By all the saints, who?” Barbara whispered.
“Sir Malcolm.” Markus took a deep breath. “I just wanted to ask him which costumes still needed mending. There was a strange, sulfurous odor in the wagon, and when I addressed him, he quickly stashed something away in a chest. He seemed very annoyed. Later, I went back to the wagon and looked inside the chest . . .” Salter hesitated and then, after a while, continued in a strained voice. “Inside there was a silver pentagram, a candelabra with black candles, and a skull so small, it could only have been that of a child.”
“My God,” Barbara gasped. “Is Sir Malcolm a warlock?”
Markus Salter shrugged. “Later, he even showed us the candelabra and the pentagram, saying he needed them for our performance of Faustus. The whole time he was looking at me so strangely, and he didn’t say anything about the child’s skull. Naturally, I can’t prove anything—all I can say is that whenever Sir Malcolm and our troupe stayed very long in a city, strange things started happening.”
“How long have you known him?” Barbara asked anxiously.
“About ten years. Back then I was a student in Cologne, and I was broke. I was as fascinated by the theater as you are now.” Markus smiled, then he winced and pressed his hand against the wound in his side.
Barbara pointed to the bloodstained robe. “Can I have a look? I know a bit about treating wounds.”
Salter looked at her suspiciously. “Barbara, you are no doubt an excellent actress, but at your age, I can’t see you in the role of a doctor.”
“Believe me, I know a thing or two about it,” she answered a bit snippily. “My father, as you know, is an executioner, and we Kuisls know a lot about healing.”
Salter winced again, and this time she wasn’t sure it was because of the pain. “I’d completely forgotten that,” he said. “Your uncle is the Bamberg hangman, isn’t he?”
Barbara nodded sadly. “Almost our whole family is engaged in this horrible profession, and has been for ages—Father, my uncle, my brother-in-law, my grandfather. We’re scattered all over the Reich and all related to each other in some way. That’s why executioners all greet each other as cousins.” She sighed. “My great-grandfather was the famous—or infamous—Jörg Abriel, who tortured and killed hundreds of people. Perhaps you’ve heard of him.”
Salter shook his head, looking a little paler now. “No, my dear, I . . .” He seemed to be struggling to say something, but once again he was overcome with pain.
“Don’t be that way. Show me your wound,” Barbara said.
With a determined face, she ripped the robe off. There was blood on the side of Salter’s chest, and in one place it was still seeping out. Carefully, she examined the area.
“Someone obviously stabbed you there with a dagger,” she said in a professional tone of voice. “Thank God the wound isn’t very deep, but it must be cleaned at once, or it will become infected.”
She ripped off a piece of her wet dress, then looked around the room. In one corner she found a small keg of communion wine.
“I don’t know if the wine here still tastes very good,” she said, opening the stopper and soaking the cloth in it, “but for cleaning out a wound it’s a lot better than the filthy water.”
Carefully she wiped away the blood, and after the wound was clean, she made a temporary bandage from a long piece of cloth ripped from one of the robes. Markus Salter remained quiet except for a few soft moans.
“I can’t do anything more for you now,” Barbara said finally, “but perhaps tomorrow we can go together to my uncle’s house.”
Salter laughed bitterly, but his laughter soon gave way to a fit of coughing. “Are you out of your mind?” he gasped. “If those idiots out there just stop to think for a moment, they’ll figure out you’re the niece of the Bamberg executioner. They’ve been looking for you for a long time. Does anyone here in town know you? Did anyone see you before you appeared on the stage with us?”
“I don’t know,” she replied hesitantly, all of a sudden feeling exposed and helpless. “I visited the marketplace a few times with my sister, and then there’s Katharina, Uncle Bartholomäus’s fiancée, of course, and old Jeremias, the custodian of the Wild Man—”
“No doubt the tavern was ransacked a long time ago,” Salter interrupted. “After all, that’s where the actors were lodged. And they surely asked Jeremias about us.” He looked at her attentively. “Do you really think this Jeremias wouldn’t betray you to the guards to save his life?”
“Oh, God, I don’t know,” Barbara wailed. “Probably not, but that means that I can never return to my family.”
“At least as long as they live in the house of the Bamberg executioner.” Salter nodded with determination. “After everything that happened tonight, neither of us can show our faces in Bamberg again. It’s likely that all the guards in the city are out looking for us actors.”
“But where can we go, then?” Barbara wailed. “I want to go back to my family!”
Markus patted her on the head. “I’ll think of something, Barbara, I promise. But first, we should get some sleep. You’ll see, tomorrow things will look much better.”
Barbara didn’t believe him, but nevertheless she put on one of the warm robes and laid her head in his lap as Markus hummed a little tune for her. It sounded sad and dreary, but it calmed her down, and soon thereafter she fell asleep from exhaustion and grief.
14
THE HOUSE OF THE BAMBERG EXECUTIONER, MORNING, NOVEMBER 2, 1668 AD
THAT MORNING, AMONG THE KUISLS assembled in Bartholomäus’s home, there was a strange mood of despondency mixed with anticipation. Until then, they had scarcely had a chance to talk with one another. The injured Matheo was still upstairs in the bedroom, catching up on his sleep as he recovered. The wine mixed with herbs that Jakob had given him the night before finally provided him relief from his bad dreams—a good fortune not shared by most of the others present. All of them were pale, and the dark rings under their eyes bore witness to the strenuous day and night preceding.
Now they were all seated around the scratched table in the warm main room, while the boys were outside playing hide-and-seek along the city moat with the neighborhood children. The boys’ new friends came from a family of dishonorable gravediggers, so the parents had no objection to them playing with the Kuisl boys.
Magdalena rubbed her tired eyes. She had fervently hoped her sister would come back to them after that chaotic night, but Barbara hadn’t returned—neither to Jeremias nor to the executioner’s house.
Simon and his friend Samuel had taken the deranged suffragan bishop back to his room for observation. By now he had quieted down and lay there motionlessly. Bartholomäus later found an exhausted Simon in the area near St. Martin’s Church, and they’d both finally returned long after midnight. Magdalena had been reli
eved to learn that Simon hadn’t been bitten by a werewolf, but what he told her about the horrible transformation of Sebastian Harsee had deeply shocked her. Was it possible a person could change into a beast in the presence of all those witnesses?
“Last night, the whole city went mad,” said Bartholomäus, who until then had been quietly eating his porridge out of the communal bowl. He had just returned from a brief check of the city dungeon. “But at least the city guard has gotten everything under control,” he continued. “They gave those young thugs a good spanking and sent them all back to their mothers. But people are also saying that at least two of the actors were killed last night and then strung up like dead cats for the general amusement of the crowd. Now, no one will admit to doing it, and Captain Lebrecht evidently has better things to do than look for the perpetrators.” He sighed deeply. “The rest of the actors have been thrown in the dungeon, and no doubt I’ll have to deal with them soon.”
“Is Barbara among them?” Magdalena asked, her heart pounding. Simon had already told her and the others that Barbara had been in the performance the previous day. Jakob had groaned and cracked the knuckles of his huge fists, but otherwise he seemed astonishingly calm.
Bartholomäus shook his head. “Barbara has disappeared without a trace, as has a certain Markus Salter, by the way, the hack who writes the plays—or copies them, for all I know.” Then he turned serious. “Things look really bad for the director himself, this Malcolm. They found a few magic items in a secret compartment of his chest—a pentagram, black candles, and a human skull. Now they’re saying he used them to conjure up the werewolf.”
“Sir Malcolm probably used the objects in one of his plays,” Magdalena speculated, “perhaps for Doctor Faustus, which involves sorcery, after all.”
“And then he locks them in a secret compartment?” Bartholomäus frowned. “I’m not so sure about that. The council, in any case, doesn’t buy a word of it,” he said, then turned to Simon. “You attended the performance yesterday, didn’t you? Was Malcolm behaving strangely?”