The Werewolf of Bamberg

  “My God,” Simon gasped. “Do you think Markus Salter is putting on his own play here in Bamberg—and with regular people instead of actors?”

  Magdalena nodded excitedly. “The troupe visited Bamberg six months ago, and since then, according to Malcolm, Salter has been almost unapproachable, always working like a madman on this piece. It was Salter who insisted on taking up winter quarters here in Bamberg, and he finally convinced Malcolm. He even took a side trip here earlier in order to prepare everything for the troupe.”

  “If Salter really did visit Bamberg before,” Bartholomäus said, “it’s possible he was responsible for the earlier murders. Until now we always thought the actors couldn’t have been involved, since they only came to the city later.”

  “And that’s not all,” Magdalena continued. “It seems that Salter originally came from Bamberg—at least that’s what he once told Malcolm. In talking to me, however, he once said that as a child he’d been involved in the witches’ trials in Nuremberg—”

  “Well, if our assumptions are correct, the man was involved in a very special way with the witch trials here,” Simon interrupted. He showed Magdalena the document on the lectern. “It appears that Markus Salter is none other than Wolf Christoph Haan, the grandson of George Haan, the chancellor in Bamberg at the time. All the members of the family, except for Wolf Christoph, were executed during the trials. What we see here is devilish vengeance, planned down to the smallest detail.”

  Magdalena nodded. “It must have taken quite a lot of energy,” she mused. “Malcolm said that in recent days Markus Salter has been tired and distracted, and he often missed rehearsals.”

  “If he really abducted and tortured all these people, he was a pretty busy fellow,” Jeremias chimed in with a giggle. The old man had been drinking mulled wine all the while, and evidently he’d finished the entire pitcher. “Just torturing with tongs takes a lot of time,” he said with a heavy tongue. “They have to be heated just so much, then you start with the arms and then sloooowly go down—”

  “Thank you, that’s enough,” Simon interrupted. He looked Jeremias up and down, disgusted, before continuing. “Salter could have planted the wolf pelts on Matheo. Also, his age appears about right. According to the documents, Wolf Christoph Haan was four years old at the time, and if I remember correctly, Salter is now a little past forty. It seems likely that Haan and Salter are one and the same person.” He frowned. “But there’s still the question how he infected the suffragan bishop with rabies.”

  Magdalena looked at Simon in surprise. “What rabies?”

  “While you were on your little jaunt through Bamberg with your uncle, my friend Samuel and I weren’t completely idle,” he replied. “His Excellency the elector and Würzburg Bishop Schönborn, with whom we enjoyed a long, very friendly conversation, was quite impressed with our observations.”

  “Stop this high-and-mighty rubbish and get to the point,” Jakob growled.

  “Ah, indeed.” Simon told his wife and Bartholomäus the horrifying news of the suffragan bishop’s illness and what he suspected.

  “We are presently trying to figure out what animal could have infected Harsee,” he concluded. “It certainly wasn’t a dog, as the bite is too small, but perhaps it was a rat or a bat. We think it had to be a small wild animal—”

  “My God. Juliet!” Magdalena exclaimed. “Of course, it was Juliet, or Romeo.”

  Simon looked at her, puzzled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Magdalena, but let me tell you there was no one—”

  “Not people, but ferrets.” She laughed and turned to the others, who stared at her in confusion. “Markus Salter has two tame ferrets—Romeo and Juliet. Some time ago, Romeo ran away—at least, that’s what he told me. But suppose he infected Romeo or Juliet with this rabies and somehow smuggled them into Harsee’s room. Would that be possible?”

  Simon let out a loud groan. “A ferret, damn it! It actually could have been a ferret. Probably Salter gave it an animal to eat that had just died of rabies. There is no guard at the suffragan bishop’s house, and it would certainly be possible for someone to slip in at night and put a sick ferret in the bedroom. Later, the animal could disappear through a crack in the wall or a mouse hole. What a devilish plan.”

  “And now Salter has probably got his hands on Hieronymus,” Jakob grumbled. “He’s the last one on the committee, so if we don’t act fast, then—”

  “Father . . . ,” Georg interrupted in a soft voice.

  “Damn it,” Jakob snapped. “Haven’t I told you a thousand times not to interrupt your father? It seems Bartholomäus hasn’t taught you any manners in the last two years.”

  “How can you ever expect the boy to learn if you talk to him like that?” Bartholomäus shot back. “You treat him just the way you did me. But I’m not going to let you get away—”

  “Quiet! Both of you!”

  Georg had pounded the lectern so hard that the documents nearly fell to the floor. Then he turned angrily to his astonished father and the equally astonished Bartholomäus.

  “I’m sick and tired of your endless squabbling,” he scolded. “If you don’t stop it, I won’t stay in Bamberg nor go back to Schongau, either, but I’ll look for a job as an executioner at the other end of the Reich so I don’t have to put up with your quarreling anymore. And now just listen to me for a change.”

  He pointed at the document and took a deep breath.

  “You say that Hieronymus is the last one to be involved in this, but that’s not correct. There’s still someone missing here.”

  “And who do you think that might be?” asked Simon, as astonished as the others over the outburst.

  Georg shrugged as if the answer was obvious. “Well, the executioner, of course. He was present at all the questionings, as one of the head people, so to speak.”

  “You’re right,” Jeremias concurred, nodding his alcohol-befuddled head. “But this Salter fellow doesn’t know me, and even if he did read about me in the old documents, he’ll only find reference to Michael Binder, and that person has been gone a long time.”

  Georg nodded. “No, he doesn’t know you, he only knows the current Bamberg executioner, Bartholomäus—and naturally he assumes that Bartholomäus is related to the former hangman. And why shouldn’t he? After all, the executioner’s job is almost always passed down from father to son.”

  “If this pathetic little werewolf tries to kidnap me,” Bartholomäus growled, “I’ll show him who I am.”

  “He doesn’t have to kidnap you, Uncle Bartl,” Georg said, “because he probably already has someone else from the family in his hands.” Mournfully, he turned to the others. “The werewolf has captured Barbara because she’s Bartholomäus’s niece, and we’ll only be able to save her if we can finally stop this endless quarreling.” One by one, he turned to look at each of them. “Please promise me that! We Kuisls have to stick together now, or my sister is lost.”

  A sound in Adelheid Rinswieser’s cell startled her from her macabre dreams and brought her back to reality.

  She’d spent the last few hours half-asleep, with the constant fear that the strange growling monster might return. But everything around her had turned silent—as silent as the grave. Even the birds had stopped chirping, and all she could hear was the distant, constant sound of falling rain. The sound of the water made her thirst almost unbearable, but just the same she’d been able to doze off briefly. But now she heard something coming from the floor above her, at first a clicking . . .

  Then a bolt being pushed aside . . .

  A squeaking . . .

  And then the door opening. He was coming back.

  Adelheid didn’t know whether to laugh or scream in horror. She’d become convinced the man would just let her rot away down here. Too much time had passed since his last visit. But now he was back, and that could only mean it was her turn now. Or perhaps it wasn’t him at all? Was it someone else, maybe someone who’d just come here to check on he
r, a random visitor?

  A savior?

  “Help!” she screamed hysterically. “I’m here! Here in the cellar! Please, whoever you are up there, come and let me out!”

  Adelheid tugged furiously at her shackles, which still didn’t yield even a fraction of an inch, struggling to turn toward the door, where she could hear slow footsteps approaching. They came down the steps, but heavier than usual—much heavier. That wasn’t the man—it had to be someone else.

  “Here! Here!” she called. “I’m in here!”

  Again she heard a grating sound as the bolt to her cell slid open. The door creaked and swung open, and Adelheid froze.

  In the doorway stood her captor.

  Over his shoulder he was carrying a black-haired girl, around fifteen years old, who was either unconscious or dead. Strangely, she was wearing a monk’s cape, and dried blood clung to her hair. The kidnapper also was wearing such a cloak, making him look like the high priest of some unfathomably evil sect.

  Adelheid’s disappointment was so great that she couldn’t utter a sound.

  “Greetings, my love,” the man panted, carefully setting his burden down on the floor. “It took a while, but I’m back. Everything is ready for your final act.”

  He stepped outside to fetch a torch, which he inserted into an iron ring on the wall, then pulled out a leather strap and bound the younger girl’s arms and legs. Though blood glistened in the girl’s hair and on her face, Adelheid could see she was still alive; her kidnapper would hardly go to the trouble of tying up a corpse like a bundle of rags.

  “Who . . . who is that?” she managed to ask.

  “Oh, this?” The man looked up and smiled. It was a gentle smile, though in a strange way also a sad one; it seemed inconsistent with his cruel actions. “This is the only one I hadn’t caught yet,” he said. “A hangman’s daughter. The second scribe is lying in the boat, and I don’t know if he’s still alive. But in any case, we’re done now.” He made a sweeping gesture. “Curtain up for the grand finale.”

  Exhausted, Adelheid regarded her captor, whom she was sure she recognized now. About half a year ago she’d visited the wedding house in Bamberg with her husband to see a performance by a wandering troupe of actors. Since then, she’d almost completely forgotten the piece—some comedy with a clown and a few other fools. Her husband had enjoyed it all immensely, but she’d found the crude jokes offensive. Only one of the actors had awakened her interest: a man with a sort of dark magnetism that didn’t seem at all appropriate in the comedy. He was very pale, with thinning hair, and there was a deep sadness in his eyes that made him strangely attractive.

  He looked just as sad now.

  “Hangman’s daughter? Scribe?” Adelheid mumbled, to give herself time to think, if nothing else. “I don’t understand . . .”

  “You don’t have to.”

  He stood up and removed his hood, then wiped his mud- and blood-stained hands on his torn vest. “Basically, you are . . .” He hesitated. “Well, something like bit players. Excuse me. I’m just going to get the scribe. Then I’ll be back for you all. Forever.”

  He bowed as if before an invisible audience, then went outside, pulling the door closed behind him.

  Adelheid closed her eyes and whimpered softly. She knew that the end was nigh. Her abductor might not be a werewolf, but he had an almost bestial glitter in his eyes. There was no way out.

  After Georg had spoken, it was silent in the study for a long time. Outside, a heavy rain was drumming down on the roof of the house. Finally, slowly and deliberately, like a giant boulder coming to life, Jakob nodded.

  “Georg, you’re right,” he said softly. “We haven’t seen the forest for the trees. This madman thinks that by seizing Barbara, he has a relative of the former Bamberg executioner in his clutches. He abducted not just Hauser, but also my little girl, and he’ll pay a heavy price for that.”

  Magdalena saw how he clenched his fists as his face became nearly expressionless. She had seen her father before in a situation like this, and she knew he was far more dangerous now than when he was ranting and making a fuss.

  That’s the way he is just before the executions, she thought. Clear and cold as rock crystal.

  He turned suddenly to Bartholomäus and Georg. “You two know your way around in this city and the surroundings. Is there someplace around here you haven’t checked yet that this Salter, or Haan, might have taken my daughter?”

  Georg seemed to be thinking. “I can’t tell you we’ve turned over every stone in Bamberg this morning. Of course he could have hidden her in some cellar . . . but I don’t think so.”

  “And what do you think, then, O wise one?”

  “I think he’s hiding her somewhere outside of town.” It seemed like Georg was doing everything he could to build up his own courage, and his words now sounded more confident and animated. “Salter could have taken his two prisoners, if they were still alive, out of town in a fishing boat. In that way he evades the checks at the city gates, and if he hides them under a blanket or something, no one will notice. That’s what I would do.”

  “He’ll probably take them to the same place he’s hiding his other prisoners, and torture and kill them there,” Magdalena interjected. Just the thought of what her sister might be facing made her sick to her stomach, but she tried to concentrate on what was important. “It would have to be a lonely place where no one would disturb him,” she continued. “On the other hand, he can’t be too far away, either. After all, Salter had to return to the rehearsals in the wedding house, especially in the last few days.”

  Jakob rubbed his huge nose, as he always did when he was concentrating, then turned to Bartholomäus.

  “Do you remember our visit to the ragpicker Answin?” he asked. “He told us that he fished out the corpse of the patrician Vasold, as well as the severed body parts, from the right branch of the Regnitz. It seems logical that they were carried there by the current from somewhere upriver where Salter had disposed of them—probably close to his hideout, since he’d have to drag the corpses from the hideout to the river.”

  Bartholomäus nodded. “You may be right, but where?” Now he began to rub his nose, as well.

  Simon started counting off on his fingers everything they’d learned up to that point. “Let’s proceed logically. We’re looking for some secluded spot close to the river and also not too far from the city. It must be a cellar, or at least a house, since the madman tortures his victims for a period of time. He needs someplace where he can confine them. He also needs a fire, tools—”

  “A secluded spot . . .” Bartholomäus stared into space, as if imagining all the possible places. “Close to the river . . . a house . . . or a cellar . . .”

  Suddenly he let out a yelp. “That’s it!”

  Magdalena stared at him intently. “What, then?”

  “The old hunting house near Wunderburg,” he quickly explained. “I was even in that area with Aloysius a few days ago, looking for Brutus. But my concern for my dog must have distracted me.” He slapped his forehead. “The hunting house would be the ideal hideout. Until a few decades ago, the bishop’s master of the hunt lived there, but then came the war, and with it the Swedes. Now the house is just a ruin, though it’s still well fortified. It’s made partially of stone and has a roomy cellar.”

  “That’s right,” Jakob chimed in, “you told me about it the first time we met in the knacker’s cabin, but I didn’t think much of it at the time. I just thought you were bragging about the new hunting lodge the bishop had assigned to you.”

  “It’s a gloomy place, and people avoid it because they think it’s haunted,” Bartholomäus continued. “But as a hideout, it’s perfect. The house is close to the river and not too far from the city.” He nodded grimly. “If we’ve guessed right, the old hunting lodge is the place we’re looking for.”

  “It’s possible Salter knows the lodge from earlier times,” Magdalena added, “or that he discovered it on his last visit
to Bamberg. Or perhaps—”

  “There’s no time for a long discussion,” her father interrupted gruffly. “My little girl is in danger, so let’s get moving.”

  “But if it isn’t this hunting lodge?” Georg added skeptically. “If—”

  “If, if, if.” Kuisl glared at his son. “Do you have a better plan? Or do you just want to sit around here and brood, while this madman is possibly even now tearing out Barbara’s fingernails?”

  “Perhaps we could at least alert the city guards,” Simon said. “After all, this man is dangerous. Don’t forget that he’s tortured and killed seven people.”

  “If that’s all that’s bothering you, I can reassure you,” Jakob replied. “I’ve dispatched and sent to their final resting places far more people than this little wolf-man.” He turned to the others. “So who wants to come along with me?”

  Timidly, Georg raised his hand, but Jakob just looked down at him. “You? I’m surprised—this is no job for a bed wetter.”

  “We’ll all come along with you,” Magdalena announced in a severe tone. “Barbara is not just your daughter, she’s also our sister.”

  Her father sneered. “Ha! That would be some state of affairs if my own daughter could tell me whom I can take along and who stays behind.”

  “Do you seriously believe I’m going to stay home with the two boys on my lap while my little sister is perhaps at this very moment being tortured?” she hissed. “You’d have to tie me down.”

  “Then who’s going to take care of the children, and Katharina?” he grumbled. “Simon, perhaps?”

  “I’m coming along, too,” Simon replied firmly. “And Georg is a brave, strong fellow. We’ll surely be able to use him.”

  “I think it would actually be good for Katharina if we let her take care of the children,” said Bartholomäus. “Then she’d have something to do to distract her from her sorrow. I’ve also asked her aunt to come over. She’s such a chatterbox that Katharina won’t even have time to worry.”