“How is that possible?” Faistenmantel finally asked. “This pompous Schongau secretary comes to our valley with soldiers and an executioner, and they just let the prisoner get away?”
“That’s exactly the way I feel,” the judge replied. “It’s a disgrace—Eyrl would surely have confessed today. That’s what you get when a Schongauer meddles in our laws. Well, there’s one thing good about it. Eyrl’s escape will certainly convince the elector that Master Lechner is not capable of taking jurisdiction over our beautiful Ammergau.”
“Xaver Eyrl is no doubt still out there somewhere,” said Faistenmantel gloomily. “Who knows which of us he will crucify or slit open next? In any case, we should send out all available men to hunt him down. Eyrl won’t escape us.”
Simon frowned. Until just recently, Faistenmantel was firmly convinced that one of the Göbls had killed his son. Evidently the council chairman was quick to change his opinion—as long as the play was performed soon.
“Don’t be so sure that Red Xaver will run right into our net,” said Würmseer, turning to Faistenmantel. “The fellow has a lot of cronies among the laborers and tramps in the valley. If he takes cover in one of their miserable hovels, it will be difficult.” Then he turned to the judge. “Were you able to speak to the abbot about finally doing something about this riffraff?”
Rieger nodded. “His Excellency is thinking of expelling at least some of the laborers by force, if necessary.”
“If he doesn’t, we’ll have to take the matter into our own hands,” Würmseer growled. “For ages we’ve lived here as a proud people. We drove off the Romans, and after them so many other intruders. We’ve asserted our rights against every feudal lord, and we won’t let ourselves be squeezed out by these homeless vagabonds. The valley is full.”
Johannes Rieger leaned forward and shook his finger. “Even though I can understand your anger, Würmseer, beware of taking the law into your own hands. The ruler in this district is still the abbot of Ettal.”
“Ha! Or the Schongau secretary,” Faistenmantel sneered. “At present in Oberammergau we’re not quite sure.”
A bit later, Simon and Georg Kaiser were standing alone outside the tavern. The meeting had ended without any further action, and all the men had returned to their work. At least they had agreed on a few extra rehearsals for the Passion play.
“I would have been quite happy if we’d just canceled the play,” Kaiser said with a sigh. “Würmseer is right—I have quite a lot going on at present, and in addition there’s this dreadful cough.”
As if to prove it, he was shaken by a new fit of coughing, and Simon looked at him with concern.
“Shall I give you a few herbs?” he asked. “Thyme, masterwort, or—”
Kaiser waved him off. “Don’t bother, I’m going to be all right.” He laughed. “Tell me instead the horror stories you heard in the village yesterday. You look so glum—like you’ve had a bad dream.”
“For good reason,” Simon replied. “It’s not every day that you come across children’s skeletons.”
“Children’s skeletons?” Kaiser quickly turned serious again. “What do you mean?”
Simon told him of his horrible discovery on the Döttenbichl, the circles of stones, and the black rider. After the earthquake the day before, things had happened so fast he was only just now getting around to telling Kaiser about it.
“That sounds very strange indeed,” Kaiser said finally, apparently trying to figure out what it all meant. After a long silence he continued. “Martin’s mother was right, by the way. Markus and Marie disappeared several years ago, though that was before I came to Oberammergau.” He lowered his voice. “There are people who say their disappearance had something to do with the hatred of the foreign workers. Both children came from poor families. Perhaps they were caught stealing and quickly put away.”
“You mean they were sacrificed, the way the pagans used to do?” Simon gasped.
“Well, these stone circles certainly are not Christian, and you’ve just heard yourself from the mouth of Franz Würmseer how great the hatred is for foreigners and immigrants.”
Simon scratched his head. “It’s possible the bones are older and have nothing to do with the two children. It’s hard to say—I only got a brief look at them. In any case they deserve a Christian burial.”
“I’d wait a while before doing that,” Kaiser warned him. “People are so riled up now I could imagine Würmseer trying to blame the laborers for those murders.”
“You’re probably right. There’s no problem in waiting a few days.” Simon shuddered. “Who would do something like that . . . kill little children? Do you really think they were sacrificed?”
Kaiser shrugged. “I have no idea. Perhaps you’ve infected me with your horror stories. I no longer know what to believe . . .” He paused and looked disturbed.
“What’s the matter?” Simon asked.
“Well, I’m thinking about the sword that was supposedly used to kill Gabler. It may be a coincidence, but I was looking around last night in the chest that holds the props for the play. There’s the scene on the Mount of Olives in which Peter cuts an ear off the servant of the high priest. We use a real sword for that scene in the play—it looks better than those painted swords made of scrap wood. It’s rather old and rusty, but for our purposes it’s good enough.” He cleared his throat. “That sword . . . well, it’s missing.”
Simon stared in disbelief. “Do you think someone took the sword from the chest of props and killed Gabler with it?”
Kaiser simply shrugged. “During rehearsals all the players have access to the chest. Anyone could have taken it.”
“But . . . why didn’t you mention that in the meeting?”
“Don’t you understand?” Kaiser lowered his voice. “Because it could have been any of them. Every member of the council has a part in the play, and any of them could be the murderer—Faistenmantel, Sailer, old Sprenger, Franz Würmseer . . .”
“Everyone except Xaver Eyrl,” Simon mused, “the one they all suspect.”
Kaiser nodded. “I thought it best the murderer didn’t know about my discovery, at least not for now. I’m only the village schoolteacher.” He smiled mischievously. “In any case, I’ve got to go over to the school. My assistant, Hannes, has been teaching the children while I was at the meeting. They don’t especially like him, but at least he maintains discipline.” He patted Simon on the shoulder and left.
Simon remained standing there a long time, thinking about what Kaiser had just said.
Any of them could be the murderer . . .
Perhaps there was some connection between these ghastly discoveries and the recent murders.
Still deep in thought, Simon finally started back to the bathhouse. Once again he wondered if it had been a good idea to send Peter to the Oberammergau school.
Magdalena opened her eyes and was blind.
She was seized with panic, tried to move, but couldn’t do that either. Was she dead? Was this what purgatory looked like? If so, then purgatory had a strong odor of wine. Carefully she stretched out her fingers and felt damp wood. Her back ached because she was squeezed into some kind of container.
A barrel. They shoved me inside one of the wine barrels!
Her relief at knowing she wasn’t dead yet gave way to anxiety about what lay ahead. Slowly, her memory returned. In Soyen, she’d followed Lukas Baumgartner into an old stable with empty barrels standing all around. There was someone else, evidently a man from Tyrol, inside, and then suddenly a third man came up from behind her and struck her down. Was he the Master that the two others had been speaking of? The Tyrolean man had insisted they kill her, so the fact that she was still alive was promising.
Her head was pounding as hard as if she had drunk all the wine in the barrel. The more she thought about it, the worse the pain became. In addition, she had no idea how long she’d been there—for an hour, or many?
Magdalena tried to get control of her br
eathing and calculate her chance of survival. Clearly she was on to something, or someone, and was going to be eliminated for knowing too much, but why hadn’t they killed her already?
Because they don’t want to get their hands dirty, she realized. They’re just going to let me suffocate in here and rot away.
Magdalena shouted so loud her ears rang, but she couldn’t hear anything outside. Again she groped around the interior of the barrel to see if she could find a crack in the staves or a thin spot she could break through, but all she could feel was wet wood and some sort of sand that stuck to her fingers.
Desperate, she started rocking violently back and forth and actually made the barrel totter and, after a while, tip over. It fell with a loud crash. She felt the impact all through her body, but the barrel didn’t break as she had hoped. Now she tumbled around inside several times as the barrel began to roll, then it crashed against some obstacle, where it came to rest.
“Hey! What’s going on there?”
She could hear a muffled voice, then a door squeaking as it was opened. Her heart was pounding. Was it a possible rescuer? Was she imprisoned in the cellar of the tavern, and had the innkeeper come to see what was going on?
“Help!” she cried at the top of her voice. “Help! I’m inside here, in the barrel. Please . . .”
She heard a malicious laugh, which made her shudder, as she knew now it was no rescuer but one of her tormenters.
“Well, just look at that,” said the man with the Tyrolean accent. “The woman actually knocked over the barrel. I thought she’d suffocate and spare us the rest, but now we must actually do something. Lukas!”
Someone sighed deeply as footsteps approached, and Magdalena heard someone speaking, softly and in an anxious tone—it was the voice of young Lukas Baumgartner.
“This isn’t what we meant to do. We only said we’ll keep her here and—”
“If you’d paid better attention yesterday to who was following you, we wouldn’t be in this mess, young fellow,” the Tyrolean interrupted. “You heard what the Master from Oberammergau said. She saw us, and so we have to get rid of her. The barrel is the best solution.”
Magdalena froze. The Tyrolean had just said she’d followed Lukas yesterday. Had she really been unconscious all night? Perhaps the men had drugged her to keep her silent for a bit longer.
“I know the woman,” Lukas responded hesitantly. “She’s the wife of the Schongau medicus, the daughter of the executioner.”
“Ha! Then hardly anyone except her father will miss her.” The Tyrolean gave a dirty, throaty laugh. “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,” he continued. “We’ll put this barrel in the wagon along with the others being shipped to Schongau, and down by the Echelsbach Gorge we will unfortunately lose it. It will fall into the Ammer and our beautiful hangman’s daughter will then be just another unfortunate suicide, a poor, lovesick girl who hanged herself and was tossed into the river. That happens all the time, and no one will be suspicious.”
Magdalena was shocked. In fact, people who killed themselves were often stuffed in a barrel that was nailed shut and thrown into the river. Their corpses brought bad luck, and nobody wanted to bury them. Magdalena once saw such a mangled cadaver that had been washed down the river from Füssen and was washed ashore in Schongau, where the barrel split apart. For many long nights she had not been able to get the sight out of her mind.
“Lukas!” she shouted anxiously. “You can’t let that happen. I helped birth your children, I—”
“Hold your tongue, woman,” the Tyrolean snarled, “or I’ll cut your head off right now.”
Magdalena fell silent, and for a while all she could hear was Lukas sobbing softly.
“Hmm, she’s alive and kicking,” the Tyrolean said. “That could be a problem when we pass through Soyen. Damn, why couldn’t she have just stayed unconscious and suffocated? Now we’ll have to get our hands dirty, after all. I really don’t want to open this damned wine barrel again and . . .” He hesitated. Finally he let out a loud laugh. “Ha! I’ve got it. I know what we’ll do. What a beautiful way to die. Count yourself lucky, girl.” Magdalena heard a rumbling, then someone groaning with exertion, then she felt the barrel being set upright again. Something popped and finally a tiny ray of light shone in from the top of the barrel.
The Tyrolean had opened the bunghole.
Shortly after that, a cold liquid poured in and down over her head. She almost passed out from the strong odor of alcohol.
“Drink up, girl, drink up!” the Tyrolean bellowed. “Swim in the wine until it comes out your ears.”
Magdalena pounded her fists against the staves of the barrel as it slowly filled with wine.
When Simon returned to the bathhouse, Jakob was already sitting at the table and smoking his long-stemmed pipe. The hangman had spent the night in the old bathhouse owner’s room and had been waiting impatiently for the arrival of his son-in-law. In contrast to Simon, Jakob evidently had no problem sleeping in the bed of someone recently deceased. He appeared well rested and ready to get to work.
“It’s about time,” he grumbled. “I thought you’d never stop talking back at the tavern. What do you do all day? Drink?”
“Eh, there were some things to discuss with the council because of the earthquake, and also the play,” Simon responded, looking a bit surprised. He hadn’t expected to find Jakob here. “Shouldn’t you be with Lechner about now?” he added.
Kuisl waved him off and grinned. “We had a very quick meeting. Lechner is about to have a fit because of Eyrl. His only possible suspect has gotten away, and Lechner suspects the abbot and the judge let Eyrl out just to get back at him.”
“Hmm. This suspicion is not completely unjustified, is it?” replied Simon. “After all, the abbot is doing everything he can to keep Lechner from getting jurisdiction over the valley.”
“You may be right, but Eyrl isn’t our murderer anyway.”
Simon smiled. “Why are you so sure? Yesterday you seemed to be singing a different tune.”
“Forget about what I said yesterday.” His pipe had almost gone out and he drew on it morosely. Nevertheless, Simon thought he seemed extremely alert.
“Xaver Eyrl did not murder Dominik Faistenmantel,” Jakob continued. “They were good friends. Although it’s possible he killed Urban Gabler.”
“I don’t think that is the case,” Simon said. “There’s some new evidence that Gabler’s killer was one of the actors in the play.” He told his father-in-law about the missing sword from the chest holding the props.
“Why didn’t those idiots use a wooden sword for their play? That wouldn’t have made such a mess!” Jakob grinned. “But your news basically confirms my suspicions. The murderer comes from Oberammergau, he’s one of the actors, and perhaps even a member of the council. Nevertheless, Lechner sent his soldiers off into the forests and mountains to find Eyrl. That will take a long time, and these pimply-faced city guards will just get lost in the woods.”
“Faistenmantel also intends to send citizens out. That will be a wild chase.” Simon sighed and sat down at the table next to Jakob. “I really have no idea what to believe anymore in this valley. My head is spinning with all the weird stories.”
“Then let’s bring you back down to earth. While you were drinking in the tavern, I’ve been thinking.” Jakob reached into the soiled canvas pouch on the bench and took out a few simple wooden figurines. They all represented shepherds.
“Where did you get those?” Simon asked in surprise.
“Bought them from a traveling salesman for a few kreuzers,” Jakob answered curtly. “They are poorly made and partly broken, but they’ll help us get our thoughts together.”
Simon watched as the hangman cleared the table and put all the figurines in a corner. In contrast to their last meeting, his father-in-law now seemed quite focused.
Simon couldn’t help wondering if this had anything to do with Jakob’s epiphany the night before. He’s changed, so
mehow, he thought. But whatever it was, now he’s back to his old self, thank God.
“That’s Xaver Eyrl,” Jakob said, pushing a worn figurine to the other side of the table. “An outcast, the black sheep in town. Old Faistenmantel ruined Eyrl’s family. Xaver had to leave Oberammergau, comes back, and distributes little carved figurines to some people in town—but not just any figurine, only the Pharisees.”
“We know that already,” Simon interjected.
“Shut your mouth, sonny boy, I’m not finished yet.” He looked at Simon impatiently. “You ought to read your Bible more, then you’d know that Pharisees have long been considered the embodiment of hypocrisy. The Hebrew scribes made sure the laws were enforced but they didn’t live by them themselves.” The hangman shook his finger like a schoolmaster. “That’s why the Bible tells us that if your justice is not far greater than that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will not enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”
Simon couldn’t suppress a smile. “I had no idea you were so well versed in the Bible, hangman.”
This time Jakob just gave him a stern look and continued. “Eyrl is distributing these figurines to people because he wants to tell them something. He’s saying they are goddamned hypocrites. And that explains also the inscription on the bottom of the statuette—ET TU. You, too, are a hypocrite, he’s saying.”
“But why are they hypocrites?” Simon asked. He looked over at the figurine of the Pharisee with its toga and headdress that the old bathhouse operator, Landes, had received after his death. It still stood on a shelf alongside the mummy powder and pickled salamanders.
“Because they’ve all done something wrong. Urban Gabler, old Landes, Faistenmantel . . .” Jakob placed three more carved figurines next to the one of Xaver Eyrl. “They all received a Pharisee from Xaver.”
“But young Dominik Faistenmantel—”
“Exactly, clever lad.” Jakob interrupted Simon and nodded impatiently. “He evidently did not receive one, or at least if he did, we haven’t found it yet. If I execute someone so cruelly, on the cross, that means I want to show the world something. Believe me, if Eyrl had murdered Dominik Faistenmantel, he would have placed the figurine right alongside the cross. There was none there, and that’s why I don’t think Red Xaver is our murderer.”