by Ellin Carsta
“Thank you, Wilhelm.”
“Well, tell us. What did you find out?” Linhardt asked.
Anderlin and Wilhelm exchanged looks. Then Anderlin began to speak. “My lord, how did you find this witness, Lord Tillich?”
Johannes was surprised. “Why are you asking me that?”
“We were there at the house adjacent to the vicar’s just a short while ago.”
“And?”
“Nobody lives there.”
“What are you saying? The witness is gone?”
Anderlin shook his head. “It seems as if this so-called witness never existed.”
“But I’ve talked with him several times. And you saw him, too.”
“We saw a man who told you something, yes. But he never lived there. We spoke with people who lived on the same street. The house that you met the man in has been unoccupied for over three years, and none of the neighbors have ever heard of a man named Dietrich Tillich.”
Johannes was so surprised that his jaw dropped. After taking a moment to collect his thoughts, he said, “The man approached me—he was the one who implied Christopeit’s involvement in Vicar Bartholomäus’s murder. He told me that Christopeit had been led away by two men. He described someone who fit Benedict’s description, and he claimed that he couldn’t remember the other ones. He also claimed to live in that house, where he’d been able to observe it.”
“Somebody went to a lot of trouble to mislead you, my lord,” Georg noted.
“The neighbors said that recently they’d noticed signs of life in the supposedly unoccupied house. But they didn’t think anything of it, concluding that perhaps some new tenants were moving in. But the man who called himself Dietrich Tillich actually never lived there. It was a deception, my lord.”
Johannes was confused. Which of his discoveries were real, and which were fabrications?
“Suspicion was steered toward Benedict,” Linhardt thought aloud. “Why? Why would someone want Benedict to be accused, and how did the witness know about him?”
“His hair,” Johannes said. “It’s light and easy to describe. I don’t believe that it’s anything personal. Someone wanted us to suspect one of the archbishop’s guards, a man from our own ranks. That’s the whole point.”
“Benedict ended up being the scapegoat because he’s the most conspicuous,” Georg surmised.
“It seems so.”
“We found something else out,” Anderlin announced. “Bernhard von Harvehorst was the vicar’s guest on the day of the murder. A woman who lives nearby is quite sure of that. She recognized von Harvehorst and even greeted him outside the vicar’s that afternoon.”
“And we’re just finding that out now?” Johannes fumed.
“No one interviewed her after the vicar’s murder. So she probably didn’t know how important her observations were,” Anderlin reported.
Johannes balled his hand into a fist. “That was my failure,” he admitted, and then looked at the guards, one after the other. “I was ‘coincidentally’ approached by this witness, and then, like a fool, I believed every word he said. Afterward, I didn’t make the effort to go house to house like you men did. That was very sloppy work on my part.”
“We would have believed the witness, too,” Wilhelm said, trying to assuage the lawyer’s guilt. “Don’t worry about it.”
Johannes was grateful for his comment, but he wasn’t going to let himself off that easy. He’d been deceived, and he’d put all his energy into investigating the wrong leads. At least now he knew better. He closed his eyes to concentrate. “An alleged witness gives me a tip about a guard,” he said, opening his eyes. “A guard who’s in the service of the archbishop. An alleged housekeeper, actually an impostor, informs me that Bernhard von Harvehorst never planned to accompany Friedrich on his journey because they were feuding, although this dispute—which you, Niclaus and Wolfker, reportedly knew about—had been settled weeks before. A young man was allegedly asked by someone who claimed to be working for the archbishop to tail me. Christopeit and Duretta probably knew something about their masters’ murders and that’s why they were killed. And now we just found out that Bartholomäus and Bernhard von Harvehorst had some kind of a meeting shortly before they were murdered. What do all these things tell us?”
“Not to mention,” Wilhelm added, “that somebody tried to accuse you of a murder you didn’t commit.”
“Correct,” Johannes confirmed. “The vicar and Bernhard von Harvehorst must have uncovered something, and von Harvehorst went to the vicar’s residence so that they could discuss what they’d found before informing the archbishop. And that’s when the perpetrator decided to take action. Now he’s doing what he can to discredit the archbishop and make it look as though everything happened on his order.” Johannes tried to put the puzzle pieces together. “What about the other servants in Bernhard von Harvehorst’s household?”
“He had a manservant, as far as I know,” Wilhelm answered.
“Where is he now?”
“The archbishop took him in to tend to the stables after von Harvehorst’s death.”
“We must speak to this man.” Johannes felt excitement pulsing through his veins.
“I doubt that von Harvehorst would trust his servant with any secrets.”
“Probably not. But if he was taking care of von Harvehorst’s horse, he would know when and where his master went on the day before his death. He’d likely know who visited von Harvehorst, and when, as well. We have to talk to him.”
“But not today.” Linhardt pointed to the crown glass window. “It’s already dark, my lord. We should all try to get a little sleep, and we’ll speak with the servant first thing in the morning.”
Johannes nodded. “I’ve already put a lot of demands on you men. Go home and get some rest. We’ll meet here tomorrow.”
The guards exchanged a look. “If it’s all the same to you, my lord, we would prefer to stay here and sleep on the floor. There’s enough space for all of us. As long as we’re not sure who’s behind all this, we’d rather not leave you, especially in your current condition.”
“In that case, at least find some pillows and blankets that you can lie down on. I’m truly thankful for what you’re doing.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Suddenly, they heard yelling and the pounding of footsteps outside the door.
“Who goes there?” Georg yelled, and the others stood. Niclaus flung the chair that had been blocking the door aside while they pulled out their swords. Niclaus ripped the door open with a jerk. Much to their surprise, there was no one outside the room—the noise had come from farther away.
“Niclaus, Wolfker, you stay here!” Anderlin ordered. The other three men rushed out.
“What happened?” one of them called out to a guard as he ran by.
“A thief! The others went after him, but this fellow is fast on his feet.”
“What did he steal?”
“We first saw him coming out of the scribe’s office. From what I could see, he had a scroll in his hand.”
Johannes heard the words through the open door. He immediately threw his blankets aside, swung his legs off the bed, and stood. Niclaus and Wolfker followed him. After a few feet he stopped, and Wolfker grabbed his elbow. “You have to lie down, my lord.”
“No.” Johannes closed his eyes then opened them again. “I’m all right.” He started moving again, stepping quickly down one hall then another, heading upstairs to the scribe’s study. The six guards who had been in his chamber followed hard on his heels. “Damn!” he shouted when he arrived at the scribe’s room and saw the mess inside. The scrolls, which were usually organized neatly on the shelves, were now in a state of utter chaos. Those that had been in the first four compartments lay unrolled on the floor, making it virtually impossible to enter without stepping on them.
“I know what the thief was looking for,” Johannes said. “I told the sheriff that the parchment granting me Friedrich’s full authority w
as kept in the scribe’s office.”
“What a cursed scoundrel!” Georg snarled.
“What’s going on here?” The scribe pushed past the guards. “Oh, no,” he said in anguish. “What is this? Who did this? It will take me days to straighten all this out.”
“We have to see whether he found what he was looking for.” Johannes stepped gingerly into the room so as not to tread on the scrolls.
“What happened here?” The vicar general entered the room, his face red with rage.
“A theft, my lord,” Linhardt said. “It looks like one of the sheriff’s henchmen seized a document, signed by the archbishop, which had bestowed full authority to the lawyer.”
“I’ll speak to the sheriff immediately. And you, Counselor, belong in bed. Come on. The scribe can do this.”
“I prefer to stay here to check things out for myself.”
“Counselor, you will do no such thing. I implore you to take my advice.”
“How were the scrolls organized?” Johannes asked, turning away from the vicar general.
The scribe shook his head in exasperation. Johannes thought he noticed tears welling up in his eyes.
“In front here were mostly the scrolls prepared for upcoming court dates. Besides that, there were recent treatises and authorizations for power of attorney.”
“Including mine?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Let’s take a look. The thief might not have found it, or he may have taken the wrong one.”
“But, Counselor!” The vicar general put his hands on his hips. “Must I fetch the doctor and tell the guards to drag you back into bed? Listen to reason!”
“I’m staying,” Johannes snarled.
“But you’re wearing only a nightshirt! Do you want to get consumption in addition to your head injury?”
Johannes ignored the clergyman’s pleas. He picked up the first document, skimmed it, and handed it to the scribe. “Here. Put this back where it belongs.”
“I can read, too, my lord,” Linhardt said. “May I help?”
“Yes. Look for a document that has my name on it.”
“This is ridiculous,” the vicar general snapped. “These are confidential documents! They are not suited for the eyes of a guard!”
“I can’t read, but if you write out your name, I can search for it in the documents,” Georg said, over the vicar general’s objections.
“A good idea,” Johannes said. “Scribe, pick up a quill and write my name on parchment.”
The scribe obeyed Johannes’s order. After studying it one after another, the guards began to check the documents for the attorney’s name.
The vicar general continued to admonish Johannes, but after a while he gave up and fell silent. The attorney and his men picked up scroll after scroll, reading them or checking them for Johannes’s name. If a guard was unsure, he handed the parchment to Johannes or the scribe. The last one to handle the document rolled it up and gave it to the scribe to put in its correct place. Soon the shelves were filled with scrolls again.
Johannes picked up another document, read it, and stopped short. He’d become dizzy, and he leaned back against the wall so as not to lose his balance.
“Scribe, what kind of document is this?”
The scribe took the parchment and read it. “That’s a quitclaim deed. A fief’s ownership has fallen back to the principality.”
“And it will be given away again?”
“Correct. Three fiefs in all will be awarded at the next court hearing.”
“But it’s a fief in the Duchy of Cleves under the rule of the House of von der Marck.”
“Just like the other ones. The claims would be introduced and granted as alleged in the document. At the court hearing, it will be officially declared and with that the lordship designated.”
“But this violates the treaties we have with the von der Marcks,” Johannes murmured. “Where are the other documents of this kind?”
The scribe pointed grumpily at the scrolls on the floor. “In there somewhere. But I think I just had one in my hand.” He searched around on the shelves, picked up two scrolls, and then pulled out the document in question. “Here, my lord. I have it right here.” He unrolled it. “See?”
Johannes scanned the parchment then looked up at the scribe. “Do you know the names of the future feudal lords?”
The scribe shook his head. “No. Do you need them?”
Johannes didn’t answer. “And I assume these deeds were all signed by the same official, correct?”
“Yes, my lord.” The scribe bent over. “Ah, here we have one of the four.” He handed a document to Johannes, who scanned it quickly. Now he understood. He understood everything. “Where is the vicar general?” he asked, his voice cold as ice. The guards looked at the place where the clergyman had just been standing.
“I don’t know, my lord. He must have gone,” Linhardt said.
“Get him! Arrest the vicar general! Don’t let him escape!”
There was a split-second pause, as the guards processed what they had just been ordered to do. Then they started running.
“I still have one last question, Scribe,” Johannes said.
“Yes, my lord,” the scribe said nervously, obviously shocked by what had just occurred.
“Bernhard von Harvehorst. Was he also aware of these documents?”
“Yes, my lord. It was a few days before his death. I believe there had been a dispute between him and the archbishop. To prove his position, he asked me to select some pertinent documents. By mistake, I gave him the one you’re holding in your hands. After reading it, he got very upset.”
“Did he tell you why?”
“No, my lord. But from that moment on, he was no longer interested in the other documents he’d originally wanted.”
“Did he say anything at all?”
“Just that I shouldn’t speak about it to anyone. And I kept my promise. But now . . .” He shrugged. “I don’t think it makes a difference now.”
“Can you tell me the exact date of that exchange, Scribe?”
“Well, I’m not sure. I know that it was shortly before noon, because I was planning to eat something when he came in. But I can’t remember the exact day.”
“Could it have been the same day that the vicar was murdered?”
“That’s right!” the scribe said excitedly. “Of course it was. Everybody at the palace was talking about the vicar’s death that night and for days after. Terrible, just terrible.”
“Now everything is starting to add up.” Johannes exhaled loudly. “One more question, Scribe. Did Bernhard von Harvehorst show his face here after that day? Did he come here at all?”
“No, my lord. If memory serves, I saw him alive for the last time when he stormed out of here. In fact, that was my last encounter with him.”
Johannes patted the scribe’s shoulder. “You’ve helped me quite a bit, Scribe.” Johannes stepped over the documents that were still scattered on the floor and went to the door.
“But your document about your full power of attorney, my lord? We haven’t found it yet.”
“That’s not important anymore. Besides, I have a copy.” With that, he left the scribe’s office.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Madlen spent the next two days attending lectures at the university, walking back to the inn, spending time with her children, then going out again to her see her brother at his workshop. He wasn’t in very good shape—he was getting drunk in the middle of the day, and he was sluggish and barely able to keep up with his carpentry work. Madlen didn’t want the children to come with her because she didn’t want them to see their uncle’s reprehensible behavior. The second day, upon taking her leave, she gave Kilian a stern look and told him in no uncertain terms that they needed to talk. Then she left.
And then something else happened. Peter went missing. He and Elsbeth had had a dreadful quarrel, after which Peter had packed his bags, mounted his horse, and rid
den away. Nobody had seen him since. Elsbeth thought that he might have ridden back to Worms. She was concerned about his welfare, but she was also furious—not only had he patronized a Heidelberg whorehouse, he’d also taken all their money, which they didn’t discover until after he’d left. Fortunately, Madlen had sufficient means to pay for their accommodations.
The morning after Peter’s departure, her old friend the sheriff of Heidelberg intercepted Madlen as she was about to leave for the university. “Madlen, God bless you!”
“God bless you, too, Sheriff.”
“I know you’re in a hurry so I’ll make it quick. After the lecture, would you have time to accompany me to Trude von Fahrenholz’s home? Her husband will be away at his office closing a big commercial transaction.”
“How did you find that out?”
“Well, let’s just say that the customer he’s expecting might not be unknown to me.” The sheriff grinned.
“You’re a real character.” Madlen laughed. “I’ll meet you at your office after the lecture.”
“Thank you. I wish you a very pleasant hour. God protect you!” With that he left, and Madlen rushed back into the inn to tell Agathe that she wouldn’t be returning right after the lecture, that she and the sheriff would be paying a visit to another battered woman. Then she ran back to the university, arriving just in time for the lecture.
“In a hurry again?” Thomas asked.
“That’s just the way it is when you have children,” Madlen fibbed.
Thankfully, the doctor commenced his lecture, sparing her from further explanation.
“In the last few days, you’ve heard a lot about the teachings of Constantinus Africanus. What did you learn that would be effective in treating the ill?” Franz von Beyenburg clasped his hands behind his back and paced the length of the classroom. “Who among you has ever actually assisted the sick?” He looked at his students. Only Madlen hesitantly held up her hand.
“More courage, my dear. Hold up your hand confidently, with pride and decisiveness.” He looked around one more time as if waiting to see a further show of hands. “You can lower your hand, Madlen. What do you expect it will be like when you are a doctor and you approach a patient? What do you think you’ll feel?”
