Urquhart watched him go, then turned his attention back to the house. A light appeared in a first-floor window and the shutters closed with a crash.
They had to come out again. Eventually.
Urquhart melted into the darkness. He could wait.
BERLICH
It was a whorehouse. The keeper, Clemens Brabanter, was a burly, good-natured fellow. He charged his customers, as a cover charge, so to speak, for four pints of wine, of which only three appeared on the table. A peat fire smoked out the cheap taproom that took in the whole of the ground floor, a grubby curtain dividing off the place where Clemens slept. Fatty, gristly meat was grilled over the fire, usually burned black, unless one of the guests brought a better-quality joint. Then Clemens would sit himself by the fire and keep turning the delicacy. He wanted his guest to enjoy it. The girls only got a taste if the visitor invited them. Since Clemens, as a man of honesty and fairness, did not exempt himself from this rule, the girls respected him, especially as he didn’t bother to beat them.
It was similar with the wine. In general Clemens served what in Cologne was known as “wet Ludwig,” the product of poor harvests, a sour nothing with neither body nor bouquet that you scarcely tasted but still paid for with excruciating heartburn. On the other hand, there were clients for whom Clemens went down into his cellar to decant a quite different vintage. This lured certain upper-class gentlemen back again and again, and Clemens’s most valuable stock, the three women upstairs, were all, apart from one on whom God, for her sins, had bestowed a skinny body and a squint, invitingly plump.
Outside business hours two of the whores, Wilhilde and Margarethe, were married. Their husbands worked as sack holders in the warehouses down by the Rhine. It took four to six of them to hold up the immense sacks while they were being filled with salt. Sack holders earned next to nothing, but then next-to-nothing in the way of skill was demanded of them. They scraped together enough to keep body and soul together; added to their wives’ earnings it just about made staying alive worthwhile.
The last of Clemens’s threesome was generally considered the most beautiful in the whole of Berlich. Her name was Maria. She was twenty-one, and already had rings under her eyes and a few teeth missing. On the other hand, she had wonderful, silky hair and shining green eyes beneath brows that arched like the Madonna’s. Her lips were two rose petals, one of the canons who sneaked away from the cathedral now and then had whispered drunkenly in her ear, her breasts temples of desire, and her womb burned with the fires of purgatory.
Given this, no one was surprised that Maria became prouder and prouder and talked of leaving Berlich at some point to marry a well-situated gentleman with whom she would live a devout and God-fearing life in a neat, solidly built house well away from the stench of pig dung and the grunts and groans from the neighboring rooms.
Her relationship with Jacob suffered accordingly. At first she had been delighted by his every gesture, every little present he brought, indeed, just to see him. Often, when there were no more clients for the night, he had slept in the same bed with her. He brought her any food he could lay his hands on and didn’t have to pay, nor to leave afterward. Clemens, whom Jacob never forgot when he was sharing out his spoils, had given his approval, as he had for the husbands of the other two girls. But business came first. If a man in need knocked on the door late at night, Clemens threw the husband out, however much the girl was married.
By now the passion was almost spent. Maria wanted to better herself and there was constant bickering between them, especially since, for some inexplicable reason, Jacob felt responsible for Tilman and was always bringing him along. Sometimes the three of them spent the night together in the tiny bedroom. Tilman did not get a turn with Maria. He couldn’t afford her, and Maria would not have shared her bed with him for anything, at least not for anything less than one silver mark. By now the mere mention of Tilman’s name made her angry. Jacob knew the relationship was nearing its end.
Perhaps that was why he had insisted on dragging Tilman along with him. If he and Maria were going to argue anyway, it might as well be for a good cause. The way Tilman looked, and with the blood he was coughing up, it would take a miracle to cure him, but at least Jacob didn’t want to find him dead at the Duck Ponds one morning, surrounded by crows tearing at his cold, emaciated body.
It was murky in the taproom. Clemens was warming his hands by the fire, over which something indefinable was sizzling. There was a bitter draft coming in through the cracks in the shutters. The brothel keeper was getting more hunched by the day, Jacob thought. Soon he would be a perfect circle and you’d be able to roll him down the street. Margarethe was sitting on the bench by the door and gave them her cross-eyed look. She was always on the lookout for two clients at once, they said, and never saw any at all. Otherwise the room was empty.
“Hi, Jacob,” growled Clemens.
Jacob gave Margarethe a quick smile and flopped down on one of the crudely made stools. The bruises from his fall had just started to ache, and they seemed to cover the whole of his body. “Maria in?”
Clemens gave a grim nod. “Can you afford her?”
“There.” Jacob took out three apples and put them on the table. Clemens stared, got up from his seat by the fire, and shuffled over. He stroked the smooth skin almost tenderly with his clumsy fingers.
“Where did you get them? You don’t get apples like this at the market.”
“The Lord has provided, you might say. Can we go up now, Clemens?”
“Well—”
Jacob sighed and took out another apple.
“Of course you can, Jacob.” The apples disappeared into a basket. “The client’s just gone. You must have seen him.”
“Rich?”
“Not poor. But mean. Pays the lowest tariff, so I give him the Ludwig to drink. And he seems to like it, goddammit!”
“And Wilhilde?”
“Customer.”
“Good. That smells tasty, too.”
“Wouldn’t you just like a bit?” snapped Clemens. “It’s not for you. Just be glad I don’t stuff your lousy apples up your arse.”
Jacob was already halfway up the stairs, Tilman in tow.
“I wouldn’t say that again,” he said, “the archbishop might not like it.”
Clemens raised his eyebrows and looked at the contents of the basket.
“Don’t you put her in the family way!” he shouted at the retreating Jacob.
Tilman shook his head and followed Jacob. His whole body was quivering with suppressed coughs.
“Could you try not to cough for a while?” Jacob asked.
“Very funny!”
“All right.” He opened the door to Maria’s room.
She was standing by the window with a grubby sheet around her shoulders, lighting a new candle. Clemens was quite generous with candles. As Jacob and Tilman entered she put the candlestick by her bed, then slammed the shutter.
There was hardly any furniture. A low table, two stools, a crudely made bed full of straw with a matted blanket over it in which, as Jacob well knew, there were at least as many lice as people in Cologne. Under the window was a chest where she kept her belongings. There was a dress in it that a man she liked very much had given her a few months ago. When he came to see her, he mostly just talked. One day he brought the dress, then left and never came back. Maria did not even know his name. But when she wore the dress to church she seemed to Jacob to be just like a respectable woman, and he didn’t dare be seen with her. At times like that he felt she would manage to cheat destiny and find a devout and respected husband.
Now the dress was in the chest and the chest was locked. If the great preacher, Berthold of Regensburg, had his way, she would never have worn it again. In a tub-thumping sermon against the evil of fornication, he had demanded that whores should be compelled to wear yellow and ostracized by all good Christians.
There was an empty jug on the table, one beaker on its side. The drunken client h
ad not invited her to share his wine.
“What have you brought?” was her greeting.
Jacob nodded and placed the apples he had left beside the jug.
She smiled and put her arms around him, without drawing him close. Tilman she ignored. The sick man shuddered, sidled over to one of the stools, and sat down as quietly as he could.
“Something odd happened,” said Jacob, collapsing onto the bed, which creaked alarmingly.
“And?”
He stared at the ceiling. “The architect who’s building the cathedral’s dead.”
She sat down beside him on the edge of the bed and ran her fingers through his hair, her eyes fixed on the door. Then she looked at him. The rings under her eyes were darker than usual, or perhaps it was just the flickering light from the dim candle that deepened the hollows in her face. She was beautiful, despite it all. Too beautiful for this world.
“Yes,” she said softly, “he threw himself to his death.”
Jacob levered himself up on his elbows and regarded her thoughtfully. “How do you know?”
She jerked her thumb at the wall. Beyond it was Wilhilde’s room.
“The man in her room told her?”
“He arrived just before you, a linen weaver who often goes to Wilhilde. It was the first thing he said. He’d heard it from others who’d seen Gerhard slip and fall. Perhaps the only time in his life”—she shook her head—“and God called him to appear before him for it. How often do we slip and fall? Sometimes I wonder why we’re here.”
“Just a minute.” Jacob sat up. “Which others?”
“What?” said Maria, bewildered.
“You said some others saw Gerhard slip.”
“Yes.”
“Which others?”
She looked at him as if he were crazy. “Well, the others. People.”
“What people?”
“For God’s sake, Jacob, what makes it so important?”
Jacob rubbed his eyes. The people…
“Maria,” he said calmly, “there are people who saw how Gerhard fell to his death through his own carelessness? Is that right?”
“I’ve already told you.”
“No!” Jacob shook his head and jumped up. “That is not right.”
“What are you suggesting?” asked Tilman. It made him cough, which produced highly unsavory noises from his insides when he tried to suppress it.
Jacob put his hands to his temples and closed his eyes. In his mind’s eye he saw everything again, the shadow, Gerhard’s scream, his fall, and his last words, which had burned themselves into his mind.
“That is not right,” he repeated. “Gerhard Morart, the cathedral architect, assuming we’re talking about the same man, did not die as a result of his own carelessness, he was murdered. And no one saw it but me. There was no one there.” He took a deep breath and opened his eyes.
Tilman and Maria were both staring at him.
“I thought I was the one who was drunk, not you,” said Tilman.
“Gerhard was killed”—Jacob was getting worked up—“and I was there. I was sitting in that bloody apple tree when the black thing appeared on the scaffolding and pushed him over.”
There was a breathless silence in the room.
“That’s what happened, damn it!”
Maria started giggling. “You’re crazy.”
“Of course,” coughed Tilman. “And then the Devil came for him.”
“You shut your gob!” Maria snapped at him. “You’ve no business here anyway, hacking and spewing all the time.”
“I—”
“Not here!”
Jacob could hear them, but it was as if he had wadding over his ears. He had expected all sorts of things, but not that they wouldn’t believe him.
“I didn’t ask to sit around in this den of fornication.” Tilman was shouting now. “It was Jacob’s idea. Before I accept any favors from you I’d—”
“Jacob wouldn’t have thought of it himself,” she broke in furiously, “you’ve just conned him with that ridiculous cough of yours.”
“You may call it ridiculous. All I know is it’s going to kill me!”
“And the sooner the better! But the truth is, you’re in better health than all of us.”
“Lord help me! I’m off, Jacob. I’d rather die than listen to your whore bawling me out.”
“Don’t call me a whore,” screeched Maria.
“Well, that’s what you are.”
“I won’t take it from you. I may be one, but I’d rather drink from the cesspit than open my legs for you.”
“Good idea, you’d enjoy that, you toothless bitch, you superannuated attempt at a temptress—”
“Oh, don’t get your tongue in a twist.”
“You old hag. I don’t want to hear any more, and certainly not these stories about the Devil.”
Tilman leaped up and rushed toward the door, where he collapsed in a heap. Jacob ran over and grabbed him under the armpits.
“Throw him out!” demanded Maria.
“No.” Jacob shook his head. “Can’t you see, he’s ill.”
Maria lay on her bed and huddled up. “He’s got to go.” She was close to tears.
Tilman was breathing heavily. Ice-cold sweat glinted on his upper lip.
“He’s ill, Maria,” Jacob repeated softly.
She stretched out both arms, her fingers spread like claws.
“You can go, too, for all I care. Bugger off.”
“Maria—”
“I don’t want to see you anymore.”
She put her head in her hands and started to sob.
“Maria, I—”
“Out!”
Jacob hung his head.
URQUHART
By now the rain was coming down in torrents. All activity in Berlich had come to a halt. Here and there lights could be seen through the shutters.
Urquhart waited.
Suddenly the whorehouse door opened and a man shot out and up the street toward the city wall. With his head hunched between his shoulders in the downpour, he was nothing but a coat and floppy hat on legs. But Urquhart had made careful note of his quarry’s clothing.
It was time to put an end to this tiresome affair. Unhurriedly, he set off after the scampering figure.
Given that he was stumbling over his own feet at every second step, he was showing an astonishing turn of speed. Urquhart decided to follow him until he stopped. He couldn’t keep that speed up forever; he’d have to take a rest at some point.
It was less effort to kill him when he wasn’t moving so much.
Coat-and-hat crossed the Duck Ponds and headed down a narrow path between the orchards and vineyards. It was so dark you could hardly see your hand in front of your face. But Urquhart could. He could see in the pitch dark. He had the senses of a beast of prey that registered every movement of the man running along the path. With a grunt of satisfaction, he noted that he was getting slower and slower. Good. It would soon be over.
He wondered how many people the redhead had already told. There was the man he had dragged along to the brothel with him, clearly a friend. No problem tracking him down. Urquhart had memorized his features while he was trailing them to Berlich, and he could always get more information out of the whores. Though really it wasn’t necessary to bother with him. It was only the witness himself who was a danger. He could almost forget about a beggar with an unlikely story he had from someone else.
But better safe than sorry.
By now they were in Plackgasse. Although it ran along inside the city wall, it was lined with trees and fences and half a dozen scattered farm buildings. It was no more than a country lane, and the rain had turned its surface into a slippery film of mud and pebbles.
The redhead must enjoy the “privilege of the Wall.”
Now he was starting to drag his feet. His progress in the lashing, soaking wind was laborious in the extreme. Urquhart was surprised; his assessment of the man’s physical capacity h
ad been wrong. The willows bent beneath the black clouds streaming across the sky. Still no house in sight. Not long now and the man would be at the end of his tether.
A moment later he had slipped and was stuck in the mire. Urquhart stood still. The man was so enveloped in the floppy hat and coat, he could have been taken for a rock. Then he moved, tried to stand up.
He almost made it.
He coughed.
With a few steps Urquhart was behind him, aimed his crossbow at the back of his neck, and squeezed the trigger. The force of the bolt threw the body forward onto its knees so that it ended up in a grotesque kneeling position, as if giving thanks to the Lord.
Urquhart looked down at him.
He felt nothing. He was neither proud of his deed nor sorry to have killed a man. He could not understand why others who carried out similar acts had to bemoan them or brag about them afterward. Death was final. This man’s life story was over and done with, and that was that. Not worth a further thought.
He turned around and headed back toward Berlich.
The dead man merged into the darkness behind him, a shapeless thing without name or meaning.
BERLICH
Maria calmed down somewhat after Tilman had left, but the atmosphere was still strained. Jacob stared at the candle. For a long time no one spoke.
“What was the point of that?” Maria asked querulously.
“Of what?”
“Giving him your hat and coat and your place under the Wall?”
“It’s just for the night, Maria.”
She rumpled her nose and wrapped her arms around herself as if she was cold.
“I’m not heartless,” she said after a while.
Jacob sighed. “No one says you are.”
“Oh, yes, they do!” There was an angry glint in her eyes. “You say it and your horrible friend Tilman says it. Can’t you imagine what it’s like when you’ve just about managed to get a roof over your head and then you’re expected to share it with any Tom, Dick, or Harry?”
“What do you mean, any Tom, Dick, or Harry?” Jacob spoke sharply. “I look after you as best I can. Sorry I’m not a patrician eating deviled pork with raisins every day and drinking the best wine.”
Death and the Devil Page 6
