“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?”
“Uh . . . not that I was aware of.” Simon looked up from a book he’d been paging through. It came from Bartholomäus’s little collection of books in the main room. “I don’t think Harsee’s madness has anything to do with the actors,” he added. “It’s probably some strange illness. The poor fellow is almost completely paralyzed, and only his eyes keep flitting nervously back and forth. If that’s a werewolf, then it’s a pretty pathetic one.” He rubbed his temples with exhaustion. “But it’s still strange that such an illness, if that’s what it is, breaks out at the very moment everyone is talking about werewolves here.”
Simon sighed and set the tattered book aside. “I’ve spent half the night racking my brain over this, but unfortunately all the books here are about veterinary medicine, and that doesn’t help.”
“Don’t disparage Zechendörfer’s Hippiatrica,” Bartholomäus interrupted. “That’s one of the best books on medicine ever written.”
“Yes, when you’re treating horses with stomach gas from eating too much hay, or shoeing them because of a broken hoof,” Simon replied. He nodded toward the other room. “That applies also to the certainly excellent works about rearing, training, and treating dogs, but here we’re dealing with something more complicated, with a human element.”
“You can learn all sorts of things from animals, Master Medicus,” Bartholomäus shot back. “For example, humility and modesty.”
Jakob was about to give him a harsh rebuke, as well, but Georg, who was sitting next to his father, put his hand on his arm to calm him down.
“I know that we Kuisls like to fight,” he said in a firm voice, “but now isn’t the time for that. Let’s think instead about whether to pursue the course that old Jeremias suggested yesterday. Since Barbara has disappeared, we should probably be using all our resources to find her as quickly as possible. Everything else is secondary.”
Jakob Kuisl looked at his son in astonishment, not knowing what to make of Georg’s newly acquired confidence.
“Well, I’ll be damned, you’re right,” he said, a bit less gruffly. Then he pointed toward the ceiling. “On the other hand, the young lad that Barbara is so crazy about is lying up there in bed, while his friends are sitting in the dungeon awaiting their execution as alleged werewolves. What do you think Barbara will say if her own uncle whips their battered bodies to death, perhaps as early as tomorrow? Well?” He looked across the table at Bartholomäus, who grimly returned his gaze. “Have you thought about that?”
Despite the grave situation, Magdalena couldn’t suppress a slight smile. She knew that her father had always been driven by a boundless curiosity. Without a doubt, he wanted to find out what was really going on here in Bamberg—and until he did, he wouldn’t sleep soundly.
“Perhaps you could go over again everything you learned from Jeremias last night,” Simon said, turning to his father-in-law. “I must confess I haven’t been able to make sense of it all yet.”
Jakob cleared his throat, then briefly retold the story of Jeremias’s fate and what happened during the witch trials when he was known as Michael Binder, the executioner of Bamberg. He also mentioned Jeremias’s murder of the young prostitute. Meanwhile, Bartholomäus sat there thinking and sucking on a stick of kindling he’d broken off a piece of firewood.
“I’ve heard a bit about this Michael Binder,” he interrupted his brother while still chewing on the kindling. “He must have been a good hangman. Sometimes young people think I’m his son, because the job is usually passed down through the family. Well, whatever . . .” He shrugged. “If law and order still prevail in this city, Jeremias will have to be hanged. I can’t say I’ll be glad to do it, but I probably won’t have any choice.”
“I’ve given him my word we won’t report him if he helps us,” Jakob replied. “Look at him—the man is a wreck. Scarred forever for his deeds—which he now wants to atone for, including the one that happened so long ago,” he added grimly.
“You mean torturing his fiancée?” Simon shuddered. “That is unpardonable. Even God cannot forgive that.”
“Just cut out this nonsense.” Jakob suddenly sprang up and glared angrily at Simon. He looked like a dark thunderhead towering above his son-in-law. “How can a no-account little medicus understand what’s going on in the minds of us hangmen? Have you ever hurt someone just because you had to? Because your hungry family was waiting for you out there and you would be stoned to death if you didn’t? Did you ever put a noose around a condemned man’s neck as he pleaded and cried, while your bloodlusting fellow citizens stared at you from behind? Have you?”
“No, you’re right, I haven’t,” Simon replied meekly. “I’m only a medicus who wants to heal.”
“Who is permitted to do that,” Jakob growled, then he sat down. “And now let us continue. Georg is right, there are in fact more important things to discuss.”
He told them about his hunch that all the victims were somehow connected, that they—or their husbands or older relatives—had many years ago been members of a Witches Commission that determined whether others would live or die and whether they would be tortured and burned.
“If we succeed in finding a document listing the members of this commission, we may be able to prevent further disaster. There are no doubt other people on the list, and, most importantly, the name of the accused.”
“But all that happened decades ago,” Bartholomäus interrupted, throwing a singed piece of kindling straight into the open fire. “Do you really believe there’s someone lurking around out there interested in such an old case?”
“I don’t know, but I’d like to find out, and Jeremias will help us.” Jakob lowered his voice and turned to Simon and Bartholomäus. “The old man told us about a half-buried passageway leading from the cathedral to the bishop’s archive in the next building. Apparently, in ancient times the cathedral faced northward, and it was then that the passageway between the two was built. It’s said to be a pretty weird place. The corridor is an ancient crypt with piles of bones and skulls.” He grinned. “I love skulls. At least they can tell you no lies.”
“Since our visit to the residence yesterday, the area around the cathedral square is crawling with guards,” Magdalena said in a worried voice. “Do you really think we can simply walk into the cathedral and enter the passageway without anyone asking what we’re up to?”
Jakob nodded. “I was worried about that, myself, but then it occurred to me that today is All Souls’ Day, and in Bamberg, just as in Schongau, there is always a high mass in the morning in memory of the dead. The cathedral will be more crowded than at any time except Easter.” Confidently, he looked around the table. “If we act during the mass, no one will notice us amid all the activity. We just have to get back on time.”
“And you intend to climb down into a crypt full of bones on the Day of the Dead?” Simon groaned. “I’m not sure if I—”
“Who said I wanted to take a little coward like you along with us?” Jakob growled. “You can just go back to your suffragan bishop possessed by the devil. Maybe you’ll learn something there pertaining to our case.” He shook his head. “No, Jeremias and I will do it alone, and in the meantime the rest of you can look for Barbara. After all the uproar, I hope she’s found someplace to hide in a barn or empty shed. Later, I’ll come to you, if you—”
There was a loud hammering on the front door, and Jakob stopped suddenly. A moment later the door flew open and an agitated Katharina rushed into the room. She was as pale as a corpse, her full head of hair was disheveled, and she was still wearing
the splendid gown she’d had on the evening before, though it was now soiled from running through the street.
“Bartl,” she began breathlessly, “you . . . you must help me . . . my father . . . has disappeared. Oh, God . . .” She leaned against the wall, crying. Magdalena ran to help her, leading her to sit at the table near the warm stove and taking hold of her shaking hands.
“What happened?” she asked gently.
“This whole wedding is cursed,” Katharina blurted out. “Ever since Bartholomäus and I decided to get married, all these dreadful things have been happening. Perhaps the suffragan bishop was right after all when he disapproved of the ceremony. And now, he is a werewolf himself. Oh, I should never have gotten engaged to an executioner, and this is my punishment.”
“What nonsense you are talking, woman!” Bartholomäus shouted angrily. “The devil has robbed you of your senses.” He tried to modulate his voice. “But I’ll excuse you, because I see this is all too much for you. Tell us, now, what’s this about your father?”
“I lost sight of him last night after the terrible events,” she began, calmer now. “We were standing outside in the courtyard, and all around us people were screaming as more and more came rushing out of the hall, pushing their way past us. And suddenly he was gone. I waited for him, but it seemed like the earth had simply swallowed him up. Finally I went home, hoping to meet him there. But he wasn’t there, either—he was simply gone.” Again she broke out in tears. “I waited for him until this morning, but he never came. No one knows what happened to him. Perhaps . . .”
Her words turned into a long wail. Magdalena looked anxiously at Simon, and he returned her gaze. He’d told the whole family about Hieronymus Hauser’s peculiar behavior, and Katharina had also told Magdalena that her father had been acting strangely in recent days.
“Did you notice anything unusual about your father yesterday?” she asked the tearful Katharina.
She looked up, troubled. “Well, he . . . he was very anxious,” she mumbled. “During the play he kept looking around as if he expected to see someone he was very afraid of, but when I asked him about it, he wouldn’t answer.” Fearfully, she looked around the table. “Do you believe this werewolf took him away?”
“Believing is something you can do in church,” Jakob answered grimly. “What I want are facts. You should all get moving now, as fast as possible, to look for my Barbara and also Katharina’s father. What’s clear is that too many people are disappearing in this city.” He stood up and cracked his knuckles one last time. “And today, as a good Christian, I intend to go to mass. I’ll say three hallelujahs if I can finally get a bit closer to the truth.”
Just a few moments later, Simon was hurrying through the little streets of Bamberg to St. Martin’s Church, where the suffragan bishop lived. It was a simple, middle-class house connected to the church by a passageway. As he approached the door, he noticed that someone had drawn a large pentagram on the ground. From the door handle hung a small bouquet of dried Saint John’s wort; according to ancient tradition, it would ward off witches, demons, and evil spirits.
Simon looked around carefully. A few people walked by with their heads down, making a wide arc as they passed the house, as if fearing an infection. In the meantime, Simon had again donned his old medicus’s robe, as the splendid outfit he’d borrowed from Samuel was much worse for the wear after the attack by the deranged suffragan bishop. At least now he wouldn’t attract much attention from the crowd in the church square.
Bells rang out over the city, summoning the faithful to the mass for the dead up in the cathedral. Simon was sure the service would be well attended that day. In times like this, he knew from experience, people always looked to the church for consolation.
Besides, no doubt they’re looking forward to a fiery, bloodthirsty sermon, he thought. Hatred and fear of Satan are always a good adhesive for holding a city together.
He tapped cautiously on the door, and at once Samuel appeared in the doorway. The Bamberg city physician was unshaven and white as a sheet, looking as if he’d kept watch by the sick man’s bed all night. Through the crack in the door, Simon could smell the strong fragrance of incense.
“Come in,” Samuel said, sounding exhausted, and beckoned for Simon to enter the vestibule. “His condition has not changed much. Unfortunately, none of the servants are here except for a single lackey and the fat maid, both of whom you met yesterday. All the rest fled in terror. So you will have to do without your morning coffee.”
Simon smiled wanly. “I’ll survive, though I admit that the dark devil’s brew would help me to think. I’ve been racking my brain for half the night trying to make sense of all this.”
They went up to the second floor, entering a dark corridor whose walls were lined with votive pictures and paintings of saints, and with many doors leading off it. From his visit the day before, Simon knew that the patient’s room was at the far end of the hallway; he could have found it blindfolded, as the fragrance of incense became stronger, almost sickening, the closer they got.
“Don’t be surprised at how things look in there,” Samuel warned him as he opened the tall door. “None of this is mine. But the maid, this superstitious harpy, insisted, or she would have left.”
They entered the darkened room, and Simon thought he could already smell the stench of death—the familiar mixture of incense, burned herbs, sweat, feces, and disease, so familiar to him from his countless house calls. Just like outside the house, here, too, a large pentagram had been drawn on the floor; bundles of Saint John’s wort were tied to all four bedposts, and crucifixes of all sizes had been hastily hung around the room. The windows were covered with heavy curtains.
The old maid sat slumped over on a stool in the corner and seemed to be sleeping.
Samuel cleared his throat, and she awakened with a start and let out a sharp cry. For a moment she looked like she was going to faint, but then she recognized the two men standing in the dark room and crossed herself with a sigh of relief.
“Ah, it’s just you,” she sighed. “I was afraid that—”
“Don’t worry, the werewolf rarely uses the door,” Samuel interrupted. “He jumps through the window, howling. Isn’t that what you yourself said yesterday?” He pointed toward the hall. “Everything is fine, Agathe, you can go to mass now and we’ll care for the patient.”
Agathe nodded gratefully and dashed out of the room. As soon as the door had closed behind her, Samuel ran to the windows and tore open the curtains.
“Damn, damn, damn,” he cursed. “She thinks she can ward off evil this way.”
The bright light of morning came flooding into the room and onto the bed, and only then was Simon able to get a look at the Bamberg suffragan bishop. Under the many blankets, Sebastian Harsee looked like a little puppet, an impression reinforced by the waxen expression on his face. It took a while for Simon to realize it was because all the muscles in his face had tensed up; the only things moving were his eyes, which darted back and forth like those of a nervous mouse. A thin stream of saliva was oozing out of the corner of his mouth.
He can see us, I’m certain of that, Simon thought, and he can probably hear us, too. What a horrible condition. It’s as if you’re buried alive.
“Last night he quivered a bit and even moved a few times,” said Samuel as he pulled off the covers, revealing the pale body of the suffragan bishop dressed only in a thin nightshirt. “But in the last few hours the paralysis has spread to his entire body—except for his eyes. He can still give you that grim and threatening look.”
“And how about his teeth?” Simon asked. “Yesterday they looked so long and sharp. Have you examined them?”
Samuel nodded. “They look quite normal. I think that was because his lips and the muscles around them were pulled back due to cramps. But the reaction we witnessed yesterday was certainly interesting . . .”
The doctor took a cup of water and brought it toward the patient’s face for him to see. S
uddenly Harsee’s body began to tremble all over. Though he couldn’t move, the aversion he felt was evident in his eyes. Every fiber of his body seemed stretched to the limit, and white foam formed on his lips. Samuel set the cup down on a table a bit farther away, and the suffragan bishop became visibly calmer.
“He’s afraid of water,” Simon whispered.
“Any liquid,” Samuel corrected him. “As I said, extremely interesting. I’ve never seen anything like this before.” He sighed and wiped the saliva from Harsee’s mouth with a cloth. “Unfortunately, our dear Agathe sprinkled him with holy water this morning, and he thrashed about like a fish on dry land. So now, of course, the old woman is completely convinced the suffragan bishop is a werewolf.”
“Well, he did pounce on me just like a wolf,” Simon mused. “What terrible illness is it that . . .” Suddenly he paused.
“What is it?” Samuel asked, puzzled.
Without replying, Simon leaned over the patient and quickly examined the spot on his neck. The small puncture wound was still there, as well as the red circle around it. Something Magdalena’s uncle had said kept going through his mind, like the murmuring of someone reciting the rosary.
You can learn all sorts of things from animals, Master Medicus. For example, humility and modesty.
Outside, the bells rang for the last time, and after that an eerie silence fell over the city.
You can learn all sorts of things from animals . . .
“We were so foolish,” Simon finally murmured, “so incredibly foolish. The whole time the answer was right before our eyes.”
“What do you mean?” Samuel asked. He, too, had now approached the patient and looked at Simon excitedly. “If you can solve this riddle, don’t torture me any longer!”
Simon grinned. “How many bags of coffee beans do I get if I can?”
The Werewolf of Bamberg (US Edition) (A Hangman's Daughter Tale Book 5) Page 44
