The Hangman’s Daughter thd-1

by Oliver Pötzsch

  The old man chuckled.

  “Ferdinand had that hiding place made when he built the stove. He told me about it. A tile with a picture of a court clerk with documents coming out of his arse! He was always well-known for his coarse sense of humor.”

  “But if you had the sketch-” asked Simon.

  “I couldn’t make sense of it,” Augustin interrupted him. “I turned it this way and that, but I couldn’t see anything there about the damned hiding place!”

  “So then you had the work on the building site disrupted so that you could have more time to look for it,” reasoned Simon. “And then the children overheard you, and you simply had them killed because of the dangerous knowledge they had. Did you know that they hadn’t recognized the instigator? All these murders were unnecessary.”

  Angrily, Matthias Augustin cracked another nut.

  “That was Georg, the simpleton. He got his brains from his mother, not from me. He was supposed to give the soldiers money only for the destruction of the building site. But even for that he was too stupid! He was careless and let himself be overheard, then gave the order to kill the children. He didn’t seem to realize the trouble that sort of thing would cause!”

  The patrician seemed to have forgotten Simon. He continued his rant, without paying any attention to the physician.

  “I told him to stop! He was to tell that devil that it was enough. What great secrets could the children have revealed? And who would have believed them anyway? But the killing went on. And now the children are dead, the Landgrave is sniffing around looking for witches in the town, and in spite of all that we still haven’t got the treasure! An absolute disaster! I should have left Georg in Munich. He has ruined everything!”

  “But why do you worry about the treasure?” asked Simon incredulously. “You’re rich enough. Why risk so much for a few coins?”

  The old man suddenly pressed his hands to his stomach and bent forward. A wave of pain seemed to pass through him before he could speak further.

  “You…don’t understand,” he panted. “My body is a lump of rotten flesh. I’m rotting away while I’m still alive. The worms will be eating me soon. But that…is…not important.”

  Once again he had to stop briefly and let the pain pass over him. Then the attack seemed to be over.

  “What counts is the family, our reputation,” he said. “The Augsburg wagoners have almost driven me to ruin. Damned pack of Swabians! Before long, our house will go to the dogs. We need this money! My name is still good enough to obtain credit, but soon even that will be of no use. I need…this treasure.”

  His voice turned into a soft rattle, while his fingers grasped the edge of the table convulsively. The colic pains returned. With increasing horror, Simon saw the old man twitch, jerk his head back and forth, and roll his blind eyes. Saliva drooled from the corner of his mouth. The pain must have been beyond imagining. Perhaps an obstruction in the gut, the physician thought, perhaps a growth that had spread over the whole abdomen. Matthias Augustin would not live much longer.

  At this moment Simon noticed a movement out of the corner of his eye. As he started to turn around a mighty blow hit him on the side of the head. He sank to the floor, and as he fell he saw young Georg Augustin standing there, his hand grasping a heavy iron candlestick raised for a second blow.

  “No, Georg!” his father gasped from behind. “You’ll only make things much worse!” Then a black wave swept over Simon-he didn’t know if the candlestick had hit him again or if he had lost consciousness from the first blow.

  When he came to, he felt a tightness around his chest, hands, and feet. His head throbbed with pain, and he could not open his right eye. Presumably blood had run into it and clotted. He was sitting on the chair where he had been before, but he could no longer move. He looked down and saw that he was tied to it with a curtain cord from top to bottom. Simon wanted to call out, but only succeeded in uttering a choking sound. A gag had been stuffed into his mouth.

  In front of him the grinning face of Georg Augustin appeared. With his sword he poked at the physician’s doublet, and some of the copper buttons popped off. Simon cursed inwardly. When he saw that Matthias Augustin had disappeared from the May feast, he had not given a thought to this son of his but hurried directly to the Augustins’ house. The young patrician must have secretly followed him, and now his perfumed and beautifully barbered head of hair was directly in front of Simon’s face, looking him straight in the eye.

  “That was a mistake,” he hissed. “A damned bad mistake, you quack! You should have kept your big mouth shut and screwed your hangman’s wench. It’s such a lovely feast out there. But, no, you have to make trouble…”

  He stroked Simon’s chin with his sword. In the background the physician could hear old Augustin groaning. When he turned his head in that direction he saw the old man lying on the floor near the table. He dug his fingers into the cherrywood floorboards; his whole body twitched with cramps. Georg gave him only a brief glance before he turned again to Simon.

  “My father will not disturb us any further,” he said, casually. “I have gotten to know these fits. The pain increases until it is intolerable, but then it stops. And when it stops, he’s just an empty carcass, much too exhausted to do anything. He’ll fall asleep, and when he wakes up again, there’ll be nothing left of you.”

  Once again the patrician moved his sword slowly over Simon’s throat. Simon tried to cry out, but the gag only slipped down farther into his throat. He had a choking fit. Only with much trouble could he calm himself.

  “You know,” whispered young Augustin. He bent down to Simon again, so that the smell of his expensive perfume wafted over him. “At first I cursed when I saw you going to see my father. I thought that would be the end. But now, well…other possibilities have arisen.”

  He stepped to the fireplace, where a little fire was burning, and reached for the poker. Its tip was glowing red. He held it close to Simon’s cheek so that the physician could feel the heat. Grinning smugly, he continued.

  “When we were watching the hangman doing his torturing down there in the keep, I thought I might enjoy this sort of thing. The screams, the smoke rising from human flesh, the pleading looks…Well, the witch wasn’t quite to my liking. You, on the other hand…

  With a swift movement he lowered the poker and pressed it firmly to Simon’s breeches. The heat ate its way through the fabric and hissed as it touched his thigh. Simon’s eyes filled with tears. He gave a long howl but the gag wouldn’t let out more than a muffled groan. Helplessly he tossed about on the chair. After a while Augustin removed the poker and looked in his eyes, smiling coldly.

  “Your beautiful breeches…Or are these the latest fashion now, these-what do you call them-rhinegraves? It’s a pity. You’re a loudmouth, that’s true, but at least you have a feeling for style. I can’t imagine how a nobody like you, a vagrant field surgeon, would have breeches like these. But all joking aside…”

  He took the other armchair and sat astride it, the back facing Simon.

  “That just now was only a foretaste of the pain that you are going to feel. Unless…” He pointed the poker at Simon’s breast. “Unless you tell me where the treasure is. Spit it out now. Sooner or later you’re going to have to tell me.”

  Simon shook his head wildly. Even if he had wanted to, he didn’t know. He had an idea that the hangman had found the treasure. In the course of the day Kuisl had given out one or two hints. But he wasn’t sure about it.

  Georg Augustin interpreted his shake of the head as a refusal. Disappointed, he stood up and went back to the fireplace.

  “It’s a pity,” he said. Then we’ll have to take it out on your fine doublet. Who is your tailor, quack? Not anyone from Schongau, surely.”

  The young patrician held the poker in the fire and waited until it was red-hot again. Meanwhile Simon heard music and laughter from outside. The festival was only a few steps away, but the only thing observant burghers might see from o
utside would be a brightly lit window and a man sitting on a chair with his back to it. It seemed certain that Georg Augustin would not be disturbed. The man-and maidservants were all down in the market place and had presumably been given permission to stay out until morning. It would probably be after midnight before anyone entered the patrician’s house again.

  Behind Simon, old Augustin squirmed on the floor, groaning quietly. The pain seemed to be diminishing. But he was in no position to intervene. Simon prayed that the old man would not pass out. Matthias Augustin was the only hope he had. Perhaps he might succeed in bringing his crazy son to his senses. Simon had already established that Georg was not quite normal.

  “My father has always considered me to be a ne’er-do-well,” said the young patrician, turning the poker round in the fire. His eyes looked almost dreamily into the fire. “He’s never believed in me. Sent me away to Munich…But that was my idea with the building site. I hired the soldiers in Semer’s inn. I gave the burgomaster a lot of money to keep quiet about it. He let me in through the back door, the old fool. He thought I needed the soldiers to destroy the leper house because it was bad for business. As if I cared a damn about trade!”

  He laughed aloud. Then he came toward Simon with the red-hot iron.

  “And now my father will realize that I’m not as useless as he’s always thought me to be. When I’ve finished with you, your little hangman’s bitch won’t recognize you anymore. Perhaps I’ll have a go at her myself, the little tart.”

  “Georg…be careful…”

  Old Augustin had managed to heave himself upright. He propped himself up, panting, on the table and appeared to be wanting to say something. But pain overcame him, and he collapsed again.

  “You have nothing more to say to me, Father,” whispered Georg Augustin as he moved nearer to Simon. “It’ll all be over in a couple of weeks. Then I shall be sitting here and managing the business. You’ll be rotting in your grave, but our house and our name will continue to exist. I shall buy a few new wagons with the money and some strong horses, and then we’ll put those Augsburgers in their place!”

  Desperately, the old man gesticulated toward the door behind his son.

  “Georg, behind you…”

  The young patrician, at first surprised and then obviously shocked, looked at his father, who was pointing his spindly fingers at the entrance. When he finally turned around, it was too late.

  The hangman flew at him like an avenging fury, and with one single blow knocked Georg Augustin to the floor. The glowing poker flew into a corner of the chamber, landing with a clatter. Dazed, Georg Augustin looked up at the big man above him, who now bent down and pulled him up with both hands.

  “You leave torture to me, you fop,” said the hangman. Then he gave the patrician such a head butt with his hard skull that he sank lifeless into the chair. Blood ran from his nose. He keeled over forward, fell, and lay unconscious on the floor.

  The hangman paid no further attention to Georg Augustin and hurried to Simon, who was rocking back and forth on his chair and quickly pulled the gag from his mouth.

  “Kuisl!” panted the physician. “Heaven has sent you. How did you know?”

  “I was at the feast to cool my Magdalena down a bit,” the hangman interrupted him, growling. “Thought I’d catch the two of you flirting. Instead I heard you’d had a tiff. You’re lucky she still likes you and saw you going into Augustin’s place. She told me where you were. When you didn’t come out, I went after you.”

  The hangman pointed to the tear in Simon’s hose, under which burned skin, red-black, was showing.

  “What’s that all about?”

  Simon looked down. When he saw the wound again the pain returned.

  “The swine got me with the poker. He was going to burn me alive.”

  “Now at least you know what’ll happen to the Stechlin woman,” Kuisl growled. “What’s the matter with him down there?” He pointed to old Augustin, who had meanwhile recovered and sat in his chair, his eyes full of hate.

  “He’s the mastermind we’ve been looking for so long,” said Simon, while he bound up his wound with a strip of cloth as best he could. At the same time he told the hangman what had happened.

  “The honorable Matthias Augustin,” Jakob Kuisl finally growled when Simon had finished his story, looking at the old man. “You can’t have enough of executions at the stake. Didn’t my grandfather do enough of them for you? Haven’t you heard enough women screaming?”

  “As God is my witness, I wanted no such thing,” said Matthias Augustin. “All I wanted was the money.”

  “Your damned money,” said the hangman. “It’s blood money. I want none of it. Take it-you can eat it as far as I’m concerned!”

  He reached under his coat and drew out a small dirty linen bag. With disgust he threw it onto the table, where it burst open. Gold and silver coins poured over the tabletop and rolled jingling to the floor.

  The old man looked on, his mouth wide open. Then he leaned over the table and grabbed the coins.

  “My treasure! My money!” he panted. “I shall die with dignity. My house will live on!” He began to count the coins.

  “A pity, really, all that money for a moneybags like you,” grunted Jakob Kuisl. “I’m wondering if I should take it away from you again.”

  Fearfully Matthias Augustin looked across at him. He stopped counting, his fingers trembled.

  “You wouldn’t dare, hangman,” he hissed.

  “And why not?” said Kuisl. “Nobody would notice anything. Or are you going to tell the council that I took Ferdinand Schreevogl’s treasure away from you? Money that actually belongs to the church and you have unlawfully embezzled?”

  Matthias Augustin looked at him with suspicion.

  “What do you want, hangman?” he asked. “You’re not interested in the money. What then?”

  Jakob Kuisl lunged over the table with his massive body until his face was directly in front of the old man’s toothless mouth.

  “Can’t you guess?” he mumbled. “I want you to persuade the council and the Landgrave that there is no witch. That it was all a children’s game with elderberry juice and magic rhymes. So that the midwife will be freed and this persecution will be over. Help me do this, and you can have your goddamned money.”

  Matthias Augustin shook his head and laughed.

  “Even if I wanted to do that, who would believe me? There were deaths, the Stadel burned down, the soldiers at the building site…”

  “The destruction at the building site was an act of vandalism by some burghers who didn’t want a leper house there. A trifle…” Simon interjected, when he had understood what the hangman was leading up to. “The Augsburgers started the Stadel fire,” he hastened to add. “But so as not to upset neighborly relations, there will be no further consequences. And the dead children…”

  “Peter Grimmer fell into the river, an accident, as the physician here can confirm,” he continued in measured tones. “And the others? Well now, the war hasn’t been over all that long. The region is swarming with robbers and highwaymen. In any case, who’s going to bother with a couple of orphans when he can save the town with a lie?”

  “Save…the town?” asked Matthias Augustin, astonished.

  “Well,” Simon added, “if you don’t present the Landgrave with a good story, he’ll hunt down more witches and keep on until half the women in Schongau are burned at the stake. Remember the witch trials in your childhood, when dozens of women were burned. The council will support you and swallow a few small lies if you see to it that the past does not repeat itself. You alone have enough influence to persuade the aldermen and the Landgrave. Use it! I’m sure you know all the mean little secrets that each of them has, which you can use to persuade them if necessary.”

  Matthias Augustin shook his head.

  “Your plan won’t work. Too much has happened…”

  “Think of the money,” the hangman interrupted him. “The money and your
reputation. If we tell the people out there what kind of villains you and your son are, probably nobody will believe us. We ourselves know that we lack proof. But who knows? Somewhere something will stick…I know the people. They gossip, and even the fine people come to me from time to time for a love potion or a salve for warts, and so people start to talk…”

  “Stop, just stop it!” Matthias Augustin cried. “You have persuaded me. I will do my utmost. But I can’t promise you anything.”

  “We can’t promise anything either,” said the hangman, deftly sweeping up the money from the table into his big coat. The old man tried to protest, but a glance from the hangman made him fall silent.

  “Come to my house in two days, after the big council meeting,” said Jakob Kuisl. “I’m quite sure your son will be needing a jar of arnica.” He looked down at Georg Augustin almost sympathetically as he lay huddled upon the floor, still unconscious. A small pool of dried blood surrounded his black locks. Then the hangman turned to the father again.

  “Perhaps I can also find an elixir in my closet that will reduce your pain. Believe me, we shabby barbers and army surgeons know one or two mysteries that the university doctors still haven’t heard of.”

  He went to the door and waved his goodbye with the bag. “If the council gets it right, this bag will change its owner. If not, I’ll throw it in the Lech. It’s up to you.”

  Simon followed him out. Before he shut the door, he could hear the old man groaning once more. The cramps had started again.

  The council meeting two days later was one of the strangest ever to take place in Schongau. Matthias Augustin had used the whole of the previous day to put the squeeze on individual members of the inner council. He had found something against every one of them. With threats, flattery, and persuasion he was able to bring every one of them over to his side. When he finally convinced the court clerk Johann Lechner, there was nothing more in the way of the final plan.