The Gravedigger’s Son and the Waif Girl 1

by Sam Feuerbach

  Plaudius’s features softened too. Then he grinned. "What matter?"

  "Thank you, that means a lot to me! I won’t disappoint you." Farin’s words expressed firm conviction.

  Drogdan cleared his throat. "Right then, get yourself something to eat – it’s goose today."

  Food and drink had been far from the gravedigger son’s mind although he was sitting in the dining hall. There was no way he was going to stand up and walk through the malignant mob to where the food was being served. "I’m not hungry."

  The three men looked at him sceptically.

  Farin couldn’t stop thinking about the dead squire. Of course, there would be more suitable opportunities, but he simply couldn’t wait: "What do you know about the death of my predecessor?"

  Drogdan and Plaudius looked at Stump.

  "Hrm", he nodded to Drogdan in encouragement.

  The latter pinched his earlobe with his right hand. "Did I understand you correctly and you want to find out more about how your predecessor died?"

  "Yes, please. What was his name?"

  "He was called Keimund."

  "When did the accident happen?"

  "Eight days ago – Emicho sent us off shortly afterwards to…collect you." Drogdan grinned for the first time that evening.

  "Why are you so curious about the deceased?" Plaudius shrugged his shoulders. "Dead is dead – there’s nothing you can do about it." He gnawed at the goose drumstick he was holding in his greasy fingers.

  "Sadly true, and for a change, I know a lot about this particular topic. The dead often have one last story to tell."

  "Aha." Plaudius licked his fingers. "I’d rather eat one last drumstick."

  "How was he interred?" asked Farin.

  Drogdan looked at him in surprise. "He hasn’t been yet – his family should be here in five days at the latest to receive Keimund’s body. He belongs to an old aristocratic family, you see, and he’ll be interred in their crypt in the far south."

  Farin had been hoping for something like that. Now he really had to reveal his plan. "So, you’re storing his body somewhere in the castle?"

  "Of course, until his relations collect him."

  "Where is he?"

  "Who?" asked Plaudius.

  "Squire Keimund."

  Drogdan responded, tight-lipped: "The body is lying deep in the dungeon in the ice hall. Even the wine freezes in its goblets down there. Why the old man took such extreme measures, I don’t know."

  "The colder, the better!" said Farin, delightedly. "That’s really good, otherwise decomposition would have destroyed some things after eight days. Rigor mortis has dissipated in any event."

  The looks on the faces around him suggested that the men rarely spun yards over the condition of bodies during their meals.

  Without pausing for thought, the question came tumbling out: "Can you bring me to him?"

  Drogdan wrinkled his nose: "Take you into the castle catacombs? Into the ice hall? To Keimund’s body? Will Emicho approve?"

  Plaudius stopped chewing. "Even if we wanted to, it’s far from easy. The entrance to the catacombs is sealed off by the gate of bars. There are only a few keys and fewer people who can claim them as their own."

  "So far, I’ve only been making a fool of myself, but I understand something about bodies. Give me a chance to prove myself."

  Drogdan and Plaudius looked at their drumsticks, then their heads pivoted for the third time that evening to their leader.

  The little man looked at Farin with intelligent, examining eyes. Eyes which could be furious at the right moment and thoughtful at the right moment.

  Impressive that a small, mute man could be so successful. Shouldn’t that give hope to a gravedigger’s son too?

  He was clearly finding it hard to reach a decision. Farin wanted to help. "Come on, Stump, please, if a person says “hrm”, then he also has to say “hrm”."

  His face impassive, Sump fiddled at his belt under the table. Then he produced an object with his stumpy fingers: a long, rusty key with a multi-pronged bit. "Hrm", Stump added. It sounded like a mixture of annoyance and enjoyment.

  "You have a key to the catacombs? I should have known," whispered Drogdan.

  Plaudius forgot to chew.

  Farin was simultaneously gripped by excitement and enthusiasm. "Thanks, Stump. Let’s go then. Who’s coming?"

  "Now? Already? You are in a hurry," groaned Drogdan.

  Plaudius echoed his companion, smacking his lips. "Hurrying isn’t good for the stomach."

  "A fifth drumstick isn’t either," said Drogdan and looked at Farin.

  "But before we go, eat something. Plaudius, give the little fella some of yours, then he won’t have to run the gauntlet to the serving counter."

  Scowling, Plaudius pushed his drumstick over to Farin, but his eyes were twinkling in a friendly manner.

  The gravedigger’s son devoured it ravenously. "Thanks, I’m delighted you’re helping." He quickly wiped his greasy fingers on his shirtsleeve. "Don’t be angry but I’m in a real hurry. Even if it’s cold down there, the dead don’t get any fresher." Farin looked at the others. "And his relations could be here tomorrow."

  No, they’re coming from the most southerly south and will need another couple of days."

  "Why are the catacombs locked and bolted?"

  "They’re made up of endless passageways, an enormous labyrinth haunted by the ghosts of those who couldn’t find their way out", explained Drogdan.

  "That doesn’t scare me, that makes me more curious."

  "But it does me", said Plaudius.

  "Will we all go?" Farin deliberately put the brakes on his euphoria, because although the catacombs sounded really fascinating, he didn’t want to impose too much on the three men.

  "Mhmm."

  That surely meant "all", because both Plaudius and Drogdan nodded and stood up. Just like his master, Knight Stump was a dab hand at leaving little room for interpretation.

  investigations

  F or every step his companions took, Stump had to take two, which clearly presented no problem to him. He moved swiftly ahead and was greeted several times with respectful nods, and not just from the servants, but also from soldiers and officers. The little man led Plaudius, Drogdan and Farin into a bleak vault in the typical grey of Stormwatch, from where stone steps led both upwards and downwards. The passageway into the darkest recess looked particularly uncomfortable and unforgiving. A moment later and Stump was marching into it with determination – how could it be otherwise?

  "Luckily I’ve never been banished down here," clarified Plaudius.

  "There’s always the last time," explained Drogdan.

  "You really mean, the first time."

  "No, you heard me correctly, Plaudius. Who knows if we’ll ever get out of the catacombs alive? They say hosts of people have lost their way in the catacombs over the years. Their ghosts are still wandering around down there – in search of food and a way out."

  "You don’t really believe old wives’ tales like that, do you?"

  "They usually contain a grain of truth," said Drogdan, shrugging his shoulders.

  They continued trudging down the crooked steps until Stump stopped on a narrow landing. A lonely oil-lamp was smouldering in an alcove in front of them. Under it was a wicker basket with resin torches, two of which their leader pulled out, lighting one with the help of the oil-lamp. He quickly lit the second with the first torch and pressed it into Drogdan’s hand.

  They continued their descent into the depths of the castle catacombs. It wasn’t long before the two torches were their only sources of light. They turned a corner and found themselves in a square-shaped area with two wooden benches at a table. On the wall hung an empty shelf for pikes and spears. Considerable time had settled on the simple furniture in the form of considerable dust – nobody had sat here in months. They didn’t stay long either, continuing until they reached a fork. One of the two passageways defied trespassers by means of a thick g
rille made up of six horizontal iron rods set into the walls, which prevented anyone from entering. Their leader gestured to it with his torch.

  "The gate of bars," said Plaudius.

  "We have to get through it," said Drogdan. "How can we move the bars? Where’s the locking mechanism?"

  "Hrm."

  With a deft movement Stump pushed his rusty key into an innocuous hole in the wall to his left. It clicked as the catch released. He sank the bars into the wall on the right by pushing each of them to the side, so that the four could pass through.

  "A lot of effort for a corpse. How much further is it to the ice hall? I’m finding it pretty cold already," grumbled Plaudius.

  At that very moment, their leader stopped and opened a heavy wooden door to his left, revealing a chamber – the temperature dropped another few degrees. Farin thought for a moment he could hear running water, but it was only a rhythmical drip, dripping noise that reached his ears.

  "Why is this narrow hole called the ice hall? It’s hardly bigger than a lousy room in the south tower," declared Drogdan.

  "Hm!" thought Farin, realising he sounded almost like Stump.

  It was true that the four had to squeeze in together. There were two recesses in the wall in front of them, one at chest-hight, the other knee-high. A linen bundle, two yards long, lay in the upper one.

  "Now what?" asked Drogdan impatiently.

  "I need more light." Farin could only see a shadow in this gloomy environment.

  Plaudius pulled an oil-lamp from a slot near the door. "How about this?"

  "Excellent. Please keep the light on me because I have to use both hands."

  While Farin took the linen covers off the body, Stump lit the oil-lamp with his torch, and Plaudius turned up the wick to make it as bright as possible. The body of the dead squire shimmered white in the flickering light, his head was covered by thin blond hair, his eye sockets gave his face an owlish look.

  "That’s Squire Keimund," confirmed Drogdan, tight-lipped.

  "That was him," added Plaudius, being more specific.

  Farin didn’t feel helpless for a change, but completely in his element. "Pity he’s been washed already – important clues might have been destroyed that way."

  "What sort of clues?" Plaudius couldn’t help staring at the corpse’s naked feet.

  Considering that eight days had passed, the body was in good condition. An exemplary corpse, thought Farin. He began his examination at the feet. Toes and legs unscathed. No bruising on either the knees or the hip bones. Farin kneaded the loose, light skin that had suffered neither haematomas nor other impacts.

  "What are you doing there?" hissed Drogdan with little enthusiasm.

  "Trust me." Farin was now inspecting the torso. He discovered a tattoo on the inside of his right forearm. Inconspicuous – just a circle, within it an upside-down pentagram with a flame in the middle.

  "A pentacle. What does it mean?"

  Farin’s companions, their heads tilted forward, examined the symbol, made up of simple carved lines. They all shook their heads.

  "Doesn’t say anything to me," opined Drogdan. "Hurry up, I’m getting cold."

  Farin nodded and turned his attention to the hands. Both undamaged – no evidence of scratches or abrasions, no broken fingers. Strange for somebody who had fallen off a tower.

  Farin turned the corpse’s head with his right hand. The face was no longer symmetrical, its left eye socket was lower – a sure sign that the skull had been fractured, probably in several places. Apart from that he couldn’t find anything out of the ordinary – quite the contrary, the squire’s facial features seemed relaxed. He then opened Keimund’s jaws with both hands, as he would a wolf trap. "Shine the light on his mouth, Plaudius."

  "Boy, oh boy!" was the enthusiastic response. Plaudius said no more, however, but dutifully held the oil lamp right in front of the deceased’s face. Farin examined the tongue with particular care – it often offered the first clue as to cause of death. Its colour varied depending on the manner of death and the tongue always told its owner’s last story: death by decrepitude or by haemorrhage or by oxygen deficiency. You just had to listen intently. Farin was interested to know if Keimund had bitten on it as he was dying.

  The oral cavity looked normal, the colour of the tongue too, but a tear the width of a thumb ran from the tip upwards along the muscle. Farin carefully pushed the lower jaw up again.

  "Finished?" urged Plaudius.

  "The front, yes, but everything has two sides. Help me to turn him on his stomach, please."

  "Oh heck – do you want me to light up his backside now?"

  "Not necessary – that won’t tell us anything, Plaudius," said Farin, placating him. He could see out of the corner of his eye that his three comrades were exchanging silent looks. They obviously figured he’d lost the plot – and he couldn’t expect them to put up with much more.

  With Drogdan’s help he turned over the body so that the gravedigger could examine the back of the head. And here he found the definitive cause of the heart stopping. Two large holes in the skull were clearly visible.

  "Let’s concentrate on these," suggested Farin.

  "Yes, I heard he fell from the tower onto his head and was dead immediately," said Drogdan.

  "Bring the lamp as near as you can, Plaudius." Farin looked at the two holes carefully. The lower one consisted of a rupture with irregular wound margins. Farin regretted once again that the body had been washed already – he would have liked to have examined the haemorrhaging in more detail.

  "Does the castle have its own gravedigger?"

  Drogdan shook his head emphatically. "God, no, it wouldn’t be worth it. Old Dannolin does it along with all his other tasks. I think he was even executioner once."

  The second hole was positioned at the top of the skull, it was in the form of a square, or a trapezium to be precise. The wound margins in this case were smooth and regular. Farin probed it with his slightly bent forefinger and felt around the inside of the hole in the skullcap. With the tip of his finger he felt a thin fissure connecting the two holes. The cold cerebral matter made his finger freeze, as if he were boring into a block of ice. He ignored the cold, he was too fascinated by the manner in which the deceased told his story, offered solutions and answers to which Farin only had to find the right questions.

  "What are you doing there?" asked Plaudius harshly.

  "Listening – the deceased is speaking to me."

  "I don’t hear anything." The fat man rolled his eyes.

  I’d better finish soon, Farin thought.

  His companions were losing patience at the same speed as their body temperature was dropping, and their enthusiasm for this little adventure into the castle’s cold catacombs had been half-hearted to start with.

  "Done already!" asserted Farin. "Let’s turn him back over quickly and get back into the warmth."

  "The nutcase’s first reasonable suggestion", praised Drogdan glancing sideways at him quickly and spinning Keimund’s corpse back onto its back. "Come on, let’s split!"

  "Just the cerecloth." Farin gently covered the deceased with the fabric.

  The way back seemed shorter to him, maybe it had something to do with their leader’s quicker pace. When they reached the iron bars, Stump began to close the upper ones by pushing them towards the left wall. Plaudius helped by moving the lower ones with his frozen fingers – however, he didn’t quite manage to push the last one completely back into the mechanism. It seemed that only Farin noticed, for nobody reacted -they all wanted to get back to the hearth as quickly as possible.

  Why didn’t Farin tell the others? He had never liked locked doors and…there was always the chance he might want to make a little trip back here again. Preferably alone. He was thin enough to be able to squeeze through the gap below.

  "What did that profit us, apart from freezing my dick off?" asked Drogdan once they were back in the stairwell.

  "Plenty! Really, plenty!" blurted
out Farin. "What exactly, you’ve yet to learn – I still haven’t finished my deliberations. Where can I get parchment and charcoal?"

  "I’ll get you what you need. Do you want to write a letter home?" asked Plaudius.

  "No, I want to draw a picture."

  "You’re the battiest bat we’ve ever had up here in the castle."

  Neither Drogdan nor Stump contradicted their comrade.

  "Trust me. And grant me one last wish – nothing in comparison to our trip into the catacombs."

  "What else?" grumbled Drogdan. "Even though the lord of the castle told us to look after you, he never suggested we should be your serfs."

  "I understand that. Just show me the place where the body was found."

  "Right so, but that’ll be it then. Let’s go to the west keep."

  Having arrived there, Drogdan pointed to the cobblestones at the foot of the tower. "This is where Keimund was lying." He pointed up at a platform, just over three yards above them. "That’s where he fell over the parapet to his death."

  "Not very high. Was he on guard duty?"

  "No, squires don’t do guard duty."

  "Were there witnesses?"

  "No, he was on his own up there. Some people say he committed suicide." Drogdan shook his head. "But I don’t believe that."

  Farin carefully examined the spot where the body was found and felt the cobblestones. He could find nothing out of the ordinary, which only reinforced his suspicions.

  "That’s it. We’re finished," said the gravedigger’s son.

  "We did these very unusual favours for you. Now, spit it out, why all the hullabaloo?" Drogdan looked at him provokingly.

  "Have you found your clues?" asked Plaudius.

  Farin whispered: "I have. And many clues point in one direction. Thanks again for your help and your belief in me. And I’ll gladly repay you – please keep this to yourselves: I’m certain it wasn’t an accident and definitely not suicide. Squire Keimund was murdered. And the murderer thinks he’s safe and is probably living amongst us."

  Suspicious, surprised and solicitous looks.

  "Hrrmm!" said Stump.