“And so you think you can just wander off and fill your pockets, you little thief? I will hand you over to the guards.”
“I didn’t steal anything. I—ouch!” Peter cried out when Kerll pulled his ear.
“Let him go, now!” shouted Max. “Or I’ll tell my mother that you’re mocking her harp playing behind her back. I heard you with my own ears.”
Kerll winced and abruptly let go of Peter.
“The audience is long over,” Kerll hissed into Peter’s ear, so he could smell the man’s sickly sweet perfume. “I hope your father will give you a good thrashing for your misconduct. And now off with you.”
With the two boys behind him, Kerll walked through a door in the arcades that led to an open walkway. Peter soon realized it was the same walkway he and his father had used to enter the Residenz.
“You must come back,” Max whispered to Peter as they walked toward the gate to the road. “I will command my mother.”
Peter looked at him with astonishment. “You command the electress?”
Max grinned. “Believe me, I’m the only one in the world who can.”
Then they arrived at the gate. The guards opened up, and Kerll booted Peter out onto the road.
“And don’t ever show your face around here again, you thief!” shouted Kerll after him.
When the gate closed, Peter saw Max giving him one last wave goodbye.
Then his path into this wonderful new world was barred again.
Back and forth, Simon walked along the walls of the Residenz, torn between concern for his son and the humiliation he had just experienced. He had entered this audience as Dr. Fronwieser, and had come out as the town dogcatcher. Could one sink any lower? And now Peter had disappeared, too.
After Simon had been dismissed by the electress, he’d searched for his son in the great hall and the neighboring rooms and corridors. But no sign of Peter anywhere, and none of the guards had seen a nine-year-old boy, either. In the end, they had made it very clear to him that it was time to leave the Residenz. Ever since, he’d been combing the streets and alleyways near the palace, unsure of what to do. Had Peter gone home because he was bored? The boy knew what this audience could have meant for him. Had something happened to him? But the electoral Residenz was possibly the safest place in Bavaria.
Despite his fear for Peter, the hopelessness of his situation kept returning to his thoughts. He was supposed to find the lapdog of the electress. How on earth was he going to do that? He didn’t know anyone in Munich and had no idea whom to ask. In Schongau, it was the knacker’s job to catch stray dogs and kill them if no one claimed them. But how did it work in Munich? He supposed he could ask Michael Deibler. That was a start, at least. And what was the worst that could happen if he didn’t find the damned dog? Surely the electress wouldn’t lock him up just for that.
Or would she?
He was walking up Schwabinger Street toward the main gate when he saw a small boy with puffy eyes and a torn shirt heading toward him.
“Peter!” Simon called out. He was so relieved to see his son that he completely forgot to be angry with him. “Where have you been?” He took the boy in his arms. “I’ve been so worried!”
“I . . . I was playing with the prince,” Peter sobbed. “But then Herr Kerll came and threw me out. And . . . and then I was looking for you.”
“What is this nonsense you talk?” Now Simon became annoyed after all. “You ran away, and now you’re making up excuses.”
“But it’s the truth. I was playing with the prince. His name is Max, and he wants to see me again.”
“I don’t want to hear another word of your lies. Let’s see what your mother says when she hears you spoiled your chance of attending school in Munich.” Simon grabbed Peter and dragged him along. For a while, Peter protested, but then he gave up. Sulking, he followed his father across the busy market square and on toward the Anger Quarter.
Simon slowed down only when a large crowd of people appeared in front of them. They were gathered at a bay of one of the streams flowing through the city. A row of posts and chains indicated that this was a watering place for cattle and horses, a Rossschwemme. Slippery, icy steps led into the water, and a rickety wooden bridge spanned the partially frozen stream. Some people in the crowd shouted, others prayed.
“I’m telling you, the devil is on the loose in Munich!” one man was yelling. “Ha! He plucks the pretty girls like ripe cherries.”
“Nonsense, it’s one of those accursed hangmen!” another called out, a broad-shouldered beer driver. “Sepp from Giesing told me they’re holding a meeting in Au. Dishonorable damned rabble.” He pointed at the ground below him, where Simon could now make out a longish bundle that apparently had just been pulled out of the water. “Just look at it. Drowned in a sack like a cat. That’s what the murderer did with that girl in Au, too, and he impaled a third one. Only hangmen do that.”
“One executioner is bad enough, but a dozen is an evil number,” another man called out, leading his skinny cow to the water. “You’ll see, there will be more dead girls.”
Simon felt his throat tighten, and his personal worries suddenly seemed far away. Holding Peter’s hand, he made his way through the crowd until he stood right by the stream. Now he was able to take a closer look at the bundle.
It was a wet sack, roughly as long as a person and bound at the top with a rope. Through it, he could make out the outlines of a human body. The person inside must have thrashed about in desperation, because one foot stuck out of the torn fabric.
It was a dainty foot, clean and with carefully trimmed toenails.
With a sick feeling in his stomach, Simon turned away, his anger at Peter forgotten. “Let’s go find Deibler and Grandfather,” he said to his son. “I’m afraid the Council of Twelve really is in deep trouble now.”
“So this is where you’re hiding. I should have known.”
Panting, Michael Deibler sat down heavily on the bench beside Kuisl. The Schongau hangman was sitting in front of a mug of beer at the Radl Inn, his long pipe in his mouth, the smoke enveloping him like a stinking cloud.
“I ran the whole way from my house,” Deibler groaned, waving at the innkeeper to bring him a beer. “We have much to talk about.”
“If it’s about that blasted Widmann, I’ll shut up next time, I promise,” Kuisl replied morosely. “He’s not worth getting upset about.”
The Council of Twelve had been in session all morning, mainly discussing the payment system for executioners. The council would have liked to standardize the fees for individual jobs—like whipping, thumbscrewing, hanging, and burning—throughout all of Bavaria, but Johann Widmann was opposed. He received the highest wages of all the hangmen. Jakob Kuisl had met Widmann’s objections with some angry remarks.
“I have no idea why I ever considered giving my Barbara to that arrogant snot,” Kuisl grumbled and took a long sip from his beer. “And Hörmann’s drunken son is out of the question, which only leaves Conrad Näher from Kaufbeuren. He puts it on a little thick for my liking. It rubs me the wrong way.”
“Forget about your stupid wedding plans,” Deibler scolded. “We have more important things to talk about. I’ve just heard they found another dead girl up by the Rossschwemme. The murderer knocked her over the head and put her in a sack. It probably happened last night, but the sack must have caught under the bridge and was only found this afternoon. The poor thing had been drowned like a kitten.”
“Damn it!” Kuisl put down his mug and gave Deibler his undivided attention. “Which poor suburb was this one from? Au? Giesing? Haidhausen?”
“No, none of those dumps.” Deibler shook his head. “That’s what makes the case so interesting. The victim is Theresa Wilprecht, the young wife of a wealthy Munich patrician. Now the city council is going to take an interest in these murders as well.”
“Hmm, these murders, you say?” Kuisl took a long drag of his pipe. “So you believe this murder is connected to the others?
I thought you weren’t sure.”
Deibler pounded the table. “It doesn’t matter what I believe. It’s what the people believe. And what’s worse, they think we hangmen have something to do with it.” He counted on his fingers. “Impaling, drowning, walling in alive, and now drowning in a sack. Every single one is a method of execution like we hangmen use. And—”
Deibler paused when the innkeeper brought his beer. When the man had walked away again, he whispered, “You have no idea what’s going on in town. Everyone’s talking. And everyone suddenly remembers another strange murder from years ago. If we’re not careful, they’ll pin every unsolved case since Cain and Abel on us hangmen.” He leaned forward. “You must do something, Jakob. They say you’re so clever. Now prove it.”
When Kuisl didn’t reply, Deibler continued: “You never said anything, but I know it always bugged you that you hadn’t been voted onto the council all those years. Now you can finally show the smug bastards, especially Widmann. Isn’t that something?”
Kuisl still said nothing, the smoke from his pipe slowly rising to the ceiling. After a while he finally said, “If I must snoop around, I first need to learn more about the murder victims. You said you’d keep an ear out.”
Deibler nodded with relief. “And I have. I spoke with Captain Loibl earlier. Everything he knew about the girl in Au he knew from us, but he was able to tell me more about the impaled girl. She wore a plain gray dress, typical for weavers. She carried nothing but a few pennies and a small bag with herbs. It wasn’t a robbery, anyhow.”
Kuisl listened closely. “A bag with herbs? What herbs?”
“No idea. Perhaps something to smoke out the house—a common thing for women to do in winter. But there’s something else.” Deibler lowered his voice. “They kept her body in the morgue in the hope of finding out who she was. One day a young girl turned up, pale, straggly blonde hair, claimed the dead girl’s name was Elfriede Tanninger and she used to work at the Au silk manufactory. When Loibl asked more, she took off.”
“Silk manufactory in Au?” Kuisl frowned. “Are you joking?”
Michael Deibler laughed. “No, it’s true. Our elector decided a few years ago that Bavaria ought to produce its own silk. Since then, they’ve bred silkworms in the electoral gardens and employed a bunch of poor girls to weave the silk at manufactories in Anger Square and Au.” Deibler took a sip of his beer and wiped the foam from his beard. “No idea if the fabric is any good, but at least it gets the girls off the streets. From time to time, they send out henchmen to catch more—even children—and force them to work there. If they refuse, they get chased out of town.”
“Back in the old days, women, and sometimes their whole families, used to toil at their own loom to earn their daily bread,” Kuisl growled. “Now they get dozens to do the job and call it manufacturing—but someone else pockets the cash.”
“No point pissing and moaning about it.” Deibler grinned. “That’s just what it’s like nowadays, Jakob. We’re too old to understand.”
“It’s idiotic, that’s what it is,” Kuisl said. He took another drag at his pipe before continuing. “By the way, Master Hans really did meet up with a girl in Au. And guess what? She wasn’t yet eighteen, was covered in freckles, and had strawberry-blonde hair, just like our dead girl. Georg was right.”
Deibler stared at him. “How on earth do you—”
“Do you think I just sit on my backside and drink beer, waiting for our meeting to finally continue?” Kuisl said, cutting him off. “I went and spoke to a few people in Au. You can’t miss Hans, with his white hair and red eyes, after all.”
“You just have it in for him because—”
“For Christ’s sake, he spoke with the murder victim. Accept it, Michl. And he lied to us. If you’re asking me to investigate those murders, then let me damn well do it my way. You can’t pick and choose your murderer.”
Deibler shrugged. “This morning Hans was sitting at the table with us, and I saw him here last night as well. So he could hardly have murdered the patrician’s wife.”
“You saw him all night? You shared his bed, then, did you? No, you didn’t. So—”
Kuisl stopped abruptly when the tavern door opened and a group of hangmen came in, Master Hans among them. The others walked at a distance from him, as if he carried a bad smell.
“Speak of the devil . . . ,” Kuisl murmured.
When Hans spotted the Schongau hangman, he walked over to their table and bowed with a mocking smile.
“My dear friend Jakob,” he said softly and brushed a strand of white hair from his face. “In all the excitement, I haven’t had a chance to ask about your younger daughter. She left rather hastily yesterday.”
“Don’t you worry about Barbara,” Kuisl replied, his fingers tightening around his mug. “She’s a strong girl.”
“Is that so?” Master Hans nodded. “I’m glad to hear it. I’ve always liked her, you know. So if you can’t find a husband for her after yesterday’s performance . . .” He bent down to Kuisl and winked one of his red eyes. “There’s always room for her at my house in Weilheim. I love it when women are as feisty as young horses. Then I can break them in.” Laughing, he patted Kuisl on the back and walked away.
Hans sat down at a table of his own and smiled smugly to himself, looking pleased about something. Kuisl shuddered. He just couldn’t read Master Hans.
“All right, I’ll admit he isn’t the most pleasant fellow around,” Deibler said after a while, giving Hans a furtive glance. “But he does get the fastest and best confession. That is why he’s on the Council of Twelve, even though I never voted for him. He’s repulsive and he enjoys torturing prisoners. But a serial killer of girls? Jakob, I think you’re getting carried away.”
“Then we have nothing more to say to each other.” Kuisl got to his feet, but Deibler pulled him back down.
“Listen, Jakob, I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said quietly, making sure the other hangmen couldn’t hear him. “I only want you to investigate without prejudice. I need you! Or else this is going to be the last meeting of executioners for a long time, provided they don’t massacre one of us first. So please.” He gave Kuisl a pleading look. “Find out who’s behind all this.”
Kuisl hesitated. He looked over to Master Hans, who was whistling a silent song. Finally, he nodded.
“All right. I’ll start at this damned silk manufactory. Just so you don’t think I’m only after Hans.” The hangman reached for his mug and took another long drink. “But first, let’s finish our beer.” Jakob Kuisl wiped the foam from his beard. “Because if there’s one thing to be said about you Munich folks—you may be a bunch of crazy, stuck-up fools, but you sure know how to brew beer.”
Spellbound by the hustle and bustle of the big city, Barbara and Georg drifted through the busy lanes of Munich.
Even though many shops were still closed following Candlemas, the streets were buzzing. Snorting oxen pulled carts toward Graggenau Quarter, where the salt was stored at a large square. Dignified Jesuits walked toward Saint Michael College in their black robes, accompanied by a group of street children hoping for a handout. It wasn’t long before the children were chased off by the city guards. Barbara thought Munich was even tougher on beggars than other towns were. Any riffraff were locked out, left to fend for themselves in the outskirts. Only a small number of poor people were granted access to the city every morning as day laborers. Barbara shuddered. Would she also be with the riffraff soon? Begging with her babe in arms until the guards chased her away?
The siblings had been strolling through town for nearly two hours, stopping for a while at a stall with mulled wine and doughnuts, admiring the wares of a cloth merchant on wealthy Neuhauser Street, but most of all, they talked. The twins had much to catch up on, having not seen each other in over two years. In Schongau, as children, they used to be inseparable, sometimes even dreaming the same dreams. But the last few years had turned Georg into a strong young man, and Barbara i
nto a woman with her own mind. Conversation didn’t flow as freely as it used to. They had barely mentioned Barbara’s pregnancy since their first conversation. It seemed each of them was afraid the subject would only cause strife.
Just that morning, Magdalena had tried to talk to Barbara again. Over and over she had pointed out the serious consequences of not finding a husband in Munich. But of the three candidates her father had chosen, one was a useless drunkard and another an arrogant snob. And the third was her father’s age. It was hopeless! Was there no other way?
And something else tormented Barbara: try as she might, she couldn’t love the thing growing inside her. It was as if she carried some foreign object inside her that ate her flesh, consuming her bit by bit.
So how could I ever be a good mother?
Georg sensed that something was bothering his sister, and he squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry.” He tried to soothe her with an encouraging smile. “We’ll find a solution.”
Barbara gave a desperate laugh. Typical man, always looking for practical solutions, even in matters of the heart. As if the heart were one of those newfangled ticking clocks that could simply be repaired.
“You mean we’ll find a husband for me,” she said bitterly. She kicked at an icy pile of horse dung, sending it flying into one of the many streams running through the city. “Why can’t I look after myself? Like Martha, the midwife in Schongau?”
“Stechlin is an old spinster. And she only helps other women give birth, she never had children of her own.” Georg gave her a stern look. “Barbara, what’s happened is bad enough, but you can still avoid the worst. Please, be reasonable, for your family’s sake.”
“Yes, it’s so easy for you menfolk,” Barbara said. “Plant a child in our belly and then disappear. Leave us women alone to deal with our sorrow.”
“The fellow who did this to you is a bastard,” Georg replied. “No question. But maybe you”—he searched for the right words—“encouraged him a little. I know you, Barbara. You like to dance, flirting with the guys . . . The woman leads into temptation, so it says in the Bible.”
The Council of Twelve Page 15
