The Council of Twelve

by Oliver Pötzsch

  But then Magdalena’s good mood had vanished when Simon told her about his botched audience. She had truly hoped to find a school in Munich for Peter, but instead, Simon had been appointed the municipal dogcatcher.

  “And you’re really supposed to find the lapdog of the electress?” she asked once more. They were sitting around a huge frying pan full of bacon and eggs at the large table. Sighing, Simon put down his wooden spoon. He seemed to have lost his appetite.

  “The mutt’s name is Arthur, and a lady-in-waiting lost him,” he said wearily. “I have no idea where I’m supposed to start looking for him. I think I’ll just ignore it. The worst that can happen is that the electress doesn’t think I’m the smartest fellow in Schongau any longer.” He rolled his eyes. “I’ve got our town clerk, Lechner, to thank. He told Count Sandizell all about us, and the count in turn told the electress.”

  “About us?” Kuisl asked, frowning.

  “Well, uh . . . your name was mentioned.”

  Magdalena thought she could see her husband blush. “And then Peter had suddenly disappeared,” Simon continued hastily. “And when I found him again, he made up this whole story about playing with the prince. Sometimes I think the boy’s imagination runs riot. Perhaps he does read too much.”

  “Either way, I want you to find that pet dog,” Magdalena said decisively. “If you have the mutt as a pawn, you’ll be able to ask a favor of the electress—like a spot at Saint Michael College for Peter, for example.”

  “Wonderful!” Simon threw up his arms in despair. “And what do you suggest I do to find cute little Arthur? Put up posters with a drawing of him? Knock on every door in Munich and ask if anyone’s seen a gorgeous little spaniel?”

  “You could always ask Lorentz, the city dogcatcher,” Michael Deibler suggested. “He might know something. Lorentz’s eyes and ears are everywhere. He doesn’t live far from here.” He cleared his throat. “But now I’d like to discuss more pressing matters than lapdogs—namely, the murders.” He turned to Kuisl. “We didn’t get a chance to speak at the meeting this afternoon, so now tell me: Did you learn anything interesting at the silk works?”

  Kuisl grinned. “Oh, yes, and you won’t like it at all.”

  With growing astonishment, Magdalena listened as their father told them about his conversation with Mother Joseffa and poor Eva. When he mentioned the name Master Hans, Barbara inhaled sharply.

  “That devil,” she hissed. “So he really is connected to the murders.”

  Kuisl nodded solemnly. He helped himself to a large spoonful of eggs with bacon from the pan and chewed loudly before washing it down with a swig of beer. Then he continued his story.

  “Apparently, Hans spoke with Anni, the red-haired girl we pulled out of the Au creek. We already heard that from other witnesses. But more importantly, he hung around the silk manufactory following the death of the first girl, Elfi.” Kuisl held up two fingers. “Anni and Elfi—both dead, and Hans showed interest in both of them. In my view, that makes him our main suspect.”

  Deibler shook his head. “I still can’t believe Master Hans is supposed to have committed all those murders. What’s his motive?”

  Jakob Kuisl took another spoonful of egg. “I don’t know yet. But something’s wrong with that manufactory. Two of the murder victims worked there. And Eva wanted to tell me something before that made-up hag locked her in again.”

  “And what about Theresa Wilprecht, the girl they found at the Rossschwemme today?” Georg said from the far end of the table. “She certainly didn’t work at the manufactory, coming from a wealthy patrician family. And the girl from the rock cellar has been dead for decades. The only thing connecting her to the other cases is a medallion.”

  “For God’s sake, how am I supposed to know how they’re all connected?” Kuisl angrily thumped the table with his spoon, sending egg flying everywhere. “But my nose tells me they are. And not just because all the murders look like executions, or because of the amulet. There’s something else.” He held his hand close to his face. “I’m this close. But every time I try to reach for it, it’s gone. It’s enough to drive a man crazy.”

  “It would be helpful to examine Theresa’s body,” Simon said. “You might find something on her. Another amulet, for example.”

  Deibler snorted. “Forget it. Theresa Wilprecht comes from a rich family, no hangman’s going to get near her. She’ll be kept at home and then straight to her burial.”

  “Well, it might be helpful to find out if the murders we know of are the only ones, or if there’ve been more,” Magdalena said placatingly. She turned to Deibler. “You mentioned once that there may have been others?”

  “I wasn’t sure at first. But in hindsight . . .” Deibler hesitated. Then he nodded. “Yes, there were several cases in the last few years. Drowned girls with tied hands, strangled girls . . . I remember one case in Giesing, about five years ago. Someone had dug a hole in a field and filled it up again. An arm was sticking out of the ground. The poor girl must have been buried alive and tried to dig herself out before she died.”

  “Jesus,” Barbara breathed. “What a terrible way to die.”

  “How many?” Magdalena asked.

  Deibler looked confused. “What do you mean?”

  “For crying out loud, Michl. That wasn’t a difficult question,” Kuisl said angrily. “How many dead girls have there been?”

  “I’m not sure.” Michael Deibler shrugged. “A dozen, perhaps more. No one counts them. They’re just poor young maids who come to the city from God knows where.”

  “And were any of them carrying amulets?” Simon asked.

  “How should I know?” Deibler flared up. “I can barely even remember the girls! The knacker and I used to take them to the graveyards.” He faltered. “I think there actually were amulets, on some of the girls, at least. I never took a closer look, because lots of girls wear necklaces. But by God, I think you’re right, there were some Virgin Marys with halos.”

  No one said anything for a while. A wind gust rattled the shutters, as if Winter himself were knocking on the windows.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Georg whispered eventually. “For decades, a crazy mass murderer has been on the loose here, killing young women and leaving an amulet. If we count the mummy in the rock cellar, then—”

  “Then he’s been at work for some twenty, thirty years,” Jakob Kuisl said, finishing his sentence. “As far as I know, Master Hans is in his midforties . . .”

  “That means he would have been just a boy when he committed his first murder in Munich.” Deibler laughed uneasily. “And he’s from Weilheim. That’s more than thirty miles away. He may have traveled to Munich from time to time, but killing someone every time? And why, anyhow?” He shook his head. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Jakob. It couldn’t have been Hans. Please accept it.”

  “Damn it, you’re right, Michl. Perhaps the walled-in mummy has nothing to do with the other cases. And maybe the amulets have no meaning at all. But if what you’re saying is true, then Munich has far too many unsolved murders in recent years.” Kuisl picked at some egg yolk in his beard. “One thing is for certain: one way or another, Hans is connected to it all. But to find out more, someone would have to pay the silk manufactory another visit.”

  “I hardly think Mother Joseffa’s going to let you speak with her girls again,” Magdalena said mockingly.

  “Not me, but you,” Kuisl replied with a wide grin.

  Magdalena gave him a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I think the manufactory always needs new women to work the looms. And you girls like to chat.” Kuisl leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Eva might confide in you.”

  “Uh, just so we’re clear,” Simon said. “You want Magdalena to work as a weaver?”

  “Only for a few days. Just until she finds out more about this damned manufactory.”

  “Never,” Magdalena protested. “I’m no maidservant.
And who’s supposed to look after the children?”

  “Hmm, Burgi could, I guess,” Michael Deibler said thoughtfully. “Clearly, Sophia likes her, and the boys are old enough. I don’t think it’s a bad idea.” He gave Magdalena a pleading look. “It’s only for one or two days. By then our guild meeting will be over, and the hangmen will return to their hometowns. If we can prove by then that none of us had anything to do with the murders, you’ll be doing our guild a great favor.”

  And my father once again gets his way, Magdalena thought.

  She hesitated. Then she had an idea. “I’ll do it under one condition.”

  “Which is?” Jakob Kuisl asked.

  “Barbara is free to choose her own husband. She won’t be forced to any wedding, neither here nor in Schongau.”

  Kuisl stared at his older daughter in shock. Then his eyes turned to Barbara, who smiled quietly. “For Christ’s sake, you’re all in on it,” he swore.

  “Barbara is innocent,” Magdalena replied. “It was entirely my idea.”

  “Do you have any idea how much work I’ve put into this?” her father continued. “All those letters. I practically crept up Widmann’s ass.”

  “You’ve told Widmann that he’s a stuck-up idiot several times since,” Magdalena replied coolly. “And you can’t be serious about Hörmann’s ugly drunk of a son. That leaves only Conrad Näher from Kaufbeuren. And Barbara was good enough to talk to him. What more do you want?”

  Jakob Kuisl didn’t reply right away. Magdalena could tell he was thinking hard, grinding his teeth as if he were chewing on tough meat. Finally, he nodded. “All right. I probably wouldn’t have been able to force that stubborn woman anyway.”

  “Your word of honor?”

  “My word of honor as dishonorable hangman.”

  Magdalena smiled triumphantly. Barbara gave her sister’s hand a grateful squeeze under the table.

  “That’s settled, then,” she said. “Tomorrow morning I’ll apply for a job at the silk manufactory. I only hope I won’t be too clumsy as a weaver.”

  6

  SOMEWHERE IN THE HACKEN QUARTER, EARLY MORNING, FEBRUARY 5, AD 1672

  COLD FOG HUNG IN THE alleyways like tobacco smoke while the rising sun struggled to push through the clouds. A few stray snowflakes tumbled from the dark sky. Here and there a rooster crowed, but other than that, the quarter lay silent at this early hour. The night watchman had finished his last round, and the countless Munich tradesmen—the carpenters, builders, brewers, linen weavers, butchers, wagon drivers, and innkeepers—hadn’t risen yet. In half an hour, the city gates would open and let in the dregs of society from the outskirts—the beggars, maids, whores, and day laborers, hoping for some easy money.

  During this hour, just before the floodgates opened, the silence was the most profound—and the despair the greatest.

  It was the best time to hunt.

  A figure emerged from the darkness of a narrow lane and silently moved across the bridges and walkways of the city stream, over to the Herzogspital Church. Here, in front of the wooden statue of Our Lady of Sorrows, the hunter often found prey. Young girls liked to seek comfort beneath the Holy Virgin. In recent years, Herzogspital Church had become a popular place for those who couldn’t see a way out.

  Curious, the hunter opened the church door, which was never locked. The hunter’s heart beat faster upon seeing a girl, all alone, praying in front of the altar. By her clothing and the whimpering and sobbing, it seemed that she might be the right girl. She wasn’t yet twenty, her dress sooty, the apron stained and torn. She probably came from some village in Bavaria and now worked as a maid in one of the many taverns in the Hacken Quarter. She’d stumble through the pub room in her clunky wooden clogs, carrying heavy mugs of beer with her spindly arms. Men would pat her bony backside, and at some point, one of them would promise her a bright future and take her to a stinking stable or barn. Then they’d do it like animals, and the seed would be planted.

  The girl’s bitter weeping and her imploring prayers led the hunter to suspect the seed was already sprouting inside her.

  The hunter was on the right track.

  All that needed to be done now was to wait.

  It took a while before the girl finally crossed herself one last time, stood up, and walked to the exit. The hunter shrank into an alcove and studied her puffed face, a face like so many others in this city. The eyes told stories of hopes dashed, of lovers gone, of childhoods in poverty. The hunter could read such faces like a book.

  And there was always sin in the story.

  Just like in the eyes of the young woman who scurried past and disappeared out the church door.

  The hunter waited another moment, then followed her. The girl rushed toward the Anger Quarter, where the stinking city stream flowed along low, huddled houses until it joined the Rossschwemme stream.

  Good.

  The Anger Quarter was one of the best hunting grounds. Lots of narrow lanes, numerous streams, a maze in which no one became suspicious. Sometimes the hunter lured the girls out from there to the meadows, where there were fewer witnesses. The hunter could be very convincing when necessary, gaining the girls’ trust. And why not? A brief conversation, a walk outside the city gates, one last prayer . . . The hunter squeezed the amulet in a powerful hand. It gave the strength to do what had to be done.

  The amulet with the woman in the aureole.

  The hunter was about to stalk the prey when something unexpected happened. A young man—a simple laborer or stable boy, judging by the clothes—appeared from one of the alleyways. He was panting; evidently, he had been running. When he spotted the girl, he called out to her. It seemed he had been looking for her and was relieved to have found her. The girl jumped with fright at first, but after a brief hesitation, she threw her arms around the young man and cried. He stroked and soothed her, and her sobs eased. After a while, they walked off hand in hand toward Anger Square.

  Disappointed, the hunter stayed behind and slipped the amulet back in a pocket. But the hunter knew that this wasn’t the end of the girl’s story.

  The hunter had seen the sin in her eyes, and it couldn’t be erased, not with stroking and soothing words. She would return to take the final step.

  The hunter needed only to wait.

  The bell of the parish church chimed the seventh hour of the morning when Magdalena crossed the Isar Bridge on her way to the Au silk manufactory. The city gates hadn’t been open long, so now she was walking against a stream of men and women looking for work in Munich for the day or trying to keep above water through begging or peddling.

  Underneath her warm woolen coat, Magdalena wore a simple linen dress with an apron; she hadn’t bothered brushing her hair, and mud and dirt clung to the hem of her skirt. Her father had advised her to look as poor as possible so as not to arouse suspicion. But she hadn’t exactly felt like a princess before putting on her disguise.

  Magdalena still wasn’t sure what to think of her father’s plan—especially since she’d never sat at a loom before. But she guessed it probably was the easiest way to gain the trust of the weavers and find out more about the manufactory. The worst that could happen was she might get thrown out. Well, it wouldn’t have been for nothing—her father had promised he wouldn’t force Barbara to marry.

  But Barbara doesn’t really have a choice, she thought glumly. Not with a belly that grows bigger every day. At some point, even Father will notice. The only question is, Before the wedding or after?

  Magdalena had smothered little Sophia with kisses when she said her goodbyes. She knew Walburga would take good care of her and that it wasn’t a goodbye for long, but her heart still felt heavy when she thought of her daughter. The fear that Sophia might fall ill or something else might happen to her never left Magdalena—another reason she wanted to get this over and done with as fast as possible.

  Meanwhile, she had arrived at the three-story building. The silk manufactory looked indeed as gloomy and sinister as her f
ather had described it. Magdalena pulled on the bell chain, and a few moments later, the hatch in the door opened. The made-up woman peering at her was probably Mother Joseffa.

  “What do you want?” the old woman asked and scratched her head under the wig.

  “I . . . I’m new in Au and looking for work,” Magdalena replied, trying to sound shy and anxious. “I heard you’re hiring.”

  “So you heard, did you? Hmm, let me see.” The door opened, and Mother Joseffa eyed Magdalena as if she were a cow at the market.

  “You’re no spring chicken,” she muttered. “Where are you from?”

  “From . . . from Schongau. The farmer I worked for threw me out. He found a younger maid.”

  “And I bet she keeps him warm at night, ha!” Mother Joseffa laughed maliciously. “And so you thought, ‘I’ll find something in Munich.’ And now you realize that no one wants a piece of filth like you in the city, so you come to Au. Am I right?”

  “Please,” Magdalena begged. “I don’t know a soul here, and I can’t go back to Schongau.”

  “So you’re all alone, hmm?” Magdalena’s last words seemed to have aroused Joseffa’s interest. She looked Magdalena up and down once more. “You’re not in bad shape, despite your age. Can you weave?”

  “No, unfortunately,” Magdalena replied, her eyes lowered. “But I’m a fast learner.”

  “Well, we’ll give it a try. But I want to make one thing clear: as an unskilled worker, you only get paid half, which is three kreuzers a week. You sleep here and get two meals a day. Understood?”

  Magdalena nodded, though inwardly, she was seething about the pittance. Three kreuzers a week! She knew how much weavers in Schongau were paid. This was pure exploitation. But evidently, there were enough girls willing to do the job anyway.

  The older woman waved her in, and Magdalena immediately heard the rhythmic rattle and clicking from upstairs. “You’re lucky,” Joseffa said as they climbed the narrow staircase. “Two girls left not long ago, so you can have one of their looms.”