“Your husband is currently chairing a meeting in Au. Hans knows that, because he was supposed to be at the meeting.” Jakob Kuisl shook his head. “No, the bastard was after my Barbara.” He tapped Paul on the shoulder. “Go ahead, ask your friends if they saw anything. Quick!”
Paul smiled and ran outside. The hangman turned to his son, Georg. “We can’t just wait here and do nothing. Perhaps you could alert Loibl from the city guard. He seems a decent fellow. I’m going to take a look around the Anger Quarter.” He stomped his foot impatiently. “And where the hell is my goddamned son-in-law? He’s never there when you need him.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’ll keep looking after Sophia,” Walburga said. “The girl has a very healthy appetite.” She dipped a clean spoon into the barley porridge and fed it to Sophia. “I bought dried arnica at the market and want to change the bandage on her foot. And my cats need feeding. You see, there’s plenty to do, even without a murderer.”
Kuisl nodded and walked outside. He was about to leave through the gate when a horde of children came running toward him, his grandson Paul at the head.
“We found Barbara,” Paul said, beaming. “And Peter, too. They’re walking along the city stream from the Hacken Quarter.” He pointed at a tall boy with ripped trousers and matted hair, who bowed to Kuisl with a grin. “Knacker Schorsch here saw them, accompanied by two guards. They say Peter rang the bell in the Church of the Holy Cross. And now they’re looking for his father to give him a hefty fine.”
Kuisl breathed a sigh of relief. He sat down heavily on the garden bench. Suddenly, he felt incredibly tired.
“His father isn’t here,” he said. “The guards will have to make do with his grandfather. I can’t wait to hear what my daughter and grandson have to tell us.”
7
ANGER QUARTER, MIDDAY, FEBRUARY 5, AD 1672
WHEN HE GOT BACK TO the executioner’s house around noon, Simon learned that, once again, much had happened in his absence.
His blackened leather boots and expensive pants were filthy; one trouser leg was torn where a barking mutt had jumped up at him on his way home. After his visit to the dogcatcher’s, Simon had walked back and forth across the Anger and Hacken Quarters, asking about the dog at various taverns and dingy inns, speaking with many shifty characters. He soon realized he’d never find the lapdog that way. How he hated this mission. But Simon knew it was most likely his only chance to win the favor of the electress and secure a place at a good school for Peter.
And my last opportunity to present my treatise to the public, he thought. Because I highly doubt I’m ever going to meet Dr. Malachias Geiger if things keep going the way they are.
Now they all sat around the big table at the executioner’s house, except for Magdalena, who hadn’t returned from the silk manufactory. It looked like they had actually employed her.
Walburga had bandaged Sophia’s foot with bear fat and arnica, and Simon had to admit that she was doing a fantastic job. The wife of the Munich hangman was truly an excellent healer. Now she was sitting in the apothecary chamber next door, mixing medicine with a happily squealing Sophia on her lap. Earlier, she had treated Barbara, who had twisted her right foot when she fell into the hole. Simon could hardly believe what the others had just told him.
“Do you really think Master Hans wanted to harm Barbara?” he asked.
“If I know the man, he didn’t just want to have a friendly chat with her,” Georg replied. “He knew she was staying here, and he also knew she was without male protection, since Father, Deibler, and I were at the meeting.”
“And you were looking for lapdogs,” Kuisl added grimly. “When we could really use you here.” He shook his head. “Some crazy murderer is on the loose, the people want to see Bavaria’s best hangmen hanged, and what’s my son-in-law doing? Looking for a goddamned mutt.”
“You know I didn’t ask for the job,” Simon replied curtly. “Perhaps you’ll thank me one day, when your grandson goes to school in Munich.”
“He’s clever enough, anyway,” Michael Deibler said from the head of the table. He grinned. “To just run up the belfry of the Holy Cross Church and ring the bell to catch people’s attention. I wouldn’t have thought of it. The sexton nearly had a heart attack. Thank God I know Loibl well enough, so they dropped the fine.” He laughed. “Or I might have had to put a hangman’s son in the stocks.”
“I think he saved me at the very last moment,” Barbara said quietly. She sat right beside the oven, listening to the conversation with her eyes closed. She had wrapped a blanket around herself despite the warmth. Her face was covered in scrapes, and she looked worn out. “Hans had already picked up the grave slab,” she continued. “When the church bell rang, he must have realized people would soon show up. So he dropped it and ran away.”
“What on earth was he doing at the cemetery?” Kuisl muttered, deep in thought, gazing at the smoke from his pipe. He turned to Deibler. “Do you have any idea?”
Michael Deibler puffed on his own pipe and added a few clouds of smoke to Kuisl’s. “The Church of the Holy Cross is the second parish church after Saint Peter. When the cemetery at Old Peter became too full, they built another church in the Hacken Quarter. But—”
“He was looking for a particular grave,” Barbara said from the stove. She lowered her voice as though Master Hans were still outside. “Peter saw it. We just don’t know which grave exactly. And he said a few weird things. Asked if Father had figured it out yet.” She looked at her father. “He was desperate to find out what you knew.”
“I’ve always said it: the man’s as mad as a rabid ferret.” Kuisl gave a laugh, but then his expression turned serious again. “The devil knows what he meant. I know nothing.”
“Just to make sure the silly physician is up to speed,” Simon said tentatively, feeling a little nauseated from all the tobacco smoke. “Hans first comes here, hoping to find Barbara alone. Maybe he only wants to talk to her, maybe not. When he can’t get in, he walks to the cemetery. He looks for something there. But what, and why?”
“Damn it, if only we could ask him ourselves!” Deibler swore. “But it’s as if the earth swallowed the bastard up. He probably knows he can’t show his face at the council after this. And they haven’t seen him at the inn in Haidhausen where he’s been staying. A distant relative of his lives there, but he’s a stubborn fellow and doesn’t give anything away.”
“We should keep an eye on that inn,” Kuisl said and took another drag on his pipe.
Deibler snorted like an old dragon. “And how do you propose to do that? You, me, and Georg have to go back to the meeting this afternoon. I’m just glad I managed to stop the brawl earlier before anyone was killed. I owe the innkeeper eight kreuzers for the broken chairs.” He rolled his eyes. “Of course, this is grist for Widmann’s mill. The arrogant peacock thinks about nothing else but how he might push you out of the council and bring me into disrepute. He’ll use any excuse.” His eyes turned to Simon. “That only leaves Herr Son-in-Law to keep an eye on Hans. But he’s looking for a lapdog.”
Simon could feel himself blush. “Um, I think I’ve stressed several times that—”
“I know who might be able to help,” Georg said, cutting him off. “Those street children Paul hangs out with seem like a clever bunch. If we give them a few coins, they’ll keep tabs on Hans’s movements for us.” He looked around the room. “Where are Peter and Paul?”
“This house is too big,” Deibler grumbled. “Very old and very big. They probably found a new hiding place somewhere. They already found the passage to the battlements.”
Kuisl scratched his large, hooked nose. “I don’t think Hans is going to go back to the Haidhausen tavern, anyway. The boys can try their luck. It won’t do any harm.” Thoughtfully, he puffed on his pipe. “Something’s at that cemetery. I’ll have to go back there myself.”
“But not until after the meeting this afternoon. Perhaps your older daughter will have learned
something at the silk manufactory by then.” Michael Deibler knocked the cold tobacco ash into the reeds on the ground. “It’s late, we have to go. The other cousins will want to hear what happened. And Widmann . . .”
“Yes, yes, I know, he has it in for me,” Kuisl growled. He turned to Barbara. “Before I go, please tell me that there’s still hope for Conrad Näher from Kaufbeuren. He’s my last iron in the fire.”
Barbara smiled a thin smile. “Well, let’s say he’s not as bad as the others. I’ve met with him once.”
“And he’s still alive.” Georg smiled. “We have every reason to be optimistic.”
He was about to head toward the door with his father and Michael Deibler when someone knocked loudly. Deibler went to the door and opened it.
Simon winced when he saw, through the haze in the room, who was standing outside. It was the same electoral envoy who’d found him two days ago. Was the electress expecting her report already? The messenger looked even more disgusted than at their last meeting in Au. He blinked his eyes repeatedly against the thick smoke and looked around suspiciously, as if he expected a robber to attack him any moment.
“Is this where Dr. Fronwieser is staying?” he asked, his right eyebrow twitching nervously.
Simon pushed to the front. He brushed his hands down his vest, which was wrinkled and spattered with gravy. “Um, yes. I’m here.”
“I’ve just come from Au. They told me I could find you at the”—the envoy coughed and fanned his face with his hand—“at the executioner’s house. I am to ask you in the name of His Electoral Excellency to appear at the opera house at Salvator Square at six o’clock. With your son.”
Simon froze. He thought he had misheard the man. “Excuse me, where?”
“At the opera house.” The messenger sighed. “It appears the young crown prince wants to see your son.”
“The young crown prince?” Simon’s heart beat faster. He remembered what Peter had told him after their visit to the Residenz.
I was playing with the prince. His name is Max, and he wants to see me again . . .
Evidently, Peter hadn’t been lying.
The envoy wrinkled his nose as he studied Simon’s dirty trousers and the threadbare vest. “I’m afraid we’ll have to clothe you for the show. Peasants and simple folk aren’t allowed at the opera. Neither are stinking pipe smokers,” he added smugly. “You better come to the Residenz first. Via the servants’ entrance, of course. We should be able to find something decent enough for you. Hmm . . .” He looked Simon up and down. “Hopefully in your size, too.”
About two hours later, winter returned to Munich.
It was as if the winter wanted to land one last heavy blow before spring would finally take over. Snowflakes whirled from the sky like goose down, and an icy northerly wind froze the first shoots on the bushes and trees. The icicles hanging from the city’s belfries like long, sharp swords grew longer.
On the roads around Munich, carts and carriages battled their way through the snowstorm toward the gates of the city. Only one lonesome figure was headed in the opposite direction. Dressed in a warm black woolen coat and scarf as protection against the wind, the stooped figure whistled a simple melody, a nursery rhyme.
Bumpety, bump, rider. If he falls, he cries out. If into the ditch he falls, he’ll get eaten by the crows . . .
The hunter loved snowstorms. When the icy flakes fell thickly, the heat inside disappeared for a little while, and thoughts calmed. And there was much to think about. The hangman and his family were closing in. How much longer before they’d piece the puzzle together? How long before the hunter would become the hunted?
A brief whimper slipped out through the hunter’s clenched teeth, but the wind carried it off immediately. Yes, mistakes had been made. Moving too fast, too eagerly. On the other hand, what else could one do when duty called? Times had changed; there were more and more of them. So many, everywhere! There was so much to do. Why couldn’t anyone else see that they were all running straight toward a great abyss? Were they all blind?
A wind gust hissed like a wild animal and tore off the hunter’s headscarf. The hunter caught it, tied it back on firmly, and plodded on. A narrow track led from the road to a hill that could be seen from a long way away. Tall poles stuck out of the snow on the hill, with a heavy wagon wheel attached to one of them. Crows and ravens circled the remains of a corpse that seemed to have been broken on the wheel months ago. The mummified joints were braided around the spokes like an artwork of the devil. The skull was lying on the ground underneath.
Next to it stood the gallows.
The body hanging from the rope and swaying in the wind was in far better condition than the one on the wheel. It belonged to the Munich tawer, who had been convicted of repeated theft and was personally hanged by Michael Deibler about three weeks ago. The poor fellow would be left hanging there until his limbs came off by themselves—as a warning to other thieves.
The cold temperatures had kept the corpse fresh. The crows had eaten only his eyes and other soft parts of the face so far. A thin layer of ice covered his skin and clothes; his mouth stood open in a silent scream. The stiff body swung like the pendulum of a large clock.
Back and forth, back and forth.
The steady swaying soothed the hunter. Gallows Hill near the Landsberg road always served as a reminder of the meaning of justice. God pronounced the verdict, and the hunter was His willing instrument.
Bringing purity.
As pure and white as the snow piling up on the crossbeam.
Back and forth, and back and forth . . .
The plan was taking shape.
Basically, it was simple. The others, too, were eager and greedy, greedy for news, for the truth, for the bigger picture behind the riddle. For glory, power, and money. So the hunter would lure them with small crumbs of the truth. And they would walk into the trap.
One after the other.
The hunter smiled. Today would see the capture of the first one.
The hunter took a deep breath of the pure winter air, then turned around and headed back toward the city, humming a nursery rhyme.
The icy wind also swept across the cemetery of the Church of the Holy Cross. Jakob Kuisl clutched his hat and opened the same gate Barbara and Peter had taken a few hours earlier. He had seen few people on the way here, since the snow and cold kept most burghers of Munich in their houses or at shops and taverns. No one wanted to visit a graveyard in this weather.
Unless, of course, they were looking for one grave in particular.
Jakob Kuisl couldn’t stop thinking about what Barbara had told him earlier. What in God’s name had Master Hans been looking for at the cemetery? Why had he spoken of a mystery? And why did he think Kuisl might know something about it?
Jakob Kuisl had sat silently through the afternoon meeting. After the events in the city that morning, a regular meeting was hardly possible. The cousins wanted to know what had happened with Master Hans. Paul and his new friends watched the inn where the Weilheim hangman had been staying. Kuisl would have preferred for his son-in-law to take on this task, but Simon preferred to join those arrogant Munich fops at the opera, whatever that was. And Georg was looking after his twin sister, who had a sore foot and still hadn’t agreed to marry anyone. The only person he could rely upon was his eldest daughter, Magdalena. Kuisl hoped she had found out more about that strange silk manufactory by now.
Angry, the hangman shut the gate behind him and stomped past the crooked tombstones on which almost a hand’s breadth of fresh snow had settled. The wind howled mournfully, as if the souls were rising from their graves for Judgment Day. Kuisl walked down the row of tombstones in the direction Barbara had told him until he found the freshly dug grave his daughter had fallen into. The heavy stone slab was still lying beside it. When Kuisl wiped the snow aside, he saw the name of the next eternal visitor at Holy Cross Cemetery.
THERESA WILPRECHT, 1652–1672, REQUIESCAT IN PACE.
Jakob Kuisl nodded appreciatively. The Munich gravediggers were fast. The poor girl had only been found yesterday, and her grave was ready today. The body was probably in the nearby chapel. Had Hans been looking for this grave? But why? What had he hoped to find here? Or perhaps this was the wrong spot?
After a few moments, Kuisl walked on, past oak trees swaying in the wind. The closer he got to the north end of the cemetery, the plainer the graves became. Some were marked merely with simple wooden crosses, several of them so old and rotten that the names had become illegible. Then Kuisl came to a large grave with a single, unmarked tombstone. He suspected it was a mass grave for the poorest of the poor, who couldn’t afford a burial. The hangman thought of the red-haired girl whose body he’d cut open a few days ago. What was her name again?
Anni . . .
By now she was probably lying in a grave similar to this in Au or Giesing. How many girls like her were buried in such graves? Girls who had been searching for happiness in the big city, a city that held only misery and death for them. The hangman looked about with silent grief. Not a single wreath adorned the mass grave, not one flower by the tombstone, not even a grave candle.
Kuisl’s thoughts turned to his own death. He was old. God only knew how many years he had left. As the hangman, he had no right to a spot at the Schongau cemetery. His beloved wife, Anna-Maria, who had left him a few years ago, also lay outside the cemetery walls. At least Kuisl had managed to gain permission to bury her in a sunny spot underneath a willow. He visited her grave often, and more frequently the older he got. And he always brought flowers and wreaths, even though he tried to hide them from his family.
My dear Anna-Maria, when will I see you again?
An intense longing for death suddenly took hold of the hangman. His throat tightened as though by a thick hemp rope. He needed to get away from here. He needed to leave this place of grief and anonymous dead. Kuisl tore himself from the mass grave. He was about to walk away when he noticed a much smaller mound next to the large grave. It lay underneath a bush with frozen rowanberries, which was why he hadn’t noticed it until then. A small wooden cross marked the grave, and, unlike the other graves nearby, a wreath of braided fir boughs lay on top.
The Council of Twelve Page 21
