The Council of Twelve

by Oliver Pötzsch

  “What do you say, are you going to help me watch the nursemaid?” Peter asked eventually to distract his brother. “That is one thing you can do much better than me. Perhaps she’ll give herself away when we find out where she’s going in town. You and those Anger Wolves, you’re the best for a job like this. No one can hide as well and follow someone unnoticed.”

  Paul was visibly flattered. His mood improved dramatically. “All right, I’ll ask the boys,” he said with importance. “But only on one condition.”

  “Which is?” Peter asked.

  “I decide how we’re going to do it. Not you. For once, you don’t get a say in what I do, all right?”

  Peter smiled. “All right, I promise. The main thing is we find the dog.” He held out his hand to Paul. “So we’re agreed?”

  “Agreed.” Paul spat into his right hand and squeezed it against Peter’s. “That’s how the Anger Wolves do it,” he said. “Now the promise is sealed.” Then he hesitated. “And what if Father doesn’t want us to help him? What then?”

  “Well, he doesn’t have to find out.” Peter winked at his brother. “When we find Arthur, we just hand him over like a present. Then he can’t get mad at us.”

  They could hear voices from downstairs now. Evidently, the grown-ups were back.

  “Let’s stay up here a while longer,” Paul whispered. “I whittled a little man and a cart with real wheels—here, I’ll show you!”

  Soon the two boys were sitting on the dusty floor of the attic, absorbed in their play. The grown-ups’ conversation sounded muffled through the floors of the house.

  And so they didn’t hear their mother make a momentous decision.

  “They’re up to something, this very night. And it’s got something to do with the girls from the silk manufactory, I’m sure of it,” Magdalena said.

  Simon squeezed his wife’s hand. She was still beside herself. She shivered as though she were freezing, but the fire in the tiled stove of the executioner’s house kept the room pleasantly warm. Magdalena wore a plain dress of good quality that Simon had never seen on her before, but in all the excitement, he hadn’t had a chance to ask her about it. It was late afternoon; the mild February sun had already disappeared behind the city walls.

  After his visit to the hospice and the unsettling encounter with the madwoman in the lunatic asylum, Simon had wandered the lanes of the city, thinking. He couldn’t get old Traudel’s words off his mind.

  I know who killed them . . . all those sweet young girls . . .

  That sentence had triggered something in him, but he just couldn’t figure out what. Perhaps he would pay the crazy old woman another visit sometime.

  Once again Simon cursed himself for repeatedly forgetting to look for his beloved coffee beans. Nothing stimulated his thoughts more than coffee. But with everything that had been happening, he just hadn’t had the time.

  On his way home, Simon had called in at Lorentz the dogcatcher’s, in the hope of learning something new about that ridiculous dog. But, as expected, there was no news, although Lorentz once again mentioned that other dogs of ladies and gentlemen had also vanished. At the end of the day, Simon thought, this entire search was utter nonsense.

  Much more important was what had just happened to his wife.

  “Now, why don’t you start from the beginning,” Simon asked Magdalena. On the other side of the table sat his father-in-law, Michael Deibler, and Georg. Walburga held little Sophia in her arms and walked up and down the living room, humming softly. The men looked expectantly at Magdalena. So far, her news had come pouring out so fast, everyone struggled to make sense of it.

  “So you were sent to the house of a patrician this morning,” Simon said slowly. “Why? I thought you were working as a weaver.”

  “Because . . . because I was supposed to take mended sheets to the upper-class gentleman and lend a hand in the household,” Magdalena replied erratically. “Uffele and Mother Joseffa sometimes hire out girls as maidservants. It’s well paid, and it’s a chance to get a break from the loom. I thought I might find out more that way.” Simon had the strange feeling that his wife wasn’t telling him everything.

  “And who was that upper-class gentleman?” he asked.

  “His name is Daniel Pfundner. He’s the city treasurer.”

  “Pfundner?” Simon jumped to his feet. “I know that fishface. He’s an arrogant snob I met at the opera. I don’t want my wife to—”

  “For Christ’s sake, let Magdalena finish,” Jakob Kuisl said, pushing Simon back into his seat. “You can always tell her off afterward.” He looked at his daughter. “Well? What happened at the treasurer’s house?”

  “A bald-headed man visited Pfundner. I listened in on them. They were discussing something that was supposed to happen tonight instead of tomorrow night. The bald one was very agitated. He said, ‘We must take them away before we’re found out.’” Magdalena sighed. “I couldn’t hear who he was talking about, but I’m worried it has something to do with the girls at the manufactory.”

  “And what makes you think that?” Georg asked.

  Magdalena hesitated, clearly grappling with something. Eventually, she took a deep breath and started to talk. “The silk weaving is just a pretense. In reality, Uffele and Mother Joseffa hire out young girls as prostitutes to rich men. The dead girls, Anni and Elfi, were forced to be prostitutes. Anni used to be at Pfundner’s. And I’m afraid that’s what Eva was going to tell us, and now they want to silence her. And maybe other girls, too. They’re going to be taken away. I’m sure that’s what the bald visitor meant.”

  “Hang on a moment.” Simon stared at his wife, suddenly seeing her through different eyes. “Are you trying to say you and that arrogant snob . . . you . . . as a prostitute . . .” He couldn’t go on.

  Magdalena shook her head. “It never came to that.”

  “I damn well hope not,” her father grumbled. “My daughter’s no whore, I won’t have it.”

  Georg nodded seriously. “I may not be your father, but I’m still your brother. And as such I can only tell you, it’s shameful what those women do. A Kuisl doesn’t do that.”

  “Um, perhaps the husband gets a say in this, too,” Simon said. “I really don’t want my—”

  “For crying out loud, do you menfolk want to hear what I found out or not? Or do you just want to make stupid demands?” Magdalena groused. “You men are all the same. Point your fingers at the wenches but still want to have your fun. Isn’t that right?”

  “Well, maybe I did visit Rosengasse Lane in Bamberg once or twice,” Georg admitted. “But it’s different when your own sister—”

  “This is about the lives of young women and not about honor or shame,” Magdalena snapped. “Can you get that through your thick skulls?”

  No one said anything for a while. The only sound came from Walburga, who tried to soothe Sophia with a song.

  Eventually, Michael Deibler cleared his throat. “You’re right, Magdalena. We men can be muttonheads sometimes. Please continue.”

  The men listened attentively as Magdalena told them about what she’d learned. She described the terrible conditions in the manufactory, the girls’ fear, and the prostitution trade. She also mentioned her strange experience in the basement.

  “I heard a soft whimpering,” she said, concluding her report. “It’s highly likely that Eva and perhaps other girls are locked up down there. Those Venetian silk weavers are probably in on it and act as guards.”

  “Hmm, if it’s true what you’re saying, the two of them are truly running a clever business,” Michael Deibler said with a frown. “Whoring has been prohibited in Munich since Duke Wilhelm the Pious. Anyone who gets caught is put in the stocks, which is the worst nightmare of the high and mighty gentlemen. But this way, they get their hands on young girls without having to fear anything. Uffele and Joseffa must be making a fortune.”

  “But then why did Anni and Elfi have to die?” Simon asked.

  “Perhaps the
y were going to talk?” Georg said. “That would be a motive, at least.”

  “Maybe those disgusting men do much worse things to the girls, and they want to keep it secret,” Magdalena suggested. “Have you ever thought of that?”

  “I don’t know. Something seems odd . . .” Simon tilted his head to one side. “What does all this have to do with the murder of the patrician’s wife, that Theresa Wilprecht? Not to mention the mummy in the rock cellar. It just doesn’t fit.”

  “Master Hans probably knew how it all fit,” Jakob Kuisl said. “And he knew the murderer. But now he’s dead.” He pounded the table angrily. “God damn it, I feel like we’re so close to solving the riddle. What connects all the cases? What? Jesus bloody Christ and—”

  “Shh!” Walburga hushed from the corner. “Or you’re going to wake Sophia. She only just nodded off in my arms. And this poor thing truly isn’t to blame for any of those gruesome crimes you’re talking about.”

  Simon saw Magdalena smile for the first time since she’d returned to the executioner’s house. He was glad Walburga was in the room with them, even if only in the background. The hangman’s wife’s kind and caring nature clearly helped Simon’s wife to forget the day’s disturbing events.

  “You’re right, Burgi,” Magdalena said. “And I’m very grateful for everything you do for Sophia. I couldn’t have done any of this without your help.” She turned back to the men at the table. “I’m certain Uffele and Mother Joseffa have something to do with the murders. Two of the victims worked for them as prostitutes.”

  “What if that young patrician woman, Wilprecht, also worked as a whore?” Georg thought out loud. “Not for the money, but just to get one over on her old man?”

  “A whore killer? Hmm, I don’t know.” Deibler scratched his head. “They say the young Wilprecht woman may have had a lover. And again, how does our mummy fit into all this? Her murder happened decades ago.”

  “The amulets,” Kuisl said suddenly.

  Michael Deibler gave him an irritated look. “What do you mean?”

  “The amulets. He always marks his victims with those amulets. That’s what he did back then, and that’s what he’s still doing today. Anni and the mummy had one. I bet you anything Elfi had one, too. Even if we can no longer prove it.” Jakob Kuisl took out his tobacco to prepare a new pipe. “This morning, when we buried Hans, I asked Loibl if he’d noticed any medallions on Theresa Wilprecht. And voilà, she had one. It was in the sack her murderer had stuffed her into. Loibl couldn’t remember exactly, but he thought the amulet showed a Virgin Mary with a halo, just like the others.”

  “So that means we were right,” Magdalena whispered and tightened her scarf around her shoulders, shivering. “This madman has been at work for decades.”

  Jakob Kuisl leaned over the table and chopped his lump of tobacco into tiny pieces, which he put into his pipe. Then he held a burning pine chip to the pipe bowl. “The executions, the amulets . . . ,” he muttered, puffing on his pipe between phrases to keep the embers glowing. “The murderer always follows the same pattern. But we still don’t know why he does it. No one kills without reason. What’s his motivation? Once we know that, we’re a hell of a lot closer to catching him.” The hangman blew a cloud of tobacco smoke up to the ceiling, where it spread through the entire room. “There must be witnesses. It’s impossible for something like this to go unnoticed for such a long time. Hans might have found one of those witnesses. Besides, I don’t really believe that Uffele and his madam are behind all those murders.”

  “And what do you believe instead?” Georg asked.

  But Jakob Kuisl remained silent and sent another cloud of smoke to the ceiling.

  Simon cleared his throat. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you about. I went to the lunatic asylum in the Hospice of the Holy Ghost today. There’s a crazy old woman who’s been there for over twenty years. She was completely beside herself, claiming she knew the murderer.”

  “And you think she could be one of those witnesses Father is talking about?” Georg asked skeptically. “Isn’t it far more likely that she has no idea what she’s saying, after all those years? Did she say anything that might help us?”

  “No, not really. But there was one moment when she didn’t seem crazy at all. She said it was all our fault.”

  Deibler looked at him with disbelief. “Ours?”

  “Yes, that’s what she said. I’m thinking about going—”

  Just then, Sophia started to cry. Walburga gave the men a withering look. “Now you woke her with your scary stories,” she admonished. “And she’d been sleeping so nicely.”

  Magdalena stood up, and the two women tended to the child. Georg, Simon, and Jakob Kuisl watched them in silence, as it was impossible to hold a conversation over Sophia’s screaming. Suddenly Simon felt silly for even considering paying old Traudel another visit. She was insane, and that was that.

  Michael Deibler stared out of the small, barred living-room window. Outside, night had fallen. He shook himself.

  “In any case,” he said with a sigh, “I think Magdalena’s theory is the best we’ve got at the moment. If what she heard is true, the treasurer and that other man are planning some kind of villainy. And the last girl to work for Pfundner, Anni, is dead. It definitely looks like Pfundner is somehow tangled up in this.”

  “If they’re going to do away with some of the girls tonight, I have to get Eva out of that cellar,” Magdalena said. Sophia was falling asleep on her chest.

  “And how are you going to do that?” Simon asked.

  “By spending another night at the manufactory. And this time I’m going to the basement no matter what.”

  “Have you lost your mind?” Simon stared at his wife in horror. “I thank God that you made it out of that hole alive. There’s no way I’m letting you go back.”

  “It’s about the life of a girl, don’t you understand? Maybe even several. It could be me or Barbara awaiting our death in that basement.”

  “And what about Sophia?” Simon motioned toward their sleeping daughter. “Are you going to leave her again already? Walburga can’t look after her forever. You’re her mother.”

  Magdalena pursed her lips, and Simon realized he’d hurt her. He regretted his comment immediately. He was about to apologize when Walburga placed her hand on his arm.

  “It’s all right, Simon. Sophia and I get along well. And it’s nice to have someone other than my cats around for a change. Let Magdalena go.” The hangman’s wife nodded. “She’s right, you know. When the lives of innocent people are at stake, we’re sometimes forced to do things we don’t like. But they must be done.”

  “Very . . . well,” Simon replied after some time. “Looks like I’m the only one who believes my wife is putting herself in danger.”

  “We’re here, too,” Georg said, trying to reassure him. “If anything happens, we’ll give Uffele hell.”

  If it’s not too late by then, Simon thought gloomily. He still had a bad feeling about it.

  “Where is Barbara?” Jakob Kuisl suddenly asked. “I haven’t seen her all afternoon. It’s enough for one of my daughters to spend the night somewhere else.”

  “As far as I know, she was meeting with Conrad Näher again,” Deibler replied with a grin. “Another rendezvous, so to speak. Näher left the meeting especially early. Who knows, perhaps you’ll be greeted by your future son-in-law tonight.”

  With a smile on her face, Barbara took a sip of mulled wine as she listened to another of Valentin’s stories. They had been sitting in a tavern on Sendlinger Street for more than two hours now, talking, eating some steaming stew, and watching the other patrons who gradually filled the pub. To her astonishment, Barbara realized that, for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel utterly unhappy. On the contrary, she felt she had a new lease on life.

  And that was entirely thanks to the young violinist in whose blue eyes she was about to drown once more.

  Valentin had
played and danced for her the whole way from Sendling, and he had made her laugh—something Barbara thought she had forgotten how to do. Valentin was an expert at making her forget her gloomy future. Once they’d reached Munich, Valentin had taken her to several shops. They had tried on expensive clothes at a dressmaker’s, pretending they could afford them. At a girdle maker’s, Valentin had looked for cheap jewelry and haggled until the master had thrown them out. Now they were warming themselves in the tavern, and Valentin was telling her about his life as the son of a street musician.

  “I could play the fiddle before I could walk,” he said with a laugh. “My father put me on the stage and made me dance like a monkey. I plucked the strings at the same time. It sounded so god-awful that people ran away in droves. After that, my father gave me a tambourine.”

  “And did that go any better?” Barbara asked and took another sip of her mulled wine.

  “Well, depends how you look at it. One of the spectators took pity and gave my father three kreuzers so I would stop.” Valentin raised his mug to her with a smile. “Now we’re still talking about me. You’re extremely good at keeping silent about yourself. But I’m not letting you get away with it again.” He continued with mock severity: “It’s time to confess. What are you doing here in Munich?”

  Barbara hesitated. She had known this moment would come sooner or later. “If I tell you, promise you won’t run away?” she asked eventually.

  Valentin laughed. “Sure, as long as you aren’t a man in disguise.”

  “Very well.” Barbara took a deep breath. “I’m the daughter of the Schongau executioner. You might have heard that the hangmen are holding a meeting just outside town. We came with the whole family.”

  She didn’t mention her true reason for coming to Munich, or why she had been at the tavern with Conrad Näher. She still didn’t understand why the Kaufbeuren executioner had run off the way he had.