The Council of Twelve

by Oliver Pötzsch

“He’s already on his final journey. I don’t think he can feel much. At least I hope not.”

  “Jesus, not even a dog deserves to die like this,” said Bartholomäus Kuisl, who, like the others, watched the dying hangman with horror. “Not even a rat.” He turned to his brother. “What do you think it is? You know more about this sort of stuff than any of us.”

  “I believe it’s wolfsbane.” Kuisl bent down to Hörmann once more and smelled his mouth, which was still dripping with saliva and vomit. “Not hemlock, because that smells of mouse piss. Nor arsenic, because it wouldn’t have worked so fast.”

  “Ohgodohgod, wolfsbane!” screamed Lothar. “Maybe the people of Munich are right, and an evil beast is roaming the streets. We must protect ourselves, we must . . .”

  “Get him out of here, God damn it,” Michael Deibler said. “He’s not helping his father with all that screaming.”

  Two journeymen led the sobbing, whimpering Lothar out the door. They’d pour brandy down his throat to help him forget for a while.

  When the room was quiet again, Kuisl addressed the others once more.

  “Wolfsbane is the most potent poison I know. I heard that once upon a time, dangerous criminals were executed that way. It’s not an easy death.”

  “It must have been in his mug,” Michael Deibler said, turning away from the twitching body with horror. Like everyone else in this room, he had seen many men die in his life. But this one was hard to watch even for the Munich hangman. He was pale, clearly shaken by the death of a cousin.

  “But how can that be?” Bartholomäus Kuisl replied. “How can he have poisoned himself with his own mug? Hörmann knocked his mug over right at the start of the meeting, remember?”

  “Strange,” Philipp Teuber said. “I clearly remember him drinking from a mug afterward. Could he have . . . ?”

  Everyone’s eyes turned to Hörmann’s seat, and indeed, there were two pewter mugs. Deibler rushed over to the table and lifted both drinking vessels in the air for everyone to see. Then he studied the engraved names.

  “This one’s Hörmann’s,” he said loudly. “But his mug is empty. He must have spilled all his beer when he knocked it over. And when he felt thirsty again, he simply reached for the nearest full mug.”

  “And?” Matthäus Fux asked urgently. “Whose name is on the mug?”

  “You all know who was sitting next to him.” Michael Deibler took a deep breath, then he looked Jakob Kuisl straight in the eyes.

  “It’s yours, Jakob. You were supposed to be the next victim.”

  Lost in gloomy thoughts, Simon walked along Sendlinger Street, which was already congested with wagons and carts this Saturday morning. Everyone was headed to the market square, where farmers and merchants offered their goods for sale. There were exotic, strong-smelling spices from East India, candied fruits, and even costly sugar, which had come to Munich all the way from the distant West Indies. In the last few days, Simon had occasionally kept an eye out for his beloved coffee beans, but today he wasn’t in the mood.

  He had hardly slept that night, sick with worry about Magdalena. Now it was already after ten o’clock, and still no news from her. Had something happened to her at the silk manufactory? Had she been able to free Eva from the basement, or had she been found out?

  Simon cursed himself for letting his wife go in the first place. But Magdalena always got her way. When the bells had chimed the tenth hour, Simon had decided to go find out what had happened. Perhaps everything would turn out to be just fine when he got there.

  But there was something else Simon wanted to do on his way to Au. Something regarding those strange murders.

  Soon he arrived at the house of Malachias Geiger on Sendlinger Street. Simon carried a letter he had composed the night before. Another thought had kept him awake—a crazy idea, admittedly, but he just couldn’t shake it. He hoped the visit to Dr. Geiger’s would bring him peace of mind.

  Like last time, he ascended the wide steps to the entrance and rang the bell. Again, it was Geiger’s assistant who opened. When the young man recognized Simon, he twisted his mouth mockingly.

  “Ah, it’s Herr Colleague,” he said venomously. “You’re persistent. But I must disappoint you once again: Herr Doktor is attending to a patient in Kreuz Quarter. I’m afraid you—”

  “Thank you, I already met with Dr. Geiger yesterday,” Simon interrupted him. “We had a very interesting conversation at the Hospice of the Holy Ghost.”

  The assistant looked confused. “Oh, you did? Very well . . . But then why are you here?”

  “Because I have an important letter for the doctor,” Simon replied and produced a small sealed envelope from his vest. “Would you be so kind as to make sure he receives it today?”

  Simon had expected the doctor to be out at this time of day, which was why he had written the letter he now handed to the assistant.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” the young man muttered and took the letter. “The doctor is a very busy man.”

  Simon abruptly grabbed the assistant’s hand and pulled him close. “This letter concerns a very important patient,” he said with a threatening undertone. “I will see the doctor tomorrow. If I find out he still hasn’t received the letter, there are going to be very tragic consequences. For the patient—and for yourself,” he added with a thin smile. “Do we have an understanding?”

  “I . . . I think so.” The assistant nodded reluctantly, and Simon let go of his hand.

  “Wonderful. Then I bid you a good day and happy urine sampling.”

  Without another word, Simon turned around and walked down the stairs, while the door behind him was shut softly. The story about the patient was a blatant lie, but it had the desired effect. Now Simon could only wait and see. But most likely he was wrong, anyhow.

  Simon hurried along Sendlinger Street and crossed the market square, which was so crowded that his progress was slow. Merchants hawked their wares in loud voices; giggling street children ran into him, followed by a cursing bailiff; and a group of nuns walked toward the Anger nunnery as leisurely as a herd of cows, blocking Simon’s way. He walked past the city hall and followed the crowded street to the Isar Gate, where it was a little less busy.

  When he finally arrived in Au, another half hour had passed. He felt his fear growing. What had happened to Magdalena? Would he find her alive and well at the manufactory? Simon still hoped everything would turn out just fine, but the bad feeling that had been with him since the previous evening grew stronger with every step.

  Damn it, Magdalena, I should never have let you go. Why do I let myself get talked into these suicide missions every time?

  When he reached the silk manufactory, Simon paused and studied the barred windows. He could hear the clicking and squeaking of looms upstairs, but no voices. Simon rang the bell, but no one answered and no footsteps approached. He pulled the chain a second time, then once more as hard as he could, and then he knocked on the door. When there was still no reaction, he started to call out.

  “Hey, open up! Open up right this instant!”

  He kicked the door several times before the hatch at eye level finally opened. A rough-looking, unshaved fellow glared at him.

  “Cosa c’e?” he growled in Italian.

  “I . . . I’m looking for a woman,” Simon said, surprised by the man’s sudden appearance. “Her name is Magdalena. Where is she?”

  “Non capisco,” the man replied and shut the hatch. But Simon didn’t give up. He kicked the solid timber again and again until a bolt was pushed back and the door opened with great force.

  “Vattene!” the man roared at him. “Subito!”

  “No subito, damn it!” Simon shouted back. “It’s about my wife. Don’t you understand, you foreign idiot? My wife, Magdalena. She’s somewhere in there. And if you don’t let me in right this moment, I’ll fetch the hangman. He happens to be my father-in-law.”

  But the threat didn’t work. The man kicked Simon in the shins until he stumbled a
nd fell into the mud on the lane. The door slammed shut with a loud bang, and this time three bolts rattled across.

  Simon threw himself against the door and pounded it with his fists while he ranted and raved. “Whatever you’ve done to my Magdalena, I swear by God I’ll get you strung up. Open this damned door right now!”

  But nothing happened.

  One last time Simon kicked the door, then he gave up. Panting hard, he sat down on the dirty ground. His shins hurt like hell, but even worse was his nagging fear. What had Uffele and Mother Joseffa done with Magdalena? And what in God’s name was he supposed to do now?

  Where are you, Magdalena?

  “Hey, you! Yes, you.”

  Simon started when a soft voice spoke from somewhere underneath him, as if directly from hell. He looked around and eventually spotted a narrow shaft of light that led to a barred window in the basement of the manufactory. Behind the bars, he could make out the face of a woman. She had clearly taken a terrible beating. The right side of her face was badly swollen and streaked with blood, her bruised eye was completely shut, and she was missing several teeth.

  “You’re looking for Magdalena?” she mumbled.

  “Yes, for heaven’s sake.” Anxiously, Simon knelt over the beam of light. “Do you know where she is? She’s my wife.”

  “That’s why I’m talking to you,” the woman whispered and wiped some dried blood off her lip. “Your wife was very brave. If there were more like her, this world would be a different place. But God always takes back early those he loves most.”

  “Do you know where Magdalena is?” Simon persisted, ignoring her last remark.

  “Don’t you understand? She’s . . .” The woman hesitated, then she said quietly, “I’m so sorry, but I believe your wife is dead.”

  Simon felt like someone was pulling out the ground from under his feet. His hands searched the wall for support. “What . . . what did you say?” he gasped.

  “They took her away very early this morning. On a cart, covered with old rags. But I got a glimpse of her feet from here—it was definitely her shoes.” The woman coughed. “My name is Agnes. Yesterday I helped Magdalena get down to the basement. She wanted to help another girl—”

  “Eva,” Simon whispered, petrified.

  Agnes seemed surprised. “Yes, Eva. I should never have agreed to it. Now we’re all paying for it!”

  “The people with the cart, that would have been Uffele and Joseffa, right?” croaked Simon.

  Agnes nodded. “I’m guessing they dumped her body in some ditch this morning. One more dead girl from the country, who cares?”

  “I do,” Simon said quietly. “I care.” His voice became louder. “What is going on in this house? What happened to the other girls? Why . . . why did Magdalena . . .” He couldn’t go on as tears of anger and grief welled up in his eyes.

  “Listen, I’m not telling you anything else,” Agnes replied. Her lips became thin. “I only called out to you because you say you’re her husband. I sure wonder what she was doing in this hole, then. And now you better go before the Venetians come back.”

  “Where did they take Magdalena?” Simon pleaded. “Where did Uffele and Joseffa go?”

  “They won’t come back today. And anyway, what good would it do you to see her now? Your wife is dead. Anyone who gets in their way is silenced.” Agnes rattled the bars on her window. “All I wanted was to earn some money, damn it. One, two more weeks and I would have left this accursed city. And now look at me. Go away, God damn it.” She hissed at him like a snake. “Go, before they beat me to death like your wife. Go!”

  Simon shrank back. He sensed Agnes wouldn’t tell him anything else. And now he heard footsteps somewhere in the depth of the basement.

  “Magdalena isn’t dead,” he said softly, more to himself, as he slowly pulled himself up on the wall of the building. “No, she isn’t dead, no way.” But doubts were like small, nasty creatures climbing up inside him. “No way,” he repeated flatly.

  Simon turned around. He staggered down the empty lane like a drunk person, unable to decide what to do next.

  In the back room of the Radl Inn, the remaining seven executioners cowered in their seats and watched their cousin Kaspar Hörmann on his last difficult voyage.

  The Passau hangman twitched weakly now, and his breathing was so shallow that Kuisl almost hadn’t been able to detect it on his last examination. Only Hörmann’s eyes flickered wildly like two candles in the wind, darting to and fro as though they were looking for the murderer. The journeymen and apprentices had been sent outside. The remaining men present sat in silence; no one had touched their beer mugs again. They couldn’t help Hörmann, so the seven cousins paid their last respects through silence. They were all men of death—it was their way of dealing with it.

  “Jesus Christ, can’t anyone put an end to it?” Johann Widmann said, looking ghostly pale as he stared at Hörmann’s twitching body. Nervously, he chewed on his fingernails. “It’s unbearable to watch.”

  “It’s almost over,” Kuisl said, sniffing at a puddle of beer on the table with his huge, hooked nose. “Wolfsbane works fast. But if it’s too slow for you, Johann, feel free to cut his throat yourself.”

  Widmann didn’t reply and focused on his fingernails again.

  After having sniffed the puddle like a dog, Jakob Kuisl stood up and went over to Hörmann. As before, he bent down to wipe the cold sweat off the dying man’s forehead. Then he held his ear against Hörmann’s chest. “His heartbeat is extremely weak,” he said. “I doubt he feels anything now.”

  “But those eyes,” Matthäus Fux whispered. “Just look at his eyes. They are terrifying.”

  “There’s nothing more we can do for him.” Michael Deibler sighed, still sitting at the head of the table. “But we can avenge him by finding his murderer. Here and now.” He paused meaningfully. “Because one thing is for certain: the murderer is still here in this room.”

  “Are you trying to say one of us is to blame for Hörmann’s death?” Jörg Defner asked. The one-eyed hangman from Nördlingen hadn’t said much until then, but now he was getting visibly upset. His good eye twitched nervously.

  “Numbskull.” Bartholomäus Kuisl snorted derisively. “Who else could have done it? The beer was poisoned. So, someone must have poured the poison into the mug during the meeting. And since the victim was supposed to be my brother, I wonder who in this room might be after the Kuisls.” He looked straight at Johann Widmann. “You’ve always had something against us, admit it. For years you refused to elect Jakob onto the council. And now that his daughter put you in your place in front of everyone, you retaliate by poisoning him. Isn’t that right?”

  “How . . . how dare you!” Widmann flared up. “That’s nothing but nasty slander. My journeyman will whip you through the city for that.”

  “You’re not in your beloved Nuremberg, where everyone kisses your ass, but in Munich,” Philipp Teuber intervened. “So pull yourself together, Johann.” He turned to Bartholomäus Kuisl. “Although I must agree, we should be careful with accusations.”

  “But it’s the truth,” Bartholomäus insisted. “For days now Widmann’s been trying to pin something or other on Jakob. When that didn’t work, he used poison.”

  “Enough!” Michael Deibler barked at him. “Once and for all!” He jumped to his feet and pounded the table angrily. “You’ve all been acting like a bunch of vipers for days. People call us dishonorable, and I must say they’re right. We’re an embarrassment to our profession. Even in the presence of a dying cousin—”

  “He’s dead,” Jakob Kuisl said.

  “What did you say?” Deibler’s anger evaporated as quickly as it had arrived. He turned his full attention to the Schongau hangman, who knelt beside Hörmann.

  “I said he’s dead. His heart finally stopped beating.”

  Indeed, Kaspar Hörmann now lay still, and his eyes had stopped moving. Jakob Kuisl pushed Hörmann’s eyelids closed and wiped the vomit from th
e corner of his mouth. Hörmann almost looked as though he were sleeping.

  “Thank God!” Johann Widmann burst out. “Those eyes were truly unbearable.”

  “Maybe because they kept looking at the murderer,” Bartholomäus Kuisl snarled.

  “It’s all right, brother.” Jakob Kuisl stood up and went over to the table, where he picked up the mug with his own name on it. “Squabbling and bickering won’t unmask this murderer.” The hangman stuck his nose deep down in the mug and sniffed, making loud panting and even smacking noises.

  “I’ll never get used to that kind of examination,” Michael Deibler muttered. The other executioners also watched Kuisl with a mix of fascination and disgust.

  Shortly thereafter, the Schongau hangman concluded his examination. “Wolfsbane, as I suspected,” he said. “Also known as monkshood or women’s bane. Even touching it is toxic, let alone guzzling it down like a cow drinks water.” He tilted the mug, and a tiny stream trickled out. “He drank it all, but something remained in the mug.”

  “What do you mean?” Jörg Defner asked.

  Kuisl held the pewter mug on its side so the other hangmen could look in. “Can you see the dark, sticky spot at the bottom? Judging by the smell, I’d say it’s forest honey mixed with the poison. The murderer smeared it on the inside of the mug. Later, the poison dissolves in the beer.” Kuisl grinned. “And thanks to the honey, you can’t really taste it, especially not in the so-very-quaffable Munich brew. Hops, malt, and monkshood—cheers!”

  “Hang on,” Philipp Teuber said. “Something like that would have taken time. Are you saying the murderer prepared the mug in advance?”

  Jakob Kuisl nodded, then he turned to Deibler. “Every day we hand our mugs to you so you can look after them between meetings. They’re the symbol that we belong to the Council of Twelve. Where have you been storing them?”

  “Hmm, to be honest, I just leave them in here,” Deibler replied with a shrug. “No one touches the mug of a hangman, it’s bad luck. I never worried about theft.”

  “Damn it!” Matthäus Fux cursed. “That means anyone could have come in here during the night and prepared the mug.”