“Conrad Näher, for example,” Jörg Defner said, his one eye darting back and forth. “Maybe now we know why he disappeared so quietly.”
“Yes, it could have been Conrad Näher,” Kuisl said, “or any one of us. Everyone except Michael is staying at the Radl Inn. All they had to do was sneak down here at night and smear the poisoned honey into the mug. It’s not hard.” He scratched his nose. “So perhaps we shouldn’t be asking who just yet, but why. And I think I know the answer.”
Jakob Kuisl pointed at dead Hörmann, still lying where he had passed away. “But I think it’s time to call the guards before the innkeeper comes in and we all land on the scaffold as poisoners.”
“You really think she’s going to come out here?” Paul asked his brother, playing with the small knife he had taken from the executioner’s house.
Together with half a dozen other boys, the two brothers stood on a corner of Schwabinger Street, not far from the gate to the Residenz. The guards had tried to shoo them several times, but the boys merely moved to another spot each time until the soldiers finally gave up.
“The prince told me that his nursemaid is going to town today,” Peter replied with a shrug. “Apparently she’s going to a tailor in Graggenau Quarter and to a goldsmith.”
“Did you hear that?” giggled Seppi, a small, freckled boy. “The prince himself told him.”
“Sure, and I watched the emperor take a shit yesterday,” replied a tall, thin boy whom everyone called Moser and who was well known for his sarcasm.
The other children laughed until a sharp whistle cut them off. It was Paul, glowering angrily at the street boys.
“If my brother says he knows the prince, then it’s the truth,” he said with a steady voice. “Does anyone not believe him? Speak up!” He held out the knife, ready to fight, and the boys involuntarily stepped back. Peter was always amazed how easily Paul put older kids in their place. It was as if the others could sense that this scrawny eight-year-old wasn’t bluffing, that he would use the knife if he had to.
His posture seemed to indicate that he’d done it many times.
And the children from the Anger Quarter knew that Peter and Paul were the grandsons of a real executioner, and a huge and grim-looking one on top of that. At least in Paul’s case, it was enough to instill the necessary respect.
As he had promised, Paul had talked to the Anger Wolves, who had been more than happy to help the brothers with the surveillance of the electoral nursemaid. Peter suspected it had something to do with the huge reward Paul had promised the kids if they found the prince’s dog. Nevertheless, some of the boys didn’t seem entirely convinced that Peter wasn’t simply bragging. But they’d never say it in front of Paul.
“Calm down, little fellow, no one’s insulting you or your brother,” said Schorsch, the knacker’s son and leader of their gang. “But it’s fucking freezing, and we’ve been standing here since early morning. If your nursemaid doesn’t come out soon, we’ll freeze to death. I say we stay till the bells strike noon, then we go home.”
The other children muttered their agreement, and Paul didn’t object. He shot his brother a warning glance, and Peter swallowed hard. If Paul lost face in front of these boys, he’d never help his older brother again. Max had told Peter about Amalie’s shopping routine at their last meeting, and he could only hope the prince was right. And Peter had promised to go to that strange masquerade that night, where he was supposed to report to Max what he found out about his dog.
The next half hour passed in silence. Some of the boys picked up stones for their slingshots, but other than that, they just stared at the gate to the Residenz. Several footmen rushed by, some tradesmen entered the gate, but not a single woman. Peter was about to admit defeat when the double doors opened once more and an elegantly dressed woman came out. She wore a muff and a green dress that was a little longer than her fur coat. Most noticeable was her hair. It was as blonde as wheat in the sun and braided into an elaborate artwork, topped with a tiny hat. Peter let out a small cry of joy. That was exactly how Max had described his nursemaid.
The woman outside the Residenz clearly was Amalie.
“That’s her,” he whispered, and the other boys gathered around him and stared across the road.
“Don’t stare,” Schorsch said. He bent down as if he were picking up some horse dung, and the others followed his example. Only Peter kept watching the nursemaid.
Until then, he hadn’t really thought about what they would do if Amalie actually turned up. Now he realized an elegant lady like her would probably take a carriage. But to his relief, Amalie kept walking. She turned left toward the Graggenau Quarter, and the boys followed her at some distance.
It turned out that following her was easier than he had thought. Amalie never looked back, she walked fast, and the lanes and alleys were so busy that the boys could always hide behind vehicles or merge with the crowds. As the prince had predicted, Amalie’s first stop was a tailor, where she stayed for some time. Then she continued on to a goldsmith near the Alter Hof, where the Bavarian dukes used to reside. The boys waited in the narrow gaps between houses on the opposite side of the road and passed the time throwing snowballs and sucking on icicles.
Their initial euphoria soon vanished; everyone, including Peter, had imagined a pursuit like this to be much more exciting. But all they really did was watch a court lady running her boring errands. After a while, some of the boys had to go home. In the end, the only Anger Wolves left were Schorsch, Seppi, and Moser.
“What is she doing in there for so long?” Seppi grumbled and rubbed his shivering arms. “She’s nice and warm while we’re freezing our asses off.”
“She’s probably buying a toy for the noble prince,” Moser jeered. “A golden spinning top or one of those small automatons that clap their hands. I saw one at the Jakobi Fair. A thing like that costs as much as the whole Anger Quarter.”
“If you’ve really met the prince, he must have given you something,” Seppi said to Peter. “Go on, give it here before—”
“Shush, she’s coming out!” hissed Paul.
“Yes, and now she’s going to return to her bed of gold, and we go back to our stinking quarter,” Schorsch said in a bored voice. “Well, at least we won’t have to be cold any longer.”
To their surprise, Amalie didn’t turn left toward the Residenz, but walked down one of the narrow lanes. It led to a much less prosperous area. Tawers and tanners had their workshops here; the air reeked of urine and feces that floated down a nearby stream. Seppi wrinkled his nose. “I would have preferred the streets back to the Residenz,” he complained. But even he seemed curious about what the nursemaid was doing in such a disreputable place.
Amalie soon turned left and followed an alley that led to an open square with a fountain. On the right-hand side stood a large stone building with a gate, through which carts laden with barrels of beer jolted in regular intervals.
“Look at that, the Hofbräuhaus,” Moser said with raised eyebrows. “That’s a little strange. What’s a lady like her doing at a brewery?”
“Maybe she’s picking up the beer for the noble prince?” Seppi said with a grin. “Only question is, How’s she going to carry the barrel? On her pretty little hat?”
Schorsch frowned. “This is where they brew the electoral beer. The high and mighty are crazy about frothy wheat beer. Perhaps the lady really is making inquiries for the court. Maybe she’s placing an order for a celebration or something.”
“A nursemaid? I don’t know . . .” Like the others, Peter had ducked behind the fountain and watched Amalie approach the gate. “Something else is strange,” he continued. “She’s looking around. Like she doesn’t want to be seen here.”
“You’re right,” Schorsch said. “The whole way she didn’t care at all if anyone followed her, and now she’s suddenly acting like a thief in the night. Something’s not right.”
After looking about herself cautiously one more time, Amalie walke
d to the gate, where she exchanged a few words with one of the wagon drivers. Moments later, the nursemaid had disappeared into the inner courtyard.
“Damn, now that things are getting interesting, we can’t follow her,” Moser said. “They’ll never let a bunch of dirty street kids into the Hofbräuhaus.”
“There must be another way. But how . . . ?” Peter desperately tried to think of a solution. He knew the boys had viewed him as merely an annoying attachment to his brother so far, even though the plan had been his. If only he could show them that sometimes brains could get you further than fists. Peter had no idea what Amalie might be up to in the electoral brewery, but whatever it was, it was bound to be something illegal. But what?
Another cart with barrels rattled past them. Tired and bored, the driver waited for the wide gate to open. His head sagged forward, as if he was having a little snooze. And Peter still thought hard.
Another way . . .
An idea struck him.
“The barrels on the cart,” he whispered excitedly. “They’re empty and open at the top. See?”
“Whoa, you’re right,” Schorsch said. “We might actually get in that way. Follow me.”
Without waiting for the others, Schorsch jumped onto the cart and climbed into one of the barrels. The driver didn’t notice a thing. The other boys followed his lead, Peter last. He shared a barrel with Schorsch, his back pressed against the wet staves. The strong smell of old beer almost made him drunk. Peter heard the gate squeak open, then the cart started to move.
Soon they stopped again. The horses whinnied, and something creaked and groaned; Peter thought it was the driver climbing off the cart and walking away. From a little farther away, they could hear the laughter of other drivers. Steins clanked, someone burped. Evidently, some of the men were sitting down to their lunch beers at the taproom.
But there was also another sound.
Peter held his breath. A woman was crying.
Amalie . . .
Schorsch had also heard the sobbing. Very slowly, the two boys straightened up until their heads stuck out the top of the barrel by a hand’s breadth. Peter cautiously looked around the courtyard. Many carts were parked beside them; burly men lifted barrels off the wagons and loaded them with new ones. On the other side of the boys’ cart, in a shady corner, Peter spotted Amalie deep in conversation with a young man. He had thick black hair and black eyes; his back was wide, and his arms showed that he had carried countless barrels of beer in his life.
“You promised,” Amalie whined. “You said he wasn’t going to get hurt.”
“Jesus Christ, what was I supposed to do?” the man snarled at her. “I couldn’t keep him here any longer. He’s in good hands now.”
“In good hands, bah! I know the fellow, I’ve only heard bad things about him. He’s probably drowned him in the Isar by now.”
“That would be stupid of him. He knows how much money that dog’s going to make.”
Peter winced. There couldn’t be any doubt. Amalie and the man were talking about Arthur, the electoral lapdog. He’d been right. They were onto something.
“I can’t sleep at night,” Amalie wailed, shaken by another crying fit. “Every time His Electoral Highness looks at me, I feel certain he knows what I’ve done.”
“Amalie, we didn’t have a choice.” The man placed an arm around the nursemaid’s shoulder. The pair was hidden from the view of the drivers in the quiet corner behind the carts. The man continued softly: “And you didn’t kill the dog. So you don’t have to feel bad.”
“Oh, Markus, you . . . you shouldn’t have given him away.” Amalie collapsed against the man’s broad chest and cried uncontrollably. “If this ever gets out . . .”
“Hey, you!”
The loud, deep voice was very close. Peter thought at first someone had called out to the young couple, but then someone started to shake their barrel, sending the boys flying back and forth. “Rotten riffraff, what do you think you’re doing in my barrels?” the angry voice continued. “You just wait! I’ll teach you a lesson.”
Peter didn’t want to know what exactly the man out there was going to do to them. With a deep breath, he jumped out of the barrel and found himself face to face with the angry driver who had carted them into the brewery. Now he raised his whip.
“Bloody vermin!” he shouted. “I bet you’re from Au or some other hole like that. What are you useless rabble doing in the city, huh? What were you going to steal?”
Peter didn’t reply. He and the other boys jumped off the cart and headed for the open gate. The whip whirred somewhere above them, but missed.
“Stop them!” the driver screamed. “They’re thieves!”
Other drivers tried to block their way. Schorsch and Seppi threw snowballs that smacked into angry red faces. Paul cocked his slingshot, and a menacing hiss followed. From the corner of his eye, Peter saw one of the men grab his head in agony and sink to his knees. Meanwhile, Moser had knocked over some of the barrels, which now rolled toward their cursing pursuers. A strong arm reached for Peter from the right, but he managed to dodge it at the last moment and raced toward the exit, where the gate was slowly closing. He slipped through the shrinking crack and stumbled out into the square. With the other boys, he ran through the lanes of the Graggenau Quarter, the shouts of their pursuers growing faint and finally stopping completely.
Even though his heart was about to burst with fear and exhaustion, Peter couldn’t suppress a smile. His observations had actually led them somewhere. They had found the culprits. Like in an equation with several unknown variables, he had managed to come up with a solution—by brainpower alone, not muscles.
His father would be proud of him.
“Just wonderful! If it goes on like this, soon there won’t be any hangmen left in Bavaria.”
Josef Loibl, the captain of the guard, leaned back in his chair with folded arms. Jakob Kuisl thought he saw a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. He and Michael Deibler were sitting in the headquarters of the city guard at the market square, not far from Schwabinger Street. Loibl had asked them here to find out more about the murder of Kaspar Hörmann. His body had been taken away by now and was currently being kept at the knacker’s, since the church refused to bury a hangman in a consecrated cemetery.
“First the Weilheim executioner was quartered, and now poison at your guild meeting,” Loibl continued. “What’s next? Breaking on the wheel or boiling in oil?”
“I can do without your mockery,” Kuisl replied crossly. “Your time would be better spent helping us find out who’s responsible for the murders of the hangmen as well as the girls in your city. Because there’s a connection, that’s as clear as pear schnapps.”
“That’s what you say, hangman,” Loibl said. “Where’s your evidence?”
“For heaven’s sake, Master Hans knew the murderer of the girls and had to die for it. And I was supposed to be next, because I’m onto the fellow.” Kuisl leaned across the table. “We are looking for the same culprit, is that so hard to understand? Where am I, at the Munich city guard or the madhouse?”
Josef Loibl gave Kuisl a cold look. “Watch your tongue, hangman. You may be strong and clever, but in this city you’re nothing but a dishonorable foreigner who’s getting very close to having himself thrown into the Falken Tower for insult.”
Michael Deibler touched Kuisl’s arm. “He’s right, Jakob. Shouting at people won’t help. Why don’t you tell Loibl everything you’ve found out about the dead girls so far.”
Josef Loibl made an encouraging gesture. “Be my guest. Why not? We’re grateful for any information, even if it comes from a hangman.”
Kuisl cleared his throat, then he began to talk. “I’m convinced by now that our murderer has been at work for a very long time. Poor girls have been getting murdered in and around Munich for years. The culprit always follows the same pattern: he executes them like a hangman and leaves an amulet.”
“An amulet?” Loibl asked.
“It’s some kind of Virgin Mary pendant,” Deibler said, coming to his friend’s aid. “I spoke to the knacker yesterday. He often brings back dead bodies from the nearby villages. He remembers seeing such amulets, too, and also that some girls suffered strange deaths. Drowned, strangled, buried alive . . . Only no one’s ever really given a damn about those poor things. Most of them had no relatives and came from far away to find employment in the city. That’s why there’s never been an investigation.”
“You told me yourself that one of those amulets was found with the body of the young patrician woman, Theresa Wilprecht,” Kuisl said to the captain. “The mummy had one, too. The amulets are the link between all these cases. The amulets and the manner of killing.”
“Nonsense,” Loibl replied. “Pious young women simply like wearing pendants like that. And every now and then a poor girl gets strangled or drowned by some bastard—it happens. What am I supposed to do with such vague suspicions? Mysterious amulets, alleged murders that happened years ago . . . What I need is solid evidence or witnesses.” He turned to Michael Deibler. “What about this Näher, the Kaufbeuren executioner? I hear he’s gone missing. Could he have something to do with the poisoning? Perhaps even the other murders, too? Or is he the next victim?”
“We . . . we’re still looking for him,” Deibler replied haltingly. “We’ll let you know when we find him.”
They still hadn’t heard back from Georg, whom Kuisl had sent looking for Näher. Kuisl knew how big this accursed Munich was. Searching for Näher was like trying to find the proverbial needle in the haystack.
“Have you by any chance tried to find out if the dead girls knew anyone in town?” he grumbled. “I saw a new cross at Elfi’s grave over at Holy Cross Cemetery, and a wreath. Someone must have put it there. And Elfi wasn’t buried in the paupers’ grave like Anni, but on her own. Who paid for that?”
Kuisl had pushed the memory of the eerie encounter in the cemetery aside in the last couple of days, mostly because it reminded him of his wife’s death and his longing for his own death. He still didn’t know how much of what had happened in the Holy Cross Cemetery had been his imagination and how much had been real, but now he remembered the wreath of fresh pine twigs, the cross that still smelled of sap . . .
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