The Council of Twelve

by Oliver Pötzsch

  Josef Loibl shrugged. “As far as I know, the money for the burial came from an anonymous donor—”

  “An anonymous donor?” Kuisl brought his fist down hard on the table. “God damn it! A girl is impaled, someone decorates her grave, and no one wonders who this unknown person is. Is the entire Munich city guard drunk?”

  “That’s enough!” Loibl shouted back. “I’m not going to let a hangman speak to me like this. Get out before—”

  He was interrupted by a commotion outside the office. Loibl rose and yanked open the door. “What’s going on here?” he roared. “Didn’t I say I don’t want to be disturbed?”

  “But I must speak with the captain,” a voice called out, evidently someone being restrained by the guards. “It’s about my wife, she’s missing. She might even be dead. I need the help of the city guard, now!”

  Jakob Kuisl started when he recognized the voice outside the door. The hair on his neck stood on end, and a chill ran down his spine. What he’d just heard concerned someone he knew very well.

  My wife . . . she’s missing . . . might even be dead . . .

  The man pleading so desperately for help outside was undoubtedly his son-in-law.

  A short while later, Jakob Kuisl, Deibler, and the captain listened to Simon’s story as he struggled to find the right words. The slender medicus was as white as a sheet, his breathing rapid, his shirt torn from the run-in with the guards. His hat had fallen off and was lying on the ground, dirty and squashed. Kuisl felt his throat dry out like a puddle in the sun. As always when he was afraid, he was overcome by a strong urge to drink. And right now he was very thirsty and afraid.

  Afraid for his daughter.

  “That woman named Agnes said Uffele and Joseffa had taken Magdalena away on . . . on a cart, like a dead cow.” Simon concluded his report. “She thought she recognized her under the rags. My wife must have found something out at the manufactory, and they silenced her.” He looked at his father-in-law. “We should never have let her go.”

  “There is no proof Magdalena is dead,” Kuisl replied in a monotone. He felt as if he were listening to someone else speak. “She . . . she might have just been unconscious or bound and gagged.”

  “Uffele didn’t waste any time with the other girls,” Simon persisted. “Why should it be any different this time?”

  “Because I know that my daughter isn’t dead, all right?” Kuisl shouted at him. “I know she isn’t.”

  “In any case, the city guard must search the manufactory immediately, from top to bottom,” Michael Deibler said, squeezing Kuisl’s calloused hand reassuringly. “We must find out what’s going on in there, right now.”

  “That’s . . . not that easy.” Josef Loibl bit his lip.

  “What do you mean, it’s not that easy?” Kuisl growled. “Send your guards to Au and take the damned house apart.”

  “Well, we hardly have more than a suspicion so far,” Loibl said, trying to talk his way out. Clearly, there was something he wasn’t telling them. “Some girl said something—”

  “Out with it, Captain,” Deibler said. “Why don’t you want to search the silk manufactory?”

  “Because we’d need personal permission from the elector.” Loibl sighed. “The manufactory is under his direct jurisdiction. The silk production is highly secret—they want to avoid foreign powers learning the trade. Uffele might be a sleazy character, but his connections go right to the top. There is no way we can search the building unless the order comes from the elector himself. And that takes time. As far as I know, His Excellency is out hunting, and later on he’s joining the electress at some ball or other.” Josef Loibl shrugged and turned to Simon. “I’m sorry. All I can offer you is for my guards to keep an eye out for your wife in the city. You never know, they might just find her.”

  “This is about the life of my daughter, you ox, not about a lost puppy!” Kuisl thundered. He clenched his fists hard, making them crack like broken twigs. “And all you’re going to do is ask a drunken night watchman to keep an eye out? You just wait, I’ll . . . I’ll . . .”

  The hangman was about to jump up, hot rage welling up in him. Loibl’s muscles tensed, and he reached for his sword.

  Then someone knocked on the door.

  “What now?” Josef Loibl grumbled, not taking his eyes off the hangman.

  A guard stepped into the office and saluted. “Um, you said we should report anything out of the ordinary,” he said uncertainly. “Anything that might be connected to those murders. Well, I’m not sure if—”

  “Spit it out,” Loibl barked. “What do you know?”

  “A merchant on horseback just arrived in town from Freising. He’s spreading some creepy rumors in the market square.”

  “And what is it this time?” Loibl asked with a sigh. He put his sword aside, but kept his eyes on Kuisl.

  The guard looked down and made the sign of the cross. “Apparently, someone buried a woman alive in the Bogenhausen cemetery. The farmers swear they saw a woman’s arm reaching out from under the earth. By the mother of God! Like the living dead . . .”

  For a moment, everyone was stunned with horror. No one spoke. Then Jakob Kuisl sprang to his feet, his chair crashing to the ground.

  “How far to Bogenhausen?” he asked Loibl.

  “About . . . about four miles. You don’t think . . .”

  But Kuisl wasn’t listening anymore. He ran outside, followed closely by Simon, who was as pale as the living dead himself.

  “I have to admit, you were right.”

  Still breathless from the long run, Schorsch leaned against the drystone wall of a small, overgrown vegetable garden in the Graggenau Quarter. The leader of the Anger Wolves had a wide grin on his face. “I have to admit, wiseacre. I actually thought you were telling fibs and just trying to sound important.”

  “I told you my brother doesn’t lie,” Paul said proudly. “And I knew he’d find the dog thief. He’s pretty smart, you know. He can even read Latin, and not just the paternoster.”

  Peter smiled. A compliment from the mouth of his own brother felt especially good. Suddenly he felt like the Anger lads viewed him differently. They were loitering in the deserted backyard of a workman’s house. A handful of chickens pecked for grain in the muddy snow, and the hammering of a blacksmith echoed through the air. Their exciting escape from the Munich Hofbräuhaus suddenly seemed very far away.

  “I don’t want to be a spoilsport,” Moser muttered, “but we aren’t really any further than before. All right, we know now that the nursemaid stole the prince’s dog, but we still don’t know where the mutt is. And no dog—no reward. Am I right?”

  “The oh-so-elegant lady said the dog had most likely already been drowned,” Seppi added, aiming his slingshot at one of the chickens. “If she’s right, we can forget about the reward anyway. Damn it!”

  The stone hit the ground inches from the chicken, which ran away cackling loudly. Seppi cursed, and Peter’s feeling of triumph vanished. The boys were right. What good was it knowing who took the dog if they didn’t have the dog? And something else bothered Peter: whenever his father or grandfather talked about their hunts for thieves and murderers, the culprits always were scoundrels. But Amalie just didn’t seem like a scoundrel to him. The nursemaid had been crying—she truly seemed to care for Arthur. And that bearded man, who must have been her boyfriend, said they didn’t have a choice. The whole thing didn’t sound evil at all.

  But why, then, did Amalie kidnap Arthur?

  “So?” Schorsch asked. “What should we do now? Back to the Anger Quarter? I don’t think there’s anything else we can do here.”

  Peter realized everyone was looking at him, even his brother. Evidently, the boys expected some sort of decision from him. He cleared his throat.

  “You’re right,” he admitted. “The case isn’t solved yet. But we made huge progress. Now we have to question the kidnapper about the location of her victim.”

  “Huh? What’s he talking
about?” Seppi scratched his lice-infested head.

  “I think he means we should torture Amalie,” Paul said. “That’s what Grandpa does when people don’t want to talk.”

  Peter sighed. Other people could be so slow sometimes. “Of course we’re not going to torture her,” he replied patiently. “We won’t need to, because we know her little secret. If she doesn’t tell us where the dog is, we threaten to tell the prince.”

  “You mean you tell the prince,” Schorsch said. “For us he’s as far away as the moon. And where do you want to talk to the lady, anyway? She’s bound to be back at the Residenz by now.”

  “I don’t think so,” Peter replied. “She was a mess, her makeup was all smudged from the crying. She can’t go back looking like that, or someone will ask questions. And she can’t go to the young brewer’s or driver’s house, either, as that would be too conspicuous.” He frowned. More to himself, he said, “So she’s still somewhere out there. But it’s too cold to stay outside for long. Hmm, so she’s somewhere indoors, where no one will bother her . . . Somewhere you’d go to find consolation.”

  “A tavern?” Paul surmised. “Grandfather says that’s where he finds consolation.”

  Peter smiled. “Grandpa perhaps, but not an elegant lady.” He nodded. “I think she’s in a church. It’s the only place where you can be completely alone in the daytime, even among many other people. Maybe she’s confessing.” He stood up with determination. “Let’s go look for her in the churches. If we haven’t found her in two hours, we give up. Agreed?”

  The boys nodded, and to his enormous surprise, Peter realized they’d actually listened. For the first time in his life, other children weren’t meeting him with contempt, mockery, or envy, but with respect. Even better: he was their leader, if only for a while.

  And all that without yelling and punching—he had convinced them with words alone.

  It was like a miracle.

  They found Amalie in Frauenkirche church.

  Paul and Seppi had spotted her toward the end of their search. The nursemaid had just emerged from the confessional box, stooped with sorrow like an old woman, a woolen scarf draped over her hat, so that the boys almost hadn’t recognized her. When the other boys finally entered the huge church, Amalie was sitting in one of the pews, praying with her eyes closed. There weren’t a lot of people in church at this time of day. The sexton was lighting candles in the side altars and chapels. When he caught sight of the dirty street children, he paused and started walking toward them, eyeing them suspiciously.

  “Quick, the pews,” Schorsch hissed. “If we pray, he won’t dare kick us out.”

  The boys slipped into the pews, knelt down, and folded their hands in prayer. The sexton slowed his pace and walked past them without saying anything.

  From the corner of his eye, Peter studied the massive church, which seemed as long to him as the main road of a village. The early afternoon light fell through the tall windows onto colorful patterns on the ground. Numerous side altars were decorated with carvings and paintings. Peter decided he’d have to visit Frauenkirche church again. Perhaps he could even bring his drawing equipment.

  “And now?” Moser whispered, pulling him back to reality. “What do we do now?”

  Peter thought for a moment. “I’m going to go talk to her,” he said eventually.

  “To a lady from court?” Seppi stared at him with astonishment. “Do you even know how to?”

  “My brother knows the prince of Bavaria, of course he can talk to a nursemaid,” Paul snapped. “And now shut up already, you lice-ridden good-for-nothing.”

  “Lice-ridden good-for-nothing yourself,” Seppi muttered.

  They watched in silence as Peter waited for the sexton to turn his back. Then he stood up and snuck over to Amalie’s pew. He moved close to her, lowered his head, and folded his hands as though he were praying, too. He gathered all his courage.

  “I’m sorry about the dog,” he said softly.

  Amalie gave a start. Apparently, she had been too absorbed in her grief to notice anything around her. Her face was wet with tears and streaked with makeup.

  “I . . . I beg your pardon?” she asked. When she realized the person talking to her was only a small boy off the street, her eyes narrowed. “Who do you think you are, you dirty rascal? Do you know who you’re talking to?”

  “You’re Amalie, lady-in-waiting and nursemaid to His Electoral Highness the prince,” Peter replied calmly. “And you stole his dog.”

  “How . . . how dare you . . .” Amalie flared up. She flushed bright red and was about to jump up indignantly, but Peter held her back with a gentle grip.

  “There’s no point in lying. We overheard your conversation with the man at the Hofbräuhaus.”

  “‘We’?” Amalie looked around anxiously. Then she understood. “Of course, you’re the boys who ran away from the wagon drivers before.” She gave him a haughty look, her pride returning. “What makes you think we were talking about the prince’s dog? That’s nonsense.”

  “It isn’t nonsense,” Peter insisted. “You cut the collar in the electoral gardens and gave Arthur to that man, and he passed him on to someone else. We have evidence.”

  “Evidence . . . collar . . . gardens?” Slowly, it appeared to dawn on Amalie that the boy next to her wasn’t just some random filthy kid off the street.

  “How do you know all this?” she asked eventually.

  “Listen,” Peter replied, ignoring her question. “I don’t want Max to be angry with you. He said you’re a nice nursemaid.”

  “Max said that, did he?” Amalie replied weakly. She seemed close to fainting.

  “Yes, he did. But he really wants his dog back. So why don’t you just tell us where he is, and I promise we won’t say a word.”

  “But I don’t know,” Amalie whimpered. “That horrible man has Arthur now and . . .” She faltered when the sexton looked over at them.

  “Take my hand, as if you were my mother or aunt,” Peter commanded. “I want him to think we’re together.”

  As if in a trance, the nursemaid reached for his hand. “I . . . I didn’t want any of this,” she stammered once the sexton had turned away again, not before casting one last suspicious glance at them. “But God as my witness, I didn’t have a choice.”

  “Why?” Peter asked.

  “M-Markus and I, we’ve been a couple for over half a year now. But no one at court can find out,” she said haltingly. “Markus is just a simple brewer’s journeyman, and I’m a lady from court. But that repulsive Kerll must have found out somehow.”

  “Max’s music teacher,” Peter said with a nod.

  “Yes.” Amalie sighed. “You really are well informed. Well, Kerll blackmailed me. He told me to get rid of the dog or he’d tell the elector. I would have lost my position, and they would probably have transferred Markus into the woods, to Straubing or even farther away.”

  “But why did Kerll want to get rid of the dog?” Peter asked. “What did it ever do to him?”

  “Arthur always barked and howled when the prince played the violin,” Amalie whispered. “It truly was unbearable. Both the violin playing and the howling.” She gave a desperate laugh. “The two together almost drove Kerll insane. But His Princely Highness insisted Arthur stay with him during music lessons. So Kerll decided the dog had to go. I . . . I was supposed to drown him, but I couldn’t. So I gave him to Markus, who took good care of him.”

  “But then Markus gave Arthur to another man,” Peter said with a bad feeling in his stomach. “Someone who’s not as good to him.”

  Amalie nodded. “That monster steals precious dogs from wealthy homes and sells them on. Markus told me about it. He was hoping Arthur would find a new home that way. But I’m afraid that nasty man won’t manage to sell Arthur. No one wants such a whimpering, annoying mutt. So he’ll probably knock him dead, if he hasn’t already. I’m sure he’s capable of it. He truly is a god-awful man.”

  “And who is this
horrible person?” Peter asked.

  Amalie told him.

  11

  ANGER SQUARE, AFTERNOON, FEBRUARY 7, AD 1672

  THE JUGGLER JUGGLED THREE GOLDEN apples and whistled a merry soldiers’ tune, as if he were going to war.

  He wore a tousled wig that looked as if birds were nesting in it. On top of the wig sat a wooden crown, and a ragged coat served as a royal cape, barely keeping out the cold. The young man shivered all over, but nonetheless wore a mischievous smile on his face. When she looked again, Barbara realized the golden apples were merely painted balls of wood.

  “See here, Emperor Leopold juggling his countries,” a bearded man with a drum proclaimed, standing next to the juggler on the stage. “Bohemia, Hungary, and the German Empire. And every year a new country.” The man beat his drum and announced in his sonorous voice, “Croatia! Slavonia! And, with God’s help, the southern countries.” With each beat of the drum, someone threw another golden apple to the juggler from behind the stage, and the crowd laughed and applauded. Now the drummer launched into a clattering drumroll. “But oh dear!” he called out despairingly. “See for yourself. The sinister Mussulman cometh.”

  Barbara held her breath and watched as another juggler, dressed in the exotic garb of an Ottoman and carrying a saber, climbed the rough-hewn stage. She stood with Valentin in the large crowd gathered in the square outside the Anger monastery and watched the exciting play. The troupe of jugglers had first entertained the audience with farces, then with a moresca dance, where the dancers wore tight pants and carried tambourines, jumping about like wild Moors. Now they enacted the growing threat of the Ottomans to the German Empire. The grim-looking Mussulman swung his wooden saber and hit the juggler until he stumbled, almost dropping his balls. The audience shrieked with fright—including Barbara, so that Valentin gave her a reassuring smile.