by Cory Barclay
“I’m unsure,” Salome said. “All I know is that he fought for Archbishop Ernst of Cologne, in General Farnese’s army, and he was a Catholic while under the archbishop’s employ.”
Dieter nodded, and Sister Salome disappeared around the corner of the hallway. The priest shook his head. By God, his family was killed by the same beast that ravages Bedburg? How horrific . . . and how coincidental. How can he know it was the same killer?
Dieter peered around the corner of the hallway and noticed that people were beginning to fill the pews. He’d have to wait for another time to plead with the bishop about changing his sermon’s rhetoric.
Despite the dismal weather, Dieter was happy to see that it looked like his church would be full, even though everyone seemed to share a solemn look on their cold, wet faces. It had been three days since Dorothea Gabler’s murder, and there seemed to be no leads.
The people are scared, Dieter thought, and rightly so. They fear for their lives, for their children, for their families. The beast, after all, only seems to target good Catholics. How can I explain that to this congregation? How can I ease their suffering and terror?
Perhaps the bishop is right. These people need a renewed hope—they need to know what it is they’re frightened of.
Dieter squinted and gazed around the room, noticing many familiar faces: the regular tradesmen and farmers who came every morning; the hunter, Georg Sieghart, sitting near the back; the arrogant investigator standing next to Georg, his arms crossed over his chest, a fresh bruise on his face. The investigator and hunter spoke casually with each other, as if they were acquaintances.
Dieter’s eyes lit up.
Sybil Griswold walked into the church, albeit without the rest of her family. As the priest looked closely, he noticed something strange about the young woman. Her face was not bright and radiant as before, but instead narrow-eyed, angry, and maybe even sad.
The look alone made Dieter’s heart sink.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SYBIL
Before arriving at church, Sybil had been furious as she slogged through the muddy streets. Before the sun’s first rays broke through the morning horizon, she sneaked out of her house, despite her father ordering her to stay away from Father Nicolaus.
She knew the consequences of her actions. Her father would be livid that she traveled alone in the morning, and even angrier that she disobeyed him. But she didn’t care. She wanted someone to talk to.
How could my own father lie to me? Sybil thought. She understood why he withheld information from Father Nicolaus and the investigator, but why to his daughter? She hated being treated like a child and being kept in the dark.
It took three whole days before Sybil learned the victim of the murder was Dorothea Gabler. She cried hot tears, and they mixed with the cold, spitting rain on her face. The sun began its ascent as she neared the church.
Sybil felt she needed to find out why her father was getting so caught up in lies: once to the priest, once to the investigator, and now once to her. Dorothea was my friend! We grew up as neighbors! I have the right to know what happened to her.
The religious lies made sense—any Protestant practices were stigmatized within the community, and could ruin Sybil’s family. But why had Peter lied to the investigator about being at the market on the day of Dorothea’s death?
And why implicate me, by saying I was with him? Doesn’t father know that it will only be a matter of time before the investigator realizes that no one can validate his story? And then what?
Sybil sat through Father Nicolaus’ sermon with her knees drawn up against her chest. She tuned out much of the sermon, and she felt guilty for it, but her thoughts wouldn’t stop swirling around in her head.
Besides, she caught the gist of it: The Protestant devils brought the beast upon the Catholics, to test their faith, during a time when the Catholics needed their faith most of all. They needed to be strong, resilient, and obedient to God.
It was depressing for Sybil. Her people were being demonized for something she had no control over—something she might not even believe in—and she was surrounded by people who leaned on every word Father Nicolaus told them.
I hope he doesn’t truly believe the things he’s saying . . . they’re awful!
This wasn’t the same gentle, kind-hearted man she had met at the marketplace.
After the sermon, Father Nicolaus came to Sybil with a warm smile on his face. His smile quickly turned into a frown when he noticed her sad expression.
“Sybil, I’m glad you made it to Mass. Are you well?”
“I am fine,” she said with a shy shrug.
“I wish your father and brother would have attended, too.”
“I don’t think my father would have liked that much. And besides, he doesn’t even know I’m here.”
“You came without his permission?” Father Nicolaus asked, putting his hands on his hips.
In response, Sybil crossed her arms over her chest. “I am my own woman, Father.”
Father Nicolaus began to say something, but then closed his mouth. He smiled, and rested a hand on Sybil’s shoulder. “That you are. But it sounds like you didn’t enjoy my sermon.”
“Enjoy is hardly the word I’d use, Father. It was all so . . . harsh, if I’m being honest.”
The priest sighed. “I appreciate you being honest, Sybil, and I suppose you’re right. I could have toned down the fire and brimstone—”
A big man with a thick, dark beard appeared behind the priest and tapped him on the shoulder. Sybil recognized him from Mass. He had been talking to the investigator before the sermon.
“Father,” said the big man, with a throaty voice, “I was hoping for another confession today. My nightmares still haunt me.”
Father Nicolaus faced the man. “O-of course,” he said, “right this way.” Then he turned to Sybil. “If you’ll excuse me, my dear.”
Sybil nodded, and the priest walked toward the confessional booth, near the altar. The big man followed him.
Sybil gazed around the church, and noticed that most of the congregation had left the building or were busy talking with one another in soft whispers.
In the corner of the room, she noticed the dark-clothed investigator eyeing her.
That must be the same man who visited my father last night.
The man seemed to be inspecting everyone in the congregation, and he was holding and writing on a small piece of parchment.
Sybil stood up and walked to the man with her shoulders held high. The investigator ignored her, until she cleared her throat loudly. “Excuse me, sir,” she said. “Are you the investigator who came to visit my home yesterday?”
The tall man had a wispy mustache and a perpetual frown. He had day-old stubble, a purple bruise on the left side of his face, and he looked down his nose at Sybil. “And who are you?”
“My name is Sybil Griswold. I’m the daughter of Peter—”
“Yes, yes, I figured that out.” The investigator’s eyes narrowed, and he tucked his parchment inside his tunic. He looked her up and down, this time with a little less condescension in his stare. “My, you are a pretty thing, aren’t you?”
Sybil’s face flushed, and the man stuck out a gloved hand. Sybil shook it and curtseyed.
“Investigator Heinrich Franz,” said the man. He gave her an exaggerated bow, and said, “What can I do for you, Frau Griswold?”
“Well,” Sybil began. She felt her throat go suddenly dry and hoarse. “I wanted to t-talk to you, if you could be bothered. I overheard you talking to my father yesterday.”
Investigator Franz gave her a humorless smile. “A little eavesdropper, eh? What is it you want to say to me, girl?”
“It’s what my father said to you, sir. I don’t think he was being entirely truthful, and I want to know why.”
The investigator’s eyes squinted. “Why is a good place to begin, Frau Griswold, for establishing a motive.” The investigator continued to smile. “It
seems that you’d make a fine detective, young lady. Please, continue.”
Sybil’s face was still red, and she stared at the tiled floor and started fidgeting. She put her hands behind her back so the investigator couldn’t see them. “It’s about what he said—about being at the market with me three days ago, before Dorothea’s death.”
Investigator Franz sat down at the nearest pew and nodded, his curiosity obviously piqued.
“Well . . . he lied. And I know it’s not right to lie. We weren’t at the market that day.”
“Where were you?”
“He was out for most of the day—I’m not sure where.”
Investigator Franz rolled his eyes.
“But,” Sybil continued, “I was at my farmstead . . . with Dorothea Gabler.”
The investigator tried to hide the dark look that overcame him, but it wasn’t very convincing to Sybil, who could almost see the cogs turning in his mind. “You were with the murder victim?” he asked. His voice became harsher and less cordial, and he reached into his tunic, as if ready to pull out his parchment. “That doesn’t bode well with me, Frau Griswold.”
Sybil shook her hands in front of her face. “No, no, it’s nothing like that. Dorothea was my friend! She was my neighbor. We were playing at my house while my father ran errands. I don’t know why he would say otherwise.”
Investigator Franz started twirling the ends of his mustache. “People who lie about things, no matter how small the lie, have something to hide, Frau Griswold. So, tell me, is there something your father is trying to hide from me?”
Sybil paused, then slowly shook her head. This was not going how it originally sounded in her mind. “N-no . . . I don’t believe so. My father would never harm anyone.”
The investigator stared at her, or, rather, through her. “Tell me what happened next, my dear. When did Dorothea leave your home? This is important.”
Sybil pursed her lips, thinking hard. “She left before sundown. But the odd thing is, as I watched her leave, she didn’t go in the direction of her family’s estate.”
Investigator Franz leaned closer to Sybil’s face as he pulled incessantly on his mustache. “Where did she go?” he asked, his voice suddenly sounding giddy with excitement.
“She went toward my other neighbor’s homestead.” Sybil looked into the investigator’s dark eyes. “She was headed toward Karl Achterberg’s family farm.”
Investigator Franz leaned back in his pew and took a deep breath.
Just then, the front doors of the church swung open with a crash, startling everyone in the room. All eyes turned to a wide-eyed, frantic man with disheveled hair. He looked as though he’d just seen Satan himself.
“Please, God, oh sweet Lord! Come quick! Mercy on me—mercy—someone come! There’s been another murder in the countryside!”
CHAPTER NINE
HEINRICH
For the first time, Heinrich felt he had a solid lead on the Dorothea Gabler case. He wasn’t sure why Sybil Griswold would come to him with questions about her father, but he attributed it to her being young, curious, and apprehensive. His head spun as he tried to figure out what it meant that Peter Griswold had lied about his whereabouts during the day of Dorothea’s murder.
After he parted with the girl, he drew a triangle on his parchment and wrote the words Gabler, Griswold, and Achterberg on the points, to signify that the families all lived near each other.
Heinrich, Tomas, and Georg Sieghart took three horses and rode south from Castle Bedburg, into the country and toward the newest crime scene. All the while, Heinrich felt like his brain was trying to leap out of his skull. He tried to create a timeline for the Gabler murder.
If what Sybil said was true, then on the day of the murder, Dorothea and Sybil were together at the Griswold house. Peter Griswold was absent, and he was certainly not at the marketplace, as he’d claimed, nor was he with his daughter.
Sybil was also best friends with the murdered girl.
So, what motive would Peter have of killing his daughter’s friend, and in such a gruesome way? It doesn’t make sense—unless lust was involved.
Lust and depravity are always possibilities in cases like these.
Before sundown, and before she was killed, Dorothea Gabler ventured from the Griswold estate to Karl Achterberg’s estate.
Why in the world would she do that? What was her connection with the Achterbergs? There’s some familial connection between the Achterbergs, the Gablers, and the Griswolds that I’m missing.
And was Karl Achterberg at home when Dorothea arrived? If not, where was he? Maybe someone in town can shed some light on the farmer’s whereabouts.
It appears both Karl Achterberg and Peter Griswold were absent from their respective houses when Dorothea was alone in the country . . .
Heinrich knew that Karl Achterberg and Peter Griswold were not on good terms. That created animosity, but not necessarily a motive for killing Dorothea Gabler, for either of the men.
I need to know more, Heinrich thought, shaking his head. He felt a rush of anger swell within him, because he’d released Karl Achterberg, and now he had no further evidence to arrest him with.
It was Josephine. Her mangled corpse was on display just a few miles from where Dorothea Gabler’s body had been found.
As Heinrich looked around the open landscape with his arms crossed over his chest, he asked himself, What is so special about this location? The land was hilly and green, with cloisters of trees dotting the horizon. It was a decidedly plain region, but in the distance were woodland areas—possibly where a murderer might choose as a base of operation.
Does one of those woods hide the secret to these killings?
Josephine’s body was just as gruesomely damaged as Dorothea’s had been. Her red hair was damp and stringy, plastered on her forehead. Her emerald eyes were staring up at the gray sky, horrified looking, and her red lips were parted in a silent scream. Her throat was torn out, but her limbs weren’t dismembered like Dorothea’s had been. Her half-naked body had been exposed to the rain and wind, giving her skin a shiny, alabaster appearance. A gaping wound around her stomach told an even darker story.
Heinrich kneeled close to the body and removed a glove from his hand. Her skin was ice cold. “She’s been dead since last night,” Heinrich said.
Georg stood over the body with his head slumped, looking as though he were about to weep. “Poor, poor girl,” he mumbled. “She was so sweet. Too sweet for this dark world.”
Heinrich continued his analysis. “She’s still in one piece, which leads me to believe the murderer was in a hurry this time.” Heinrich looked over his shoulder, and noticed a dirt road nearby. “Close to a trail . . . unlike Dorothea. It’s as if the murderer wanted her to be found.”
“Why?” Georg asked. “Didn’t you say the same thing when looking at Dorothea?”
Heinrich shrugged. “Perhaps to make a statement? ‘No one is safe out here.’ That sort of thing.”
Still crouched, Heinrich leaned closer to the body and inspected the most alarming wound: a cavernous hole in her stomach. He gagged when he stuck his head closer—the stench was unfathomable, and her intestines had been removed.
But that wasn’t the worst part of the discovery.
Heinrich replaced his glove and his knees creaked as he stood. “I’m afraid,” he said with a deep sigh, “that Josephine was pregnant.”
Georg gasped, made the sign of the cross over his chest, and turned away from the body. “Oh, Josey. Good God. How can that be?”
Heinrich turned to Georg. “Given her profession . . .” he began, but then cleared his throat when Georg narrowed his eyes. “I’m not sure how far along she was, but the fetus was ripped from her body.”
Tomas bent over and vomited on the bloody grass.
Georg threw his hands in the air. “God have mercy. Should we assemble a search party? I could track the infant down.”
Heinrich scratched his head. “I’m afraid there
’s no way a premature infant could have survived the harsh weather from last night, if it had been alive to begin with. It’s a lost cause, Georg. I’m . . . sorry.” Then he tapped his chin. “Also, there aren’t any tracks, which is . . . odd, to say the least.”
“Are you saying a ghost committed this murder?”
Heinrich shook his head. “I’m saying that our killer wants to make a statement, but is still trying to hide. He will strike again.”
What do these two murders have in common? Heinrich thought. Both were young, virile women, unmarried and traveling alone. But one was a young farmer’s girl, the other was a prostitute . . .
The investigator turned to Georg. “Do you know if Josephine was Catholic?”
Georg nodded. “I heard it only in passing. She told Lars last night that she planned on going to Mass this morning, and wondered if the barkeep wanted to accompany her.”
Heinrich’s brows went high on his forehead. A new suspect . . . but why would a barman kill his biggest moneymaker and asset? It also made no sense—a running theme in this investigation. “A tavern owner and a prostitute attending Mass together . . . do you find that strange?”
Georg gave Heinrich a pointed look. “Everyone has to make a living, investigator. That doesn’t mean they can’t be pious and repentant at the same time. I would say a barkeep and a harlot have many reasons to atone for their sins. More than most.”
“Perhaps.” Heinrich made a clicking sound with his tongue. There was something else nagging at him, and he felt hesitant on bringing it out in the open, but it needed to be said, and he would judge the reaction carefully.
He inspected the brown-red grass surrounding the body. Who would better know how to conceal his trail than a hunter and tracker?
Heinrich stared at Georg. “And what about you, Herr Sieghart?”
Georg cocked his head to the side. “What about me?”
