by Cory Barclay
HEINRICH
Peter Griswold awoke with a start, lying in a pool of his own sweat. His heart raced. Something was wrong. It was the middle of the night, but he could feel it—something was wrong.
The door to his room opened with a creak, and he jumped to his feet. His son, Hugo, stood in the doorway with a frightened look on his face.
“Father, did you hear that?” the boy asked.
Disoriented, Peter threw on a robe to cover his nakedness, and then he ran and embraced his son. He didn’t know what Hugo was talking about, and he couldn’t remember if he’d been in the midst of a nightmare when he awoke.
“What is it, son? Go back to sleep,” he urged.
Hugo whimpered and shook his head. “I’m scared,” he said. “I heard something.” He held a stuffed doll tight against his chest. Sybil had made the doll for him, and it resembled a horse.
Clank.
The noise came from outside. “Stay here,” Peter said. He wrapped his robe tight, but struggled with his one hand.
Still sweating, Peter left his room. He crept to the front of the house and held his ear against the door.
Ting.
This time it sounded like someone had kicked a bucket. “Dammit,” a voice cursed.
Peter ran back to his room and reached under his bed. He pulled out a long rifle and a few bullets. Hugo was huddled in a corner of the room, wide-eyed, knees pulled up against his chest.
Peter hadn’t used a firearm in years. He grasped the weapon in his knees and loaded it with his one good hand. He ran back to the front of the house and took a deep breath.
He slowly pushed the door open and walked out into the fields, barefoot. Even though it wasn’t snowing anymore, the night was crisp, and white clumps of soft snow had settled over his crops.
He moved slowly—like a wolf stalking his prey—to the side of the house, where he’d heard the noises coming from.
He raised the rifle and nestled the butt of it against his right shoulder. It quivered against his shoulder because he couldn’t grip the barrel to aim properly.
He thought his eyes played tricks on him, and he blinked hard. The moon was hidden above a blanket of clouds, and he stared into pitch-blackness. He edged closer to his two barns—one that housed pigs and cows, the other with horses and slaves—and squinted into the shadowy alcoves of the structures. He didn’t see any shapes, and the animals and thralls slept soundly.
Breathing deep, he mustered the willpower to speak. “Show yourself!” he called out, “or I’ll shoot you dead!”
His bare feet were turning numb from the snow, and he stopped moving. He aimed his arquebus in all directions, unsure of where to point the thing.
He heard a rustling, back behind the barns.
Peter took off sprinting toward the noise. He rounded the side of the barn where the pigs and cows were sheltered. He reached the back of the barn and spotted a silhouette.
The figure was on four legs. Its back was turned to Peter, and a hood covered its face. Peter slowly shuffled toward it.
Abruptly, the figure stood on two legs and took off running, away from the barn and into the darkness.
“Damn you!” Peter shouted. He aimed at the figure’s back, which became smaller and smaller as it ran into the night. Peter’s hand trembled, and he put his finger on the trigger.
He breathed heavily, but couldn’t rally the courage to shoot. Within moments the figure had disappeared into the darkness. Peter sighed loudly and let his rifle fall to his side. He groaned, and then his eyes followed the footprints in the snow.
Whoever—or whatever—had been snooping around his estate was headed back toward Bedburg.
It was morning, and Heinrich Franz hurried away from Castle Bedburg, toward the church. It was a gray, gloomy morning. Townsfolk shoveled snow out of the roads so that they could guide their carts to the marketplace. Heinrich passed a few people he recognized and nodded to them, but few of them returned his nods. The gray clouds and snowy roads made the town seem despondent.
As he kept walking, Heinrich realized that the weather might not have been why people seemed to be avoiding him. He’d become somewhat of a nuisance in the quiet town—always questioning people and causing a ruckus—and while he was in Cologne, his absence had probably been a welcome sight.
It seemed that anyone who talked to the investigator ended up in trouble, so most people wanted nothing to do with him. It was a bad omen for Investigator Franz to be seen at your door.
He knew his reputation, but shrugged away the thoughts. It’s not my job to make friends, he reminded himself.
He reached the church just before morning Mass, and entered through the stained-glass doors. Father Dieter Nicolaus and Sister Salome were speaking to each other next to the pulpit at the end of the room.
“Investigator Franz,” Father Nicolaus said in a flat tone as Heinrich approached. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”
Heinrich chuckled. “No need to feign kindness with me, Father. I know you hate me.”
“I don’t hate you,” the priest said, “I am a man of God. But I’m also not feigning kindness.”
“Nonsense,” Heinrich said. “Even God hates me.” He saw Sister Salome’s mouth open wide, and he waved his hand. “That’s neither here nor there. I require the aid of one of you.”
Father Nicolaus sighed and nodded to Sister Salome. “I’ll help him, but could you prepare my sermon for me? It should be sitting in my chambers.”
The nun bowed her head and shuffled out of the room, toward the back hallway.
Father Nicolaus put his hands on his hips. “What is it you need?”
“Records,” Heinrich said, reaching into his tunic and presenting the priest with a roll of parchment, “and knowledge. I figured the best place to look for those two things would be the church.”
“Our records are not for public viewing.”
“I’m on official business,” Heinrich replied. He handed the roll of parchment forward.
Father Nicolaus scratched his head as he read the document, and then he shrugged and turned, waving for Heinrich to follow him. “I guess you’ve come to the right place.”
They walked down the hallway, passed the chambers of the priests, nun, and bishop, and came to a small stairwell at the end of the hall. The stairs spiraled down for two flights to a dark, damp room. A torch was perched at the bottom of the stairs, and Father Nicolaus lit it, illuminating the room. They walked to the other end of the chamber, to a closed door.
Father Nicolaus placed the torch on a holder on the wall, and then opened the door. “We don’t allow lit flames in the records room,” he explained.
“Probably for the best,” Heinrich said.
The room was dusty and had high ceilings, and columns that held up the roof. Rows and rows of bookshelves were set against every wall. Though the place was dark, a few windows near the top of the ceiling allowed murky light to shine in, and it didn’t take long for Heinrich’s eyes to adjust.
“The church’s records room holds information on the history of Bedburg, including anyone who’s ever moved or lived here in the last seven centuries,” Father Nicolaus said. “What are you looking for?”
“Records on the history of the Griswold family.”
Father Nicolaus raised his eyebrows, and Heinrich could tell that his muscles tightened. “Peter Griswold’s family?”
“Is there another Griswold family in Bedburg? I’ll need records on his son and daughter as well, whom I’m aware you know quite well.”
“I don’t know them well,” the priest snapped, but his body language and the speed to which he responded betrayed his words.
“It isn’t good to lie in a holy place, Father,” Heinrich said with a wry smile.
The priest walked to a shelf deep in the room, as if he’d pinpointed the location without needing to think about it. He shuffled through some papers, muttering to himself, then pulled several yellow, crumpled pieces of parchment from the shelf.
&n
bsp; “Here is the information we have on the Griswolds, investigator. Can you read? Would you like assistance?”
Heinrich narrowed his eyes at the priest and frowned. He snatched the papers away and said, “I can read, but I’ll need some privacy.”
“Might I ask what you’re inquiring about? Maybe I can help.”
“You’re too eager for your own good, priest. Just give me privacy.”
Father Nicolaus stood upright. “I’ll be on the other side of the room. I’m sure you’ll understand that we don’t allow anyone to read the records in solitude. It’s a matter of protecting the documents and making sure they aren’t . . . modified.”
Heinrich nodded and shooed the priest away with a wave of his hand. He leaned over the first page and started reading. The page told of the first generation of Griswolds to arrive in Bedburg, namely Peter Griswold’s father.
It didn’t take long for Heinrich to have a good understanding of the family.
Peter Griswold’s father, Ubel, was a Rhenish settler. He’d lived in a rural town called Epprath, near Cologne, before coming to Bedburg.
The family has never been too far from Bedburg . . .
Ubel died young, of unknown causes. So did his wife. Before dying, Ubel’s wife birthed two children: a son and a daughter. When he was old enough, Peter moved to Bedburg with his new wife, Helena, and his sister. Peter became an influential pig farmer in Bedburg.
Peter had two children with Helena: Sybil, his daughter, and Hugo, his son. Helena died giving birth to her son. Shortly after Helena’s death, Peter’s sister went missing. She vanished, and was thought to have either died during a cold winter, or to have fled the electorate of Cologne, for unknown reasons. She hadn’t been heard of since.
Heinrich kept scanning the pages. His brow perked up when he came to a particular side note: Peter and his family were Catholic converts, and the church believed they still practiced Lutheranism, to this day.
Heinrich squinted as he stared at the side note. The ink was certainly much fresher than the ink on the rest of the pages, like it had been a recent update.
Other pages showed the Griswold’s yearly tax yield, what they grew and how much of it, and other statistics that Heinrich shuffled into his memory, but had little use of at the moment.
When Heinrich placed the records back on the shelf, he couldn’t help but smirk, though he tried to hide it from Father Nicolaus. He knew he’d just learned valuable information, and was inching closer to the truth he desired.
Heinrich took a horse to the southern farmlands, to the Griswold estate. It was midday, and the sun’s rays finally peeked through the gray clouds.
To his surprise, a carriage loomed next to the estate. The tall, stiff baron, Ludwig von Bergheim, was speaking with Peter outside the farmer’s house.
Heinrich spurred his horse and got within earshot of the two. Peter sighed as he watched Heinrich approach.
“I’m not entertaining guests tonight, investigator,” Peter called out.
“I’m afraid you are, Herr Griswold.” Heinrich dismounted and led his horse toward the baron and the farmer.
Baron Bergheim turned and stared down his narrow nose at Heinrich, and gave the investigator a slight sneer. Then he turned back to Peter and said, “As I was saying, the girl drank quite a bit, but she should feel better soon.”
“And you’re certain of the other thing?” Peter asked, glancing at the investigator.
Ludwig nodded. “My son told me as much. If you’d like, I could send a doctor to check on her.”
Peter frowned and slowly nodded. “That would be fine.”
Heinrich stared at the two, trying to make sense of their conversation. It had become a public story that the magistrate of Bergheim and the wealthy farmer had been brokering a marriage arrangement between their children. Ludwig’s words seemed to confirm that notion.
“Very well,” Baron Bergheim said, nodding to Peter. He spun on his heels, waltzed past Heinrich, and stepped gingerly into his carriage, which wheeled around and took off down the road.
“You shouldn’t have heard any of that,” Peter said to Heinrich once the baron had left.
Heinrich waved at the farmer. “Nonsense,” he said, making a motion of closing his mouth. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
Peter scoffed.
Heinrich smiled.
“What is it you want, investigator? My daughter is in a bad way, and I must tend to her.”
“I won’t keep you long,” Heinrich said. He clasped his hands behind his back. “I trust the marriage between Sybil and Johannes von Bergheim is going well?”
Peter began to say something, but then he closed his mouth and looked away.
Heinrich gave him a pointed look, as if to accuse him of something that hadn’t even happened yet.
Peter faced Heinrich. “Rather than pester my family,” he said, “perhaps you could look into the crazed noblewoman who threatened my daughter, and arrest her.”
Heinrich reached into his tunic, pulled out a quill and paper, and scribbled something down. “Crazed noblewoman,” he said as he wrote. “And her name was—”
“Margreth Baumgartner.”
“Ah, the daughter of the garrison commander, Arnold Baumgartner? I’ll look into it.” Heinrich gave his best fake smile.
Peter rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his burly chest. He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes on the investigator, like he’d just thought of something. “You know, I saw someone creeping around my barns last night. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you, Herr Franz?”
Heinrich scrunched his brow. “Not a clue. But I could look into that as well, if you’d like.” Then his eyes turned cold and his demeanor changed. “However, that brings us to other, more serious matters, Herr Griswold.”
“What might that be?”
“I’ve noticed in my . . .” Heinrich waved his hand in the air, trying to find the right word. “In my . . . inquisition, some odd anomalies about your estate.” Heinrich cleared his throat. “I’m wondering if you could explain some things to me. Firstly, would you agree that you are one of the richest farmers in Bedburg?”
Peter bobbed his head from side to side. “I’ve worked hard to provide for my family, yes.”
Heinrich twiddled his wispy mustache with two fingers. “Then why does it seem that you live so frugally, Herr Griswold? Why, it’s as if you had no money at all.”
“I like to save my wealth, for when things get dire.”
Heinrich began to pace in front of Peter. Anyone who knew the investigator knew that that was a bad sign. He was thinking, or at least pretending like he was. “Understandable,” he said, pointing a finger skyward. “But you’re supposed to have some of the most bountiful fields in the region, with the plumpest pigs.”
“Is that a question, Herr Franz? What are you asking?”
Heinrich stopped pacing and stared straight at Peter with his cold, gray eyes. “Where does it all go? Even from here, it seems that you have barely enough to live on.”
Peter flinched. It was a subtle change in his expression, but something the investigator was trained to notice. Heinrich had seen that change of face hundreds of times, and it always came when someone was cornered. It meant Peter was about to make an excuse, or he was about to tell a lie.
“If you’re going to arrest me for something, investigator, then do it. Otherwise, we’re done here.”
“No, we’re not,” Heinrich said flatly. “If I wanted to arrest you, I wouldn’t have come alone. I just want to know what you’re doing feeding and funding the Protestant rebellion. That could be considered treason, you know.” The way he said it, so matter-of-fact, sounded like Heinrich was chastising a child.
Peter nearly choked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Herr Franz. What rebellion?”
“You can play the fool with me, Peter, but you aren’t very good at it. You’re a smarter man than you look, so don’t take me for an imb
ecile. If you won’t answer me that, then answer me something else—”
“I have a daughter to take care of,” Peter said, and then he turned and began to walk away.
“What is your relationship with Katharina Trompen?” Heinrich called out.
Peter stopped in his tracks, two steps from his doorway, and his shoulders stiffened.
“Yes, Peter, I know of your secret rendezvous with that woman in the woods. What is she to you? She says you’re her caretaker, but I don’t believe that. Is she a widow? A lover?”
Peter turned and faced Heinrich. His jaw was set and his teeth were clenched. “Why are you talking to her?”
“I’m doing what any good investigator would do, Peter. I’m investigating. So, either talk to me, or find your lover in a difficult situation. The choice is yours.”
Peter thrust a finger in Heinrich’s direction. “She’s not my lover!” he shouted.
“I know she isn’t,” Heinrich said calmly. “She’s your sister. The same sister who’s been missing for years.”
Peter’s jaw loosened and the color drained from his face. His shoulders slumped and he took on a look of defeat, as if all the fight in him had washed away in an instant.
“She . . . told you that?”
Heinrich crossed his arms over his chest. “No, Peter . . . you just did.”
“What are you going to do to her?”
Heinrich shrugged and turned away from the farmer. “I don’t know,” he said, “but I would tread lightly, Herr Griswold.” He walked and hoisted himself back on his horse. Before riding away, he called out and said, “Oh, and I’ll be sure to look into that issue you’re having with Margreth Baumgartner. Have a fine day, Herr Griswold!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
GEORG
Georg Sieghart sat in his usual spot at the bar, alone. His listless eyes perused the patrons and women of the tavern while he put back mug after mug of ale. Either Lars or the new barkeep, named Cristoff, had hired two more ladies since the night before. Their names were starting to blur in Georg’s mind. None of the new women had the same fiery attitude that Josephine had possessed, but they all reminded Georg of the lost girl.
