The Poisoned Pilgrim

8

MORNING MASS AT ANDECHS MONASTERY, WEDNESDAY, JUNE 16, 1666 AD

Jakob Kuisl sat in the last row of the choir stall with his hood pulled far down over his face, observing the other monks.

The hangman whispered a soft curse not in keeping with his sacred surroundings. In the early hours of the morning, Magdalena had persuaded him to attend morning mass and keep his eyes open. That damned woman had inherited his own stubbornness. After a long discussion, Kuisl eventually grumbled his assent in playing this foolish masquerade one more day. Inwardly he had to admit that his curiosity was awakened, and in any case, his best friend’s life was at stake.

Attentively, the hangman looked around the church, which was filled to the last seat. Children wailed, a number of people were coughing and sniffling, and somewhere he heard a door slam shut. The mass should have started more than a quarter of an hour ago, and the many hundreds of pilgrims in the congregation were murmuring restlessly.

The monks in the choir stalls, also visibly irritated, whispered among themselves, and the hangman gathered from the bits of conversation that they were all waiting for the abbot and the prior, who was to lead the service today. When Kuisl looked down he noticed that the count’s seat was empty, as well. His wife was struggling to control their noisy children and kept looking to the church portal, as if expecting to see her husband enter at any moment.

The hangman leaned back in the hard seat and tried to attract as little attention as possible-an attempt that was bound to fail, if only because of his huge size. Half an hour ago, when he entered the upper balcony, he caused some commotion among the monks until Brother Eckhart, annoyed, finally informed his colleagues that the large stranger was an itinerant Minorite whom the abbot had in fact permitted to stay at the monastery.

By now the excitement over his presence had subsided, and fewer people were staring at him, allowing the hangman to eavesdrop on their conversations.

“This is the first time both the abbot and the prior have overslept the morning mass,” a scrawny monk to Kuisl’s right was saying, while his neighbor in the next pew, an elderly man with a bald head, nodded in agreement.

“Let’s just hope it’s nothing more serious,” the bald one whispered. “Did you see how pale and breathless Brother Maurus was yesterday evening at dinner? If you ask me, it’s this fever going around. God forbid that we have to elect a new abbot soon.”

“Well, then the prior would finally get the position he’s been seeking for so long.” The scrawny monk giggled softly. “If he hasn’t caught the fever himself. After all, he’s not here either.”

“Shh, quiet. Look, they’re just coming out of the relics room.” The bald man pointed at a low door to the right of the choir stalls, from which the abbot and the prior were just emerging. Kuisl could sense at once that something was wrong. Both Maurus Rambeck and Brother Jeremias looked as if they’d just seen the devil himself. They were pale, and beads of sweat stood out on their foreheads. Rambeck’s lips were trembling as he bent down to speak to the old librarian in the first row of the stalls, whispering a few words in the old man’s ear, whereupon the latter cringed and also turned white. In the meantime, the prior had turned to Brother Eckhart and the young novitiate master, who raised his hand to his mouth in horror.

The hangman frowned. What the devil was going on here?

At that moment, Count Wartenberg entered the church, letting the heavy wings of the portal close behind him with a thud. He appeared greatly angered and was trembling all over as he walked with quick, energetic strides to his pew and dropped into his upholstered seat. When his wife bent over to him anxiously, he rudely brushed her aside and stared straight ahead in silence. Even far up in the stalls Kuisl could see how the count’s eyes were flashing with anger.

What in the world has happened? the hangman wondered. Has someone else been murdered?

Just as Kuisl was about to turn again to eavesdrop on the two monks to his right, he noticed that the abbot and the prior, along with the cellarer Eckhart and the old librarian, had headed back to the low door at the other end of the balcony and disappeared in the direction of the holy chapel. The novitiate master hurried down a stairway into the nave and began reciting the mass in a loud, trembling voice.

“In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, Amen…”

The pilgrims rose, and the organ behind the stalls began to play. Fervently, the many hundreds of pilgrims joined in singing the Laudate Deo along with the simple monks, who looked around at one another in surprise. Evidently they didn’t know what was going on either.

For a brief moment, the hangman remained seated, then decided it was time to act. Coughing and blowing his nose loudly, he rose, feigning sickness. He held his hand in front of his mouth as he pushed his way through the crowds of monks. By now every one of them feared catching the fever from his Brothers, so when the Minorite visitor appeared to be suffering from this damned illness as well, everyone was glad to step aside to make room for him.

Kuisl reached the end of the choir stalls just as the fat cellarer stepped into the inner sanctum and closed the little door behind him. The hangman hurried over, paused a moment, and just as the monks in the choir stalls knelt and lowered their heads to pray, pushed down the door handle and silently followed the four clergymen inside.

The voices of the singing pilgrims sounded distant and muffled as the door closed behind him. A little stairway with ancient, heavily worn stone steps led upward, lit only by a torch on the wall. Above him, the excited voices of the Benedictines echoed through the stairwell as if the monks were standing in a vault nearby.

Carefully Kuisl slunk up the few steps. On the walls hung numerous framed pictures depicting the miracles experienced by individual pilgrims. The hangman ignored these, concentrating instead on the voices that seemed to be approaching.

Suddenly he came to a small antechamber. On the far side of the chamber was a heavy iron door reinforced with nails and metal struts. Three colorful coats of arms hung on the portal at eye level, and on the wall next to a chest were three iron bars evidently serving as bolts. On the sides of the door, Kuisl could see the corresponding locks.

The hangman tiptoed the last few yards through the little antechamber, relieved to see that the iron door was ajar. Through a small crack he could look into the room beyond, dimly lit by two tiny barred windows. He held his breath.

The holy chapel, the inner sanctum.

It was shaped in the form of a cube and made of stone, with little niches and shelves on each side. All kinds of objects were stored here-chalices, crosses, and little boxes, some so rusted and covered with verdigris that they seemed to have rested here since ancient times. Straight ahead, the four clerics assembled around a small altar covered with a red velvet cloth.

It took Kuisl a moment to see what was disturbing about this sight: the altar was bare.

The monks standing there seemed to be involved in a violent dispute. They raised their hands, tore at their hair, and kept crossing themselves as if trying to ward off evil. Pater Eckhart, the cellarer, was speaking at the moment.

“But that… that’s not possible,” he ranted. “It’s simply impossible that any mortal being could have stolen the monstrance with the hosts from this room.”

“But nevertheless, it happened, you jackass,” the prior replied. “So let’s stop and think how that could have happened before anyone outside learns about it. This could cost all of us our heads.”

“If I were you, I’d be afraid of losing my head, too,” the old librarian murmured. “After all, you had one of the three keys needed to open the room, didn’t you?”

The prior’s face turned crimson. For a moment he seemed ready to grab the old man by the throat, but then he simply jabbed him in the chest with his forefinger. “Are you trying to say that I have something to do with the disappearance of the hosts? Don’t forget, you need three keys to open the room. The other two keys are held by Brother Maurus and the count. Do you seriously believe that we conspired to steal the hosts? Is that what you think?”

“Stop this, Brothers,” said the abbot wearily. He looked as if he’d resigned himself to his fate and was awaiting the eternal fires of damnation. “We won’t get anywhere if we just stand here condemning one another,” he continued in a soft voice. “What we need to think about is what to do if the hosts haven’t reappeared in time for the festival.”

The prior shook his head, as if he still couldn’t fathom the situation. “Just how is this possible?” he wailed. “When we opened the relics room with the count last night, everything was in its proper place. And then only a few hours later, the hosts had disappeared. From a room with barred windows locked by three sliding bars with three different keys. By God, I swear that I haven’t let my own key out of my sight for a moment.” He reached for a chain around his neck with a single key dangling on it. “I wear it even when I’m sleeping.”

Now the abbot took his key out from under his robe, as well. “The same is true for me,” he said, wearily. “To tell the truth, I have no idea where the count keeps his key, but last night and this morning he was wearing it on his belt.”

“Why did you two enter the room again with the count this morning?” the librarian asked. “The room was supposed to be kept locked until the festival.”

Prior Jeremias sighed. “Because the count asked us to. He said he had to pray again in the inner sanctum before mass. Do you want to deny the request of a Wittelsbach? You know yourself that we’re at the complete mercy of the elector.”

“You shouldn’t have let him into the room last night,” the librarian scolded. “That just put stupid ideas into his head. Why in heaven’s name is the count here so early? He normally doesn’t show up until the festival.”

“That’s strange indeed,” the prior agreed. “On the other hand, it was actually Maurus’s idea to visit the relics room one more time yesterday. Why was that, Maurus?”

“Damn it! Because I had a vague suspicion that something was wrong,” the abbot replied in a trembling voice. “And as you can see, my suspicion was correct. But why are you asking me all these questions? You, Jeremias, must be happy the hosts have vanished. If word of this gets around, I’ll lose my post as abbot, and I know you have been just waiting to follow in my footsteps.”

“Slander!” Prior Jeremias shouted. “Nothing but slander. We should have called the judge in Weilheim long ago. Everything is out of hand here. Can’t you see you’ve lost control of everything that’s going on?”

“How dare you-” the abbot started to say, but at that moment Kuisl leaned forward, snagging the shoulder of his robe on one of the votive pictures, which brought the heavy frame crashing to the ground. He bit his lip to keep from cursing out loud, but the damage was done.

“Quiet,” the librarian whispered. “There’s someone out there.”

“That’s the golem,” wailed Brother Eckhart. “Oh, God! He’s coming to get us. This is the end for us. Holy Mary, pray for us now and in the hour-”

“Silence, you idiot,” the prior interrupted. “Let’s just see what’s going on out there.”

As silent as a shadow, Kuisl slipped away from the wall and dashed down the stairway as the sound of footsteps could be heard behind him. In just a few moments, he made it out the door and took his place again among the monks who were now listening to the homily of the nervous novitiate master.

Kuisl knelt down, folded his hands, and silently moved his lips as if in prayer. But thoughts were already churning around in his head as he struggled to piece together everything he’d learned in the last quarter hour. Events fluttered through his mind like pages ripped from a book and seemed to escape each time he thought he had found two pieces that fit together.

Kuisl gnawed on his lips and ground his teeth like huge millstones. For the first time, the hangman sincerely regretted that monks weren’t allowed to smoke during mass.

“There are three sliding bars,” Simon said excitedly as he prepared a brew of willow bark in the rear of the foul-smelling hospital ward. “Three bars that can be unlocked only by three different people using three different keys. In this chronicle from the monastery library, everything is described exactly. The holy chapel is probably the safest chamber of holy relics in all of Bavaria.”

Lost in thought, the medicus stirred the boiling brown potion while Magdalena spread a salve of fragrant resin onto clothes she would later bind around patients’ chests. For a good hour, Simon and Magdalena had been looking after the numerous sick pilgrims. Every last bed in the ward was now taken, yet patients continued to arrive.

With a sigh, the hangman’s daughter brushed a lock away from her forehead and stretched her aching back. The mute assistant Matthias had been kind enough to take care of her children for a while and had gestured to Magdalena that he was taking the two youngsters to the beekeeper’s to fetch some honey. She hoped he would be more reliable this time than the night before. No doubt the two little monsters were covered with honey from head to toe by now.

“The holy chapel contains a few hundred relics now,” Simon continued excitedly, as he poured the brew from the bark through a sieve. He had been up studying the Andechs chronicle half the night. He was pale and had rings under his eyes, but as so often, the study of old books had worked him into a highly excited state. “Among the sacred objects are Charlemagne’s cross of victory and the wedding dress of Saint Elizabeth,” he recounted excitedly. “But the most valuable things are still the three sacred hosts. They were here when all that stood on the mountain was a castle, and that was many hundreds of years ago. When the castle was destroyed, the hosts were hidden away with other relics and appeared again only much later, as if by a miracle. Ever since then, they have been kept in that room, well preserved in a silver monstrance eighteen pounds in weight, which is probably worth as much as a wing of the monastery.”

“What makes these hosts so holy?” Magdalena asked as she spread more of the sticky salve onto the cloth.

Simon wrinkled his brow, trying to remember. “Well, two come apparently from Pope Gregory the Great, who discovered signs from God on them long ago. Later, Pope Leo added another host on which the bloody monogram of Jesus had supposedly appeared. Since the founding of the monastery, many thousands of people have made the pilgrimage every year to the Festival of the Three Hosts to view the sacred objects. It is said that God will hear your prayers if you pray long enough in front of the relics.”

“The way you put it, it sounds like you don’t really believe in it,” Magdalena replied saucily. “Didn’t we ourselves come to Andechs to pray to the hosts?”

“To tell you the truth, I was more enticed by the idea of being alone with you without the two children for a whole week. As we were before.” Simon sighed. “And now I’m saddled not just with the children but my grumpy father-in-law.”

“My father has always found a solution to everything,” Magdalena replied. “Be happy we have him.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” Suddenly Simon’s face brightened. “At least now I know a bit more about this sickness. I visited the apothecary again this morning to get some medicine. The prior and his people really turned everything upside down trying to find some witch’s herbs. Thank God they didn’t touch the rest.” He grinned. “In Nepomuk’s cupboard I found Jesuit’s powder, among other things-really the best medicine for lowering a fever. Of course there are other uses for it… Then, look what I discovered among his books.” The medicus pulled out a heavy leather-bound volume. “Voila! This huge book is by a certain Girolamo Fracastoro, and it describes quite clearly the symptoms we see here-exhaustion, headaches, fever-but also the red dots on the chest and the grayish color of the tongue.”

“Does your Signore Fracasomethingorother say anything about how to cure this sickness?”

“Alas, research hasn’t reached that point yet, but-”

“I’m afraid your explanations will have to wait a bit,” Magdalena interrupted. “One look at my father’s face tells me he certainly doesn’t want to talk with us about medicine.” She pointed at the door, where Jakob Kuisl had just appeared. Like a great ship at sea, the hangman plowed his way through the low-ceilinged room toward them, looking very out-of-sorts.

“We’ve got to talk,” Kuisl growled. “Something unexpected has happened, and I’m sure it has to do with these murders.”

A quarter hour later, Simon and Magdalena sat on a wall not far from the infirmary while the hangman paced restlessly in front of them. He told them briefly about the theft of the three hosts and the conversation he’d overheard in the chapel. To the casual pilgrim passing by, he looked just like an ill-tempered monk lecturing two pilgrims.

“That’s dreadful,” Magdalena gasped. “If the hosts don’t turn up by the time of the festival, people will surely assume they were stolen by the golem. All of Andechs will look like a witch’s cauldron.”

“I assume that’s exactly what this insane murderer wants,” Simon replied.

Magdalena looked at him questioningly. “Do you think there’s any connection between the two murders, the disappearance of Virgilius, and the theft of the hosts?”

“That would fit in very well with the plans of our unknown evil-doer,” Simon replied with a shrug. “This devil clearly wants to sow panic among the pilgrims: first the murders and the automaton and now the theft. The only question remaining is what this madman is trying to accomplish.”

Kuisl stopped pacing and wiped the sweat from his brow beneath the hood. “Sow panic? I’m not so sure of that,” he grumbled. “Maybe this is all about something quite different. Don’t forget, Virgilius said someone was interested in those damned experiments with lightning. I, in any case-”

“Shh,” Magdalena squeezed her father’s hand and pointed furtively toward the end of the street where two more pilgrims had just appeared: the Schongau burgomaster, Karl Semer, and his son. The older patrician headed straight for Simon, ignoring the two others. At the last minute Kuisl was able to pull the hood far down over his face.

“Fronwieser, it’s good I found you here,” the burgomaster began in a condescending tone. “I’m sure you completely misunderstood me in our conversation two days ago.” With a broad smile Semer reached out to him, but Simon declined to shake hands.

“Well, in any case,” Semer continued, smoothing his jacket awkwardly with his hand. “Have you spoken with the abbot recently? His Excellency refuses to see me, and Count Wartenberg also seems quite annoyed. First he comes late to the mass, then he leaves before it’s over, slamming the door behind him. Do you have any idea what’s happened?”

Simon folded his arms in front of his chest. “I’m sorry, but I’m fully occupied with the infirmary,” he replied in a flat voice. “I really can’t help you with that.”

Semer sighed. “If you can’t help me, perhaps you can help my son,” he said, pointing to Sebastian, who was standing at his side, his eyes flashing in anger. Clearly Sebastian was suffering even more than his father from having to beg for a favor.

“My son will soon take over the business in Schongau-the business, and no doubt my position on the council,” Karl Semer said in a whining voice. “If you help me, it could work out to your advantage, Fronwieser.” There was suddenly something threatening in his voice. “But if the deal with the count falls through, if my investments in the upcoming festival should be a loss, then…” He paused dramatically. “I can make your life very difficult, mister bathhouse surgeon. Taxes, the permission to practice, a license from the town… Do you have such a license, Master Fronwieser?”

“You have the gall to threaten us?” Magdalena snarled. “A lot of other people have tried the same thing.” Her voice was now so loud that some of the passing pilgrims turned around. “Just remember, Semer,” the hangman’s daughter continued in a softer voice, “someday you, too, will need the help of a doctor, and God forbid that my husband gives you the wrong medicine.”

“Quiet, hangman’s girl.” The burgomaster didn’t even deign to look at her but stared off into the distance. “Brood of vipers. A woman like you should be thankful she’s allowed to marry a bathhouse surgeon. In other places, they would put you in the pillory or burn you at the stake for saying things like that. So what do you say, Fronwieser?” Jutting his chin out aggressively, he turned back to Simon. “Are you going to see to it that the judge holds a speedy trial for the demonic apothecary so that peace and quiet return here? Or would you rather be chased out of town with your dishonorable and querulous woman?”

Simon was preparing a harsh response when he heard a loud cracking next to him. He looked to the side and noted in horror that his father-in-law was clenching his fists so hard his knuckles had turned white. Beneath the hood Kuisl looked like the very personification of the Grim Reaper just before he swings his scythe.

My God, Kuisl, calm down, Simon was thinking. If Semer recognizes you now, it’s all over. Then we’ll have another trial, and the Weilheim hangman will punish his own colleague.

The Schongau burgomaster seemed to have noticed Simon’s gaze. Annoyed, he looked over at the huge monk with the hood drawn down over his head, and frowned. “Have we met before?” Karl Semer asked. “I’ve never seen you in the monastery. Such a large man would have caught my attention.”

“An itinerant Minorite helping me with my patients,” Simon stammered before Kuisl could reply. “Brother Ja… Jakobus,” he corrected himself quickly. “A great healer. We thank God we have him.”

The mayor continued staring at the silent monk. “Strange,” Semer murmured. “I think I’ve seen your healer somewhere before.” He turned to his son. “What do you think?”

Sebastian Semer shrugged indifferently. “I don’t know. All these monks look the same to me.”

“So be it.” Finally Karl Semer turned back to Simon and Magdalena. He seemed to have already forgotten the Minorite underneath the hood. “But think it over carefully before you pick a fight with me, Fronwieser,” he threatened again. “Up to now the Schongau council has approved your bathhouse, but that can quickly change. What would they say in Munich if they found out that the Schongau bathhouse surgeon married a dishonorable woman and he didn’t even have the proper permits?”

Simon pretended to concede. “Very well,” he sighed. “You’ve won. I’ll speak with the abbot. But now I really must go to take care of my patients.”

“Fine, fine.” Karl Semer smiled thinly. “I see we understand each other. I’ll come back tonight. And now, farewell.” Then he pointed at Magdalena in disgust. “One day I’m going to order the father of this hussy to cut out her tongue before she gets you all in a lot of trouble.”

Magdalena started angrily, but Simon managed to quiet her with a severe glance.

“I’ll… I’ll see to it myself that she’s a little more careful with what she says,” he quickly replied. “I promise.”

“That’s all right, then.” With a slight nod, old Semer turned to leave with his son but suddenly turned back to Simon. “Ah, Fronwieser, it just occured to me…” he began hesitantly. “Didn’t you say your father-in-law would be coming to Andechs? I haven’t seen him yet. Has he arrived?”

Simon froze, but tried to keep his voice as calm as possible. “His… his wife is unfortunately too ill. He’ll no doubt have to remain in Schongau.”

A narrow smile spread across his face. “That’s a shame,” he replied. “A pilgrimage would surely have done the stubborn old fellow some good. It teaches you humility, don’t you think? Everyone needs to know his place in life.”

Without waiting for an answer, the burgomaster disappeared through a small door in the wall, leaving Magdalena seething with rage and her father grinding his teeth so loud it gave Simon goose bumps. Beneath the hood, Kuisl’s face was ashen.

“Damn patricians,” the hangman murmured. “They think we are nothing but dirt. I pray for the day when I get one of them on the rack.”

“You coward,” Magdalena glared at Simon. “Are you my husband, or what? Why did you cave in to that fat old moneybags?”

“Because I was trying to avoid a bloodbath, you silly goose,” Simon whispered. “Can’t you understand that? If a fight had broken out, your father would have killed old Semer in one blow and wound up on the scaffold. Damn! Why do you Kuisls always have to be so stubborn?”

Magdalena fell silent but looked at him defiantly while her father laughed softly. Evidently he’d calmed down a bit.

“You’re right, Simon,” he growled. “You probably just saved Semer’s life-and mine.”

Kuisl strolled toward the exit of the infirmary. “Brother Jakobus,” he laughed. “An itinerant Minorite and healer. Simon, Simon, where did you ever learn to make up stuff like that?” Grinning, he beckoned to the others to follow. “And now your Brother Jakobus will show you how to mix a really good potion for a fever-not the kind of trash a lousy bathhouse surgeon throws together.”

A few hours later Magdalena was frolicking about with her children in one of the many fields of flowers near the monastery. Peter was chasing after a butterfly while his younger brother romped about, pulling up wild flowers and herbs and sticking them in his mouth as his mother watched carefully to make sure none of them was poisonous.

Magdalena breathed in the fragrance of the summer breezes, trying to forget all the worries of the last few days. Simon and her father were still sitting in the knacker’s cottage, brooding over the theft of the three hosts. Her father seemed obsessed with plans to rescue his friend Nepomuk, forgetting everything else, including his two grandsons.

Peter and Paul had been tugging at their grandfather’s jacket for some time, but when he didn’t take them in his lap or toss them in the air, even after they’d pestered him a while, they started in on their mother. Magdalena finally gave up with a sigh and took them outdoors. The walk, she realized, was just what she needed.

Humming softly to herself, she strolled along the forest edge with the children, pointing out a spotted woodpecker and amusing the children by tossing pinecones at a few startled squirrels. The children’s laughter was infectious, and Magdalena felt really happy for the first time in days.

But then she remembered the cutting words of the Schongau burgomaster. “Hush, hangman’s girl.”

Karl Semer had called her a hussy and spoke of a den of vipers. To him she was just an impertinent, dishonorable slut moving in social circles far above her proper place in life. Semer had respect for Magdalena’s father-and probably even some fear-but to him the hangman’s daughter was nothing more than a whore. Full of trepidation, Magdalena thought about what things would be like once her father was gone. Would the Schongauers chase her out of town?

Paul’s cries startled her from her reveries. He had fallen on a slippery, mossy stone and cut his knee. While Magdalena tried to console him, she took him in her arms and looked around for the older boy. Her heart skipped a beat.

Peter had disappeared.

Frantically, Magdalena scanned the meadow and the forest edge, but the boy had vanished.

“Peter!” she shouted, over the wailing of her younger son. “Peter, where are you? Are you hiding?”

Somewhere a jay was calling, bees were humming, and her youngest child was whining, but otherwise there was just silence. Magdalena could feel herself breathing faster.

“Peter!” she shouted again, running into the woods. “This isn’t a game anymore. Are you in here somewhere? Your mom is looking for you.”

Clutching her youngest son in her arms, she staggered over some roots, moving deeper and deeper into trees, swallowed up by the forest as if by a silent army of giants. Suddenly she stopped: directly in front of her was a steep, almost vertical slope leading down into the earth. Below she could see rocks, wilted leaves, and dead branches.

Oh God! the thought flashed through her mind. Don’t let him have fallen down there.

For a brief moment, she thought she saw the body of her son lying like a broken doll among the branches. With relief she realized it was just a rotted branch, but then the anxiety returned. If Peter was not down there, how and why had he disappeared?

Had the golem snatched him?

Magdalena clenched her lips, trying not to scream. Simon, and her father, too, had told her that golems didn’t exist, but so many things had happened in the last few days that she herself would have never thought possible. Her heart was pounding so fast now that even little Paul looked at her anxiously.

“Mama?” he asked cautiously. “Mama is crying?”

Magdalena shook her head. “Peter…” she said as calmly and gently as possible, “he’s gone. We have to look for him. Will you help me look?”

“Peter with the man?” Paul asked. His mother looked at him, not understanding. He asked again, “Peter with the big man?”

“With what big man?” For a moment, Magdalena was so horrified she nearly dropped the boy. “Tell me, Paul, what man are you talking about?”

“The nice man. He has sweet berries.”

“Oh, God.” Magdalena’s voice turned shrill. “Dammit, Paul! Who was the man who gave you the berries?”

“There, the man there.” He pointed to the bottom of the slope where a rock stood almost as tall as a man. Behind it, the laughter of a child could be heard, and in the next moment, Peter appeared, beaming with joy, sitting atop someone’s shoulders.

It was the mute Matthias.

Magdalena felt a huge weight fall from her shoulders and relieved tears run down her cheeks as she burst into laughter. How could she ever have imagined a monster had taken off with her son? This monastery was driving her crazy.

“Ah, that man, you mean,” she said, waving to Peter and Matthias. Peter’s trousers were dirty and covered with wet leaves and his shirt had a rip in it, but he seemed otherwise unharmed. Cheerily he waved back.

“Mama!” he cried out. “Here I am, Mama. I fell down, but the man helped me.”

“You… you little brat.” Magdalena exploded. She was trying to sound strict despite her relief. “Haven’t I told you a hundred times not to run away from me? Just look at you.”

“The man helped me,” Peter replied calmly, and Matthias let out a loud grunt in greeting. Once again, as Magdalena looked down at the silent knacker’s helper, she was impressed at how handsome he was. With his strawberry blond hair and wide chest, he looked almost like Saint Christopher carrying the baby Jesus on his shoulders.

“It doesn’t matter who it is,” Magdalena chided as she looked for a safe place to climb down the slope with Paul in her arms. “Tonight you’re going to bed without your sweet porridge, do you hear?”

Finally she arrived at a somewhat flatter spot, where she could slowly slide down the gentle slope on slippery leaves. When she got to the bottom, she found Matthias grinning. He bowed slightly so she could take her oldest child in her arms.

“You’re never going to run away from me again, do you hear?” she scolded, holding him close to her bosom. “Never again.”

Silent Matthias was still grinning at her. Then he reached down into his trouser pocket and fetched out a prune, which he held under her nose. Only now did Magdalena notice that the mouth of her oldest child was smeared with prune juice.

“Ah, now I understand,” she laughed. “You fell down here and Matthias cheered you up by feeding you prunes. It’s no wonder I didn’t hear a word from you-how could I, when your mouth was full of sweets?”

Peter snatched the sweet fruit from his mother’s hands and ate it hungrily. When Peter’s little brother started to cry, Matthias gave him a prune, too, and Paul at once put it in his mouth.

Together they walked along the slope past moss-covered rocks and beeches whose green foliage glimmered in the sun. After recovering from her fright, Magdalena felt almost born again. Now little Paul was riding on Matthias’s shoulders while Peter walked alongside holding his hand. The children seemed to really like the silent journeyman. Matthias pointed out birds in the forest, tossed leaves through the air so they came fluttering down like rain, and made funny faces that sent the children into fits of laughter. Magdalena couldn’t help but smile.

I hope Simon never hears about this, she thought. I can’t remember the last time he made the children laugh like this. He just doesn’t have enough time for them.

After a while, they came to a group of rocks that looked like the remains of a circular foundation. Behind these a kind of rocky spire rose up. Peter let go of the man’s hand, ran toward the rocks, and started to climb up. Once on top, he tiptoed around the edge… but then suddenly stopped, as if rooted to the spot.

“What’s the matter, Peter?” Magdalena asked. “Is something wrong?”

“Up there, Mama.” Peter pointed at another large rock that, in the distance, looked like the giant head of a troll. The child’s voice now sounded soft and anxious. “Look, Mama. There’s the witch again. I’m afraid of the witch.”

“What kind of witch?” With a pounding heart, Magdalena rushed over to the ring of stones, followed by Matthias and little Paul. Halfway around the circle she caught sight of an old woman in a tattered dress, stooped over as if carrying an enormous burden. When the white-haired woman turned to her, Magdalena could see from her empty, milky eyes that she was blind.

“The children,” the woman whispered, her voice sounding like the moaning of the wind. “The children are in great danger. Someone is trying to harm them-I can feel that.”

“What… what are you saying, woman?” asked Magdalena, moving closer to Matthias. “Who wants to harm my children?”

With angry grunts, the big, mute man strode over to the ring of stones and lifted Peter down from the rock. The boy, paralyzed by fear, couldn’t look away from the old woman in the tattered dress.

“Evil is everywhere!” the old woman wailed. “I’m guarding the entrance to hell, but evil long ago spread to our houses and homes, and I can no longer stop it. Beware, children. Beware!”

Blindly groping her way forward, the old woman staggered toward Matthias, Magdalena, and the children, reaching out toward Paul with her long, filthy fingernails. The knacker’s apprentice gave her a shove and she fell backward, landing in the wet leaves.

“Woe to you!” she screamed as if she’d completely lost her mind now. “Woe to you! Evil is reaching out: I can hear it rumbling in the bowels of the mountain, I hear its song every night-the end is near.”

Dazed, Magdalena took her children by the hand and walked backward, step by step, to the slope where they’d come down. “Listen, old woman,” the hangman’s daughter said, trying to calm her down. “We wish you no harm. I’m sorry if we’ve frightened you.”

Magdalena kept speaking in a soft, soothing voice as she continued to move away with the children. The woman was clearly insane, but crazy people often spoke curses that came true. That’s what older people had always told her, in any case; perhaps there was some truth to it.

The old woman was still wailing, but in the meantime her words had given way to an incomprehensible babble. She lay doubled up on the ground, and Magdalena only hoped Matthias hadn’t inadvertently injured her. Magdalena was about to walk back to the woman to see what was wrong when the knacker’s assistant took her by the shoulder and pulled her back with a growl. He gestured as if to say the woman was out of her mind and pointed back to the monastery. His gaze conveyed a clear warning-now void of any friendliness.

“Geout. Esser geout,” he stammered

“You’re right, Matthias,” Magdalena sighed. “We’d better turn around and get out before she does something to harm the children. There’s nothing more we can do to help here; she’s living in her own world.”

After a final anxious look, she turned and hurried back to the slope with Matthias and the children. She could hear the whining old woman for a while, but then only the stillness of the forest. The children were already beginning to laugh again, and in a few minutes, they seemed to have forgotten the strange encounter. In another quarter hour, they had struggled up the steep slope and now stood at the edge of the forest, looking out on the fragrant field of flowers.

Magdalena took a deep breath, feeling as if she’d awakened from a bad dream.

“Who in God’s name was that?” she asked Matthias, but the journeyman just shrugged and turned to point the way home.

The four hurried across the meadow toward the monastery wall, where new groups of pilgrims had been circling since early morning, praying loudly. In the midst of one such group, Magdalena spotted her father. This time he wasn’t wearing his monk’s robe, and he looked tired.

“Where in the devil have you been?” he growled, absent-mindedly patting his grandsons’ heads. “Simon and I have been worried.”

“I was in the forest with Matthias and the children,” she said, trying to reassure him. “You men were completely absorbed in your conversation.”

“Is that Graetz’s journeyman?” Kuisl took a careful look at the redheaded giant. “Well, then at least you weren’t unprotected. Nevertheless, I think it would be best for you not to go so far into the forest from now on.”

“Ah, I see. You want to lock me up, you and Simon?” asked Magdalena, regaining her self-confidence. “You can forget that,” she groused. “I’ll go where I want.”

For a moment she wondered whether to tell her father about the strange encounter with the mad old woman, but she decided to keep silent. In the present situation, it would just be grist for her father’s mill. Instead, she turned to him and whispered, “You’d better be careful Semer doesn’t see you out here, or he’ll get some dumb ideas.”

“Bah!” the hangman retorted. “I’m no more interested in Semer than I am in a used wad of tobacco.” He spat on the ground to emphasize his point. “Now for once, I want you to come where I want to go. Unlike you, stupid woman, we two men have been thinking.”

“Ah, and what came of that?”

“I’d rather discuss that with you in private, if possible, without the children present.” Once more the hangman looked Matthias up and down. “Do you think your strong bodyguard would be able to take the two kids down to the knacker’s house and keep an eye on them there?”

“Better than you and Simon together,” Magdalena snapped.

The children pouted, but when the knacker’s helper finally offered them two more plums, they followed willingly. After the children and Matthias disappeared around the corner, the hangman turned back to his daughter.

“Well?” she asked curiously. “What’s your plan?”

Grinning, the hangman unrolled the monk’s robe he’d been hiding under his cloak.

“Brother Jakobus and Saint Simon will pay another visit to the relics room,” he said with a sneer. “There’s something there I have to get a look at again. Do you think a weak woman like you can keep the priests off our backs for a while?”

“If you’re looking for a weak woman, you’ve come to the wrong place.”

The hangman sighed. “Then just a woman. The main thing is to keep them gawking at you and not watching us.”

With a smile, Magdalena joined her father and headed toward the church. It looked like he was finally onto something.

In front of the church they met Simon, who was awaiting his wife impatiently.

“Can you image how worried-” he started to say, but Kuisl cut him short.

“She was with Matthias, and she’s still alive; so let’s forget the matter.”

“With the mute Matthias, Graetz’s assistant?” Simon stared at his wife incredulously. “What are you doing around him?”

“At least he takes care of the two boys, whereas their high and mighty father prefers to stick his nose in books,” she groused.

“Just a minute. I’m only doing that because we have a murder to solve here. You said yourself-”

“Calm down, both of you,” the hangman interrupted. “You can fight all you want in Schongau, but we’re here now to help Nepomuk, and to do that I’ve got to get a better look at the holy chapel. Now, for God’s sake, let’s get in there.”

He opened the door to the church. At the noon hour, relatively few pilgrims were present. Around two dozen were kneeling and praying in the rear pews with their eyes closed, and closer to the front, near the high altar, a single monk was busy preparing for the next mass. To her horror, Magdalena recognized him as Brother Eckhart, the cellarer.

“Oh, great,” she whispered. “The old bastard snubbed me before, and I hardly think I’ll be able to distract him now.”

“You must at least try,” Simon whispered. “It will take us only two minutes to get up the stairway, across the balcony, and to the entrance, and if you can distract him that long, it will be enough.”

“Two minutes?” The hangman’s daughter raised her eyebrows. “That can be an eternity-but all right, I’ll do my best.” Magdalena dipped her fingers in the holy water from the font at the entrance, crossed herself, curtsied politely, and moved toward the apse where Brother Eckhart was busy cleaning the communion cup with a cloth. Seeing the young woman approach, he turned away pointedly.

“Oh, Your Excellency…” Magdalena started to say, but the cellarer didn’t respond. “I wasn’t here for the offertory this morning,” she said, “but I’d like to donate something for construction of the new monastery.” At that, the fat monk raised his head.

“You can give me the money if you wish,” he answered haughtily, “and I’ll pass it along as a charitable donation.”

You’ll blow it on booze, you bloated winebag, Magdalena thought, smiling.

“As you wish, Your Excellency,” she replied in a naive tone. “But may I ask you something first?”

The cellarer gave her a distrustful look. “Are you the woman I chased out of the balcony recently?” he asked, “the one who wanted to know so much about our relics room?”

“Ah, yes,” Magdalena admitted after brief hesitation. “The relics… they… they mean so very much to me.” She beamed ecstatically. “I even dream about the relics. In my dreams, Charlemagne and Saint Elizabeth even come to my bed and speak to me. They tell me when the cattle are sick and when the milk will turn sour, and when I look in the pot the next day, the milk is sour. A miracle!”

“A… miracle, indeed. And now let me polish the chalice for the next mass.” Evidently the cellarer was accustomed to hearing such stories from the faithful, and his distrust vanished. Magdalena cast a surreptitious glance up at the balcony to see Simon and her father starting up the stairs to the monk’s choir. She had to think of something.

“This… this painting in the back of the church,” she giggled, pointing spontaneously at one of the paintings at the back of the apse, “there is a mouse on it crawling right into the priest’s stole.”

“You stupid woman. You really don’t know anything, do you?” Brother Eckhart descended the steps from the altar toward her, shaking his head. To her great relief, he followed her to the painting.

“What you see here is the famous mouse that led us back to the holy treasure long ago. See? It’s carrying a scrap of parchment in its mouth.”

Grateful for the diversion, the hangman’s daughter leaned in to examine the painting, graying now with age. In the picture, a tiny mouse scurried out from under the altar during mass, holding a piece of parchment in its mouth.

“After the destruction of the castle that once stood here, it seemed the treasure was lost,” Brother Eckhart continued. “Monks had buried it in front of the altar in the chapel of the castle, and the hiding place was forgotten. But a mouse pulled a piece of parchment with pictures of relics on it from the hiding place, and the relics were found again. That is a miracle.” He smiled sardonically. “Now give me your gift for the church and get back to your sour milk.”

“Ah, yes, my gift…” Magdalena smiled awkwardly, watching Simon and her father out of the corner of her eye. They were standing upstairs at the door to the relics room but were apparently having no luck opening it.

Damn. What are you doing up there? How long do I have to stand here looking like a dumb goose?

Magdalena leaned over and fumbled with her bodice as if searching for a few coins between her breasts. The cellarer stared back, absorbed by this unexpected sight. “Perhaps, uh… there are other ways you could be of service to the monastery,” he murmured, licking his lips. “And we could pay you. As cellarer, I have the key to the pantry, as well as to some other rooms farther down below where we store wine, bacon, and sausage. There’s also a little place there where just the two of us could be together.”

“To pray?” Magdalena batted her eyelashes.

The cellarer laughed. “You can also pray at the same time-that won’t disturb me.”

At that moment, the hangman’s daughter was relieved to see Simon and her father disappear through the open door. Immediately a change came over her face.

“Well, what is it?” Brother Eckhart asked lustfully. “Shall the two of us go away to pray?”

“You know what, Your Excellency?” she snarled, her ingenuousness vanishing. “You’re too old for me-and too fat and too ugly. And I seriously doubt you’re at all able to do that sort of praying anymore. I think I’ll just donate in the usual way.” She extracted a single rusty kreuzer and tossed it at the feet of the astonished cellarer. “And now farewell. Saint Elizabeth is waiting for me at her next audience.”

Turning on her heels, she sashayed out the door, but not without stopping to bow one last time before each of the statues of Mary.

When Simon pressed the handle and realized the door up on the balcony was locked, he suppressed a quiet curse. It looked as if their visit here was for naught.

“Of course it’s locked,” he whispered. “We should have expected that.” He looked down into the nave where Magdalena was just heading to the back of the apse with the cellarer. “We’d better retreat before my wife gets herself into even more trouble.”

“You can forget that,” the hangman grumbled. “Just make sure nobody sees us, and I’ll do the rest.” He pulled out a little coil of wire and began poking around in the keyhole. “I do this in the Schongau dungeon sometimes to unlock ankle chains when I’ve misplaced the keys,” he said as he slowly turned the wire back and forth. “This won’t take long.”

There was a soft click as the door swung open. “Well, what did I say?” he beamed as they slipped inside.

“That won’t help you to open the locks at the entrance to the holy chapel,” Simon said as they hurried up the winding staircase past the votive paintings. “That’s quite a different story.”

“Idiot! I know that. I don’t want to get into the chapel, just have a look at the vestibule.”

Simon looked at his father-in-law in surprise. “The vestibule? Why is that?”

“You’ll see in a moment.”

They entered the little room outside the holy chapel now. Subdued sunlight fell through a single locked window on the north side, and the air smelled stale and moldy. Unlike on Kuisl’s last visit, a heavy wooden bar and an iron-reinforced door blocked the entrance to the chapel. Knee-high, waist-high, and eye-level, each of the three bars was secured with a heavy lock.

Simon pointed at the three coats of arms displayed on the door. “The white-and-blue sign of the Wittelsbachs, an eagle and a lion for Andechs, and Saint Nicolas for the prior, holder of the third key,” he explained. “That’s what it says in the chronicle, but it’s still a mystery to me how anyone could steal anything out of such a room. Are there windows inside?”

Kuisl nodded. “Three of them, but they’re all covered with iron bars.”

“How in heaven’s name could anyone steal a heavy monstrance from such a room?” Simon asked, incredulous. “The locks were untouched, you said. And both the abbot and the prior insist their keys were never out of sight. The same is probably true for the count. Was witchcraft involved here?”

“Nonsense,” the hangman grunted. “Witchcraft is an invention of the devil used to hide things from our eyes. What we have here is man-made.”

“Then there are actually only two possibilities,” Simon replied. “Either someone managed to steal all three keys for a night, or the culprit is one of the three men. Then he would only have to get hold of two keys to break in.”

“Or perhaps there’s some completely different explanation.” The hangman carefully inspected the almost empty vestibule. The walls were covered with votive paintings of miracles, and on the left beneath the window stood a single iron-clad chest. Kuisl bent down and opened it.

“Empty,” he murmured, lost in thought. “Perhaps this chest is used from time to time to transport the relics.”

Simon nodded. “I read about that. Just during the Great War, the three holy hosts were sent to Munich several times lest they be stolen by the Swedes. Each time they were brought back again.”

“And now they’ve completely disappeared.” The hangman closed the chest. “But I think I know now who has them.”

“What?” Simon fell silent, his mouth open in astonishment. “You know who has them?”

Kuisl grinned at his son-in-law. “And you don’t? If you can add two and two, the matter is as clear as day. Simon, Simon…” He shook his head regretfully. “I really don’t know what they teach at the universities. They certainly don’t teach you how to think.”

Simon rolled his eyes. It wasn’t the first time his father-in-law had teased him; the hangman really knew more about medicine than he did, even though Simon had studied it. It seemed Kuisl couldn’t get over the fact that he couldn’t attend a university due to his dishonorable status.

“Then at least be kind enough to let me in on what you’ve learned,” Simon said with a sarcastic edge. “Or must I die clueless?”

“There’s one thing I still have to check,” the hangman responded curtly. “After all, we want to find out if the thief is also responsible for the murders. Until I know that, you’ll have to wait.” He turned back to the stairway. “Now let’s clear out, before the fat cellarer gets it into his head to come up here to dust off the votive paintings. If anyone sees us up here in the balcony, we’ll just say I was praying and you came to find me, wringing your hands on account of a patient. After all, you not only have trouble thinking, but evidently in healing, as well.”

Kuisl stomped down the stairs, and even though his back was turned to Simon, the medicus was sure he wore a wide, satisfied grin. Grumbling softly, Simon followed. There were days when he wished he could put his father-in-law on the rack.

It would take Simon much longer than anticipated to finally hear Kuisl’s theory.

During the day, Simon continued to care for the sick with Magdalena. They were supported by Jakob Schreevogl, who’d paid a few undaunted day laborers to help them set up beds in an adjacent room. In addition, two maids from the village took charge of seeing there was always fresh water and the necessary herbs. Their only condition was that Simon would have the rooms smoked out with mugwort and St. John’s wort. Simon didn’t think this lessened the danger of infection in any way, but it was only under this condition that the men and women agreed to help the bathhouse surgeon. None of the monks had yet shown up to help.

Simon continued leafing through the book by Girolamo Fracastoro, hoping to learn more about the mysterious illness. The Italian scholar believed that sicknesses were not, as commonly assumed, spread by bad vapors, but through tiny particles in food, in water, and in the air. Could that explain the plague at Andechs?

As the setting sun cast its last warm rays through the tiny windows of the infirmary, Simon’s growling stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten since that morning. He put aside his dirty work apron, splashed some fresh water on his face, and looked around for Magdalena, who was just giving some syrup to a girl who must have been about six years old in order to bring down her fever. Their own children were playing in a corner with a few nativity figurines that a woodcutter had donated in lieu of money.

“I’m dying of hunger,” Simon groaned. “Shall we go down to the tavern for a cup of stew and a glass or two of wine? There’s not much to do here anyway. The people will keep coughing and spitting up, whether we’re here or not.”

Magdalena looked anxiously over at Peter and Paul. “I think I’d rather go back to the knacker’s house with the children,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “The boys have been here with all the sick people for far too long, and they should go to bed soon in any case.” She pointed at Paul, who was rubbing his eyes. “But you go ahead; I’ll be all right.”

Simon grinned. “Because you’ll be back with your mute helper?”

“Matthias?” Magdalena shook her head with a laugh. “Don’t worry about that. You may talk too much sometimes, but I could never stand a man who’s silent all the time.” She took the two yawning children in her arms and waved once more to her husband as she left. “But he’s a handsome fellow, Matthias.”

Before Simon could reply, she had disappeared in the growing darkness. The medicus checked a few patients then headed outside, too, where he was greeted by a warm wind. Again his stomach growled. With pleasant anticipation, he was heading toward the tavern below the monastery when he noticed a figure approaching.

Much too late he realized it was Karl Semer.

Damn. I completely forgot about him, Simon thought to himself.

“Ah, my dear friend, Burgomaster Semer,” he began, as he shrugged apologetically. “I remember… the conversation with the abbot. Unfortunately I haven’t yet-”

“You can forget it,” Semer interrupted. His malicious smile told Simon he had a rude surprise in store for him. “In the meantime I’ve had a chance to talk with the prior,” Semer continued. “And lo and behold-His Excellency is of exactly the same opinion as I. He sent for the judge in Weilheim this afternoon, and I’m sure the judge will be here tomorrow to give the sorcerer his well-deserved punishment.”

“But… but…” Simon stammered.

“The abbot? It wasn’t necessary to ask him.” Semer picked at his teeth lazily, removing a long strand of meat. “Trial or not, Rambeck’s days are numbered,” he continued smugly. “The judge won’t be happy to learn that such foul deeds were kept from him. There will be pressure on the monks, and presumably Rambeck will resign on his own. In any case, the prior seems a worthy successor.”

Simon bit his lip and stared silently at the burgomaster. He knew as well as Semer did that the judge’s arrival would seal Nepomuk’s fate. There would be torture, a confession, and finally a sentence. There was no way out.

“I’ll… I’ll write my report to the monastery, as I promised.” Simon tried to sound as confident as possible. “There are still many discrepancies to clear up.”

“Do that, do that,” Semer replied, “Though I hardly believe the judge will attach much credence to the opinions of a Schongau… bathhouse surgeon.” He screwed up his face into a broad sneer. “But please go ahead and do that. And if you have any thoughts of drawing the trial out, for whatever reason…” Semer shrugged disparagingly. “The apothecary won’t burn before the festival, in any case. The wheels of justice turn too slowly for that, unfortunately. But at least we’ll know then who it was, and peace will once again reign in this monastery. Law and order are a citizen’s first duties, master Fronwieser,” he said, tapping Simon’s chest with his pudgy finger, “and the first rules in doing business, too. And now farewell.”

Semer turned and headed for the tavern, where presumably his son, and perhaps the Wittelsbach count, as well, awaited him. Despite his corpulence, the burgomaster had a spring in his step now.

Suddenly the medicus had lost his appetite.

After darkness descended like a dark shroud over the monastery and quiet finally returned to the little streets, a large figure crept toward the watchmaker’s house. The man wore a monk’s habit and, in his right hand, held a lantern, which he’d covered so only a small slit of light fell on the ground. He looked around one last time in every direction before pressing his fingers carefully against the charred door, which opened with a soft creaking sound.

The hangman nodded with satisfaction. The monks were so afraid of this supposedly haunted place that they’d apparently made no effort to close up or lock the house pending further investigations. Perhaps, though, this oversight was due to the remarkable events taking place now in the monastery. Kuisl hoped to find something in this house that would bring all these events together-the theft of the hosts, the murders, and the disappearance of the watchmaker and his automaton. Kuisl believed he now knew who’d stolen the relics from the chapel, but the motive was still unclear. Something deep inside him told him the solution was hidden in the watchmaker’s house. It was a strange tickle in his redoubtable nose that always gave him direction when his subconscious mind was a step ahead.

Now, too, his nose was itching terribly.

Quietly, the hangman snuck inside the house, moving the lantern shade just enough to cast a faint circle of light around the room. At first glance, everything appeared the same as four days ago when Simon and Magdalena had found the dead watchmaker’s assistant here. Tables and chairs lay on the floor, some of them broken, and shards of broken glass from test tubes and blackened metal parts were strewn around everywhere. The severed doll head stared up at Kuisl from a corner.

A creaking sound startled the hangman and caused him to look up at the ceiling. Above him, hanging from a string, was the stuffed creature Simon had told him about. For a moment, the hangman and the crocodile eyed each other like two like-minded beings-ugly, mythical creatures that evoked terror in men and inspired grisly stories.

What did you witness from up there, you silent monster? Kuisl wondered. What in hell happened here?

He turned the lantern in a circle until he found the burn marks on the door where the young watchmaker’s assistant had met his horrible end. Another large burned area in the middle of the room indicated where the fire had eaten down into the wooden floor, and the boards creaked ominously as the hangman walked across them. Squinting in the dim light, the hangman tried to reconstruct what had happened.

Someone had poured phosphorus over the poor fellow. He’d run to the door, trying to flee, but then suffered the fatal blow to his head. That’s what must have happened, but where was the automaton, and what had happened to his master? Was he dead?

Kuisl groped carefully through the dark room, looking for some clue. On the back wall wind blew in through a large, smoke-stained fireplace. To the right of that, Kuisl found another room with a small bed, presumably that of the assistant. And nearby, a stairway led up to the second floor, the watchmaker’s quarters, Kuisl guessed.

The hangman climbed the narrow, worn steps leading to a corridor with two doors at the end. Behind one was a bedroom with a stool and a chamber pot. The other room was more interesting: it contained several shelves of a well-ordered private library.

Kuisl whistled softly through his teeth. Though he had an impressive library in his home in Schongau, his were primarily works dealing with the healing arts. The books here seemed to be more of a technical nature.

The hangman pulled out some of the precious tomes and casually leafed through them. There were works by Greek authors-Heron of Alexandria, Homer, and Aristotle-written on parchment and translated into Latin, but also more recent works by Descartes, Cardano, and a certain Salomon de Caus.

The works by the latter were especially well thumbed-through, with many passages marked in red. Leafing quickly through the text, Kuisl learned that Salomon de Caus experimented with steam engines and believed that technical apparatuses could be powered in this way. The hangman regretted now that he’d never had a chance to chat with Brother Virgilius, who seemed to be an interesting man.

Or to have been one, Kuisl thought. Anyone dealing with such heretical knowledge quickly makes enemies in a monastery.

The hangman thought about this as he placed the book back on the shelf and took the narrow stairway back down to the first floor, unsettled by the feeling he’d overlooked something. Once again he looked around at the destruction in the room-broken chairs, shards of glass, the puppet’s head in the corner, the monster dangling above him and seeming to grin at him…

What the devil is wrong here?

The hangman was startled now by the sound of footsteps approaching the house. Quickly he extinguished the lantern and leaned against the wall of the laboratory, completely enveloped in shadow.

The steps were moving straight toward the door when suddenly they stopped. The stranger seemed to hesitate.

For God’s sake, what an idiot I am, Kuisl thought. I left the door ajar; it’s half open.

For a while, there was silence outside; all the hangman could hear was the sound of his own shallow breathing. Then, after a while, he heard the steps receding down the gravel path, moving away from the house faster and faster. Someone was running away.

The hangman rushed to the door, tore it open, and stared out into the night, but there was nothing there now except a cat that turned and hissed at him from atop a wall. In the darkness he could hear someone running over the compact clay soil. A shadowy figure disappeared around a corner, and then there was nothing but silence.

With a suppressed curse, Kuisl stepped outside, pulling the door closed behind him, and headed home. How had he been so stupid as to have revealed his presence there? Kuisl was sure someone had the same thought as he had, and intended to look for a clue in the watchmaker’s house. But who? The real sorcerer? A curious monk? A young local lad looking for a thrill? Now Kuisl would probably never find out.

Grimly he stomped down the dirt path to Erling, while two cold, evil eyes shined eerily in the darkness, watching him leave. Then their owner turned away, too, and vanished into the night.