The Poisoned Pilgrim

7

ERLING, TUESDAY, JUNE 15, 1666 AD

"What are you asking me to do? Are you out of your mind?” The Schongau hangman was sitting in the knacker’s house, having just lit his pipe a second time. When Simon hesitantly explained his plan, the hangman dropped his pipe on the floor, and Magdalena quickly picked it up before her two children could get a close look at the smoking bowl of tobacco. They had already broken a clay jug in the small room and dumped out a box of grain.

“Well, I do think it’s the only way we can learn more about this monastery and its residents,” Simon replied hesitantly. “And Magdalena is right: if you want to speak with your friend Nepomuk, it certainly can’t be as an executioner on a pilgrimage.”

“Aha, but as a stinking monk, eh?” He spat on the floor. “Out of the question. I can’t even recite the full credo or bow like these priests.”

“But you don’t have to,” Magdalena cooed gently. “A little humility would go a long way. You’ll see, you’ll make a wonderful monk.” She handed her father his pipe and smiled cheerfully, to which the hangman responded with a grunt.

“How hard can it be?” she continued. “Simon simply introduces you as a wandering Franciscan monk who’s helping him to care for his patients. Your friend Nepomuk is in jail, and the pilgrimage is looking more and more like a procession of the sick and the dying. Ever since this strange fever broke out, the abbot is happy to have anyone to help. No one is going to ask you to sing and pray-all you have to do is to keep your eyes open.”

“A hangman as a monk,” Kuisl spat out the word with such contempt that his grandchildren crawled back into their mother’s lap, terrified. “Out of the question. Even a blind man would see through it. There has to be another way.”

Simon looked at Magdalena and sighed softly. He knew it wouldn’t be easy to get his father-in-law to go along with the plan. The idea had just come to him when he noticed the hefty Brother Martin in his robe in the procession of Benedictine monks. The robe was a perfect disguise to learn more about the inner circle of the Andechs monks. The Brothers knew Simon already, but his father-in-law seemed a better choice anyway. Grumpy and uncommunicative as he was, he could just as easily pass himself off as a Carthusian monk vowed to silence. At noon Simon told Magdalena about his plan, and since then, she’d been waiting for her cousin, the knacker, and his silent redheaded assistant to leave the house so she could speak with her father in peace and quiet.

Peace and quiet was just relative, however, for the two little ones kept pulling at each other’s hair and tossing clay bowls off the shelves.

“Good Lord, Magdalena,” Simon flared up. “Can you see to it that the kids are quiet when adults have something important to discuss?”

“Ah, and why doesn’t the lord and master of the house do that himself?” Magdalena picked up little Paul, who was crying because his brother had taken away a carved wooden donkey, and put him in her lap. “You could spend a bit more time caring for your sons.”

“Everything in its time,” Simon replied, somewhat peeved. “Now we have to concentrate on learning more about a few of the monks.” After one more stern look, he turned to his father-in-law again.

“You can see for yourself, we’ve taken care of everything. What can go wrong?”

The medicus had found a black robe in a box in the monastery guesthouse, and now passed it hesitantly across the table to Kuisl. It was moth-eaten and the hems were somewhat moldy, but at least it was more or less the right size. After Magdalena made a few alterations it would look like a suitable robe for an itinerant mendicant.

“The Minorites wear almost the same robes as the Benedictines,” Simon explained with angelic patience. “Nobody will notice that we have made a few little changes; and if you pull the hood way down over your face, not even your own wife would recognize you.”

“Leave Anna out of this, you blasted son-in-law,” the hangman growled threateningly. “I’m not going to put up with-”

“For God’s sake, Father,” Magdalena suddenly interrupted, pounding the table so hard that little Paul began to whimper again. “Can’t you see that’s the only way we can learn more about these murders? It’s your friend who’ll be burned at the stake, not ours.” She jumped up and strode to the door with the two boys. “If you like, we can just all go back home, watch the trial from there, and just pray to the savior in the Altenstadt basilica. Simon and I don’t have to be here.”

“Ah, you forget the abbot asked me to write another report,” Simon murmured. “If we both just get up and go now, it will look suspicious, as if we’re trying to flee. After all, until recently we were under suspicion ourselves. They’ll come looking for us and put us on trial with Nepomuk. To judge by the way the prior keeps staring so angrily at me, he’d rather see me burned at the stake today than tomorrow.”

“Just stop where you are, you fresh woman,” Kuisl grumbled, beckoning to his daughter, who was still standing at the door. Then, with disgust, he unfolded the torn black robe and examined it. “I’ll never in my life fit into that.”

“I can let out the seam a bit at the bottom,” Magdalena said hopefully, as she returned to the table. “And I’ve also found a nice white cord big enough to go around your fat belly. Does that mean you’ll do it?”

The hangman shrugged. “I’ll never get into the monastery wearing this. Never. Forget it. But perhaps the disguise will get me in to have a few words with Nepomuk. Have you two thought about a rosary?”

Simon held his hand in front of his mouth so his father-in-law wouldn’t see his smile. Jakob Kuisl was the stubbornest fellow in the whole Priests’ Corner, but besides that he was the best friend anyone could have. In his heart, the medicus knew the hangman wouldn’t abandon the ugly Nepomuk. With a triumphant gesture he reached under the table and brought out a carved wooden rosary. Kuisl responded with a grateful grunt.

“Now we have to discuss calmly what we’re going to say to the abbot,” Simon said, relieved. “After all, Maurus Rambeck will have to give permission for a Minorite Brother to care for the sick in his monastery.” He pulled a little Bible from his vest pocket and motioned to his father-in-law. “And then it won’t hurt to memorize a few psalms just in case you have to pray and don’t know how to do that.”

The hangman leaned forward and tapped Simon on the chest. “Believe me, boy,” he growled softly, “if your beautiful plan fails, you’re going to have to pray yourself. Or better yet, you should do it now.” He stood up and put on the moldy robe. “If even one little monk recognizes me, we’ll be so deep in shit that even the archangel himself won’t be able to get us out.”

Less than an hour later, Simon and the hangman climbed the steep stairs to the abbot’s study on the second floor of the east wing. Magdalena stayed with the children in the knacker’s house, where the two children wouldn’t let their mother, whom they had missed so long, out of their sight. Before that, the hangman’s daughter had lengthened the ripped robe and cleaned off the worst of the dirt. Kuisl was now wearing the black robe of a Minorite with a white cord around his belly, while a wooden rosary dangled from his neck, swinging back and forth like a pendulum. Simon looked approvingly at his father-in-law, who looked in the robe like the incarnate scourge of God. Kuisl would have made a good priest, though Simon doubted anyone could expect much leniency from him. At least he’d keep a firm grip on his flock.

“This robe itches like the claws of a demon,” the hangman cursed. “I really don’t understand how priests can wear something like this day in and day out.”

“You forget that monks often whip themselves and slide through the church on their knees,” Simon reminded him with a grin. “To say nothing of fasting. Pain is clearly the pathway to God.”

“Or to truth.” said Jakob, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Maybe I should use the robe the next time I torture someone.”

They had now arrived at the door to the abbot’s study. Simon knocked timidly. When there was no answer, the medicus tentatively pushed down the door handle and the tall door swung open. The setting sun shone in softly through the glass windows, casting light on the rows of shelves covering the entire back wall. In front of the shelves sat Maurus Rambeck at his desk, musing over a pile of books. The abbot seemed not to have noticed their arrival.

“Ah, Your Excellency?” Simon said cautiously. “Excuse the interruption, but…”

Only now did Maurus Rambeck jump up. A single little drop of sweat landed on a piece of paper in front of him. Hastily the abbot pushed some of the books aside.

“Ah, the bathhouse surgeon from Schongau,” Rambeck murmured with a wan smile. Once again Simon noticed how pale the abbot had become since the day before. His right hand trembled slightly as he raised it in a blessing. “Do you have any news about the two tragic deaths, a clue perhaps that will help us?”

Simon shook his head regretfully. “No, Your Excellency, but I’ll have a closer look at the corpses today. At the moment I’m too busy with the sick pilgrims.”

“The sick… pilgrims?” The abbot seemed not to understand. Indeed, he seemed lost in his own world of books.

“Well, this fever that’s spreading around Andechs,” Simon tried to explain. “It’s no doubt a kind of nervous fever, although I don’t yet know exactly what kind of sickness it is. I’m barely able to keep up with it in any case, as Brother Johannes is not available…” He paused briefly. “Fortunately I’ve found a colleague now to help me-naturally, only if you will permit.” With a wide gesture he pointed to Jakob Kuisl, who stood next to him with his hood pulled down and his arms folded, looking like a piece of heavy furniture. “Brother… Jakob. He’s an itinerant Franciscan monk very skilled in the art of healing. Isn’t that so, Brother Jakob?”

For the first time the abbot seemed to notice Kuisl. He gazed briefly at the large man in the robe, then nodded.

“Very well,” he murmured, lost in thought. “We can certainly use all the help we can get.”

“Ah… Brother Jakob would like to take part in the masses and visit the library,” Simon continued. “He has heard much about your books, which are said to contain true hoards of information. Isn’t that so, Jakob?” He glanced over at his father-in-law and gave him a little nudge with his foot, but the hangman remained silent. “Well, in any case…” Simon continued, “will he be permitted to visit the rooms in the monastery? You have my word that-”

“Of course. And now please leave me alone.” Maurus Rambeck had already turned back to his books, waving his hand as if to chase away an annoying fly. “There’s much I have to do.”

“As you wish.” Simon bowed, not without casting a final glance at the pages of the book lying open in front of the abbot, but all he could see was that it was written in a strange script. The letters were faded and seemed to have been written many years ago. When the abbot noticed Simon still standing in front of him, he abruptly closed the book.

“Is there something else?” Rambeck said in a rasping voice.

“No, no… I was just a bit lost in thought.” Kuisl still hadn’t uttered a word. As Simon pulled him toward the door, he added, “I’ll let you know as soon as I learn anything. Farewell for now.” He bowed one last time before the heavy, tall oaken door closed behind him.

Outside in the hall, the medicus took a deep breath then turned angrily to his father-in-law.

“When I asked you to pretend to be a monk, I didn’t realize you’d taken a vow of silence,” Simon hissed. “Thank God the abbot was much too distracted to wonder about a deaf-mute Franciscan.”

“What do you mean, deaf-mute?” Kuisl groused. “You talked enough for two. But you’re right; something is wrong with this priest,” he said, furrowing his brow. “Did you see the book on his desk that he so hurriedly tried to conceal from us?”

Simon nodded. “Yes, but unfortunately I couldn’t make any sense of the writing.”

“Hebrew,” the hangman replied brusquely. “The old language of the Jews. I saw a book like that one time. I wonder what the abbot was looking for in it?”

“Well, Maurus Rambeck was at the Benedictine University in Salzburg for many years and is known for his studies of ancient languages,” Simon replied. “Perhaps we just disturbed him in his work.”

“Ha! Work? Judging by his looks he’s up to his neck in some sort of trouble. He was as pale as someone heading for his own execution-I know about such things.” Kuisl ran down the stairway, taking care not to step on the hem of his robe. “So come now before His Excellency changes his mind and wants us to celebrate evening mass with him.”

“Where… where are you headed so fast, Kuisl?” Simon whispered, running after the hangman.

“Where else?” Jakob Kuisl turned. Despite the darkness under his hood, Simon could briefly see his eyes sparkle. “To see the ugly Nepomuk, of course. After all, we haven’t seen each other for thirty years. And in the meantime, you can have another look at the two corpses. Perhaps you can find something you haven’t noticed yet.”

Kuisl squeezed the pearls of the rosary in his hands as if they were thumb screws. “I swear to you I’ll find the person trying to make a scapegoat of my old friend,” he said softly. “And by God, then he can be glad I’m not the executioner in this district but just a hangman in a lousy monk’s costume.”

With the hood pulled far down over his face, Jakob Kuisl stomped off toward the monastery dairy where his friend Nepomuk was still held prisoner. By now the sun was a red ball sinking into the clouds west of Lake Ammer. The air suddenly turned cooler, so that the hangman began to feel a chill under the thin robe. Once more he cursed his son-in-law for this idea, even though he now secretly conceded it might work. In just a moment he’d find out just how good Simon’s idea was.

Two watchmen were standing around the entrance to the farm, and Kuisl could see right away they really weren’t professionals-likely hunters drafted by the monastery for guard duty. Dressed in green capes, they leaned on their muskets, looking bored and staring into the sky where the evening star was just setting. Torches were burning in iron pots to the left and right of the door. When the two watchmen heard the hangman coming, they jumped to attention.

“Who goes there?” called one of them, a stout man with the beginnings of a bald spot.

“The Lord be with you and illumine your way,” Kuisl grumbled and, in the next moment, felt strangely ridiculous. He felt as if the word hangman was burned onto his forehead, but the two watchmen relaxed and nodded to him amiably.

“Greetings, Brother,” the fat man replied. “And thank you for your blessing, though a chicken leg would also be very welcome.” He giggled softly. Seeing Kuisl’s white cord, his laughter stopped suddenly. “Just a moment. You are…”

“An itinerant Franciscan, indeed,” the hangman said, completing the sentence. “The hapless Brother inside there wants to confess. The abbot himself sent me.”

“I see, but why doesn’t one of our monks do that?” the younger watchman interrupted. “And by the way, who are you? I’ve never seen you here before.”

“Because I’m an itinerant Franciscan, you damn fool,” Kuisl whispered. He closed his eyes briefly, realizing his words were out of character. The guards looked back at him in astonishment.

“Do you really think one of the Benedictines would take confession from the poor creature in there?” Kuisl continued in a gentler tone. “Don’t forget, he killed three of their Brothers. But please go and ask the abbot,” he added, pointing to the light in the second-floor room of the monastery. “I was just with him. Brother Maurus is brooding as so often over his old books. Just don’t speak so loudly to him-His Excellency has a severe headache today.”

“That’s… that’s all right,” the fat man said, patting his colleague reassuringly on the shoulder. Clearly he had no desire to pester a busy abbot suffering from a headache. “We’ll stand right outside the door,” he mumbled. “You won’t take off with the monster,” he laughed nervously; then he pushed the heavy wooden bolt aside and permitted the hangman to pass. Kuisl took one of the torches from the wall and shuffled into the dark dungeon.

“May the Lord bless you,” he grumbled, “and shove your musket up your butt, you wise-ass dirty bastard,” he added softly enough that the guards outside couldn’t hear him.

As soon as the hangman entered the room, he was confronted with the sharp odor of old cheese and the stench of urine and other garbage. On shelves along the wall stood frayed baskets, and beneath them cowered a figure in a torn robe. When the ugly Nepomuk heard the sound of the sliding bolt, he was startled and struggled to his feet. His face was still swollen from the blows dealt by his pursuers. He blinked at his visitor with his good eye but wasn’t able to see much at first due to the sudden brightness.

“Are you sending me a father confessor already?” he croaked. “Then we can spare ourselves the annoyance of a trial, can’t we? It’s just as well. At least then I won’t be put on the rack before you burn me.”

“Nobody’s going to put you on the rack,” Kuisl whispered. “And somebody else will burn for this. I’ll see to that.”

“Who… who are you?” Nepomuk Volkmar now sat up all the way. He held his hand over his eyes to shield them from the bright light so that he could get a better look at the huge Franciscan monk standing before him. Suddenly Kuisl threw his hood back, and Nepomuk let out a cry.

“My God, Jakob,” he gasped. “Is it really you? After all these years? Then my prayers really have been heard.”

“If you keep shouting like that, you’ll soon be saying your last prayer,” Kuisl whispered. “For God’s sake, keep quiet before the two idiots out there become suspicious.” Without further explanation, he started murmuring words in a monotone.

“Ventram porcinum. Bene exinanies, aceto et sale, postea aqua lavas, et sie hanc impensam imples…”

Nepomuk Volkmar was puzzled. “Why are you giving me a recipe in Latin for cooking pig’s stomach?”

“Because that’s all that I can think of at the moment, numbskull,” Kuisl whispered. “It comes from a big old dog-eared volume in my attic. The watchmen think I’m taking your confession, so just keep your mouth shut.”

He kept mumbling for a while, speaking softer and softer until finally he fell silent. A broad grin spread over his face.

“You haven’t gotten any better looking in the last thirty years,” Kuisl finally said, pressing his friend to his broad chest in a warm embrace.

“And you’re not getting any thinner,” Nepomuk groaned. “And if you grab hold of me like that I won’t need a rack.” He lowered his head and started to sob softly. “But what difference does it make? If something doesn’t happen soon, it would be better if you just crushed me to death right now.”

Kuisl let him go and sat down on an overturned wooden crate. “You’re right,” he grumbled. “We don’t have much time for memories-we can do that later over a glass of wine when this is all finished. All right?” He smiled and beckoned Nepomuk to come closer. “But do tell me what happened. Remember that, if I’m to help you, I have to know the whole truth. Up to now all I know is what Magdalena tells me, and she sometimes piles it on pretty thick.”

Kuisl summarized in brief what his daughter and Simon had told him that noon. Then he looked expectantly at his friend, waiting for his reply. “Tell me, Nepomuk,” he growled. “Do you have anything to do with these murders? You know it is no disgrace to kill someone: the two of us have done that often enough. But the law was always on our side.” His face darkened. “The law, or the war.”

“Believe me, Jakob, I’m innocent, at least of these two murders.” Groaning, Nepomuk settled down on the floor and drew up his legs. “I don’t know who killed the two novitiates, but I have a dark suspicion.”

“Then speak up, or I’ll put you on the rack myself.”

The Brother passed his hands through the little hair remaining on his head and took a deep breath. Finally, he started to speak as Jakob sat back and listened quietly. “Brother Virgilius and I have had many discussions in recent years,” he whispered. “We have almost become friends, probably because we are interested in the same thing-the study of the unknown, the rejection of unproved hypotheses.” The monk smiled dreamily, then continued. “Did not God himself command us to subdue the earth? To do that, we first have to understand it. Even back then in the war, I kept taking notes in my little book-do you remember? Notes on the explosive force of gunpowder, the best way to reinforce trenches, a guillotine for painless decapitations… Unfortunately, no one was interested in my plans.”

“You were a lousy hangman, but a smart fellow,” Kuisl interjected with a grin. “Just a bit too much of a dreamer to kill. You would have made a good scholar, but unfortunately the Dear Lord had other plans for you.”

Nepomuk nodded. “Horrible job, hanging people. I thought the war would be a great equalizer, but then I was a damned executioner again, just like my father and grandfather before me.” He sighed deeply. “When I found a place to hide out here in the Andechs Monastery, I felt I had finally fulfilled my dreams. My work as an apothecary gave me the chance to study other things.” Nepomuk looked around and replied in a conspiratorial undertone. “Especially the studies of the tonitrua et fulgura.”

“Tonitrua et fulgura? Thunder and lightning, you mean?” Kuisl frowned. “What more is there to know about it?”

The Brother’s chuckle sounded like the bleating of an old billy goat. “Hah! Do you know how often lightning strikes up here on the Holy Mountain? Do you? Up to a dozen times a year. If you’re lucky, only a few shingles get scorched, but often a whole building goes up in flames, or the church tower. Twenty years ago a ball of lightning even whizzed through the church like the devil. God alone prevented worse from happening.” Nepomuk’s voice almost cracked. “The monks here ring a bell to ward off a storm in hopes it strikes somewhere else; they pray and sing, but no one has ever thought about how to banish lightning-to exorcise it.”

“Exorcise?” the hangman replied skeptically. “Now you really do sound like a warlock, Nepomuk.”

The Brother shook his head energetically. “You don’t understand, Jakob. Lightning is made harmless by attracting it to iron. That’s not witchcraft but proven truth. Even the pharaohs knew that in biblical times; I’ve read it in old parchment manuscripts; we’ve just forgotten how.”

A smile spread over Kuisl’s lips. “So that’s the reason for the iron bars you had in the forest with you. Magdalena told me about that.”

“I always go out in thunderstorms and set them up at certain elevated locations. It works, Jakob. Lightning is always attracted to them.” Nepomuk was now so wrapped up in his own words that he jumped up and had trouble keeping his voice down. “I had only a few more experiments to make, and I would be finished. A few days before the terrible fire in the church I tied iron bars like that up in the steeple with a wire leading down to the cemetery. I was sure I’d be able to channel the lightning down to earth, but unfortunately…” The Brother broke off and crouched down on the filthy floor, looking discouraged.

“Unfortunately that set fire to the whole church, you stupid ass,” Kuisl continued. “It’s no wonder your Brothers don’t have anything good to say about you.”

Nepomuk shook his head. “They… they just suspect something without really knowing. The only person I told about the experiment was Virgilius, who was excited about it and kept peppering me with questions. He thought there must be someone for whom my studies would have great value. When he started in on that again two days ago, I was afraid the abbot would learn the truth, so I just threw him out of the house. Virgilius ranted and raved.”

“The argument between you and the watchmaker.” Kuisl nodded. “I heard about that. That’s why the monks think you have something to do with his disappearance. In addition, they found your eyepiece at his house.”

“By God, I swear I don’t know how it got there. Maybe I left it lying somewhere and someone picked it up to lure Virgilius to his death.” Nepomuk held both hands over his swollen face as his entire body began to quiver. “And I have nothing to do with Virgilius’s disappearance. On my honor.”

“And that accursed automaton?” Kuisl added. “My daughter thinks she heard it somewhere down below the monastery. Do you know anything about that?”

Nepomuk shrugged. “I know only that this automaton was Virgilius’s favorite toy. If someone stole it, he’d first have to kill the builder-Virgilius would never part willingly with his Aurora.” He wrung his hands in despair. “Someone is out to get me, Jakob. You must help me. I’m more afraid than ever before in my life. You know yourself what I might be facing if I’m convicted of sorcery. First they’ll hang me, then disembowel and quarter me, and finally throw my bloody remains into the fire.” He looked at the hangman hopefully. “Before it gets to that, can you at least promise me quick, clean death? Promise?”

“Nobody’s going to die here if I don’t approve,” Kuisl growled. “My son-in-law told me they want to wait until after the Festival of the Three Hosts in order not to terrify the pilgrims, so we have a few days to find the real culprit. And as sure as my name is Jakob Kuisl, I’ll find him.” He stooped down again and looked his friend straight in the eye. “The only thing that’s important is that you don’t keep anything from me. Can I really trust you, Nepomuk?”

The Brother crossed himself, held up his hand, and swore. “By all the saints and the Virgin Mary, I promise to tell you the truth.”

“Then continue praying in a loud voice.” Kuisl stood up, pulled the cowl down over his head and turned to leave. “After all, we want our two bumpkins out there to think you’re on your way into the purifying fires of purgatory.”

“Isicia omentata. Pulpam concisam teres cum medulla siliginei in vino infusi…”

As the hangman continued mumbling Latin recipes, he pounded energetically on the door. In a moment the chubby watchman appeared to shove the bolt aside and let him out.

“Well, did he confess?” the fat man asked. “Did he stab the two youngsters to death, carry off the watchmaker, and copulate with the automaton?”

Kuisl stopped for a moment and stared back at the man from the darkness of his cowl. Suddenly the two watchmen had the terrifying feeling they were not talking to a father confessor, but the Grim Reaper in person.

“The devil tempts men in many ways,” said the gruff hangman. “But often he comes in a simple garb. He has no need of sulfur, horns, or a cloven foot, and he doesn’t have to make love to an automaton, you idiots. How stupid are you, anyway?”

Without another word, Kuisl shuffled out into the starry night.

In the meantime, Simon was on his way to the underworld.

The medicus had briefly looked in on the sick in the monastery annex who were still being cared for by Jakob Schreevogl. The young patrician had handled his task astonishingly well, enlisting a few of the Schongau group to help. Now a deceptive quiet prevailed in the provisional hospital, broken only by occasional coughs and moans. Two older women had died from the fever, and the medicus still couldn’t say what the origin of the illness was. It began with exhaustion and headaches, then fever and diarrhea followed. It affected everyone equally-strong adults as well as the elderly and children.

Simon couldn’t help but think of his own two boys. He tried to shake off the thought and concentrate completely on the task before him. On the spur of the moment, he decided to take a closer look at the two murder victims. He could take care of the living in the morning.

Anxiously, he climbed down the steep stairway into the monastery’s beer cellar, which could be reached through an annex directly next to the brewery. It was chilly in the narrow passageway through the rock, allowing one to forget that summer had already begun outside. For almost two hundred years, supplies had been stored here deep in the stone bowels of the mountain, since beer couldn’t be brewed during the hot summer months. Though Simon had turned up his coat collar, he shivered slightly.

The coolness in the corridors and cellars of Andechs was not just suited for the storage of beer barrels and brewing equipment; the dead often found their temporary resting place here before burial in the monastery’s cemetery. The corpses of the two novitiates were handled in the same way-primarily to avoid any unrest prior to the festival. The burial of two victims of an alleged sorcerer and mass murderer certainly would have set off the wildest rumors. On entering the storage cellar, however, Simon could tell that burial couldn’t be delayed much longer.

His nose led him past huge six-foot-high barrels standing in niches in the rock. Water dripped from the ceiling, forming puddles on the hard-packed soil. Simon’s steps echoed from the rock walls as he moved down the small corridor, holding a torch in front of him. Somewhere he could hear rats squealing.

Finally he reached the end of the corridor, where he found not another barrel but a worn wooden table and two bundles wrapped in white cloth. He took a deep breath, then placed the torch in a crack in the wall and removed the first sheet.

The stench was so strong he had to turn away for a moment to keep from vomiting. Finally, he turned back to the body.

It was Coelestin, the apothecary’s helper whom he’d examined closely two days earlier. By now rigor mortis had passed and the corpse was marked with black and blue spots wherever the outer layer of skin had collapsed and the blood had run off. Nevertheless, the wound to the back of his head was still clearly visible; Simon was certain the victim had been bludgeoned by an unknown attacker and then held under water.

After checking and not finding anything else important, he pulled the second sheet to the side. By now, Simon had gotten somewhat used to the stench, but the sight of the dead watchmaker’s assistant still made him shudder. Vitalis, at one time so handsome, looked as if the hounds of hell themselves had clutched him in their claws. His head was wrenched to one side, the skin on his back and legs almost completely charred, and his right hand was so badly burned that some of the fingers had already fallen off. The corpse still gave off a caustic burnt smell.

Simon wondered what was powerful enough to set off a fire like that. Ten years ago, he’d seen a corpse after a burning at the stake, but by then, the body had shrunk to the size of a child and was burned evenly all over. Vitalis had suffered burns only on his back, buttocks, and the rear of the thigh. Simon bent down to examine the burn spots carefully, and tapped his finger against the hard, blackened flesh.

Suddenly he stopped short. In some of the cracks in the skin he noticed traces of a white powder whose origin he could not explain. He scratched it with his fingernail and studied the little specks up close. He turned up his nose in disgust-the powder smelled of old garlic.

Was witchcraft indeed somehow involved in this?

As the medicus reexamined the head of the charred corpse, he discovered a dent in the skull at almost the same point as on Coelestin’s. He stopped to think. Was the watchmaker possibly killed in the same way? Or had he suffered the wound in a fall? Had Vitalis perhaps been killed by a blow before being consumed by the demonic fire?

Just as Simon prepared to examine the wound again, the torch fell out of the crack in the rock face and onto the wet ground where it hissed and sputtered before going out, leaving the cellar in total darkness.

“Damn.”

Simon groped blindly for the table so as not to lose his sense of direction. When his hand touched the cold body of the apothecary’s assistant, he instinctively recoiled, lost his balance, and hit his head against a beer keg. His fall echoed through the silence, then it again became as quiet as the bottom of the sea.

Simon could feel his heart pounding. Surely he could find his way back to the surface without the torch, but the very thought that he was alone with two corpses in a pitch-black cellar caused his stomach to quiver. Carefully he stood up and was about to grope his way along the barrels toward the exit when he stopped in amazement.

One of the two corpses was glowing in the dark.

A strange greenish glimmer came from the body of young Vitalis, as faint as the glow from a firefly, and it gave the corpse an eerie sheen that made Simon’s hair stand on end.

Torn between panic and fascination, the medicus was eyeing the shimmering corpse when suddenly he heard a loud rumble from the other side of the table. It sounded as if somewhere in the mountain a stone golem had come to life.

That was too much for Simon. He staggered back a few steps, then turning around in horror, ran through the darkness toward the exit. Again there was a rumbling. He stumbled, caught himself again, but hit his forehead on the cellar door. Ignoring the pain, he groped for the door handle and, finding it, rushed up the stairway beyond. Once he could see pale moonlight above, he turned around one last time and could still see the glimmer back in the beer cellar. Then he rushed up the stairs, not stopping until he was standing under the starry sky in front of the brewery.

He was back again among the living.

It took Simon a while to calm down enough to think rationally about what had just happened. What he’d seen down below-was it actually witchcraft? His reason tried mightily to reject this thought, but the sight of a shining green corpse was a hard thing to swallow, even for a student of medicine. And what was the rumbling down below? Had the two corpses come back to life to seek revenge on their murderer?

Simon wasn’t quite ready to go back to Magdalena and the children. He needed at least a halfway clear head. How he would have loved a cup of his beloved coffee now, but unfortunately the Oriental brew was still unknown in the Andechs Monastery tavern. In any case, Simon had no desire to bump into the Schongau burgomaster or his son there. Kuisl was no doubt still with his friend Nepomuk in the old cheese-making room. So where could he go?

As his gaze passed over the partially lighted windows of the monastery, only one place seemed to offer him some security and enlightenment.

The library.

Since his earliest youth, Simon had loved books. They were lodestars for him, dividing the world into dark and light sides. Perhaps this time books would lead him back to the bright side again; in books he could find explanations for almost anything, perhaps even for a shimmering green corpse. Simon nodded with determination. If anybody spoke to him in the library, he would simply say he was still working on the report for the abbot.

He returned to the main portal, which was still open, and climbed the wide steps to the south wing, where a corridor led to a high, two-winged door.

Reverently he opened it and looked into paradise.

The walls were almost twenty feet high and covered floor to ceiling with walnut shelves filled with books. There were huge, dusty parchment books as thick as an arm, newer folios made of paper, and thin folders tied together with red ribbons. Simon could see golden letters on the backs of some of the books, while others were labeled with delicate scribbles. Some had simple leather bindings. The entire room smelled of fine wood, dust, and that undefinable fragrance that emanates from ancient parchment and ink.

Simon swallowed hard. He had not seen so many books since he was in the Premonstratensian monastery in Steingaden, and that was a long while ago. There was probably more knowledge stored here in Andechs than in the entire rest of the Priests’ Corner.

Slowly the medicus walked down an aisle of books, glancing at individual titles. He discovered Paracelsus’s Gro?e Wundartzney and, alongside it, a complete five-volume edition of Dioscurides’s Materia Medica. Simon began leafing through them randomly, but when he realized he wouldn’t find anything this way, he laid the heavy volumes aside and began wandering through the aisles again.

He was delighted when he came to the end of a row and found a rather nondescript little book at eye-level that evidently dealt with the history of the Andechs Monastery. While he was sure he would find nothing in it about glowing corpses, the events of recent days had made clear to him that this monastery kept more than one secret. Perhaps the key to all these strange events was to be found in the past.

After some hesitation, Simon took the leather-bound book from the shelf and settled down in an upholstered armchair next to a well-polished cherry-wood table. He couldn’t say himself why he picked out this book. It was written in ancient, somewhat overly dramatic, Latin, so it took a while for the medicus to feel comfortable with it. But he’d learned enough from his incomplete study at Ingolstadt University to read the book at least halfway fluently after a while.

Strangely, the chronicle began not as one would expect, with the founding of the monastery, but much earlier than that. Simon learned that at first there was a castle on the Holy Mountain belonging to the Counts of Andechs, a mighty family that ruled large parts of Bavaria and even southern Tyrol. At some point, however, the Wittelsbachs seized power in Bavaria and destroyed the castle.

The chronicle spoke in this connection of a “vile, cowardly betrayal” but had nothing more to say about it. Simon couldn’t help thinking of Count von Wartenberg, who had been sitting in the tavern the day before with the two Semers. Wartenberg was one of the Wittelsbachs-and hadn’t the fat cellarer said the count had the third key? Simon sighed. The more he dug into this, the more complicated it seemed.

A scraping sound startled him. The tall door had opened and the old librarian with the crooked back entered. When Brother Benedikt first caught sight of Simon, he seemed disconcerted, but then he settled back into his usual arrogance.

“What are you doing in here?” he snarled. “The library is for the exclusive use of the monks.”

“I know,” Simon replied in an apologetic tone. “But you do have an outstanding collection of medical works, and the abbot thought perhaps I might find a clue here. He permitted me to come here to write my report about the strange deaths.” That was clearly untrue, but the medicus guessed that Maurus Rambeck had other problems at the moment than to correct his little white lie.

And in fact the librarian seemed satisfied with Simon’s excuse. “The medical knowledge of the Benedictines is indeed unequaled,” the monk replied proudly. “It goes back to the ancient knowledge of the Babylonians, Egyptians, and Greeks. We were the ones who preserved the knowledge about poisonous and healing plants and kept alive the knowledge of procedures and diagnoses for all these centuries. Surely you’ve seen the Naturalis historia of Pliny the Elder?”

“Ah, I’ll confess that I haven’t yet-”

“Ah, but see here… as far as I know, the chronicles of Andechs is not a medical work.” Brother Benedikt had drawn closer and suspiciously eyed the book Simon had just been leafing through.

The medicus’s smile was enough to melt ice. “Excuse me, but my curiosity just got the better of me. After all, I don’t often have the chance to visit such a venerable facility. How old is this monastery, by the way?”

“Over two hundred years,” Benedikt replied. “It was founded by Augustinian canons, but we Benedictines took charge soon afterward.”

“Is that so? I would have thought the building is much older. All the cellars, the weathered rock…”

“A castle and a chapel once stood here,” the librarian conceded, “but the little church that housed the three sacred hosts is long gone.”

“And where are the three hosts now?” Simon inquired, curious. “In a few days, they’ll be displayed to thousands of pilgrims.”

Brother Benedikt looked at him suspiciously again. “Safely stored away, of course, in the sacred chapel until Sunday, when they will be displayed to the pilgrims from the bay window of the church.”

“Isn’t it strange that these two dreadful murders and the other remarkable events are taking place just before the Festival of the Three Hosts?” Simon said softly. “It almost looks as if someone is trying to ruin this festival.”

“The festival will take place, you can count on that.” For a moment Simon thought he detected a bit of uncertainty in the old monk’s face, but then Benedikt regained his composure. “For hundreds of years, the sacred three hosts have been displayed to the people in a sealed monstrance on exactly this day,” he murmured. “They have survived fire, attacks, and the Great War, and they will also survive this damned witchery. No one can steal them, and certainly no one can make them disappear by magic.” He straightened up, and his eyes began to shine, as if he was declaiming an ancient spell. “Three keys are needed to enter the holy chapel, and only the abbot, the prior, and a member of the Wittelsbach family can open the room together. So don’t worry, the hosts are well cared for and no one will disturb the venerable ceremony.”

Simon cringed when he remembered what Magdalena had told him about her visit to the church.

A Wittelsbach has the third key…

Hadn’t Magdalena observed how upset the abbot had been during the mass? Then he had left with the prior and Count Wartenberg and disappeared upstairs in the relics room. Was there a connection between the murders and the sacred three hosts?

“I’m afraid you’ll have to put your medical studies off until tomorrow,” the librarian said, interrupting Simon’s train of thought. “I’m closing the rooms here now. In my opinion, you should be caring for the poor pilgrims anyway and leave it to the judge in Weilheim to take care of this satanic apothecary.” He shuffled over to the door. “Brother Maurus should have called the judge long ago and worried less about the gossip. We just can’t allow a sorcerer in our venerable institution. This is a matter that has to be attended to as quickly as possible.”

“Speaking of witchcraft…” Simon interjected, “Brother Eckhart said something about a golem. Do you perhaps have any books about that?”

The librarian stopped suddenly and turned around to Simon. “Didn’t I just say you need to care for the sick?” he growled. “But now that you ask-yes, there is a book about that here.”

“Aha! Could I perhaps have a look at it?”

Brother Benedikt pursed his lips in a narrow smile. “That’s not possible; the abbot himself has borrowed that book.”

Simon suppressed a slight shudder.

It is the book written in Hebrew on the abbot’s table, a book on conjuring up golems.

“You are right,” Simon sighed finally and rose with a shrug. “I must take care of my patients.” He decided not to tell the librarian anything about his remarkable discovery concerning the novitiate’s body. Something warned him not to trust the old man, or in this case, anyone. “The matter should be in the hands of a judge,” he confessed remorsefully. “I’ve taken up too much time with this. Nevertheless, thank you for your explanations.”

Without Brother Benedikt noticing it, Simon quickly hid the Adechs chronicle in his jacket and started for the exit. The librarian’s words had awakened his interest in learning more about the monastery’s past. He clenched his fists determinedly and put on a droll smile as he followed the monk out the door. Simon had the annoying habit of becoming curious about whatever he was told to stay away from.

What mystery is hidden behind these walls-or beneath them?

Stiffly, Simon descended the stairway as Brother Benedikt continued to eye him distrustfully, and didn’t breathe a sigh of relief until he was outside. His heart pounding, he took the chronicle out from under his robe and wiped his sweat from the leather binding. Then he broke out in a broad grin.

At least he’d have something to read tonight.

After Magdalena had put the children to bed, she sat down, exhausted, in the main room of her cousin’s house to relax from the tribulations of the day and absent-mindedly stirred a cup of steaming mulled wine. She’d been singing bedtime songs to the children for almost an hour, and now she was hoarse, as one might expect. Three-year-old Peter in particular couldn’t fall asleep and kept asking for just one more. After being away from the children the last three days, they now clung to her all the more. At least her sickness had passed, even though her stomach still felt a bit queasy.

Magdalena wished she could share her feelings with her husband, but as so often, Simon was completely wrapped up in his own plans and thoughts. She sighed softly. Especially now, she wished she had a little support. She was still wearing a bandage around her neck where the silent bullet had grazed her the night before, and though the wound seemed to have healed well, she remained fearful that the stranger might strike again. Or was Simon perhaps right… had she just imagined all this? Was the stranger in the belfry perhaps just some drunken monk she’d disturbed in his befuddled condition? And was the shot in the dark nothing more than a ricocheting bullet from a hunter’s rifle?

Lost in thought, Magdalena took another drink from her cup of wine. The knacker Michael Graetz had gone off to the tavern in Erling for a mug or two of beer, and her only companion was the silent Matthias, huddled down on the bench by the stove across from her. Once again she noticed what a handsome young man he was. He was perhaps in his early twenties, and with his powerful arms, black apron open in the front, and red hair, he looked a bit like one of the drifters who would occasionally pass through Schongau to sing songs and perform magic tricks.

Graetz had told her that the redheaded lad couldn’t speak because marauding soldiers had cut out his tongue when he was a child, and for this reason she didn’t expect him to approach her. It was strange to be seated in a room with someone staring at you, however, without even being able to say a word.

“Don’t you want to go down to the tavern with your master?” Magdalena ventured, just to have something to say. “It was a tough day, and no doubt your throat is dry.”

The silent helper shook his head, and a gurgling sound came from his throat. He was pointing at Magdalena’s cup of wine.

“Ahh dahh ring…” he stammered.

“You don’t drink?” she replied.

Matthias beamed, seeing he was understood.

“And why not?”

The handsome fellow seemed to think a bit; then his face turned into a threatening grimace as he spread his fingers out like claws.

Instinctively, Magdalena moved off to one side. “Ah, it makes you sick?” she asked hesitantly.

Matthias sighed and rolled his eyes as if he were drunk. Finally, he reached for a pitcher of water and drank it in one long gulp.

“Aaah.” he exclaimed, rubbing his stomach like after a good meal. “Aach eer… ush eer.”

“You’re right,” Magdalena murmured. “Alcohol sometimes changes men into beasts, lustful beasts, or snoring bears.” She laughed self-consciously, and the good-looking assistant stared back at her unambiguously. Suddenly she felt the heat and closeness of the room closing in around her and stood up, blushing.

“Say,” she began somewhat awkwardly, “do you think you could keep an eye on the two sleeping kids for a little while? I’d like to get out for some fresh air, and since you’re not going to the tavern…” She smiled at him, and for a moment Matthias seemed befuddled, trying to sort things out in his mind, reaffirming Magdalena’s impressions that the knacker’s assistant was not only handsome but unfortunately a bit dense. He didn’t seem especially enthused at Magdalena’s suggestion, but finally he nodded.

“Then… until later,” she said softly. “And thank you very much.”

She quickly tossed on a scarf, stood up, and left. Outside, in the cool night air, she almost had to laugh at herself. What in the world was wrong with her? Evidently, events of the last few days had rattled her so much that now even a mute knacker’s boy could throw her off her stride. The children, too, had upset her more than she’d expected while their father was busy with more important things.

Magdalena took a deep breath, then decided to go up to the monastery and search for her husband. It annoyed her that Simon was gone again in the evening, leaving her to care for the children. He really should have returned some time ago; perhaps she’d even meet up with him on the way.

The distant singing of drunken men wafted through the cool night air, and in the fields around the village little fires were burning. Many of the pilgrims spent the night outside, and by now several hundred people had set up camp at the foot of the Holy Mountain.

Steering clear of the fires and the warm and inviting lights of the tavern, Magdalena climbed up the steep pathway toward the monastery, and was soon enveloped in silence. The stone wall around the monastery where she and Simon had sat in the warm sun yesterday noon had now become a black strip silhouetted against an even darker background. There was a cracking of branches in the bushes on either side of the path, and once Magdalena even thought she heard footsteps. She hurried along the path, finally passing through a gate and entering the monastery grounds. Here too, in contrast with the loud activity during the day, quiet prevailed. Somewhere she heard a single bell sound. Two drunks coming from the monastery tavern approached her, but they, too, stumbled silently past.

Finally she reached the square in front of the church and started looking for Simon. Just where could he be? He was only going to pay a quick visit to the abbot with her father, but that was at least three hours ago. Had the two of them paid a visit to the ugly Nepomuk in the dungeon?

Magdalena’s mind wandered as she stared at the piles of stone and sacks of lime lying all around the square. Workers had put up scaffolding on the walls and front of the church to make repairs to the roof. A wailing tomcat scurried across the boards in search of his mate, and Magdalena looked up, smiling, to see the animal disappear through a crack in the wall of the belfry.

It suddenly occurred to her that she still didn’t know what the strange device was up in the belfry. Should she have another look now? Perhaps she could find out if her fall from the belfry was really just a foolish accident.

Magdalena resolutely opened the church portal a crack and slipped inside. The church was empty. She reached for one of the dozens of flickering candles on a side altar and carefully climbed the steps to the balcony. From there, a rickety, partially repaired winding stairway led up into the tower.

Magdalena walked as best she could on the interior side of the steps, carefully placing one foot in front of the other. At least the darkness offered her the advantage of not knowing what was just a few yards ahead of the flickering candles and spared her the dizzying sight of what lay below. With heart pounding, she climbed step by step until she finally reached the upper platform with the three bells. Carefully she raised the candle and looked around.

“What in God’s name…?” She held her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming.

The stretcher with the metal clamps, as well as the iron stakes, had disappeared.

To be sure, she walked around the entire platform, but the strange construction had indeed vanished into thin air. All that remained was a piece of wire protruding from the ceiling, dangling in the wind.

Magdalena cursed softly. Someone must have removed the stretcher in the last two days. Now she would probably never find out what the apparatus was. Grumbling, she kicked one of the heavy church bells, but the heavy iron bell hardly moved a fraction of an inch. Then she climbed down and quietly left the church, but not without bowing one last time before the main altar and the two statues of Mary.

Please excuse the lateness of my visit, Holy Mother of God, she prayed to herself. But you, too, probably want to know what’s going on up in your tower. Or have you known about all this for a long time?

As Magdalena stepped under the scaffolding in front of the main entrance, she could sense something moving. At that moment a large, heavy object fell toward her. Instinctively, she jumped aside in time for a shapeless object to graze her right shoulder. There was a whoosh as a waist-high sack of lime landed next to her on the ground, bursting open and pouring its contents across the pavement.

Everything happened so fast that Magdalena scarcely had time to catch her breath. Her heart pounding, she leaned against one of the uprights of the scaffold, staring down at the sack from which a cloud of dust rose now into the bright, moonlit night.

Was that just another accident? Softly she cursed herself for sneaking through the church in the darkness. Good Lord, she had two little children who needed her, and here she was poking her nose around, looking for some madman.

“Is everything all right?”

The voice came from the right, by the church entrance. A monk approached, but not until he was standing almost in front of her did she recognize the novitiate master Brother Laurentius.

“I heard a noise,” he said, “and do hope nothing has happened. For God’s sake, you’re pale as a ghost.”

“Pale as lime would be the right expression,” Magdalena groaned, pointing to the burst sack at her feet. “That huge thing almost killed me.”

The Brother looked up anxiously. “It must have fallen from the scaffold. I said just this morning that this area had to be roped off. As if enough hadn’t already happened in the last few days.” He sighed, then looked at Magdalena severely. “But you really shouldn’t be hanging around the church square at this hour. What in heaven’s name are you doing here?”

Just as she had the evening before in the church, Magdalena noticed Laurentius’s finely wrought facial features. His fingers were long, with clean nails that glimmered faintly in the darkness.

“I’m… looking for my husband,” she stammered. “He’s the bathhouse surgeon from Schongau who’s taking care of the sick people here. Have you seen him, by chance?”

At once the monk’s expression brightened. “Ah, the bathhouse surgeon who is taking care of the sick pilgrims free of charge?” he asked. “A true Christian. You can be sure he has earned his place in the Heavenly Kingdom.”

“Thank you, but I think he’d prefer to spend the next few years here on earth,” she replied, pulling her shawl tight around her shoulders. “And in your monastery, that’s not so easily done at present.”

The Brother cringed. “You’re right,” he murmured haltingly. “This is a dreadful time-first the young Coelestin and then…” His voice broke and he turned aside.

“Were you very close to the watchmaker’s assistant, Vitalis?” Magdalena asked, concerned.

Brother Laurentius nodded, his lips tightly pressed together. Only after a while did he answer. “I’m the novitiate master here. All my charges are dear to me, as I’m responsible for the education of each individual.” He sighed. “But with Vitalis it was something else. He was very… sensitive. He often visited me in the evening and poured out his heart.” The priest’s long eyelashes began to flutter, and Magdalena saw a tear run down his face.

“Did Vitalis have difficulties with his master?” she asked, curiously.

The young monk shrugged. “I don’t know. Toward the end he was very reserved-something must have happened. The last time we met he seemed to want to tell me something, but then he decided to remain silent. It was probably Aurora who made him so anxious.”

“Aurora?”

“Yes, his master’s automaton,” Laurentius explained. “Vitalis thought the puppet was alive. He often told me that she moved on her own at night, hissing and whispering, almost like a human being, and he felt she was following his every move.”

Magdalena shook her head. “A dreadful thought.”

“Indeed. Vitalis thought the puppet was hiding some horrible secret, and on the night before his gruesome end he told me, ‘She will kill him-and all of us.’” Brother Laurentius nodded, lost in thought. “Those were his exact words: ‘kill us.’ Now it seems his prophesies have been fulfilled. God knows what this creature did with poor Vitalis and his master who has vanished.” He hastily crossed himself and bowed. “It’s quite late, only a few hours before morning prayers. Let’s hope and pray this witchery will end soon. God be with you.” With these final words, the novitiate master turned and left.

Magdalena stared after his dark form as he vanished into the night, then hastily climbed down the steep path toward the village. She fervently hoped that Simon had returned by now. This monastery seemed more and more sinister to her, and for a long time she couldn’t get the automaton’s soft melody out of her mind.

A shrill, unending glockenspiel.

Half an hour later, Kuisl, Simon, and Magdalena had returned to the knacker’s house and were sitting around the stove in the main room thinking about the events of the last few days. The hangman had lit his pipe for the third time, and the whole room filled with clouds of smoke from the tobacco and the wet wood burning in the stove. Kuisl’s cousin Michael Graetz still hadn’t returned from his visit to the local tavern, and his silent assistant seemed to have disappeared, even though Magdalena had asked him to stay and watch the children-a good opportunity finally for the three to discuss everything that had happened.

“Experiments with lightning?” Simon asked, incredulously. “Your friend Nepomuk actually was studying lightning?”

Nodding, Kuisl took a deep drag on his pipe. He was still wearing the filthy monk’s robe, which clung to him like a wet sack and seemed to itch all over. “He was trying to capture lightning,” he grumbled, after he’d finally finished scratching himself. “Not such a bad idea, when you think of how often it has struck just in our little Schongau. Nepomuk took a wire and ran it down the church steeple to the cemetery, and the lightning actually did strike there. But unfortunately, it also set the whole tower on fire.”

“Just a moment,” Magdalena spoke up. “The day before yesterday I saw a wire like that there, but also a strange sort of stretcher. When I went back again tonight, it was gone; only the wire was still hanging from the ceiling.”

She had met Simon on the way home and, until now, hadn’t told him or her father anything about the sack of lime that had fallen next to her. In the meantime, she was no longer sure herself whether her constant fear of attack was her imagination run wild, and now, especially in the warm light of the knacker’s cottage, everything seemed to her like a distant fairy tale.

“Perhaps the stretcher in the belfry wasn’t Nepomuk’s at all, but belonged to someone trying to copy his ideas,” Simon said.

Magdalena frowned. “And who would that be?”

“No idea,” Simon replied, perplexed. “The entire inner council seems very peculiar, above all the abbot himself. Your father and I surprised him reading a book about conjuring up golems.” He waved his hands back and forth vigorously, trying to dispel the smoke. “Whoever it is, we’re too late. The stranger has clearly disposed of all the evidence because things were getting too hot for him. And now-” Simon coughed, then turned angrily to his father-in-law. “Damn, Kuisl!” he shouted. “Can’t you just once stop that awful smoking? How can anyone think straight in all this smoke?”

“I can, for one,” the hangman growled. “You should try it yourself sometime; it might make things a little clearer for you. I just had a few really interesting ideas.” He grinned and took an especially deep drag on the pipe. “Nepomuk told me, for example, that Virgilius had told him about a stranger-someone who would be interested in the experiments with lightning, he thought.”

“The abbot,” Magdalena interrupted. “Perhaps he needs a powerful lightning flash to bring his golem to life, and he wanted Virgilius to help him.”

The hangman spat into the reeds on the floor. “Nonsense. There’s no such thing as a golem. I believe in hard iron, a well-tied noose, and the evil in men, not a man made of clay. Golems are nothing but horror stories made up by priests to scare people.” He shook his head stubbornly. “It’s too bad Virgilius went up in smoke and we can’t ask him about this stranger anymore.”

“Ahem… apropos fire.” Simon cleared his throat and paused before continuing. “Please don’t think I’m crazy, but I’ve made a very strange discovery, and slowly I’m starting to wonder whether there’s something to this talk of witchcraft.” Hesitantly, he told the others of his strange experience with the glowing corpse in the Andechs beer cellar and his own hasty retreat.

“Did you say it was a white powder, and the corpse glowed in a green light?” Kuisl finally asked.

Simon nodded. “It was a very dim glow, like a glowworm. I just can’t make any sense of it.”

“But I can,” the hangman replied dryly. “I’ve heard of a phenomenon like that.”

“Well?” Simon sat up attentively. “What is it?”

Kuisl grinned at his son-in-law. “Well, what do you know? I’m afraid I’ve not had enough to smoke today to figure that out. My mind isn’t working fast enough, and unfortunately I’m not allowed to smoke any more in here…” Calmly he pulled a louse from under his robe and stuffed it into his glowing pipe, where it burst.

“Father, stop this nonsense and tell us right away what you know,” Magdalena hissed. “Or I’ll tell Mother that you already had three pipefuls today.”

“Oh, all right, all right,” the hangman replied, waving her off. “It’s probably phosphorus.”

“Phosphorus?” Simon looked at his father-in-law incredulously. “What in God’s name is phosphorus?”

“Phosphorus mirabilis. An element just recently discovered by a apothecary in a city named Hamburg, you worthless scholar,” Kuisl barked. “You should have hung around the Ingolstadt University a little longer.” He leaned back smugly and took a deep draw on his pipe. “Actually, the apothecary, like so many others, was looking for the philosopher’s stone, but what came out was a glowing substance, namely phosphorus. I read about it in one of my books by Athanasius Kircher. It has a faint green glow in the dark, but it also has another extremely dangerous property.”

“And that would be…” Magdalena prodded.

The hangman folded his arms in front of his broad chest. “Well, it burns like tinder. You only have to place it out in the sun, and once it catches fire it can’t be put out and inflicts horrible wounds.”

“Do you think that poor Vitalis was doused with this… this phosphorus?” Simon whispered. “But why?”

“Maybe because someone is trying to make the priests believe in witchcraft?” Kuisl grumbled. “Didn’t you say yourself that Vitalis’s skull had been smashed in? Perhaps someone bludgeoned him and then spread phosphorus on the corpse to make his death look like witchcraft. Then they quickly found a scapegoat-Nepomuk.”

“But his eyepiece,” Simon objected. “It was found at the crime scene.”

“Anyone could have put it there,” Magdalena interrupted. “My father is right. An automaton disappears, a watchmaker seems to have been swallowed up by the earth, and an assistant is horribly burned-all designed to look like the work of the devil, and all to stir up fear? If you ask me, this stranger is stopping at nothing, and now all of Andechs is in turmoil.” She hesitated briefly. “The question is, who would benefit from panic breaking out here among the pilgrims?”

Simon was staring through the clouds of tobacco smoke at the cross in the devotional corner when he suddenly slammed his hand down on the table. “I have it!” he shouted.

“Good Lord, Simon,” Magdalena whispered. “Please be quiet. You’ll wake up the children.”

“It must have something to do with the Festival of the Three Hosts,” said Simon, now in a quieter voice. “Someone wants to interfere with this festival. Already some of the pilgrims are thinking about returning home. They’ve heard of the horrible murders and are afraid of the automaton that is said to be prowling the halls of the monastery. If this continues, the festival may not even take place at all-in any case, it won’t be a happy festival, pleasing to God.”

“But why would anyone do something like that?” Magdalena asked skeptically. “What would anyone have to gain from it?”

Simon sighed. “I’m afraid we don’t know enough yet about the monastery to answer that question. But we can change that.” With a grin, he pulled out the leather-bound volume he’d been carrying under his jacket. “I… uh… borrowed this chronicle from the library; perhaps we’ll find an explanation here. After all, the sacred three hosts are the most important relic here in Andechs.”

“Then go ahead and read it, but I’m going to take a rest from this foolishness.” Kuisl pulled his stinking, sweaty robe over his head and tossed it into a corner with disgust. “I just hope this nonsense will be over soon.”

At that moment, the door creaked and swung open. Michael Graetz entered, his face red and enveloped in a cloud of alcohol. The Erling knacker had evidently had a few too many beers and wavered slightly as he looked around in astonishment.

“Pinch me,” he finally mumbled with a thick tongue. “I think I just saw a huge monk through the window right here in this room, and now he’s magically vanished.”

“A monk? In your house?” The hangman laughed. Only to Magdalena’s and Simon’s ears did it sound a bit too loud. “My dear cousin, a priest would climb up onto a manure pile before he’d pay a visit to the homes of dishonorable people like us.” Kuisl pointed to a closed chest along the wall next to the devotional corner. “And now let’s see if you have something to welcome your family. That would really be something to drink to.”

A few rays of light escaped through the closed shutters of the knacker’s house, but the person outside huddled in darkness. He crept around the hawthorn bushes separating the house from the forest and peered carefully through their thorny branches.

The man clenched his fists so hard his knuckles turned white. The master would be angry, very angry. He’d failed once again, even despite the master’s warning that this curious young woman could spoil the entire plan. She was snooping around too much-that’s all there was to it-and what was wrong in taking a life if it would save many others?

The man took a deep breath to try to regain his composure. He had seen so many men die pointless deaths in the Great War that a shield of ice had formed around his innermost self, and only rarely did he feel any emotion. It was terrible that he felt this way about her. Perhaps it was her beauty that caused his weakness, or perhaps her laugh, which he heard coming from the house at that very moment. He had wanted to throw the sack of lime directly at her, but at the last moment, a higher power had moved his hand slightly to one side, just as it had pressed the flintlock a fraction of an inch to the right the night before.

The man behind the hawthorn bushes whimpered softly as he dreaded telling the master of the foiled plan. The master would rage and rant, and worse: he would no longer love him.

Still moaning softly to himself, the man crawled back into the forest where he was soon swallowed up again in the darkness.

The man would have to confess his guilt.