The Werewolf of Bamberg

9

THE WILD MAN TAVERN, MORNING, OCTOBER 31, 1668 AD

Barbara sat on a bed in Jeremias’s little room, leafing dreamily through the works of this highly acclaimed William Shakespeare. On the bookshelf she had found a slender volume about an old king who decides to distribute his realm among his three daughters but ends up giving it all to the two unworthy sisters. In his stubbornness, this King Lear reminded Barbara of her own father. She didn’t understand everything in the play and often skipped pages, but nevertheless it led her into another world, far from her current problems.

God knew she truly had enough of them.

When Magdalena had visited her the day before, Barbara had briefly pulled herself together and appeared strong, but after her sister left, she broke down sobbing again. Matheo, the first boy she really thought she loved, faced gruesome torture and execution-and if a miracle didn’t occur, it would be her own brother and uncle who killed him. By running away from her family, Barbara had tried to put pressure on her father. But was there anything at all he could do?

In her anger, she had first decided to seek shelter with the actors, but then it occurred to her that that was the first place Magdalena would come to look. After she’d wandered aimlessly for a while in the courtyard of the wedding house, the crippled Jeremias had offered to take her in. She knew it was only a matter of time before someone would find her here. She was almost relieved that it was Magdalena who came. She needed someone to whom she could pour out her heart. Old Jeremias was certainly a nice man, but he was no substitute for a real friend.

Barbara had already considered returning to the Bamberg executioner’s house, but there she would have felt even smaller and weaker than she did now. For a fifteen-year-old, this was all simply too much. But then she remembered Juliet from the other play by Shakespeare. The girl from the Capulet house had been only fourteen and, God knows, had gone through a lot more than Barbara had. So Barbara clenched her teeth and wiped away her tears.

Jeremias had been very kind to her. He’d let her sleep in his bed while he slept in the tavern’s pantry. From time to time he’d come over to her to try to cheer her up or bring her a soothing drink of lime-blossom tea, but she knew she couldn’t stay here forever.

Sooner or later she’d have to make a decision.

She knew she’d either have to return to her family or join the group of actors. Ever since Sir Malcolm had declared she had talent, she felt a constant restlessness inside her. Finally, she saw a real possibility of escaping the preordained life of a hangman’s daughter. She wouldn’t have to marry any filthy, stinking knacker or hangman’s apprentice while suffering in silence and bearing him a half dozen children. No. She’d see the world! This longing in her had grown stronger ever since she’d begun leafing through the dog-eared book of plays. Sometimes Barbara whispered some of the passages to herself, at first haltingly, then more and more fluently, until the florid language positively rolled off her tongue. Now, once again, she was reading some lines from King Lear that especially appealed to her.

Good my lord,

You have begot me, bred me, lov’d me; I

Return those duties back as are right fit.

Obey you, love you and most honour you.

“Ah, wonderful! That is music to my ears.”

Barbara looked up in embarrassment, expecting to see old Jeremias, but it was Sir Malcolm standing in the doorway with a wry look on his face. The haggard old director was so tall his head almost touched the ceiling. He bowed deeply.

“Didn’t I say you have talent? When I hear you read those lines, I think how right I was.” He opened his arms wide and looked up, as if the heavens had opened. “A star is born!”

Barbara frowned. She was embarrassed that Sir Malcolm had surprised her, and furthermore, it troubled her that the director had found her in Jeremias’s room. Who else knew about this place besides Jeremias and Magdalena? Perhaps her hiding place could not be kept secret much longer.

All the more important that I make up my mind soon.

“A star?” she asked finally. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Sir Malcolm sat down beside her on the bed and patted her on the knee. “Excuse me for just bursting in here. To tell you the truth, it was Markus who told me about your hiding place. He no doubt saw your sister coming in here yesterday. Rest assured, I’ll be as quiet as the grave. But now to something else. .” He paused briefly and smiled at her expectantly. “I have good news for you, Barbara.”

Barbara’s heart started to pound. “Matheo!” she burst out excitedly, jumping up from the bed. “Did they let him go?”

“Matheo? Ah, unfortunately not.” Malcolm at first seemed puzzled. “But you can be sure we all are praying very hard for the young man. No, no, the news actually concerns you.”

Barbara slumped over again. “What do you mean?” she asked in a soft voice.

Malcolm nodded excitedly. “I have the great pleasure of informing you that you will soon be given a very important role to play in Sir Malcolm’s theatrical group. You will be playing no less than the beautiful Violandra in the extremely popular comedy Peter Squenz. So what do you say about that?”

It took Barbara a moment to catch her breath. “I’ll be playing in one of your pieces here in Bamberg?” she finally managed to say. “But. . but I’ve never done anything like that.”

Sir Malcolm demurred. “Everyone begins somewhere. Besides, you have talent, as you’ve just proved again.” He hesitated. “Ah, in addition, women’s roles are difficult to fill. Most men are too large or too fat. And after the regrettable loss of Matheo-”

“Stop right there,” Barbara interrupted angrily. “You want me to take Matheo’s role? Never! Who do you think I am? That would make it seem like I’m happy he’s wasting away in a dungeon.”

“Believe me, Barbara, this is what poor Matheo would want you to do. I’m absolutely sure of that.” Sir Malcolm nodded with a sad, earnest look. “Unfortunately, the bishop did not accept my suggestion to simply banish Guiscard’s miserable group of jugglers from the city. Instead, His Excellency decided to hold a contest between our two groups.” As Malcolm briefly described the bishop’s plan, Barbara turned paler and paler.

“If we lose, we’ll have to spend the winter somewhere outside the city,” the director concluded, nervously patting Barbara’s thigh with his long, sinewy fingers. “A lot depends on you now, as I have no one else in the group to assume the female part.”

“Do you mean. . I’m to play in front of two bishops in that palace down by the river?” Barbara asked in a toneless voice. “On a real stage before all those noble ladies and gentlemen?”

“Well, at least it’s not a public performance, so you won’t have to be afraid someone from your family will recognize you and drag you off the stage.”

Barbara took a deep breath. “And when will this contest take place?”

Sir Malcolm cleared his throat, embarrassed. “Uh. . tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow? But I don’t even know the play yet, much less my part. How can I do that?”

“Oh, there’s no magic to it. Just keep thinking of Cordelia’s noble words in King Lear.” Sir Malcolm rose to his feet and pressed his hand dramatically to his chest as he declaimed in a loud, majestic voice.

“We are not the first who, with best meaning, have incurr’d the worst.”

Then he hobbled hastily to the door. “If you would be so kind, follow me into the hall, and we’ll begin the rehearsal at once.”

“Gentlemen, the meeting has come to order.”

Suffragan Bishop Harsee tapped his gavel on the polished oak table and looked around as the last of the murmured conversations died away.

Simon sat with Master Samuel at the far end of the large, oval table in the council room of the old courthouse. One after the other, the Schongau medicus and bathhouse owner scrutinized the faces of the honorable council members, who appeared gray and anxious. In contrast with the last meeting, the mood now was not aggressive, but gloomy. No one shouted, and all of them-the Jesuits, the scholars, the chancellor, and the dean of the cathedral-stared at the Bamberg suffragan bishop as if he alone could bring them salvation.

But Sebastian Harsee himself did not seem in the best of moods. He was pale and repeatedly wiped beads of sweat from his brow with a silk handkerchief. He also kept nervously scratching an itch on his neck.

Just like the meeting two days ago, this one had also been convened on very short notice. The reason was that the old patrician widow Agnes Gotzendörfer had been found dead early that morning in her house. This by itself was no reason for the emergency meeting-the dearly beloved Agnes was almost eighty years old-but the gruesome circumstances of her death had further stirred anxiety among the citizenry. Evidently, a window in her house had been smashed in, tracks had been found in the road right in front of the house, and the face of the deceased was frozen in horror. In addition, a severed human hand presumably belonging to Thadäus Vasold had been found on the front steps. His signet ring had still been on one of the fingers. Since then, all of Bamberg had been in an uproar.

“Dear fellow citizens,” the suffragan bishop began in a measured tone, “it appears now that we are no longer safe from the powers of Satan even inside our four walls. The case of poor Agnes Gotzendörfer makes that clear. Now’s the time to act quickly, to find the hideout of these terrible beasts, and to mercilessly eradicate them.”

“Be-beasts?” replied the dean of the cathedral, quaking. “So far, all we’ve talked about is a single werewolf.”

“But we caught him and locked him up yesterday,” said one of the council members, the apothecary Magnus Rinswieser. “Don’t tell me this fellow has escaped.”

Harsee shook his head. “No, no, he’s safely locked away in the crypt of St. Thomas’s Cathedral. We’ll begin with the torture soon in order to learn more, but as I said, it is. .” He sighed. “This fellow is no doubt just the start; there are presumably a number of others who have sold themselves to the devil. The death of Agnes Gotzendörfer proves there are other monsters lurking around.”

“What do you mean when you say you’ll begin with the torture soon?” a council member with a goatee sneered. It was the wealthy young wool weaver Jakob Steinhofer, whose young wife had also disappeared. “Why haven’t you started already?”

“Well, the venerable prince-bishop wanted to hear the judgment of the doctors of law before he makes his decision,” replied Sebastian Harsee, raising his eyebrows scornfully. He pointed at the two earnest-looking scholars sitting across from him. “But that will be in the next few days, won’t it?” Harsee cleared his throat. “I’d like to stress here my difference of opinion with the prince-bishop in this regard. The Inquisition Commission-consisting of the legal scholars, the dean of the cathedral, and yours truly-have clearly expressed our recommendation regarding the torturing of this subject. The prince-bishop, however, has the last word, and he has said he doesn’t want to have anyone tortured without proof. Besides, at the moment, His Excellency is much more interested in the theater and his menagerie. In summary, he asks for a delay because of the scheduled visit of none other than His Excellency, the bishop of Würzburg, tomorrow evening. He surely seeks to avoid any religious dispute and is yielding to the wishes of his great colleague and neighbor. Well, then. .” Harsee waited for his words to die away in the hall while regarding the angry faces with amusement.

Simon smiled grimly. You know how to bring people over to your side, he thought.

“Tortured without proof?” Jakob Steinhofer spoke up, angrily. “How many reasons does one need to have to make this fellow talk? My dear Johanna was mauled to death by this beast. Two city councilmen are among the victims, and now the respected widow of the aristocrat Gotzendörfer, who for so many years guided the destiny of this council-”

“To say nothing about my dear Adelheid,” the apothecary chimed in with a quavering voice. His face was ashen and his eyes full of tears.

“One could almost say this werewolf has very good taste,” Master Samuel suddenly interrupted from the far end of the table. All eyes turned to him and Simon. It was the first thing the doctor had said.

“What do you mean by that?” asked the pale, bloated chancellor Korbinian Steinkübler, staring at Samuel distrustfully with his tiny, porcine eyes. Simon had learned from his friend that Steinkübler came from one of the richest families in the city. He had obtained his position after a long struggle and was known for his absolute loyalty toward the prince-bishop.

“Well, please excuse my rude way of putting it.” Samuel raised his hands in apology. “What I meant to say was, it’s striking how many of the victims come from the patrician class.” He started counting them off on his fingers. “Two aging former councilmen, a patrician widow, and a young fiancée-”

“You forget the nameless prostitute and the miller’s wife,” the chancellor interrupted harshly. He leafed through the papers in front of him. “A certain. . Barbara Leupnitz. You can hardly classify her, or the whore, as nobles.” He smiled peevishly.

Samuel nodded. “You are right. . but nevertheless-”

“What’s the point of splitting hairs like this?” the suffragan bishop inquired impatiently. He rose to his feet and angrily looked at the city physician while beads of sweat dripped from his forehead. “Yes, there are patricians among the victims, but these werewolves stop at nothing and spare no one! It’s quite possible that the faithful come together in the Bamberg Forest, and if we don’t strike soon, their numbers will continue to grow. Therefore. .” Harsee paused, gripping the table tightly as if he was about to collapse. But then he got control of himself again and continued. “Therefore, starting today, guards-along with a courageous group of citizens-will patrol the forests in order to locate suspicious subjects. A so-called civilian militia has already come together, because they evidently no longer trust the prince-bishop. .” He paused for a moment for his words to sink in, then continued. “In addition, I’m considering announcing a reward for any information leading to the apprehension of a werewolf. We will destroy this brood of vipers!”

Pale and bathed in sweat, he took a seat again. By now, Simon was certain that Harsee was coming down with a bad fever, but his sympathy had its limits.

“If you offer a reward, you’ll surely get a lot of tips,” the Schongau bathhouse owner mused, “but you have to wonder if these tips won’t just be invented. For money, people can see a lot-even werewolves.”

“Are you saying the Bambergers would lie?” the young councilor Steinhofer flared up.

“Well, a lie can take many forms,” Simon replied. “Sometimes there is nothing more to it than an assumption.”

“Just stop this nonsense,” the suffragan bishop growled, visibly exhausted. “The reward will be offered, and that’s the end of the discussion. His Excellency the prince-bishop already agreed, and the civilian militia will also officially begin its duties today. As soon as we find the suspects, the Inquisition subcommittee will convene to recommend torture and execution.” He sneered slightly as he once again mopped the sweat from his forehead. “I’m sure that this time His Excellency the prince-bishop will agree. He cannot afford opposing his flock in the long run. And now excuse me.” Looking even paler, Harsee struggled to stand up. “Recent events have been extremely. . strenuous for us. The meeting is over.”

He stood up, pulled his black robe around him, and struggled toward the exit.

A bit later, Simon and Samuel were strolling across the great square in front of the cathedral, where the construction work on the bishop’s palace proceeded unabated.

“What did you mean before when you said that for the most part patricians are the victims?” Simon asked his friend.

Samuel shrugged. “It’s just one piece of the puzzle, nothing more. Suppose these murders were not committed by a wild monster but by someone trying to target the ruling class? Did you ever think about that?”

Simon stopped to think, puzzled. “But why would anyone do something like that?”

“I don’t know. I only know there is a struggle for supremacy in the city, an attempt to do away with competitors, and, as you know, the end justifies the means.” Samuel nodded sadly. “Take, for example, this chancellor Korbinian Steinkübler. He paid a lot of money to obtain his new position, and I know that some patricians, among them the missing old councilor Thadäus Vasold, were not at all happy about that. Many would have preferred to have Sebastian Harsee in that position. He comes from an esteemed family, and his father before him was the chancellor.”

“By the way, Harsee didn’t look at all well in the meeting today,” Simon said, frowning. “He appears to be seriously ill, probably some kind of fever.”

“Which brings me to the dean of the cathedral,” Samuel replied. “For a long time he’s had his eye on the position of suffragan bishop. Did you see his expression just before that when Harsee nearly broke down? I’m sure he’d like to see him dead.” Samuel shook his head. “Believe me, Simon, this council is one big gang of cutthroats. It’s a dog-eat-dog group.”

“So you think this werewolf is a hired killer sent to dispose of any competitors?” Simon mused, rubbing his chin. “That could be so for the two councilors, but how about the prostitute and the miller’s wife, or the apothecary’s wife and the Gotzendörfer widow? The latter two come from patrician families, but they’re women and not competing with anyone for an appointment.”

Samuel sighed. “You’re right, of course. As I said, it was just a thought. Even if my suspicion was right, things are moving in a different direction now. See for yourself.”

They were just passing the front portal of the cathedral, where a city guard was nailing a piece of paper to the door. A large crowd had already gathered around while another guard loudly declaimed the text of the announcement.

“The city council will do everything in its power to stop the activities of the beast in this city!” he cried. “All able-bodied citizens are summoned to report to the city hall where a city militia will soon be established. Information leading to the capture of the werewolf will be rewarded at the rate of five guilders for each suspect.”

The crowd broke out in cheers, and a number of them headed down to the city hall, shouting and rejoicing.

The two friends walked by, shaking their heads. “I fear we’ll soon have many more werewolves here in Bamberg,” said Samuel. “When this is all over, the prince-bishop will be lucky if there are enough councilmen left to govern the city.”

Adelheid Rinswieser huddled down in the corner of her room, waiting to hear her captor approaching.

He’ll be coming to get me soon. The moment is almost here.

Since the day before, she’d been both yearning for and fearing this moment. She knew that only the death of the other prisoner-that poor creature who in the last hours of his life had screamed, cried, and finally just whimpered and moaned-made her own escape possible.

My only chance.

Yesterday, the screams had continued all day, interrupted only by occasional murmuring, and then abruptly, around evening, they had stopped. Shortly after that, Adelheid had heard a door slam and something being dragged along the ground, as if a heavy body were being carried away. Then it turned silent again.

And Adelheid waited.

The apothecary’s wife was still chained to the wall and couldn’t move more than a few steps. There was a rusty lock around her right ankle that so far had resisted all her efforts to open it. She knew that when the stranger came to drag her into the horrible chamber, he’d have to open this lock. He’d done it once before, shortly after he’d abducted her, when he’d taken her to view the chamber. At that time she’d been too weak to offer any resistance. He’d wound a leather strap around her neck and led her there, her hands in manacles, like a whipped animal. This time, things would be different; she would know how to defend herself.

Adelheid had a weapon.

Just yesterday she’d beaten her earthenware cup against the wall so that, in addition to the many small pieces, there was one especially long, large shard. The man saw the broken pieces and brought her a new cup, but he hadn’t noticed the largest piece lying in her bed under the straw. It was pointed and sharp, like a small dagger. Adelheid reached for it and made a fist so the sharp point protruded between her index and middle finger.

She’d use it to slit the man’s throat.

She trembled and tried to calm herself by reciting simple Bible verses.

“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. .”

The verses helped to control her wildly pounding heart and fill the long hours of waiting. Adelheid counted the hours using the small, flickering tallow candle that the man came in regularly to replace. Recently she thought she’d heard birds chirping or dogs barking, and one time even an angry growl. Was that perhaps the beast that had overpowered her? But it could also be her imagination playing tricks on her. Otherwise, an oppressive silence prevailed, like a heavy blanket stifling everything, interrupted only by her own voice.

“He makes me lie down in green meadows, he leads me beside the still waters. .”

Suddenly she heard a door close. Steps drew nearer, became louder, and stopped outside her room. Then a key was inserted in the lock and the door squeaked as it opened.

Adelheid tried not to scream when she saw the man with the mask in the doorway. In the light of the flickering candle, all she could see of him was a dark silhouette.

“Now it’s your turn, witch,” he said, his voice sounding astonishingly tender. “We will now begin with the second degree. Are you ready?”

“Please, please. .,” she whimpered, turning toward the wall and secretly placing the shard in her hand. She tried to act as defenseless as possible. “I don’t know what you want from me. .”

“You will soon find out.”

She could hear his shuffling feet in the dirty straw as he approached. He touched her gently, then wrapped the leather noose around her neck, pulling it so tight she could barely breathe.

If I move, he’ll tighten it all the way. I must be fast-faster than he is.

She was still turned away from her tormenter, listening to the rattling of the chains, whimpering and moaning to lull him into a false sense of security. Now the man reached for the lock, and she could hear the squeaking of the key as the lock opened, and the chain fell to the floor. . Now!

Adelheid turned around. For a brief moment she couldn’t see exactly where the man was in the dim light. He was kneeling on her left, where the chain was attached to the wall. Shouting furiously, she attacked, and at the same time could feel the noose tightening around her neck. Before it could completely cut off her airway, however, she was already on top of her torturer.

“You. . you devil,” she gasped.

She raised her fist with the splintered piece of the cup, ready to strike, while the man under her lashed out at her, trying to escape. He was much stronger than she, and she could feel his powerful arms trying to push her away. The whites of his eyes shimmered through the slits in the hood, and Adelheid thought she saw fear welling up in them.

“You devil!” she screamed again.

With a final, furious scream, she swung at him with the shard, but in that moment he released his grip on her and, when the shard was a mere hand’s breadth from his throat, blocked her blow with his arm. With sweat streaming down her face, Adelheid reached under the mask of her opponent to scratch his cheeks or stab him in the eyes with her fingers, but she only managed to hit his hood. She clutched at the mask, pulled it. .

And tore it from his face.

The shock of this horror suddenly having a face caused Adelheid to hesitate just an instant.

It was the instant that cost her her freedom.

The man pushed her away like a dirty bundle of rags. Adelheid hit the wall behind her, bloodying her back as she slammed against the large stones, and the shard fell from her hand. Then she felt a strong pull, and the leather noose tightened around her neck.

Squinting, Adelheid saw the man standing over her, pulling on the strap. She gasped for air, desperately, in vain. She clawed at the noose around her neck, but the leather had dug itself too deep into her skin. Colored circles danced before her eyes, faster and faster, and then came the darkness.

This is the end. . This is. .

After what seemed like an eternity-or was it only seconds? — Adelheid emerged from a sea of darkness. She gasped and gagged, and wonderful cool air now entered her lungs. She reached for the strap, trembling, but it hung loose around her neck.

But why. .

Suddenly she heard someone sobbing softly. It seemed to come from far away. Shortly before losing consciousness again, Adelheid summoned up her last bit of strength and turned to see the man crouched in a corner.

His hood lay beside him on the floor, and he was crying like a small child.

Then Adelheid finally collapsed.

Simon rushed as fast as possible from the cathedral mount to the new part of town. He absolutely had to speak with Magdalena again about the postponement of the wedding. After the meeting in the council chambers, he’d had a brief conversation with Samuel, who agreed he shouldn’t leave his bathhouse in Schongau closed much longer. Samuel himself had patients to see all day, so their discussions about the werewolf had to be put off to the next day.

When Simon finally arrived at the executioner’s house, the only one there was Jakob Kuisl, who was sitting at the table smoking and brooding. Before him lay a small, tattered book that he quickly shut when he saw Simon coming.

“Where are the others?” Simon asked in surprise, looking around the empty room.

Jakob Kuisl shrugged. “Bartholomäus and Georg have some stuff to do over at the council chamber. I’m sure you know that last night an old aristocrat’s widow died under mysterious circumstances. Now the noble gentlemen have announced the hunt, a number of arrests are expected, and the city dungeon is being readied for them. I can’t tell you where Magdalena and the two children are.”

He opened the book again and began to read, as if Simon were not even there. The bathhouse owner was familiar with that sort of behavior from his father-in-law and took no offense. It meant only that Jakob Kuisl was deep in thought, and for that he needed tobacco and complete silence.

Simon sat down silently on the bench next to the hangman. While pouring himself a cup of watered-down wine, he glanced over curiously at the dog-eared book. He recognized it at once: Lonitzer’s Herb and Plant Almanac, an illustrated work found in every hangman’s personal library. Apparently the little book came from Bartholomäus’s collection in the adjoining room. The book was opened to a marked article with notes in the margin, but Jakob’s hand was on top of the book and Simon couldn’t see anything else.

After a while, the hangman put the book aside angrily and glared at Simon. “How in the world am I going to concentrate when someone is staring at me the whole time?” he growled. “So what is it? If you have something to say, then say it, and don’t squirm around here as if you’d crapped in your pants.”

Simon smiled. Sarcastic grumbling from Jakob Kuisl was his way of extending an invitation to talk.

“I was only wondering why you were suddenly so interested in plants,” he replied. “Does that, by chance, have anything to do with this mysterious werewolf? Are you perhaps looking for an herb that will protect you from such creatures?”

“Bah, humbug! Wolfsbane or Saint John’s wort can give you confidence, perhaps, but can they really protect you? No.” Kuisl frowned. “The only thing that can help you is your reason, and that’s just what’s missing here in Bamberg.”

“Then you don’t believe in the werewolf? Earlier you weren’t so sure.”

Jakob Kuisl rolled his eyes impatiently, then turned to look Simon directly in the face. “I believe my own eyes and my common sense,” he said in a firm voice. “In this city, someone is abducting and killing people in a very cruel manner. Some people claim to have seen a furry creature-some in the city, others out in the forest-and someone bought a whole bunch of wolf skins from the furrier. .”

“Wolf skins found among the possessions of the unfortunate Matheo,” Simon continued, absorbed in his thoughts. “Magdalena thinks that anyone could have put them there. Perhaps it was someone from that other group of actors.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps someone who was beginning to feel the heat and needed a scapegoat to deflect the suspicions.”

Simon frowned. “What do you mean?”

Kuisl slowly expelled the smoke from his pipe and held three chubby fingers up to Simon’s face. “There are three possibilities. First, there really is a mad beast out there. Second, there’s a madman out there, also a sort of beast. Or. .” He paused and leaned back in his chair. “Or there’s somebody smart out there following a plan. I’m sitting here with my pipe, thinking, and asking myself what kind of plan that could be.”

Simon nodded. “My friend Samuel has some interesting ideas about that. What do you think of this?” He told Kuisl briefly about the meeting that morning and Samuel’s assumptions about the council members. “Perhaps there really is a struggle for power among the patricians,” the bathhouse owner concluded. “Someone is trying to do away with his enemies and is ready to accept the deaths of other completely innocent people. Perhaps the suffragan bishop, perhaps the chancellor, or one of the noblemen on the council?”

“And to do that he kills the wife of an ordinary miller and a prostitute to cover his tracks?” Kuisl spat into the reeds on the floor. “A daring plan. But there’s something wrong with that picture. Only two of the six missing or dead people were actually council members; the rest of them don’t fit in that category.”

Simon sighed. “Samuel said that, too. But do you have a better idea?”

“Perhaps I would have come up with something a lot sooner if you didn’t always interrupt me.” Growling, Kuisl picked up the little book again. “But, yes, I have an idea. There’s something I can’t get out of my mind. .” He squinted. “The dead prostitute had a. . strange odor, like the smell of a beast of prey. .”

Simon felt the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. “A beast of prey?” he repeated anxiously. “And you’re only mentioning that now?”

“Because I refuse to believe in a werewolf. But, yes, it was the stench of wet fur,” Kuisl said. “It took a few days to figure out where I’ve smelled that before.”

“But if the prostitute smelled like a beast, that would mean that perhaps, after all, a werewolf-”

Jakob cut him off with an angry gesture. “For God’s sake, just forget the werewolf. You’re driving me crazy with your superstitious drivel.” The hangman pointed at the underlined section of the book in front of him. “There is only one herb that smells just like a beast of prey. Because of all this nonsense about the werewolf, I’ve overlooked the most obvious thing. But when you think about it. .” Kuisl grinned as he always did when he was about to spring a surprise.

Simon drummed his fingers nervously on the table. He hated it when his father-in-law tortured him like this. “Just get to the point,” he pleaded. “Why do we always need to beg you to tell us what’s on your mind? What kind of herb is it?”

“Well, as a bathhouse owner you really should know that. It’s henbane, also known as stinking nightshade or dog’s-piss root,” Kuisl elaborated with obvious satisfaction. “It’s found in many witch’s brews because it’s said to have magical power, but primarily it’s used as a strong anesthetic. Along with opium, mandrake, and hemlock, it is often used in sleeping sponges-things you no doubt have heard of.”

“Sleeping sponges?” Simon asked, perplexed. In fact, he did use such sponges himself occasionally. Soaked in narcotics, these sponges were placed over a patient’s face during operations to calm them down or, if necessary, make them unconscious. It was extremely hard to adjust the dosage-a bit too much of the liquid, and the patient would never wake up.

“Do you think someone drugged the prostitute first and then killed her?” he asked breathlessly.

Kuisl nodded. “Probably not just the prostitute. It had to be someone who knew a lot about medicine. The right quantity to use on a sleeping sponge is something known only to members of four guilds, in my opinion.” He counted them off on his fingers. “Doctors, bathhouse owners, midwives, and-”

“Hangmen,” Simon gasped.

“Indeed. I’ve used sleep sponges a few times myself to relieve a condemned man’s pain. It’s a drug preferred by hangmen and their journeymen. Anyone who understands suffering and death must also know about healing.”

Simon stared at the underlined paragraph describing the recipe for preparing such a sleep sponge. “I’m assuming you aren’t the person who underlined this paragraph and entered the notes in the margin?” he whispered.

Kuisl shook his head. “That was Bartholomäus, I know his handwriting.” The hangman knocked the dead ashes out of his pipe, stretched, and slowly rose to his feet like a giant who’d been sleeping for a long time in his cave.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask my brother and his servant Aloysius a few very unpleasant questions.”

“Morning is breaking, the sun will soon. . uh. . will soon. . set.”

“Rise. The sun will soon rise! Damn it, is it so hard to read from a script?”

Sir Malcolm tore at his hair, staring at Barbara, who was standing along with four other actors on a sort of balcony above the stage. Barbara could feel a knot in her stomach, and blood rushed to her head. They’d been rehearsing all morning, and by now she’d begun to doubt she really had that wonderful talent that both she and Malcolm thought she had. Her role was actually not that large. At first, Barbara had felt disappointed to discover she had so few lines to speak.

By now, even those few lines seemed too much for her.

“Daylight is breaking, the sun will soon rise,” she declaimed loudly this time, looking up at the ceiling as if morning had indeed arrived.

Sir Malcolm nodded contentedly, then turned to Markus Salter, who was standing in a threadbare red cape next to Barbara.

“Ah, behold and be appalled. Speak of the wolf, and he will come. What will. . what will. .” Now Salter also stumbled in the text, and Sir Malcolm rolled his eyes angrily as if he were a wolf himself.

“Good Lord, Markus,” he fumed. “How many times have we performed this play? Five? Ten?”

“It seems like a hundred,” Salter groaned.

“Then I really don’t understand why you’re so distracted. As the king, you have fewer lines than any of us. Just what’s wrong with you lately? Always tired, apathetic, late for rehearsals. .”

“I have to rush to get all the costumes and props,” Markus replied in a soft voice. “And then at night I have to retranslate Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus and this complicated Love’s Labour’s Lost. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find the right rhymes?”

“No, I don’t. But I do know something else. None of you have understood yet that this is the most important damned performance of the entire year.” Malcolm glared at each of the actors, one by one. “If we mess up this time we’ll be spending the winter in some barn with the oxen and asses. Is that clear to all of you?”

Apologetic murmurs came from the actors before they continued, with Sir Malcolm interrupting frequently to correct something or roll his eyes theatrically when someone forgot a line.

Barbara took a deep breath, concentrating fully on her next lines. They were performing Peter Squenz, a comedy by a certain Andreas Gryphius. She’d scarcely had time to sit down and read the play through. It was about a group of simpleminded workers who performed a play for the king and his court, and failed in a comical fashion. Barbara’s role was that of Princess Violandra, and she had little more to do than to flutter her eyelashes, look pretty, and occasionally say something funny. Sir Malcolm took the main role, that of the shoemaker Peter Squenz. Barbara observed with amazement how he could turn himself into a simpleminded clown using just a few gestures, making it look so natural and easy. It seemed he could assume the part of almost any character at will. Stuttering like a toothless old farmer, he had just bowed submissively to the king in the balcony.

“Herr. . Herr King! There are lots of f-f-f-fools at your court.”

The more Barbara thought about their performance the next morning at Geyerswörth, the queasier her stomach felt. Malcolm had promised her a splendid costume that would be made especially for her that evening. The old one was in the actors’ wardrobe wagon, which had been in an accident just outside Bamberg and fallen into the river. For the rehearsal she wore her simple gray dress with a soiled bodice. Her legs were trembling, and she didn’t feel at all like a princess but more like a housemaid who didn’t know what she was supposed to be doing.

I never should have agreed to do this, she thought.

But then she thought of Matheo, languishing in a dungeon not far away. Sir Malcolm had vowed that Matheo would certainly have wanted her to play the part that night, if only because the actors needed warm, safe quarters for the winter.

“Peace! Peace! Pax vobis! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Back away, back away!” Sir Malcolm cried in his role as Peter Squenz, as another actor dressed in a tattered lion costume crawled across the stage on all fours. Barbara could only hope the bishop had a sense of humor.

“Master Lion, be gone,” Sir Malcolm intoned while covering his eyes in a dramatic gesture. “Be gone from-”

At that moment there was a loud clatter outside one of the windows. Barbara turned around just in time to see a falling shadow through the bull’s-eye glass.

“Damn it! Those are surely Guiscard’s spies,” Sir Malcolm shouted. “To hell with them!” With amazing agility he jumped down from the stage, ran on his long, gangling legs to the window, and opened it.

“Scoundrels!” he shouted, shaking his fist. “It won’t do you any good, Guiscard. We’re better than you!”

When Barbara ran to the window, she saw down below, in the courtyard of the wedding house, a ladder that had fallen over, and alongside it a man struggling to his feet while rubbing his arms and legs before hobbling away. She could see Guiscard hiding in one corner of the courtyard. The French theater director sneered.

“Aha! Peter Squenz. Mon dieu, what a trite, dull piece,” he crowed in his feminine-sounding French accent. “For that, the bishop will surely give you quarters-in the pigsty. That’s the best place for this farce.”

“We’ll see about that, Guiscard. Get ready for a very, very cold winter. Then you’ll have all the time in the world to make up your own plays, you ignorant, thieving fool.”

Malcolm closed the window and took a deep breath as if trying to pull himself together again.

“Do you think, then, that he’ll also perform Peter Squenz?” Markus Salter asked, sounding worried. “If Guiscard puts on his play for the bishop ahead of us, we’ve got a problem.”

Malcolm waved him off and suddenly didn’t look angry or excited anymore. “Oh, he’s rehearsing Papinian. That tearjerker is so boring it wouldn’t even lure a sleeping dog out from behind the stove, so don’t worry.”

“Papinian?” Markus Salter asked him in surprise. “How do you know that?”

Malcolm grinned like an old crocodile. “Well, if Guiscard can spy, so can I-the difference being that I haven’t gotten caught.” He shrugged innocently. “It was my idea, by the way, for Guiscard to put on Papinian.”

Now Barbara looked surprised as well. “Your idea? But how. .”

Malcolm put his finger to his lips and gave a conspiratorial wink. “Shhh, we don’t know if he’s listening in,” he whispered. He walked to the window and peered out cautiously, and only then continued, with a smile. “Well, I gave a guilder to a talented young man in the bishop’s guard to tell Guiscard confidentially that Papinian was the favorite piece of His Excellency.”

“And that’s not the case?” Barbara asked.

“Not exactly. The bishop hates Papinian. It’s a deadly boring piece about an intrigue at the Roman emperor’s court. Unlike Guiscard’s group, we’ve been in Bamberg before and inquired, of course, about what His Excellency likes.” Malcolm’s smile broadened. “Prince-Bishop Philipp Rieneck likes silly love stories, especially when there are animals in them. I’m sure he’ll find our Peter Squenz extremely amusing. And now,” he said, clapping his hands, “let’s get back to our rehearsal, my darlings, so that the comedy doesn’t turn into a tragedy. We haven’t won yet.”

Deep in thought, Simon was sitting in the Bamberg executioner’s bedroom studying the drawing in Lonitzer’s herb almanac. It showed the dirty-yellowish flowers of the henbane plant as well as some of the black seeds that always reminded the bathhouse owner of mouse droppings. A note was scrawled alongside.

Anesthetic sponge? Additional ingredients: poppy, mandrake, hemlock

Goose bumps prickled on Simon’s neck. Jakob Kuisl had left a while ago to find his brother and ask him some questions. Was it possible that Bartholomäus or his journeyman, Aloysius, had anything to do with the terrible murders? Where had they been the last few nights? In the house of a self-made werewolf? Simon didn’t know Bartholomäus well enough to judge. The Bamberg executioner was as grim and reserved as his brother, albeit a bit more tactful. Was he hiding something? What made him seem so gloomy? Was it just that strange animosity he felt toward his brother?

Simon frowned as he moved his finger back and forth across the page, lost in thought. Up to now he’d always trusted his father-in-law’s judgment, but this time he wasn’t so sure that Jakob was right. Perhaps there were other reasons Jakob had been so distrustful of his brother. The strange odor of the dead prostitute and the scribbled notes in the herb almanac weren’t enough to explain it.

Simon poured himself another glass of diluted wine and leafed through the little book, pondering the illustrations of the mandrake, the highly poisonous hemlock, and the poppy seeds. He loved these illustrations-they gave him the feeling that nature, despite all the hardships it put in your way, was understandable and could be explained.

He awoke suddenly a while later. The wine had made him sleepy, and he had forgotten the time. It was nearly noon, and Magdalena and the children had still not returned. Where were they, anyway? This city was worse than a busy, humming beehive. But then it occurred to him that Magdalena had probably gone to see Katharina, to console her on account of the botched wedding plans. Perhaps there was some news, and the council had allowed at least a little party in the small room of the Wild Man.

Hastily, Simon smoothed his jacket and splashed a little water on his face from the washbowl in the corridor before setting out for the cathedral mount, at the foot of which the Hausers had a little house near the river. Simon had accompanied Katharina home once before and exchanged a few polite words with her father about books, so he quickly found the tiny house, which sat directly beside a noisy tavern. Behind it stood the Michelsberg, a hill with small paths leading up from the valley through the vineyards to the monastery. It was clear that houses in this part of town belonged to well-off citizens, and Simon wondered how the Hausers could afford living there.

She’s really a good catch for Bartholomäus, he thought, if the wedding actually takes place.

He knocked, and Hieronymus Hauser opened the door. The fat scribe was pale and unshaven, wearing a long, worn coat with billowing sleeves, and looking haggard and strained. He looked like he was about to shout angrily at his visitor when he recognized Simon, and a smile spread across his face.

“Ah, the bathhouse owner from Schongau,” he said. “This is certainly a surprise. Did you perhaps come to talk with me about books?” He hesitated briefly when he saw Simon’s troubled gaze. “I hope you’re not going to tell me you’ll be heading back home early because of this unfortunate wedding matter.”

“Uh, no,” Simon replied. “That’s not. .”

Damn, this is probably not the best time to bring that up, it occurred to him at the same moment. Why is Magdalena never here when I need her?

“I’m looking for my wife,” he said instead. “Is she perhaps here with Katharina?”

Hieronymus shrugged. “No, sorry, she’s not here, though my daughter could really use a little consolation.” He pointed behind him with his thumb. “She locked herself in her room upstairs and is crying her eyes out, the poor thing. It’s really a disgrace. Just recently a half dozen of the most influential councilors told me they approved of the celebration in the wedding house. Bartholomäus’s profession may be offensive to some, but in all these years he has had an excellent reputation.”

“Wasn’t there anything else you could do to persuade the council?” Simon asked. “Maybe a smaller party?”

Hieronymus waved dismissively. “Ever since the werewolf started threatening the city, everyone dances to the tune of Suffragan Bishop Harsee. Nobody wants to be on bad terms with him.” Lowering his voice, he pointed out into the street where a merchant was passing by, pushing a cart. “Especially since, starting today, there’s a reward being offered for any clues,” he whispered. “Now everyone is afraid his neighbor will turn him in for some trivial reason.” Hieronymus looked gloomy. “God help us. It’s just like it was almost forty years ago.”

“Were you working as a scribe back then?” Simon asked.

“Indeed, and it was a terrible time.” He sighed, shivering as if a chill went up his spine, and he rubbed his fat belly. “But why are you standing out there in the cold? Come in and warm yourself with a glass of mulled wine.”

Simon smiled. “I’ve already had enough wine today, but I’ll accept your invitation anyway. I’ll have to wait, in any case, until my wife shows up.”

Hieronymus winked at him. “I think I’ll have some freshly ground coffee. Katharina says you’re wild about this new brew.”

Simon’s heart beat faster with joy, as he hadn’t had a sip of coffee since his visit to Samuel, and he needed it to think, just as Jakob needed his tobacco. “Well, uh, that would be very kind of you,” he replied, “but I don’t want to impose.” Hieronymus had already taken off down the hallway, and Simon followed him, full of expectation.

Hauser’s house was small, but neat and clean. The oaken floor had just recently been scrubbed and polished, and the walls were freshly whitewashed and decorated with pretty little tiles. Everywhere Katharina’s hand was evident. Hieronymus Hauser’s wife had passed away some years ago, and since then his daughter saw to it that the house got a good cleaning every day.

“Please excuse my appearance,” Hieronymus said as they climbed a narrow staircase up to the second floor. “Nowadays I spend almost all my time in my study in the attic. The council has ordered me to recopy a huge pile of old, barely legible financial records.” He sighed. “If there is a hell set aside for scribes, I can imagine what it looks like. Well, at least I can work at home.”

They entered a warm room decorated with colorful wall hangings. In one corner, a cheerful fire flickered on the hearth. Hieronymus offered Simon a stool upholstered in fur, then disappeared in the next room for a while before returning with a steaming pot and two small, dainty cups. Simon raised his eyebrows, knowing that these new drinking vessels were extremely expensive.

“Here, too, this devilish concoction is becoming more and more popular,” Hauser said as he made himself comfortable on another stool, took a slurp of the black brew, and let out a moan of satisfaction. “The suffragan bishop has banned it because it comes from unbelievers-it’s said to instill heretical thoughts. Fortunately, Sebastian Harsee is not yet able to look through the walls of your house.” He grinned. “The bigoted zealot would do that, too, if he could.”

“You were talking earlier about your time as a scribe during the witch trials,” Simon began cautiously. “So were you able to watch the trials yourself?”

Hieronymus nodded gloomily and, as if suddenly seized with a chill, wrapped his chubby hands around the tiny cup. “You could say that. At that time I was just a very young, simple apprentice, but they needed everyone they could get, since many members of the council had also been accused. A few times I even served as a scribe for that notorious Inquisition Commission that sat in judgment on the accused. I saw how some people were sent to the dungeon based only on the testimony of a jealous neighbor, and they were tortured and burned.”

“And there was nothing you could do about it?” Simon asked.

“What could I have done? Anyone who challenged the Inquisition Commission was found guilty of witchcraft himself. I was. . afraid. Besides, for God’s sake, I was only the scribe. I took the minutes, that’s all.” Hieronymus paused. His fat lips wobbled as he remembered.

“Sometimes it was hard to understand the defendants,” he finally said in a soft voice. “They. . they screamed and whimpered, and in the end all they did was moan. No one can describe this moan, much less write it down.”

Hieronymus had put down the cup of coffee. The conversation had clearly shaken him. His face was gray, and he seemed to have temporarily forgotten his visitor.

“I’m sorry, I’m not accusing you of anything,” Simon said, trying to console him. “It’s just sometimes hard to understand how. .” He struggled to find the right words, and an awkward silence followed.

Suddenly Simon had a thought. Hieronymus was probably just a lower-level scribe, but certainly he knew all about the influential people in town and their intrigues-then, as well as now. Maybe he had some thoughts about what the dead and missing people of the last few weeks had in common.

He cleared his throat. “My friend, the city physician Master Samuel, has an interesting assumption,” he began in a firm tone. “He thinks that perhaps there’s no werewolf out there at all, just someone who wants to do away with some of the council members, who are possible competitors. What do you think of that?”

Hieronymus seemed perplexed for a moment, though the surprising question seemed to have brought him back to his senses. Lost in thought, he rocked his massive head from side to side. “Hm, I admit I don’t really believe in a werewolf,” he replied finally. “No more than I believed in witches back then. But are you suggesting that all this is just a cold-blooded series of murders designed to get rid of some of the nobles? Let me think.” He stood up and walked back and forth in the room, holding his fat, unshaven chin in his hand.

“Thadäus Vasold and Klaus Schwarzkontz were powerful figures in the city council, to be sure, even if they were long past their primes. Their deaths did, in fact, make room for newcomers on the council. Egidius Gotzendörfer has been dead for a long time, but his widow certainly still had influence. But as to the others. .” Suddenly the scribe fell silent, his fat body stiffened, and Simon could see that his right hand was trembling slightly.

“No, no,” he finally said, almost a little too fast, continuing to stare thoughtfully into the fire. “I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do to help you, Master Fronwieser, as much as I would like to.” He shuddered, as if to cast off a bad dream, then turned to his guest with a nervous smile. “And I have better things to do than get involved in such intrigues. That’s a risky business nowadays.” He stiffened and pointed toward the door. “I’m afraid we’ll have to continue our conversation some other time. I have to go to the city hall, where I have a lot of paperwork waiting for me that can’t be done at home.”

Confused, Simon got to his feet. “Well, that is a shame. If you see Magdalena-”

“I’ll tell her you were here.” Hieronymus held out his hand, which felt soft and flabby. “I’d be very grateful if your wife could try to cheer up my Katharina a bit. And now, farewell.”

Simon barely had time to finish his coffee and, moments later, was standing outside in front of the clerk’s house.

Up on the Michelsberg, Magdalena sat on a bench set out for pilgrims and looked down at the bustling life in the city below. Her children were playing hide-and-seek between the bushes above the vineyards. She took a deep breath and only now noticed how refreshing the air was up here. Down in the narrow streets, there was a strong stench of smoke, feces, and rotting vegetables, even now in the colder month of October, but up here a brisk and icy wind was blowing.

After Simon had left unexpectedly early this morning to attend the council meeting, she’d decided to take a walk with the children in the countryside. Since Katharina’s wedding had been postponed indefinitely, she didn’t need to help her aunt with the preparations in the wedding hall. For a while she strolled with the boys along the Regnitz, then on a whim decided to climb to the top of the Michelsberg to visit the grave of St. Otto and pray for Katharina. Before God all men were equal, and Magdalena was sure the Lord would make no distinctions between honorable and dishonorable people. He certainly would have no objection to a hangman celebrating in a middle-class wedding hall. But here on earth the ruler was not God but the church, which had once again shown her family that a hangman was considered nothing but dirt.

My children must have a better life than us, Magdalena thought as she watched Peter and Paul playing. No one must be allowed to forbid them from getting married just because they are considered dishonorable.

She sighed softly. Magdalena completely understood Simon’s wanting to get back home to Schongau. On the other hand, she couldn’t leave without Barbara, and it didn’t appear that her little sister was going to let anybody change her mind anytime soon. If there were only some way she could help Matheo. The prince-bishop’s decision to postpone the torture until after the theatrical competition gave them a little time. She earnestly hoped her father, and especially her uncle, would think of something by then. As the Bamberg executioner, Bartholomäus was probably the only one who, though he couldn’t spare Matheo’s life, could at least save him from the worst pain.

After a while she stood up, called for the boys, and together they walked back down the narrow pathway that wound its way through the vineyards. The little pilgrimage path ended at the Sand Gate near the river. Magdalena considered paying a visit to Katharina and her father, who didn’t live far from there, but then decided against it. It was already after noon, and the children at her side were hungry and fussy. Surely Simon would be waiting impatiently for them in the hangman’s house, and perhaps he’d have news from the city council meeting about Matheo and his trial.

As Magdalena walked briskly through the Sand Gate and from there across the City Hall Bridge, she noticed that a huge crowd of people had gathered down by the harbor on the opposite side. She heard shouts and jeers and, at regular intervals, loud cheering. As she approached the crowd, she could see that the people had assembled around the cranes usually used to load the ships. At that very moment a crane was lifting something up into the air.

What in the world. .

To her horror, she saw that it wasn’t a barrel or a crate, but a bearded man in plain-looking clothes hanging on a rope and dripping with water. The rope was tied around his waist, and he was kicking and thrashing about like a fish on a line. His body was lowered toward the river, and people broke out in cheers as he gurgled and disappeared again beneath the waves.

“Mother, what are the people doing?” Peter asked anxiously, while his younger brother Paul watched the scene, clearly amused.

“I’m not sure, Peter,” Magdalena replied. “But whatever it is, it isn’t good.”

The hangman’s daughter was familiar with such scenes in Schongau and other cities. Occasionally, bakers who made bad bread were put in a cage and dunked a number of times in the water until they nearly drowned. They called that baker’s baptism, and it was one of the less harmful punishments an executioner had to carry out. Magdalena also knew, however, that her grandfather would take convicted child killers to a pond outside the Schongau city walls and hold them under water with a long pole until they were dead. The spectacle here at the harbor seemed more like an execution. She looked around but couldn’t find either Bartholomäus or Georg. At the edge of the crowd, two guards were leaning against a barrel of pickled herring, watching the sight before them, clearly not certain what to do. Magdalena ran over to them.

“What’s happening here?” she asked.

One soldier just shrugged. “The man is an itinerant peddler,” he replied, picking his nose. “He was hawking wolf claws as a protection again these werewolves, but people say he’s one himself.”

“People say. .” Magdalena frowned. “And for that they practically drown him?” She poked the guard angrily in the chest. “Where are the officials, anyway? Where is the executioner? The man at least has to be questioned.”

The guard just smiled, unsure of himself. “Oh, come on, he’s not going to die-and even if he does, so what? He’s just a stranger in town. You can understand what the people are doing. They’re terrified because of this werewolf.” He looked at her suspiciously. “And who are you? I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

“I am-” she started to say, but her answer was swallowed up in a deafening roar from the crowd. They were cheering now as the peddler was dunked in the water again. Evidently the man couldn’t swim; he just thrashed about with his arms and finally, with a loud cry, slipped beneath the water. After what seemed like an eternity, two strong young men standing by the crane laughed and hoisted him back up again. The man was noticeably weaker and was having trouble moving.

“Damn it! Do something,” Magdalena shouted at the guards. “The poor fellow almost drowned.”

When the two just waved her off with a bored gesture, she made up her mind. She’d have to get her uncle. As the executioner, Bartholomäus surely had some standing in town, especially when it came to executions. Perhaps he could put an end to this activity.

Magdalena knew that at this hour Bartholomäus and Georg would likely still be at work in the city dungeon, where they would be cleaning and preparing the cells to receive any additional suspects. The dungeon was in a small lane not far behind the wedding house, but with the two small boys it would take her much too long to get there, and by then the peddler would probably be dead. She quickly looked around, and her gaze fell once again on the wedding house.

Barbara.

Her younger sister could surely keep an eye on the two boys for a short time. Magdalena knew there was a passageway in the wedding house leading to the Wild Man tavern and from there to the street behind.

Without paying any further heed to the guards, she made her way, holding both boys by the hand, past the shouting and cheering crowd until she finally entered the open door of the wedding house. Once she was inside the courtyard, things were noticeably quieter. Breathlessly she knocked on the narrow door next to the entrance to the tavern, and after a while it opened. She was greeted, however, not by her sister, but by an astonished Jeremias. It appeared he had been sleeping.

“Magdalena?” he asked, rubbing his eyes. “Why are you so out of breath?”

“I have no time to explain,” she gasped. “Is my sister here?”

Jeremias shook his head. “Unfortunately not. She’s upstairs with the actors, but she’ll soon be coming back. It seems that Malcolm is very pleased-”

“Do me a favor,” Magdalena interrupted. “Please keep an eye on my two boys for a while. I have to go and see my uncle. It’s urgent.” She turned to Peter and Paul, who were staring at the crippled old man with a mixture of fascination and horror. “This is Uncle Jeremias,” she said. “He may look a bit strange, but he’s very nice, and he’s got some exciting stories to tell. You stay here with him for a while, and I’ll be right back.”

“Uncle, why did someone pull off your skin?” Paul asked.

Jeremias sighed and sat down to explain, but Magdalena was already gone and out of earshot.

She ran through the tavern past astonished revelers, knocking over a beer stein, and finally slipped through the rear door, finding herself on the street in back. From there, she turned right and soon reached the city dungeon, a gloomy, one-story building with barred windows that she’d seen before on her trips to the market. At the entrance she almost bumped into Georg, who was just leaving. He looked tired and his shirt was filthy-evidently he had just finished his work inside.

“Georg,” Magdalena called out with relief. “How fortunate I am to meet you. I’m looking for Bartholomäus.”

Georg frowned. “Why were you all so concerned about Bartholomäus today? Father was out looking for him, and he didn’t come back until a quarter hour ago. And now you’ve come here doing the same.”

“Because I need him urgently to save a life.” Speaking hurriedly, she explained to her surprised brother what was happening down at the harbor.

“And there are no city authorities there?” he asked in astonishment. “No burgomaster, nobody from the city council?”

Magdalena shook her head. “Only two guards who don’t want to get involved. We have to work fast or they’ll drown the poor man like a kitten.”

Georg paused to think. “Well, Uncle Bartholomäus left a while ago to go to the knacker’s house in Bamberg Forest. Damned if I know why he’s been going out there so often in recent days. Father followed him, and it looks like they had a fight. Father seemed very, very angry.” He looked at her with a grim expression. “And in the meantime, Uncle Bartholomäus left all the dirty work for me.”

Magdalena kicked the door, furious. “Damn it! You hangmen are never there when you’re needed.” She hesitated. “Perhaps you can do something yourself to make sure things are all right down at the harbor.”

“Me?” He stared at her, wide-eyed. “I think you’re vastly overestimating what I can do. I’m just an ordinary hangman’s servant.”

“But someone has to help this poor man.”

Georg sighed. “Very well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll go to the guards’ office at city hall. The chief, Martin Lebrecht, is a good man, and if anyone can help you, it would be him. As much as I’d like to, there’s no more I can do.”

He embraced his sister again, then ran down the street toward the city hall and disappeared around the corner.

Magdalena took a deep breath. Georg’s idea seemed the right thing to do, and perhaps help would come in time for the poor fellow down at the river.

She was just about to run back to Jeremias and the children when she remembered what Georg had just said about her father. He’d evidently had another quarrel with Bartholomäus. Why couldn’t the two of them get along? Jakob’s taunting words for his brother had grown meaner in recent days-and they needed Uncle Bartholomäus urgently in order to help Matheo. If the two brothers had a falling-out, Bartholomäus would most likely refuse to help, if only out of defiance. Magdalena knew her father and how quick-tempered he could be. She absolutely had to stop him from doing something in anger that they would all regret later.

She thought it over briefly, then made her decision. If she hurried, she might still catch up with her father and try to cool him down a bit. She’d leave the children in Jeremias’s care for the time being, where they’d be well cared for.

With brisk steps she set out toward the Langgasser Gate, from which a muddy road full of puddles led into the fog-shrouded Bamberg Forest.

She hoped it was not yet too late.

Simon stood in the street in front of the Hausers’ house, still perplexed at how quickly he’d been asked to leave. He heard shouting and jeering coming from down by the river, but paid it no heed. He was pondering instead what might have caused Hieronymus to usher him out so suddenly. Evidently, the scribe had remembered something-something to do with the many missing people. Perhaps he had suddenly become nervous, or. . Simon stopped short.

Perhaps there was something he needed to check out.

Simon decided to hide around the corner and wait a while. And, in fact, it wasn’t long before the door to the scribe’s house opened and Hieronymus Hauser stepped out into the street. The scribe looked distraught; he hadn’t buttoned his overcoat and evidently had forgotten his hat. He panted and puffed as he hurried down the street, then soon turned right, where a steep stairway led up to the cathedral mount. Simon followed at a safe distance, occasionally pausing as the fat old man stopped to catch his breath.

Finally they had reached the cathedral square. Hieronymus quickly crossed to the other side and hurried on toward the old palace where Simon had been with Samuel early that morning. The clerk entered the building.

Simon hesitated briefly, then decided to take a chance. If Hieronymus discovered him, he could say he’d left something behind in the council chamber. As he slipped through the doorway, he bumped into a burly guard.

“What are you doing here?” the man growled, examining the little bathhouse owner up and down. “The Inquisition Committee is meeting to make a decision about additional suspects. It’s strictly confidential. I didn’t know you were invited.”

“Ah. . no,” Simon replied. Then he pulled himself together and his voice became firmer. “As a consulting scholar I sit on the Werewolf Commission, which you no doubt have heard of. That’s strictly confidential as well,” he added with a conspiratorial whisper.

“Maybe so, but the committee in session now is the Inquisition Commission.”

Simon cursed under his breath. The guard before him appeared just as stupid as he was obedient, a dangerous mix. He decided to change his tactics.

“Well, I actually just need to speak with Master Hieronymus, the city scribe,” he said with a friendly smile, winking at the guard. “You know, the fat fellow. He just entered the room. Was he perhaps appointed to take minutes for this extremely important Inquisition Commission?”

The guard frowned. “No, he just went over to the bishop’s archive.” He pointed to a stairway behind him leading up to the next floor. “That way.”

“Ah, the archives,” Simon replied, pleased. “Then surely I may. .” He was about to walk past, but the guard blocked his way with his halberd.

“Only the scribe and the chancellor are permitted to enter the archive,” he growled. “Do you have permission from the bishop?”

“Unfortunately not.” Simon smiled innocently and raised his arms. “Well, then, I’ll just wait outside for Master Hauser. Have a wonderful, watchful day.”

He went out into the street, where he finally could let out a loud curse. How he hated this guard who was so obsessed with the bureaucracy. People like him would be the downfall of civilization. Well, at least he’d found out that Hieronymus had some business to attend to in the bishop’s archive. Did it have anything to do with their case?

Wrapped up in his thoughts, Simon strolled back across the cathedral square toward the executioner’s house. He hoped Magdalena would be waiting there for him.

They had a lot to talk about.