The Werewolf of Bamberg (32 page)

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.

10

T
HE
B
AMBERG
F
OREST
, EARLY AFTERNOON
, O
CTOBER
31, 1668 AD

T
HE FOG THAT ENSHROUDED THE
forests around Bamberg at this time of year was lifting. Clouds drifted like gigantic, ghostly sheets through the treetops, where the moisture gathered on the red and yellow leaves and came trickling down. Jakob Kuisl’s boots splashed through the leaves and made a gurgling sound as they sank ankle deep into the moss and decaying foliage.

This time, he’d decided to approach the knacker’s house from the rear. He had no idea what his brother might be doing at this hour in the forest, but he didn’t want to give him any opportunity to avoid a conversation.

And, God knows, there was certainly a lot to talk about.

After Jakob had learned from Georg that Bartholomäus had left for the knacker’s house, he had immediately set out to find him. In recent days, he’d grown more and more distrustful of his younger brother. The notes in Lonitzer’s herb almanac had been the last straw. Was it possible Bartholomäus was making sleep sponges used to anesthetize the victims of the supposed werewolf? The accusation sounded so appalling that at first Jakob thought it out of the question. But then he remembered all the other strange things that had occurred in the last week: The stranger he’d seen in the cloak and floppy hat near the furrier’s house—he’d limped, and from a distance he’d seemed vaguely familiar to Magdalena. Bartholomäus always brushing off the werewolf stories, almost as if trying to discourage Jakob from looking into it any further. His wandering around the forest without any explanation. The way his servant, Aloysius, also seemed to be hiding something. And twice already, Jakob had tried to approach the back of the knacker’s house, and each time had been harshly rebuffed. Was something hidden there that he wasn’t supposed to see?

Well, this time he wouldn’t let himself be put off. He made a wide circle around the clearing and approached the house from the rear. He heard dogs barking happily nearby, as someone evidently had approached the front gate from the other side.

He cursed under his breath as he crept toward the sheds that were now visible between the trees. There was no wall or fence on this side—it was unnecessary, since a dense thicket of prickly hawthorn bushes made passage impossible. When the hangman tried to squirm his way through, thorns reached out and tore at his clothes like long claws. After one or two paces, it was clear he wouldn’t make it. He freed himself from the thorny branches and started walking alongside the bushes. Suddenly he caught sight of a natural, knee-high tunnel in the bush concealed under a covering of ferns and ivy. It looked like some animal had made its way through it just recently.

He crouched down on all fours and crawled through the bushes, cursing softly to himself as the thorns tore at his clothes. The sleeves of his shirt ripped open, thorny branches scratched him in the face, and thistles clung to his beard, but finally he made it through to the other side.

When he stood up, he found himself behind one of the sheds at the rear of the cabin. The happy barking had stopped, and he heard a low, angry growling close by.

It wasn’t coming from the dog compound.

He looked around. A sickly sweet odor from a pit several paces away on his left almost made him throw up. He could see scraps of fur and bones lying beneath a cover of white lime, and a black cloud of flies buzzed over it.

The garbage pit. At least in this respect Aloysius had not been lying.

Holding his breath, Jakob turned to the two nearest sheds. One of them was nothing but a hastily nailed-together shelter for storing wood. The other building was considerably larger, built of thick pine boards with a solid-looking door on the side and narrow slits at eye level around the exterior.

That was where the growling was coming from.

Jakob approached the door warily. He could see fresh footprints in the mud leading from the blockhouse to the shed and beyond. It was evident that someone had been here just a few moments ago. The hangman saw a bolt with a rusty padlock but, on closer inspection, realized the recent visitor had not closed it carefully and the bolt had not been slid over all the way.

Perhaps he intends to come right back.

The angry growling grew louder, deep and threatening, almost like that of a bear. Kuisl removed the lock from the bolt, placed it carefully on the ground, then began to slowly push the bolt aside.

Something scratched at the door.

He paused, then opened the door a tiny crack. Even if it was dangerous, he simply had to see what was in there. It was quite possible this
something
was the answer to many of his questions.

Suddenly he heard a sound behind him, and out of the corner of his eye saw a knotty cudgel coming at him. Instinctively he ducked, so that the blow hit him not on the back of the head but only on his shoulder. It came down with full force, however, so that it knocked him to the ground like a fallen tree, as mud and wet leaves splattered his face.

Before the stranger behind him could deliver a second blow, the hangman turned on his back and lifted his feet to kick his attacker. His eyes were covered with mud, but he could feel he’d scored a direct hit. His attacker groaned and fell over backward.

Jakob wiped the mud from his face, blinked his eyes, and saw Aloysius lying in front of him, whimpering and clutching his groin. Alongside him lay the club he’d use to strike the hangman.

“You rotten bastard,” Kuisl panted. “Just who the hell—”

“Watch out! The door!” shouted a voice.

Jakob saw his brother Bartholomäus jump out from behind the shed. Though he had a limp, the Bamberg executioner was as fast as the devil. He threw himself against the door while something heavy pushed on it from inside, barking and growling loudly. The door opened a crack and Kuisl saw a ghostly white body with two red, glowing eyes.

“Quick! Help me!” Bartholomäus shouted.

Jakob scrambled to his feet and shook himself, as if trying to forget a bad dream, then pushed with all his weight against the door to close it. With a gasp of relief, his brother bolted and padlocked the door. The angry barking continued for a while and the door and hinges shook, but they didn’t give way. Finally, the only sound was a soft growling and the moaning of Aloysius, who had managed to get back onto his feet.

“What in the world was that?” Jakob panted when he got his breath back.

“That?” Bartholomäus wiped the sweat from his forehead. “An alaunt, or, actually, two of them. If I hadn’t gotten here in time, they would have torn you apart like a baby deer. That would have been a fitting punishment for your curiosity.”

“An alaunt?” Kuisl tried to ignore the deep growling behind him. “What in God’s name is an alaunt?”

“It’s perhaps the most beautiful race of dog that God ever created. Strong, fearless, snow-white fur, the perfect hunting dog.” Bartholomäus took a deep breath, and his tone of voice softened. “Unfortunately, they almost died out in recent centuries. A few are still said to be living today in the Spanish Pyrenees. The alaunts were once the war dogs of an ancient tribe. They’re the ancestors of most large hounds today, like the powerful molossers and the mastiffs that we keep here for the bishop . . .” He pointed to the dog compound and beamed with pride. “But the alaunts are the strongest and largest of them, with a body the size of a calf. I’ve been able to raise a litter of the hounds.” He looked lovingly toward the shed, where the growls turned to whimpers and happy barking. Evidently the dogs recognized their master’s voice. “Brutus, Damian, and Cerberus. They are my pride and joy.”

“You just said there were two dogs in there,” Kuisl said in a soft voice. “Tell me . . . where is the third?”

Bartholomäus hesitated for a moment, then threw his hands up with a sigh. “Oh, what does it matter, sooner or later you would have figured it out anyway. Yes, the third dog ran away—my dear Brutus, the largest of them. Aloysius left the door open briefly while he was feeding them, and the damn thing ran off through the hawthorn bush and was gone.”

Jakob remembered the large white form he’d seen in the forest a few days before, and its strange growl—and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

“Are you telling me a beast like that is wandering through the forest out there, killing animals and people, only because my little brother has become a dog breeder?” he asked, trying to sound calm.

Bartholomäus rolled his eyes. “I know what you’re going to say—that Brutus is this werewolf. That’s what a lot of people would think if they knew about him. That’s the reason I haven’t told anyone, and why Aloysius and I have been looking for him. We’ve already gone as far as the river near where the hunt master lived, sticking our noses in all the caves and root holes. He’s got to be somewhere. Right, Aloysius? We’ll find him—if not today, then certainly very soon.”

He turned to his servant, who, in the meantime, had drawn closer and was still holding his groin, his face contorted with pain. Aloysius nodded meekly.

“Believe me, Jakob,” Bartholomäus pleaded. “Brutus has nothing to do with these horrible events. No doubt he’s killed a few animals in the forest, and he might be dangerous to a person walking alone there, but remember—some of the victims were killed in the city, and their severed limbs were found in Bamberg. That can’t have been Brutus. How would he have gotten into the city? Besides, he escaped only about a week ago, and these murders began much earlier. Believe me, he’s somewhere here in the forest.”

Jakob nodded hesitantly. It sounded like Bartholomäus was right. That would explain why both his brother and Aloysius had tried to keep him from looking behind the house, and why Aloysius had declared so emphatically that no one could steal the bishop’s hunting dogs.

“I assume the bishop knows nothing about the dogs you are breeding?” he asked.

His brother nodded. “If Philipp Rieneck knew, he’d certainly take the three and lock them up in his menagerie along with the apes, peacocks, and parrots. The bishop loves rare animals, but in one of those miserable cages the poor beasts would surely die. I know what I’m talking about. It’s my job to clean out the cages and feed the animals. The bear is a mere shadow of his former self, and the old gray baboon is getting meaner every year because he has no companion to play with.” Bartholomäus pinched his lips, and there was a hint of suspicion in his eyes. “In fact, he’s as possessive over the animals in the menagerie as over his own hunting dogs, though he certainly cares more for them than the many missing people.” Jakob had to wonder if his brother would ever feel as much love for Katharina or his future children as for his dogs.

“Why did you mark the entry on sleep sponges in Lonitzer’s herb almanac?” Jakob suddenly asked.

Bartholomäus looked at him in astonishment. “Why did I . . . ?” He paused, then shook his head in disbelief and laughed. “Come now, Jakob. Don’t tell me you really thought I drugged the young prostitute and then killed her. How could I have done that? After all, we were together when we found them. Please.”

“Perhaps you didn’t kill her,” Jakob replied hesitantly, “but that doesn’t mean you couldn’t have prepared the sleep sponge. The prostitute smelled of henbane, and you know as well as I do it’s often a hangman’s job to prepare and use that poison to calm the condemned prisoner in his final hour. So tell me why you marked that entry.”

“Good God, how suspicious you are, Jakob. I’m your brother. Have you forgotten?” Bartholomäus was working himself up into a fury. “But you were always like that. You don’t trust anything I do, and you always think the worst of me. Haven’t you ever thought that I might have noticed that strange odor myself? I’m not as stupid as you think. I, too, wondered about that smell, and that’s why I marked the entry. But no, you think right away I must be a murderer.” Bartholomäus glared at him with hate-filled eyes. “You haven’t changed at all, Jakob—always so impressed with yourself, always the cleverest guy in town. But it’s all just for show, and behind it there’s nothing but hollow words.”

Jakob fell silent. He was convinced he’d made a mistake. In his distrust of his own brother he’d made up a mental image of Bartholomäus, a caricature that had nothing to do with reality. Jakob remembered how he’d pursued the stranger in front of the furrier’s shop. He’d had the impression that the man had a limp, but he’d only noticed that
after
the man had jumped over to the other dock. Probably the stranger had just twisted his ankle then, and the fact that the man looked familiar to Magdalena was likely just a coincidence. Still, Jakob had suspected that the stranger was his brother.

Bartholomäus is right: I’m a fool, a damned fool.

Still, he couldn’t bring himself to apologize—he opened his mouth, but not a sound came out. Then he said in a calm voice: “If you don’t catch this beast soon, Bartholomäus, it’s going to kill someone. If it hasn’t done so already. It could be the cause of at least a few of the missing persons—the apothecary’s wife, for example, who clearly got lost here in the woods.” He looked at his brother calmly. “You should ask the civilian militia for help in the search.”

“So they can kill Brutus and take Damian and Cerberus away from me? Never. Aloysius and I will find that naughty runaway, and then—”

“Good Lord in heaven, it’s not a naughty runaway, it’s a dangerous beast,” Jakob interrupted angrily. “Can’t you see that?”

“You’re not going to tell me what to do!” Bartholomäus was screaming now, and Aloysius carefully stepped to one side. “Maybe there was a time you could push me around, Big Brother,” Bartholomäus continued in a rage, “but that time is long past. You’re a coward. Georg has known that for a long time, and soon Magdalena and Barbara will know it, too.”

Jakob swallowed hard, and his face turned white. “So . . . so . . . you told him?”

Bartholomäus flashed a sardonic grin. “Of course. You can be sure his image of his father is badly tarnished. I’ve already told you Georg wants to stay here with me, and once Barbara has gotten over her infatuation with this young rogue, she’ll probably consider staying, herself. Especially when she hears what a traitor—”