The Werewolf of Bamberg (7 page)

“Who could that be?” he asked. “It’s hardly your dead horse.”

After some hesitation, Bartholomäus dropped the shaft of his cart and ran toward the place the shouting was coming from, but turned around once to Jakob as he ran. “Before I fight with my brother, I’m going to beat up a few gallows birds. Come on!”

Jakob followed quickly. After a few hurried steps, the brothers arrived in a little square surrounded by small cottages, with a weathered fountain in the middle. A guard was crouched at the base of the fountain with a halberd alongside him on the ground; a lantern at the fountain’s edge cast a dim light. The guard was holding his hand to his mouth and looking around in all directions, horrified. Finally he pulled a clay jug out from under his ragged overcoat and took a long slug.

“Ah, it’s just Matthias, the drunken old night watchman,” Bartholomäus panted with disappointment, and stopped running. “We could have spared ourselves the trip. He’s probably had one too many and is about to throw up into the fountain. He used to be a common foot soldier, but now he drinks so much he can hardly stand up anymore.” Bartholomäus shook his head. “It’s really a shame, the people they have to hire as city watchmen. But the job of a night watchman now is dishonorable, like that of an executioner, and there aren’t many people willing to do it.”

When Matthias discovered the two men entering the square, he sighed with relief. His face was flushed, full of thick veins, and Jakob thought he could smell brandy on his breath.

The watchman staggered to his feet and stood beside the fountain. “I never thought I’d be so happy to see the Bamberg hangman!”

“You scared the hell out of us, Matthias,” Bartholomäus replied. “We could hear you shouting clear down at the hangman’s house. My brother and I took off right away to see what was going on. And now it’s just you and your damned cheap booze. So get moving before I have to put you in the stocks tomorrow morning at the Green Market.”

It didn’t seem to bother Matthias that the hangman’s house was much too far away and what Bartholomäus was telling him had to be wrong. He tried to keep his composure, which was clearly difficult to do in his condition.

“By all the saints, I swear . . . I’m not drunk,” he declared, holding up his hand. “At least not so drunk that I don’t know what I saw. And I swear I . . . I saw the monster.”

“What monster?” Bartholomäus asked.

“Well . . . the man-eating monster. It was standing here, right before me!”

The Bamberg hangman rolled his eyes. “Now you’re starting in with that, too. Isn’t it enough that the superstitious women are spreading such foolish gossip?”

“But the monster was here, I swear! I just was about to take a little nap here at the well when I saw the thing come running out of the alleyway. It stopped and stared at me, as if trying to decide if I’d be a good meal. And then, after what seemed like an eternity, it kept on running, that way, down the other alley.” Matthias gestured wildly as he spoke and walked back and forth, wavering slightly. Now he stopped and looked quizzically at the two hangmen.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” he asked in a soft voice. “You just think I’m drunk.”

“This . . . this monster—what did it look like?” Jakob knew from experience that drunks often had wild visions, especially when tormented by their fears.

“It was hairy, with gray—no, silver—fur,” Matthias declared, casting a quick glance at Jakob for not understanding what he’d been trying to say. “It had a terrifying set of teeth, long and sharp. At first it ran along on all fours, but then suddenly stood up on its hind legs.” The watchman put his hands to his face. “It ran like a human, I swear, like a furry human. Like a werewolf!”

“Be careful of what you say,” Bartholomäus snapped at him. “Don’t be too quick to use words like that. Or do you want to—”

He stopped short when he heard the scream again. At first Jakob thought it was Matthias, but the scream this time was sharper and higher pitched. It came from an alleyway leading to the square and was clearly the voice of a young woman.

The Schongau hangman didn’t hesitate for a moment. He ran past the astonished Matthias and, without even turning to look at either of them, disappeared into the dark alleyway. Without the lantern he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face, but somewhere he heard a window slam shut and someone shouting in an upper story as the contents of a chamber pot poured down onto the street. Kuisl groped his way along the row of houses, stumbling into a rotten beer barrel that fell over and went clattering down a cellar stairway. As the hangman cursed and tried to run ahead, he slipped on the top step and fell into a slimy puddle of water. As he scrambled to his feet, he could feel a sticky liquid on his hands whose odor was all too familiar to him.

It was blood.

Somewhere he heard footsteps running away into the darkness. He looked around, squinting, and could just make out the vague outline of something lying at the bottom of the stairs.

“Whatever you are,” he gasped, “man or monster, come out!”

When nothing stirred, he carefully descended a few steps, where he found a body.

It was a young woman lying in her own blood.

“Jakob? Is that you?” a voice called. It was his brother, who had followed him and was now standing at the top of the stairs holding the lantern in his hand, swinging it back and forth. “What did you find down there?”

Jakob held the girl’s hand, trying in vain to feel a pulse.

“A corpse,” he whispered. “Still fresh. It looks like the poor woman’s throat has been slashed. There’s blood all over.”

“Damn. That’s all I need.” Slowly, climbing over the staves of the smashed beer barrel, Bartholomäus came down the steps. “Matthias, the old drunk, just took off. Now the two of us will have to report the matter in order not to look guilty ourselves, and I’ll have to explain to the city guards what I was doing out here in the middle of the night. Good God!” He stamped his foot angrily. “There are enough people already in the city council who are opposed to my engagement to Katharina and just waiting for a chance to get me. Why didn’t this drunken john find somewhere else to knock off his woman?”

“A drunken john? What makes you think he’s one of those?”

“Just come and have a look.” Bartholomäus was now standing alongside his brother on the narrow, slimy, moss-covered stairway. The entrance to the cellar was blocked by some roughhewn boards nailed together. Like many other buildings in the lane, the house seemed no longer occupied. Its windows were nothing but dark, gaping holes. The dead girl didn’t look more than sixteen or seventeen, with long red hair that encircled her head like a flame. She was wearing nothing but a simple, close-fitting linen dress, now torn and soaked with blood. Her throat was slit wide open and her eyes stared blankly into the night sky.

“Do you see the yellow scarf?” Bartholomäus pointed to a piece of cloth crumpled up in a corner. “The sign of the Bamberg prostitutes. The Green Market is nearby in the Rosengasse, and that’s where the prostitutes usually ply their trade. Evidently the girl and her client weren’t able to agree on the price.”

“And for that he slits her throat?”

Bartholomäus shrugged. “These things happen. In former days the executioner here in Bamberg was concerned about the prostitutes and protected them, but in recent years the women do that themselves. I keep telling them they ought to at least work under the protection of the whorehouse on Frauengasse, but some just want to work for themselves.” He examined the corpse. “I’m sure I’ve seen this one here before. Had her nose up in the air and took only rich clients.” He looked down at her with contempt. “Well, she certainly was pretty, and it’s too bad what happened to her.”

Jakob Kuisl bent down and scrutinized the cut on her throat. It wasn’t smooth but ragged, as if the wound had been inflicted by a heavy tool or a claw, and blood was still seeping out. The Schongau hangman noticed a strange, barely perceptible odor that reminded him of the urine of predatory animals and wet dogs.

“That’s strange,” he mumbled. “The wound is actually too large to have been made by a knife. It’s almost as if an animal—”

“Now you’re starting in with that, too!” Bartholomäus groaned.

Without answering him, Jakob took the lantern from his brother’s hand, went up the steps again, and examined the ground. He bent down and held up a piece of the young woman’s ripped clothing.

“She was probably attacked here,” he said to his brother, who had come along behind him. Jakob pointed to some prints in the muddy ground. “There was a struggle, the girl ran . . .” He hesitated. “No, that’s not right. Look at the marks on the ground here. Evidently the murderer struck her down, grabbed her by the arms . . .” He returned to the steps. “Then he carried her down the steps and calmly slit her throat. But this odor . . .” Kuisl shook his head, trying to figure out what it was. He couldn’t think what these smells reminded him of.

Except what was the most obvious, and at the same time the most improbable . . .

“What odor? I can’t smell anything—but you always had a better nose for these things.” Bartholomäus shook his head. “In any case, she’s dead. We’ll have to alert the guards.” He stumbled over one of the splintered staves. “Damn it, they’ll probably make us take the girl to the potter’s field outside the city in my cart. We’ll have to forget about the horse carcass,” he added, hobbling away. “So let’s get over to the guardhouse near city hall as soon as we can and let them know. The sooner we can get this behind us, the better.”

Jakob took a close look at his brother. He was puzzled about the rush. It seemed to him that for some reason Bartholomäus wanted to put this matter to rest as quickly as possible. Did he fear the criticism of the guards? Once again Jakob looked down the staircase, where the poor woman was lying in her own blood. Then, with a grim expression, he followed the light of his brother’s lantern.

It looked like they’d be transporting not a horse cadaver but the corpse of a young girl through the city. It couldn’t be said that the auspices for his brother’s wedding were favorable.

3

T
HE HOUSE OF THE
B
AMBERG HANGMAN
, MORNING
, O
CTOBER
27, 1668 AD

W
HEN MAGDALENA AWAKENED THE NEXT
morning, the sun was already shining brightly, warming her room on the second floor. Someone had opened the shutters wide, emptied the chamber pots, and strewn fresh herbs and reeds on the floor.

How long did I sleep
? she wondered as she yawned and opened her eyes.

She turned to Simon, whose snoring almost drowned out the sparrows chirping outside the window. Barbara was sleeping as well. The bed the two boys had slept in, however, was empty. Magdalena began to worry, but at that moment she heard happy laughter coming from downstairs. She also heard a soft, warm woman’s voice among them, plus the sound of clattering pots and an oven door squeaking as it was opened and closed. She rose to her feet carefully in order not to awaken her husband and her sister, washed her face quickly in the washbowl in the corner, straightened her tousled black hair, and then went downstairs to the living room.

“Mama, Mama!” Peter shouted, running toward her with outstretched arms. “Aunt Katharina is making us some porridge with lots and lots of honey, just as Grandma used to do.”

“Aunt Katharina?” Magdalena asked, puzzled. “Where . . .”

Only then did she see a woman standing out in the hallway by the stove, stirring a pot. She was sturdily built, heavy, and seemed a bit larger than life. She appeared to be wearing some woolen petticoats beneath her skirt and jacket, so that sweat ran down her slightly pasty, red face in streams.

The heavyset woman handed the stirring spoon to Paul, standing beside her in anticipation, and playfully shook her finger at him.

“Keep stirring,” she cautioned the boy, “or the porridge will stick to the bottom and the pigs will enjoy a second breakfast.”

Her hands had become sticky from the constant stirring, so she wiped them off on her apron and turned to Magdalena with a smile. She beamed with a warmth that made Magdalena like her immediately.

“You must be Jakob’s eldest daughter, Magdalena,” she began cheerily. “What a great pleasure that you have made the long trip to our wedding. I especially wanted you to come so we could all get acquainted. I must admit that Bartl scolded and grumbled at first,” she added with a smile. “He wanted to celebrate just with me and save all the money, but finally the stubborn old guy gave in. I told him I wouldn’t tolerate any discord within my future family, and a wedding celebration like this was a good chance to bury any disagreements, even though I still don’t know exactly what happened between the two old grumps.”

She tipped her head to one side and looked closely at Magdalena. “Well, I must say that you don’t take after the Kuisls. I had not expected such a beautiful woman.”

Magdalena laughed. “Then just wait until you meet my younger sister, Barbara. When the young fellows here in Bamberg see her, their eyes will pop out. Fortunately she inherited neither the nose nor the build of our father.” She grinned. “Only his feisty temper.”

“Oh . . . if she’s anything like your uncle, this will be an exciting week.” The chubby woman gave Magdalena a hearty kiss on both cheeks. “I’m Katharina, as you no doubt already know. Make yourself at home here. I hope I didn’t wake you up while I was airing out and cleaning up the rooms. It’s already after eight.” She flashed a big smile. “This house has been in need of a woman’s touch for some time—it urgently needs someone to get things in order.”

Magdalena sighed and rolled her eyes. “You’re telling me? Ever since my mother died, Father’s place is like a pigsty. Men should really not be alone for too long.” She looked around. “Where is Father, anyway?”

“He and Bartholomäus had to pay a visit early this morning to the town manager in city hall. It seems some poor woman was killed last night in a dark alleyway, and Bartholomäus and your father were witnesses. Georg is here, too,” she said, gesturing toward the living room. “But let’s not begin the day with such dark news. Drink this—it will get you moving again. It’s an old recipe of my grandmother’s, with crushed clove and a little pepper.” Katharina gave Magdalena a cup of steaming-hot mulled wine diluted with water. With an approving look, she pointed at little Peter sitting at the other end of the table, leafing through a book on anatomy. “Smart lad you’ve got there. Went straight to Bartl’s study, took out a big book, and has already told me some things about bloodletting and checking the urine.” She laughed. “Just like a little medicus. He must get that from his father.”

Magdalena nodded and took a gulp of the hot mulled wine. It tasted wonderful, both sharp and sweet, and not too strong. But she couldn’t help thinking of her father, evidently in trouble again.

Trying to change the subject, she asked, “When will the wedding take place?”

“This Sunday, in just five days. Just imagine, even though your uncle is the executioner here in Bamberg, the city gave him permission to use the wedding house—that’s the addition to the large tavern over in the harbor. They’ll give us the little room there. Nearly a hundred guests are invited.” Katharina smiled. “I assume my father made use of his influence with the city councilors. As you may know, he’s one of the city clerks.”

Magdalena nodded. It was, in fact, unusual that a hangman was allowed to celebrate his wedding just like any local shoemaker or tailor. In many parts of Germany, executioners were shunned; in the streets, people went out of their way to avoid them, believing that a hangman could bring misfortune with a single glance. Magdalena couldn’t help remembering what her brother Georg had said to her the previous evening.

You’d like it here, Sister.

Secretly she watched Katharina, who was now humming as she dashed through the room, sweeping cobwebs from the windows. Bartholomäus’s fiancée was in her midthirties, and it was a wonder she was still unmarried. Though Katharina wasn’t especially beautiful, and was clearly too fat, Magdalena could appreciate what her uncle saw in the woman. She was a good catch, strong and healthy, and her friendliness was genuine and contagious. Magdalena was surprised that such a nice person could tolerate a grouch like Bartholomäus.

But that’s just the way it was with Mother and Father,
it occurred to her, and she smiled mischievously.

“What are you thinking about?” Katharina asked, but at that moment the steps began to creak, and Simon and a sleepy-looking Barbara entered the room. Katharina greeted the new arrivals just as warmly as she had Magdalena, but then stopped when she smelled something burning.

“Oh, God, the porridge!” she cried out, running out into the hallway. “I shouldn’t have left the boy alone at the stove.”

Simon sat down at the table next to Magdalena, took a piece of bread, and dunked it in the wine.

“It seems she’s not an old battle-ax, as you suspected,” he said with a smile between bites, and gestured with his head toward Katharina.

Magdalena shook her head. “No, certainly not. Clearly Peter and Paul like their new aunt, too. At least, they haven’t played any tricks on her yet, and it’s already eight in the morning. That’s pretty unusual.” She grinned, but then her expression grew serious. “On the other hand, Father seems to have a problem.”

She quickly told Simon and Barbara what had happened to Jakob and Bartholomäus the night before.

Simon groaned and passed his hand through his hair. “It’s enough to drive you crazy. No sooner has your father come to town than the first cadaver shows up.”

“Oh, come now. There was one before we even set foot in town. True, they are attracted to him like bees to honey—but perhaps that’s the way it is for hangmen.”

Simon took another piece of the fresh, delicious-smelling bread that Katharina had no doubt baked earlier that morning. “Well, at least this time I assume he’s not suspected of being the perpetrator, like he was back in Regensburg,” he said with a full mouth. “That alone is progress.”

Magdalena remembered with horror her time in Regensburg, six years ago, when her father had been suspected of murder and was tortured, and could only be saved at the last moment. Shortly after that, she and Simon had married.

“I, for one, don’t want to sit around here all day waiting for Father and Uncle Bartholomäus,” said Barbara, who until then had been sitting listlessly, playing with her hair. “I want to see something of the city.” She turned to Magdalena and said in a pleading tone, “How about if we go down to the marketplace together?” Her eyes sparkled expectantly. “Please! I’ve never been to such a large city, and now in the light of day it doesn’t look as scary as it did last night.”

Magdalena gave her a conspiratorial wink. “I don’t see any reason not to. Unless . . .” With a questioning look she turned around to Katharina, who was just entering the room hand in hand with Paul, who had porridge smeared all over him. “Unless my future aunt needs me today to help with preparations for the wedding.”

Katharina waved her off with a laugh. “If you can do a little shopping for me, feel free to leave the boys here and go sightseeing in the city. I hear that my future brother-in-law needs some tobacco—which stinks at least as bad as burned porridge.” She opened a window to let the smell out. “Well, it looks like we’ll have to make a second breakfast.”

Simon quickly stood up and carefully looked through some books lying on the table next to Peter.

“Many thanks for the bread and wine, Katharina. If you don’t mind, I’ll take this chance to visit my old friend Samuel.” Magdalena frowned, but he looked to her with pleading eyes. “You know that I also came to Bamberg to see him. He’s now a respected physician—apparently he even treats the bishop himself. I hope I may be allowed to have a look at some books that have just been printed. There are a few interesting new theories about the circulation of blood . . .”

“Just stop.” Magdalena rolled her eyes with annoyance. “It would be nice if your interest in books brought in some money from time to time. Other bathhouse owners do bloodlettings without giving much thought to circulation.”

“Other bathhouse owners are quacks,” Simon replied bitterly.

“Now just stop fighting,” Katharina interrupted. “Enjoy the day, each of you in your own way. I don’t want to see any sad faces around me so soon before my wedding.” She led the two boys over into the pantry. “And you two can help me now to stir a new pot of porridge. Let’s see if we can find some more honey.”

Magdalena smiled at her younger sister. “It looks like this could turn out to be a nice day.” She stood up and buttoned her bodice. “Well, then, come along before there’s nothing left to buy but mushy cabbage leaves.”

Jakob Kuisl’s stomach growled so loudly he thought for a moment some monster had crept up behind him. It was late in the afternoon and several hours since he’d had his last skimpy meal. He stopped for a moment, wiped the sweat from his brow, and now, cursing under his breath, went back to helping his brother pull the filthy, foul-smelling cart through one more narrow lane along the city moat.

He wanted more than anything else just to sit back and smoke his pipe, but they’d been working since early morning and hadn’t returned to the hangman’s house, where his future sister-in-law would, he hoped, be awaiting him with the promised tobacco.

It had been a long night. They’d followed their orders and taken the corpse of the young prostitute to the office of the city guards, but the captain on duty, by the name of Martin Lebrecht, was not available. They’d first tried to see him earlier that morning, to inform him of what had happened in the night, but he was suddenly busy with other things. Jakob had the vague feeling that the guards, and especially their captain, had something to hide. Finally he’d left with Bartholomäus and Georg to take the dead horse out of town. Georg had stayed in the Bamberg Forest to flay and butcher the carcass, while Jakob and Bartholomäus brought the empty cart to city hall, where the two executioners would finally be cross-examined as witnesses.

After a few more bends and dead ends, Bartholomäus reached a shed near the river and pushed the cart in between two rotted boats stacked inside. He wiped his hands on his apron and headed for the nearby stone bridge that led straight to the city hall.

“The shed belongs to Answin, the rag collector, who delivers his goods to the paper mill farther down the river,” Bartholomäus explained. “We’re good friends. The cart can stay there for a while,” he said with a grin. “The noble gentlemen aren’t so happy to see us and our filthy work, and only wish we could make ourselves invisible.” He cast a critical eye at Jakob. “You should wash off a bit in the river before we go to the city hall. It’s quite possible my future father-in-law will be there. As one of the assistant clerks, he sometimes helps out in the guardhouse. It won’t put our family in a very good light if he sees you like this.”

“That’s all I need—my little brother telling me when to take a bath,” Jakob growled, and he kept stomping forward. “Nobody asked me to give them a report, and if the gentlemen want to question me, then they’ll just have to smell me as well.”