“Aha,” said Jaspar. “Then they’ll be staying with their fellow Benedictines?”
“No, they’re lodging at St. Gereon’s, if you must know. Why do you want to know, anyway?”
“There’s a lot more I want to know. I’d be interested in their names.”
“Well, why not? One was called—just a moment—Justus? Brother Justus or Justinius? Can’t quite remember. The other’s an Andreas von Helmerode. I can’t for the life of me think why you want to know all this, but then you always were a mystery. My wife says with all your questions you’ll eat your way right through history. And when you come out the other side, you’ll see it’s just the same.”
“As I said, just curiosity.” Jaspar stood up. “Thanks for the beer. Perhaps you’ll come around for a jug of wine sometime?”
“Love to. When my official duties give me time.”
“I have a suggestion. Make time.”
Schuif furrowed his brow, obviously trying to work this out. Jaspar patted him on the shoulder and hurried out without a further word.
When he entered the pilgrim’s hostel of St. Gereon it was full of bustle. This was nothing unusual. Cologne attracted large numbers of pilgrims, which was hardly surprising given the presence of important relics such as the bones of the Three Kings.
St. Gereon itself boasted the bones of its patron saint, as well as those of St. Gregorius Marcus and his followers. Not long ago the fourth-century Roman atrium, on which the site was based, had been converted into imposing cloisters and the hostel had been opened the previous year. St. Gereon was a beautiful building and Jaspar took a little time to wander around the cloisters.
A monk came hurrying toward him, a bundle of scrolls under his arm. “Excuse me,” Jaspar called out.
The monk started and crossed himself, dropping half his scrolls in the process. Jaspar bent down to pick them up.
“No!” The monk pushed him away and grabbed the scrolls.
“I was just trying to help.”
“Of course. It was my fault. Brother—?”
“Jaspar Rodenkirchen, physician and dean of St. Mary Magdalene’s.”
“Brother Jaspar, these scrolls must only be touched by those authorized.”
“Of whom you are one, I assume?”
“Precisely. Can I be of assistance?”
“Perhaps you can. I’m looking for the two monks who were witnesses when God called Gerhard Morart to Him. One was called Andreas von Helmerode and the other’s name could have been Justus—”
“Justinius von Singen!” The monk nodded eagerly. “We have the honor of entertaining them under our unworthy roof. They saw him when he was called to his Maker, but I must say, I think it was a damned shame he had to die.”
“Brother!” exclaimed Jaspar in horrified tones.
Shocked at his unconscious blasphemy, the monk was going to cross himself again, but restrained himself just in time. “God’s will be done,” he said.
“On earth as it is in heaven.” Jaspar nodded, a severe look on his face. “I don’t want to keep you from your important business any longer, Brother, so if you could just tell me where I can find Andreas and Justinius—”
“I will send a novice to fetch them.”
The monk turned and passed through an archway. A short while later Jaspar saw a spotty boy in a novice’s habit shoot out and disappear into the building opposite. After a time he reappeared, followed by two monks who clearly belonged to the mendicant orders.
“There’s the man who wants to speak to you,” he muttered shyly, head bowed. He stumbled backward along the cloisters for a few yards, then turned and ran off full tilt.
“Andreas von Helmerode? Justinius von Singen?”
The pair looked at each other uncertainly. “I am Justinius,” said the shorter, fatter of the two. “But who are you?”
Jaspar slapped his forehead. “You must excuse me for forgetting to introduce myself. I am dean of St. Mary Magdalene’s. A good friend of Gerhard Morart. They say you saw the tragic accident from quite close to—”
The suspicion vanished from the monks’ faces. They had answered this kind of question often enough. Justinius came closer and spread his arms wide. “Like a bird he was in the sight of the Lord,” he declaimed. “As his body approached the earth, from which it came and to which it will return, his spirit rose in glory to be united with the All Highest. As Saint Paul says in his letter to the Philippians, Seek those things which are above, where Christ sitteth on the right hand of God.”
Jaspar nodded and smiled. “Beautifully put,” he said. “Though is it not in Colossians where we find those comforting words, while in Philippians it says, For our conversation is in heaven?”
The smile froze on the fat monk’s lips. “Yes, that is possible. For the ways of the Lord are unfathomable and Holy Writ more often than not perverted by irresponsible translators, to the confusion of honest seekers after truth.”
Andreas hastened to back him up. “It doesn’t affect the sense of the words.”
“No indeed, and it is a comfort to me,” said Jaspar, going over to a window from which the monastery’s magnificent orchard could be seen, “to know that you were with Gerhard when he died. Reports say you even heard his confession?”
“Oh, certainly.”
“And gave him extreme unction?”
Andreas gave him a funny look. “How could we have given him extreme unction since we didn’t have the oil with us? Had we known—”
“Which we didn’t,” Justinius interjected.
“Now I find that surprising,” said Jaspar softly.
“You do?”
“Yes, since you both knew very well that Gerhard Morart was to die at that time on that evening, as the murderer had told you.”
It was as if the two had looked back at the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah.
“What is more,” Jaspar went on, unmoved, “you also knew beforehand what you were to say afterward. Is that not so?”
“You are—you—” gasped Justinius.
“You must be mistaken, Brother,” Andreas quickly broke in. “I am sure you have good reason to make these accusations, these, yes, vile accusations, but you’ve got the wrong persons. We are but two humble servants in the vineyard of the Lord. And you are not an inquisitor.”
“Yes, yes, I know. And you are committed to the ideal of Saint Benedict.”
“Absolutely!”
“Absolutely,” repeated Justinius, wiping the sweat from his brow.
Jaspar smiled and started to walk up and down. “We all subscribe to Benedict’s interpretation of the poverty of Christ and His disciples,” he said, “and we are quite right to do so. But it sometimes seems to me that the hunger that accompanies it—and I mean the hunger for everything: life, whores, roast pork—causes certain rumblings in our pious bellies. I’m sure you know what I mean. Being a mendicant entails accepting alms—”
“But not for one’s personal possession,” insisted Justinius.
“Of course not. You have taken on the ideal of poverty and devoted your whole lives to the praise of the Lord and the well-being of Christendom. Nevertheless, could it not be that someone came and offered special alms for, let us say, a special service?”
“‘Special services’ can cover a multitude of sins,” said Justinius, cautiously if not inappropriately.
“It can?” Jaspar brought his perambulation to an end right in front of the two monks. “Then let me be more specific. I’m talking of the ‘alms’ you were paid to present Gerhard’s murder as an accident.”
“Outrageous!” roared Andreas.
“Blasphemy!” screeched Justinius.