“I have not blasphemed God,” said Jaspar calmly.
“You blaspheme Him by blaspheming His servants.”
“Is not the opposite rather the case? Is it not His servants who blaspheme Him by telling lies?”
Justinius opened his mouth, pumped his lungs full of air and swallowed. “I see no point in continuing this discussion,” he said between clenched teeth. “Never before have I been so offended, so insulted, so…so humiliated!”
He turned on his heel and left in high dudgeon. Andreas flashed Jaspar a quick glance and made to follow.
“One hundred gold marks,” Jaspar said, more to himself.
Andreas was rooted to the spot. Jaspar turned to face him, his index finger on the tip of his nose. “Was it that much?”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” replied Andreas sullenly, but with an undertone of uncertainty.
“I’m talking about money, reverend Brother. Since you are obviously unwilling to help me formulate my offer, I can only guess.”
“What offer?”
“Twice what Gerhard’s murderer paid you.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” insisted Andreas, but stayed where he was.
“We both know whom I’m talking about, the tall man with long hair. Tell me, have the pair of you thought how you are going to justify your paid lie on Judgment Day? The Devil and his minions are looking over our shoulders, Brother, every day. Counting every syllable missed out during the anthems, every minute slept during the sermon. Now just imagine: not only do I absolve you of your grievous sin, as my office permits me, within certain limits, but you come out of the affair both purified and enriched.”
Andreas was staring. His fingers clenched. “God will reward me,” he said, not very convincingly.
“I know, Brother,” said Jaspar soothingly, patting Andreas on the cheek. “But God will be unhappy, to say the least, with the fact that you have shielded a murderer and accepted bloodstained money. Money can be washed clean, of course, but can you wash your soul clean? Is not our first reward that purgatory of which Saint Paul says it is a fire that shall try every man’s work, of what sort it is? Does not Boniface tell us of the terrible pits of scorching fire we must pass through on our way to the heavenly kingdom to decide who will arrive purified on the other side and who will descend into the sunless abyss? Do you want to burn eternally for your sins, Andreas, when I am offering you the chance of atonement and a reward into the bargain?”
Andreas looked to the side as he considered this. “How much will my remorse be worth?” he asked.
“How much were you given?”
“Ten gold marks.”
“Only ten?” Jaspar said in amazement. “You sold your souls too cheaply. What do you say to twenty?”
Now Andreas looked at him. “Each?”
“Hmm. All right, it’s a promise. But for that I want the truth.”
“The money first.”
“Not so fast.” Jaspar jerked his thumb in the direction Justinius had gone. “What about your friend?”
“Justinius? For twenty gold marks he’d admit to the murder of the eleven thousand virgins.”
Jaspar smiled. “Better and better. And just so there’s no misunderstanding: I want the truth. Then a statement to the city council so that no more innocent people are killed. Your stupid lie has had unfortunate consequences. I give you my word that I will purify your soul and”—he gave Andreas a wink—“your purse.”
Andreas looked around nervously. Monks and pilgrims kept passing, though none came too close. But the curiosity on the faces of the monks, especially the younger brethren, was unmistakable. They were always curious, about everyone and everything.
“Not here and not now,” he decided.
“Where then?”
“After mass Justinius and I were going to the bathhouse opposite Little St. Martin’s for, er, for a good wash.”
The bathhouse opposite Little St. Martin’s had a number of facilities on offer, none of which contributed to the purification of the soul. Jaspar was well aware of this. Too often his weak flesh drew him to the establishment, where every attempt was made to reward it for its weakness.
“When shall I be there?” he asked.
“Ah.” Andreas’s lips curved in a slight smile. “First we need a period of quiet contemplation to thank God for the invigorating effects of hot water and massage—I mean foot baths. Come around midday, and bring the money. We’ll be undisturbed there.”
“A good idea, Brother,” said Jaspar. “May I give you a piece of advice?”
“If you wish.”
“Don’t think you’re cleverer than you are.”
THE TOWN HALL
The bells of the old cathedral were striking ten.
With all the dignity he could muster, Bodo entered the great meeting room of the house where the citizens meet, as it was carved in Latin above the door. He threw back his shoulders and went to join the group who were talking together in low voices.
“Ah, Herr Schuif,” said one. “And what’s your opinion?”
“About what?” asked Bodo.
“About the murders in Berlich and by the Duck Ponds?”
“Not exactly the most shining examples of Christian living,” said another, “but men and women all the same.”
“My initial opinion,” said Bodo, “is that they’re dead. Are there suspects?”
“There are always people willing to accuse others,” replied the first. “But we have to be careful. I remember the old council had a man broken on the wheel who had been accused of being a werewolf. Afterward it turned out his only crime was staying alive too long for his heirs.”
Knowing laughter and conspiratorial looks were the response.
“Things are not always as they seem,” remarked the first magistrate.
“And do not always seem the way they are,” the second added with a sage nod.
“Quite right.” Bodo saw his chance to impress. “Take the case of Gerhard Morart. I had a very interesting talk with an old friend this morning. He was asking me about the names of those two witnesses. You know, the two mendicants who saw him fall. An accident, say some. He jumped, possessed by the Devil, others think more probable.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “But my old friend was hinting at a third possibility, although propriety or perhaps caution prevented him from saying right out what he thought.”
“And what,” drawled the first magistrate, “might he have been hinting at?”
“I didn’t press him. It was only going over his words later that it struck me. I think what he was suggesting was that at least Gerhard was not responsible for his own death.”
“Who was, then? The Devil?”
“No. At least not directly.”
“Don’t keep us on tenterhooks.”
“Well.” Bodo cocked his head self-importantly. “What if someone pushed him…?”
“Murder?” The other magistrate laughed out loud and shook his head. “Is your friend right in the head? Two upright men in holy orders tell us it was an accident, they even heard his confession—”
“And we questioned the two for a long time,” added the second. “If someone had pushed Gerhard, then presumably they would have seen it and told us.”
“I know. Nevertheless.”
“Somewhat far-fetched, Herr Schuif. Did your friend really talk of murder?”
Bodo hesitated. “Not as such,” he admitted.
“But you suspect that’s what he had in mind?”
“I know Jaspar. He likes to talk in riddles. Often I can’t understand him. This time, though—”
The other cut him short. “This time we will proceed to the meeting, where we have more important matters to discuss.” He seemed to have lost interest.