“For God’s sake, what is that?” she groaned, wiping her mouth. She was still dazed, but she could at least think somewhat clearly again.
“Ephedra, enzian, and a broth made from those brown beans Simon has,” her father grumbled. “Actually, I wanted to take the tonic to Hans Kohlberger because his wife is always so tired and just sits around staring out the window. But it will do for you, too.”
Magdalena shuddered. “It tastes horrible, but it helps.”
She made a face at first, but then suddenly turned serious. What was the matter with her? She could just barely remember sitting down at the table and drinking a beer. She had felt more and more lightheaded. Then she joined the workers dancing, but at this point, her memory blurred. Was it possible that someone poured something into her beer? Or had she just had too much to drink? She didn’t want to worry her father, so she remained silent and just put up with his lecture, which was now reaching its climax.
“It was disgraceful, shameless, the way you behaved in there, you hussy! What are people to think? You…you…” He took a deep breath, trying to calm down a bit.
“Oh, people…” she muttered. “Let the people talk. I’m just the hangman’s daughter; they’ll talk about me, anyway.”
“And Simon?” he growled. “What do you think Simon will have to say about that?”
“Oh, you can just stop with Simon!” she replied, turning her head aside.
The hangman grinned. “Aha, I see that’s what this is all about. Well, you won’t get your Simon back acting like that.”
He didn’t want to tell her he had lent his horse to Simon for the trip to Steingaden with Benedikta, so he switched the topic. “Did you learn anything about the church?”
Magdalena nodded and told him what she had heard from Balthasar Hemerle and the tavern keeper Strasser.
The hangman seemed to mull this over. “I think I have seen one of those monks already…”
“Where?” Magdalena asked, curious.
Her father turned away suddenly and started marching off in the direction of Schongau. “What does it matter?” he grumbled. “What does it matter to us who killed Koppmeyer? Your mother was right when she said that’s no business of ours. Let’s go home and eat.”
Magdalena ran after him and seized him by the shoulders.
“No, you don’t!” she shouted. “I want to know what happened there. Koppmeyer was poisoned! There’s a dusty old grave in the crypt and some strangers prowling around the area, speaking in Latin or some other secret language. What does it all mean? You can’t just go home and put your feet up by the fire.”
“Oh yes I can,” Jakob Kuisl said, marching forward.
Suddenly, Magdalena’s voice became soft and cold. “And suppose they pick up some innocent man for Koppmeyer’s murder and throw him in the dungeon? Just like they did back then with Stechlin?” Magdalena knew this was a sore spot for her father. “It was really poison that killed the priest, wasn’t it?” she added. “So it’s quite possible they’ll have you torture someone, just like the midwife the last time, only because she knew something about poison. Is that what you want?”
The hangman stopped in his tracks. For a while, the only sound that could be heard was the cawing of a crow.
“Very well,” he said finally. “We’ll have another look around the Saint Lawrence Church. Right away. Only so you’ll be able to sleep soundly again.”
The stranger watched the two as they walked down the main street toward the St. Lawrence Church. He struggled to calm himself by reciting the Lord’s Prayer. His plan had failed. He was dying to pry information out of the hangman’s girl about what her father had found in the crypt.
Magdalena…
A distant memory flashed through his mind, then vanished.
He shook his head. He would have to talk again with this clerk. After all, he had paid good money to make sure the hangman stayed out of their way. It certainly appeared now that this stinking butcher from Schongau could do as he pleased.
Under his black coat and white tunic, the man fingered a golden cross that hung directly over his heart. He would need strength. His brotherhood had never approved of the common folk learning to read-you could see what that led to. The people became rebellious and didn’t do what they were supposed to. He had learned in the tavern that the hangman, despite his origins, was smart and educated, and that made him dangerous. More dangerous, in any case, than that nosey little doctor’s assistant who kept running after his master like a little poodle.
The stranger kissed the cross and put it back under his tunic. He had made a decision: He couldn’t rely on the clerk; he would have to act himself. They would get rid of the hangman at once. The danger that he would meddle in their affairs was too great. Now the man would have to tell the others.
The sound of his steps was muffled by the soft, powdery snow.
The hangman and his daughter walked toward the St. Lawrence Church, its wind-battered tower almost obscured by rising clouds of fog in the gathering darkness. Though there was no wind, it was bitter cold. Magdalena could see light from torches inside the rectory through slits in the shutters. The housekeeper and the sexton were evidently still awake. Jakob Kuisl headed directly toward the church while Magdalena tugged nervously at his arm.
“Look over there,” she whispered, pointing at the church.
The door to the church was chained shut, but for a moment the light from a torch appeared in the windows. It was just a brief flicker, but Kuisl had seen it clearly.
“What in God’s name…?” he grumbled. He walked around the church, Magdalena at his heels. They discovered fresh footprints leading from the cemetery gate toward the apse.
The hangman stooped to examine the footprints. “There are two of them,” he whispered. “Solid shoes, good boots. They’re not workers or farmers from around here.” His eyes followed the footprints, which led to a shaky scaffold the workmen had constructed back in autumn and, high above, to a church window that had been forced open.
“We need to go and get help,” Magdalena said anxiously.
Her father laughed softly to himself. “Who shall we ask? Magda? The skinny sexton?” He walked over to the scaffolding. “I’ll have to deal with it myself,” he said, turning around once again to look at Magdalena.
“You stay here, do you understand? No matter what happens. If I’m still inside when the bells toll again, you can go and get help if you want. But not before.”
“Shouldn’t I come along with you?”
“Nothing doing. You’re no help to me. Go and hide behind the gravestones and wait for me to come back.”
That said, he began to climb the bars of the scaffolding. It creaked and swayed, but it held. In a short while, the hangman reached the second platform and was working his way across the icy boards to the window that had been forced open. Then he slipped inside.
Though darkness was just beginning to fall outside, it was already pitch black in the church. Jakob Kuisl squinted; it took a while for his eyes to get accustomed to the dark. He could feel the smooth, freshly planed flooring of the balcony beneath his feet and hear hammering and whispering voices from somewhere below. Finally, he could vaguely make out the flooring and walls of the church. Just one look showed that the mason, Peter Baumgartner, had spoken the truth-up here in the balcony, the wall was emblazoned with the red cross pattées of the Templars. The crosses had recently been painted over, but in a few places someone had taken the trouble to wipe off the white lime wash.
As if he wanted to check to see what was behind it, the hangman thought.