A yellow line on the horizon quickly approaching… Drums and fifes, then the shouts of men breaking rank to become individual soldiers. The enemy mercenaries running toward them with long pikes, swords, and daggers; behind them the closed ranks of the musketeers, the flash from the muzzles, the moaning and wailing of the injured and dying… Jakob smells the gunpowder; he looks over at Nepomuk, and sees the fear in his eyes. But he sees something else: a beastly gleam, a blackness deep as the pit of hell, and suddenly Jakob notices he’s looking into a mirror.
What he sees there is the joy of killing.
Jakob shakes himself, reaches for his sword, and strides out to meet the screaming enemy. Calmly and precisely, he performs a task he never wants to repeat.
The job of a hangman.
Jakob slammed the trunk shut as if he could block out the spirits he’d just awakened in this way. As he wiped his forehead, he noticed it was damp with cold sweat.
Raindrops ran like tears down the panes of the bull’s-eye glass in the Andechs Monastery tavern.
Simon stared out into the growing gloom as a ghostly group of singing forms ascended the mountain for evening mass. Magdalena had also decided to attend mass to thank God for the recovery of her two children the year before. That was, after all, the reason she and Simon had come to Andechs.
The medicus sighed softly. This pilgrimage was turning into a real nightmare. It wasn’t just that they were once again caught up in a murder case or that his grouchy father-in-law would be arriving soon. Now more and more pilgrims were coming down with a strange fever that brought on weariness, headaches, and stomach cramps. Could this be the same sickness Magdalena had suffered?
Simon had fulfilled the abbot’s request and spent the entire day treating patients in a building adjoining the monastery. Three or four cases had grown to a full dozen now, many of the patients showing red spots on their chests or grayish-yellow tongues. He treated the first patients free of charge, but in the course of the day had begun asking for a few coins, at least from the better-off patients.
Now he had turned some of his earnings into a pitcher of hot mulled wine. While Simon drank, he listened to the clatter in the kitchen and brooded. In vain he tried to make sense of the strange events of the last two days.
Just as he was pouring himself a new cup, someone touched him on the shoulder. He turned around to find himself looking directly into the grinning face of the Schongau burgomaster. In contrast to their last meeting in the tavern, Karl Semer was extremely friendly this time.
“Fronwieser!” he exclaimed, as if greeting an old friend. “It’s good I’ve found you here. I hear that the abbot put you in charge of looking into these terrible murders. Is that correct?”
Simon grew suspicious. The burgomaster was cheerful like this only when he wanted something. “Could be,” he muttered. “Why do you want to know?”
“Well…” Semer made a dramatic pause, then sat down next to Simon and beckoned to the innkeeper. “Some of the Tokay we had yesterday.” he ordered gruffly. “Two glasses, and quick.”
After the innkeeper brought the wine, bowing profusely, Semer paused, then began again in a whisper. “All these events are most unfortunate. Among the pilgrims, there’s already talk of witchcraft-they say a puppet has come to life and is shuffling through the monastery killing monks.” He laughed under his breath. “What nonsense. But fortunately, you have the perpetrator already, don’t you? They say it’s the ugly apothecary. Can we therefore-uh-reckon with a trial soon?”
“The investigation isn’t yet complete,” Simon replied curtly. “It’s not certain Brother Johannes is really the culprit. The abbot is requesting a few days to think it over before he informs the district judge in Weilheim.”
Karl Semer waved him off. “Pure waste of time, if you ask me. It was the apothecary; that’s as sure as the amen in the church. It would be better to burn him now than later.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Well, I… have my sources.” The burgomaster smiled broadly. “I know that the monster’s eyepiece was found at the scene. He fled. And moreover…” He leaned forward with a conspiratorial look. “Since then, the prior had the apothecary’s cupboard searched and found a number of forbidden medicines that suggest the practice of witchcraft-belladonna, henbane, thornapple, also that notorious red powder obtained from the mummies of executed men…”
Simon rolled his eyes. “Belladonna in small doses is very useful in curing fever, and henbane is something that quite a few monks have mixed in their beer in the past, and still do.”
“Aha, and the red powder? Tell me about the red powder.”
“Burgomaster, may I ask why you are so keen on seeing the monk burned at the stake?” Instinctively, Simon recoiled from Semer. The medicus still hadn’t touched the glass of wine in front of him.
“Isn’t that obvious?” Semer hissed. “The Festival of the Three Hosts is in exactly six days, and crowds of pilgrims will be coming to the Holy Mountain. What do you think will happen if the culprit isn’t caught before then?”
“Let me guess,” Simon replied. “A rumor would go around about an automaton that’s murdering people, fewer pilgrims would come, and you’d be left with a lot of unsold candles, votive pictures, and wine carafes. Is that right?”
The burgomaster cringed. “Who told you that…” he flared up, before getting control of himself again. “All I care about is the welfare of the pilgrims,” he whined. “Look, Fronwieser-what would our Savior have to say about fear and terror on the Holy Mountain?” He shook his head regretfully. “It really would be best if you could convince the abbot to wrap up the case before the festival next Sunday.” He looked at him solicitously. “We’ll take care of you financially. I have powerful allies who are certainly ready to pay-”
Abruptly, Simon stood up from the table. “Thank you for your time, Burgomaster,” he said softly. “But unfortunately I have another report to prepare for the abbot. In addition, we expect the arrival of my father-in-law tomorrow, so there’s a lot to do.”
Semer’s face drained of color. “Kuisl?” he whispered. “But… but why is he coming here?”
“You wanted a hangman, didn’t you?” Simon replied with a smile. “One is coming, and he’s the best and cleverest damn hangman in the Priests’ Corner. He’ll certainly be able to solve these murders. And besides…” He shrugged. “If anyone needs to go on a pilgrimage, it’s an executioner, isn’t it? Now, farewell.”
Simon pushed the untouched wine glass back to Semer and headed for the door. The burgomaster could only sit there, astonished.
Finally, he reached for his glass and downed the wine in one gulp.
Shaking, Magdalena pulled her thin woolen shawl tight around her shoulders. In the cold abbey, she was finding it difficult to concentrate on the prayers, and the queasy feeling of the last few days came back. All she could do was hope this feeling had nothing to do with the sickness going around the monastery these days.
In the hopelessly overcrowded building, it was as cold and damp as a cave-even on this June evening. A strong wind whistled through the roof of the south wing, which had been only temporarily patched, and gusts in the high, pointed windows were so loud they sometimes drowned out the Latin murmuring of the mass. This was of little concern to most of the pilgrims and local parishioners, however, as they couldn’t understand the words in any case. But they listened reverently to the homily by Abbot Rambeck, who was performing the mass today himself.
The reason for the special mass today was the people sitting in the first rows of the congregation. Count Wartenberg sat with his family under a carved baldachin. Two pale, chubby children yawned and passed the time playing around while their young mother kept trying to quiet them. The older boy was perhaps eight, and the younger one sat sucking his thumb on the lap of the pert young countess. The count, a man in his forties with bushy eyebrows and a sharp, arrogant gaze, looked around the church as if wondering what could be confiscated next for the Wittelsbach treasury.