Simon nodded. “Yes, but unfortunately I couldn’t make any sense of the writing.”
“Hebrew,” the hangman replied brusquely. “The old language of the Jews. I saw a book like that one time. I wonder what the abbot was looking for in it?”
“Well, Maurus Rambeck was at the Benedictine University in Salzburg for many years and is known for his studies of ancient languages,” Simon replied. “Perhaps we just disturbed him in his work.”
“Ha! Work? Judging by his looks he’s up to his neck in some sort of trouble. He was as pale as someone heading for his own execution-I know about such things.” Kuisl ran down the stairway, taking care not to step on the hem of his robe. “So come now before His Excellency changes his mind and wants us to celebrate evening mass with him.”
“Where… where are you headed so fast, Kuisl?” Simon whispered, running after the hangman.
“Where else?” Jakob Kuisl turned. Despite the darkness under his hood, Simon could briefly see his eyes sparkle. “To see the ugly Nepomuk, of course. After all, we haven’t seen each other for thirty years. And in the meantime, you can have another look at the two corpses. Perhaps you can find something you haven’t noticed yet.”
Kuisl squeezed the pearls of the rosary in his hands as if they were thumb screws. “I swear to you I’ll find the person trying to make a scapegoat of my old friend,” he said softly. “And by God, then he can be glad I’m not the executioner in this district but just a hangman in a lousy monk’s costume.”
With the hood pulled far down over his face, Jakob Kuisl stomped off toward the monastery dairy where his friend Nepomuk was still held prisoner. By now the sun was a red ball sinking into the clouds west of Lake Ammer. The air suddenly turned cooler, so that the hangman began to feel a chill under the thin robe. Once more he cursed his son-in-law for this idea, even though he now secretly conceded it might work. In just a moment he’d find out just how good Simon’s idea was.
Two watchmen were standing around the entrance to the farm, and Kuisl could see right away they really weren’t professionals-likely hunters drafted by the monastery for guard duty. Dressed in green capes, they leaned on their muskets, looking bored and staring into the sky where the evening star was just setting. Torches were burning in iron pots to the left and right of the door. When the two watchmen heard the hangman coming, they jumped to attention.
“Who goes there?” called one of them, a stout man with the beginnings of a bald spot.
“The Lord be with you and illumine your way,” Kuisl grumbled and, in the next moment, felt strangely ridiculous. He felt as if the word hangman was burned onto his forehead, but the two watchmen relaxed and nodded to him amiably.
“Greetings, Brother,” the fat man replied. “And thank you for your blessing, though a chicken leg would also be very welcome.” He giggled softly. Seeing Kuisl’s white cord, his laughter stopped suddenly. “Just a moment. You are…”
“An itinerant Franciscan, indeed,” the hangman said, completing the sentence. “The hapless Brother inside there wants to confess. The abbot himself sent me.”
“I see, but why doesn’t one of our monks do that?” the younger watchman interrupted. “And by the way, who are you? I’ve never seen you here before.”
“Because I’m an itinerant Franciscan, you damn fool,” Kuisl whispered. He closed his eyes briefly, realizing his words were out of character. The guards looked back at him in astonishment.
“Do you really think one of the Benedictines would take confession from the poor creature in there?” Kuisl continued in a gentler tone. “Don’t forget, he killed three of their Brothers. But please go and ask the abbot,” he added, pointing to the light in the second-floor room of the monastery. “I was just with him. Brother Maurus is brooding as so often over his old books. Just don’t speak so loudly to him-His Excellency has a severe headache today.”
“That’s… that’s all right,” the fat man said, patting his colleague reassuringly on the shoulder. Clearly he had no desire to pester a busy abbot suffering from a headache. “We’ll stand right outside the door,” he mumbled. “You won’t take off with the monster,” he laughed nervously; then he pushed the heavy wooden bolt aside and permitted the hangman to pass. Kuisl took one of the torches from the wall and shuffled into the dark dungeon.
“May the Lord bless you,” he grumbled, “and shove your musket up your butt, you wise-ass dirty bastard,” he added softly enough that the guards outside couldn’t hear him.
As soon as the hangman entered the room, he was confronted with the sharp odor of old cheese and the stench of urine and other garbage. On shelves along the wall stood frayed baskets, and beneath them cowered a figure in a torn robe. When the ugly Nepomuk heard the sound of the sliding bolt, he was startled and struggled to his feet. His face was still swollen from the blows dealt by his pursuers. He blinked at his visitor with his good eye but wasn’t able to see much at first due to the sudden brightness.
“Are you sending me a father confessor already?” he croaked. “Then we can spare ourselves the annoyance of a trial, can’t we? It’s just as well. At least then I won’t be put on the rack before you burn me.”
“Nobody’s going to put you on the rack,” Kuisl whispered. “And somebody else will burn for this. I’ll see to that.”
“Who… who are you?” Nepomuk Volkmar now sat up all the way. He held his hand over his eyes to shield them from the bright light so that he could get a better look at the huge Franciscan monk standing before him. Suddenly Kuisl threw his hood back, and Nepomuk let out a cry.
“My God, Jakob,” he gasped. “Is it really you? After all these years? Then my prayers really have been heard.”
“If you keep shouting like that, you’ll soon be saying your last prayer,” Kuisl whispered. “For God’s sake, keep quiet before the two idiots out there become suspicious.” Without further explanation, he started murmuring words in a monotone.
“Ventram porcinum. Bene exinanies, aceto et sale, postea aqua lavas, et sie hanc impensam imples…”
Nepomuk Volkmar was puzzled. “Why are you giving me a recipe in Latin for cooking pig’s stomach?”
“Because that’s all that I can think of at the moment, numbskull,” Kuisl whispered. “It comes from a big old dog-eared volume in my attic. The watchmen think I’m taking your confession, so just keep your mouth shut.”
He kept mumbling for a while, speaking softer and softer until finally he fell silent. A broad grin spread over his face.
“You haven’t gotten any better looking in the last thirty years,” Kuisl finally said, pressing his friend to his broad chest in a warm embrace.
“And you’re not getting any thinner,” Nepomuk groaned. “And if you grab hold of me like that I won’t need a rack.” He lowered his head and started to sob softly. “But what difference does it make? If something doesn’t happen soon, it would be better if you just crushed me to death right now.”
Kuisl let him go and sat down on an overturned wooden crate. “You’re right,” he grumbled. “We don’t have much time for memories-we can do that later over a glass of wine when this is all finished. All right?” He smiled and beckoned Nepomuk to come closer. “But do tell me what happened. Remember that, if I’m to help you, I have to know the whole truth. Up to now all I know is what Magdalena tells me, and she sometimes piles it on pretty thick.”
Kuisl summarized in brief what his daughter and Simon had told him that noon. Then he looked expectantly at his friend, waiting for his reply. “Tell me, Nepomuk,” he growled. “Do you have anything to do with these murders? You know it is no disgrace to kill someone: the two of us have done that often enough. But the law was always on our side.” His face darkened. “The law, or the war.”