“My God. Juliet!” Magdalena exclaimed. “Of course, it was Juliet, or Romeo.”
Simon looked at her, puzzled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Magdalena, but let me tell you there was no one-”
“Not people, but ferrets.” She laughed and turned to the others, who stared at her in confusion. “Markus Salter has two tame ferrets-Romeo and Juliet. Some time ago, Romeo ran away-at least, that’s what he told me. But suppose he infected Romeo or Juliet with this rabies and somehow smuggled them into Harsee’s room. Would that be possible?”
Simon let out a loud groan. “A ferret, damn it! It actually could have been a ferret. Probably Salter gave it an animal to eat that had just died of rabies. There is no guard at the suffragan bishop’s house, and it would certainly be possible for someone to slip in at night and put a sick ferret in the bedroom. Later, the animal could disappear through a crack in the wall or a mouse hole. What a devilish plan.”
“And now Salter has probably got his hands on Hieronymus,” Jakob grumbled. “He’s the last one on the committee, so if we don’t act fast, then-”
“Father. .,” Georg interrupted in a soft voice.
“Damn it,” Jakob snapped. “Haven’t I told you a thousand times not to interrupt your father? It seems Bartholomäus hasn’t taught you any manners in the last two years.”
“How can you ever expect the boy to learn if you talk to him like that?” Bartholomäus shot back. “You treat him just the way you did me. But I’m not going to let you get away-”
“Quiet! Both of you!”
Georg had pounded the lectern so hard that the documents nearly fell to the floor. Then he turned angrily to his astonished father and the equally astonished Bartholomäus.
“I’m sick and tired of your endless squabbling,” he scolded. “If you don’t stop it, I won’t stay in Bamberg nor go back to Schongau, either, but I’ll look for a job as an executioner at the other end of the Reich so I don’t have to put up with your quarreling anymore. And now just listen to me for a change.”
He pointed at the document and took a deep breath.
“You say that Hieronymus is the last one to be involved in this, but that’s not correct. There’s still someone missing here.”
“And who do you think that might be?” asked Simon, as astonished as the others over the outburst.
Georg shrugged as if the answer was obvious. “Well, the executioner, of course. He was present at all the questionings, as one of the head people, so to speak.”
“You’re right,” Jeremias concurred, nodding his alcohol-befuddled head. “But this Salter fellow doesn’t know me, and even if he did read about me in the old documents, he’ll only find reference to Michael Binder, and that person has been gone a long time.”
Georg nodded. “No, he doesn’t know you, he only knows the current Bamberg executioner, Bartholomäus-and naturally he assumes that Bartholomäus is related to the former hangman. And why shouldn’t he? After all, the executioner’s job is almost always passed down from father to son.”
“If this pathetic little werewolf tries to kidnap me,” Bartholomäus growled, “I’ll show him who I am.”
“He doesn’t have to kidnap you, Uncle Bartl,” Georg said, “because he probably already has someone else from the family in his hands.” Mournfully, he turned to the others. “The werewolf has captured Barbara because she’s Bartholomäus’s niece, and we’ll only be able to save her if we can finally stop this endless quarreling.” One by one, he turned to look at each of them. “Please promise me that! We Kuisls have to stick together now, or my sister is lost.”
A sound in Adelheid Rinswieser’s cell startled her from her macabre dreams and brought her back to reality.
She’d spent the last few hours half-asleep, with the constant fear that the strange growling monster might return. But everything around her had turned silent-as silent as the grave. Even the birds had stopped chirping, and all she could hear was the distant, constant sound of falling rain. The sound of the water made her thirst almost unbearable, but just the same she’d been able to doze off briefly. But now she heard something coming from the floor above her, at first a clicking. .
Then a bolt being pushed aside. .
A squeaking. .
And then the door opening. He was coming back.
Adelheid didn’t know whether to laugh or scream in horror. She’d become convinced the man would just let her rot away down here. Too much time had passed since his last visit. But now he was back, and that could only mean it was her turn now. Or perhaps it wasn’t him at all? Was it someone else, maybe someone who’d just come here to check on her, a random visitor?
A savior?
“Help!” she screamed hysterically. “I’m here! Here in the cellar! Please, whoever you are up there, come and let me out!”
Adelheid tugged furiously at her shackles, which still didn’t yield even a fraction of an inch, struggling to turn toward the door, where she could hear slow footsteps approaching. They came down the steps, but heavier than usual-much heavier. That wasn’t the man-it had to be someone else.
“Here! Here!” she called. “I’m in here!”
Again she heard a grating sound as the bolt to her cell slid open. The door creaked and swung open, and Adelheid froze.
In the doorway stood her captor.
Over his shoulder he was carrying a black-haired girl, around fifteen years old, who was either unconscious or dead. Strangely, she was wearing a monk’s cape, and dried blood clung to her hair. The kidnapper also was wearing such a cloak, making him look like the high priest of some unfathomably evil sect.
Adelheid’s disappointment was so great that she couldn’t utter a sound.
“Greetings, my love,” the man panted, carefully setting his burden down on the floor. “It took a while, but I’m back. Everything is ready for your final act.”
He stepped outside to fetch a torch, which he inserted into an iron ring on the wall, then pulled out a leather strap and bound the younger girl’s arms and legs. Though blood glistened in the girl’s hair and on her face, Adelheid could see she was still alive; her kidnapper would hardly go to the trouble of tying up a corpse like a bundle of rags.
“Who. . who is that?” she managed to ask.
“Oh, this?” The man looked up and smiled. It was a gentle smile, though in a strange way also a sad one; it seemed inconsistent with his cruel actions. “This is the only one I hadn’t caught yet,” he said. “A hangman’s daughter. The second scribe is lying in the boat, and I don’t know if he’s still alive. But in any case, we’re done now.” He made a sweeping gesture. “Curtain up for the grand finale.”
Exhausted, Adelheid regarded her captor, whom she was sure she recognized now. About half a year ago she’d visited the wedding house in Bamberg with her husband to see a performance by a wandering troupe of actors. Since then, she’d almost completely forgotten the piece-some comedy with a clown and a few other fools. Her husband had enjoyed it all immensely, but she’d found the crude jokes offensive. Only one of the actors had awakened her interest: a man with a sort of dark magnetism that didn’t seem at all appropriate in the comedy. He was very pale, with thinning hair, and there was a deep sadness in his eyes that made him strangely attractive.
He looked just as sad now.
“Hangman’s daughter? Scribe?” Adelheid mumbled, to give herself time to think, if nothing else. “I don’t understand. .”
“You don’t have to.”
He stood up and removed his hood, then wiped his mud- and blood-stained hands on his torn vest. “Basically, you are. .” He hesitated. “Well, something like bit players. Excuse me. I’m just going to get the scribe. Then I’ll be back for you all. Forever.”
He bowed as if before an invisible audience, then went outside, pulling the door closed behind him.