“You could say the same of the cellarer and the novitiate master,” Magdalena groaned. “The circle of suspects just gets larger and larger.” She looked up at the church tower where bells were just ringing in the next hour. “But I know one thing now: the man in the bell tower who pushed me was not the abbot. I was confused yesterday by the black robe. It was a younger man-young and athletic.”
“Then perhaps it was indeed the novitiate master? This is all just getting more confusing.” Simon rubbed his temples, exhausted. “Or perhaps it was some entirely different person and we’re heading up a blind alley. Damn!”
“Didn’t you see anything in that book that might give us a clue?” Magdalena asked. “You sat there with that book half the night while I sang Paul to sleep three times.”
Simon ignored the implicit criticism. “The Andechs chronicle is written in a very ancient form of Latin,” he explained. “It takes time, and so far, all I’ve learned is that a castle once stood here belonging to the counts of Andechs and Meranien. It was later destroyed by the Wittelsbachs, who ruled over Bavaria, as well as Andechs. That’s why Count Wartenberg has one of the three keys to the relics room.”
“Just a moment,” Magdalena interjected. “Isn’t it possible the Wittelsbachs wanted to take the hosts? It must anger them that the hosts are still kept in the monastery even though their ancestors conquered this land centuries ago.”
“The Wittelsbachs have indeed tried over and over to have the relics moved to Munich,” Simon replied. “A few hundred years ago, the hosts were even kept in the duke’s chapel for some time. Up to sixty thousand pilgrims were said to have gone there to see them every week-it was a big source of income for the state. But I don’t think the count would steal the hosts,” the medicus said, shaking his head. “He might have put someone up to it-I’m not sure-but what would be the point of taking the hosts to Munich if they couldn’t be displayed there? It would be obvious they were stolen.”
“Just thinking out loud,” Magdalena pouted. “Maybe you can come up with a better idea.”
“Damn. We won’t get anywhere like this,” said Kuisl, who, until now, had been silently filling his pipe. “We’re groping around like a fellow looking for the shithouse in the dark. I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.” He pointed to Simon. “You get more information about this count. Perhaps my daughter’s idea isn’t as foolish as it seems. And I’ll slip into this goddamned monk’s robe again and look around the monastery.”
“And what about me?” Magdalena asked curiously.
“You’ll start taking care of your kids.” With his smoking pipe clenched between his teeth, he stood up. “It’s about time the little brats learn to behave,” he said, pointing toward the children. “It looks like they’re digging up a corpse right now.”
In fact, the two boys were digging in the earth of a fresh grave with their hands, and Peter had already carved out a rather deep hole.
“Stop!” Magdalena shouted, running toward the astonished children, who had no idea they were doing anything wrong.
“Are you crazy?” she scolded, tearing them from the gravesite. “What if the monks see you brats digging up one of their Brothers…?” She hesitated as she read the name on the wooden cross at the fresh grave.
REQUIESCAT IN PACE, FILIUS VITALIS, 9-14-1648-6-15-1666
The grave of the young watchmaker’s assistant.
“Look,” Magdalena whispered. “Someone was in a hurry to bury the poor fellow. It can’t have been a big burial service.”
Beside the excavated mound was a second fresh grave, and Magdalena wasn’t surprised to see the name on that wooden cross marked the burial site of novitiate Coelestin, the apothecary’s assistant. She motioned to Simon and her father, and together they stared down quietly for a while at the two graves.
“Damn,” Simon hissed. “They must have been buried quickly yesterday. I wanted to examine their wounds again, as well as that remarkable phosphorus glow. Perhaps I missed something in my first examination.”
Magdalena gave the two boys a slap and ran after them as they started climbing over another burial mound. “It was surely the work of the prior,” she shouted as she dashed off. “He doesn’t want us poking around here any longer, but he can forget about that.”
“You’ve got your hands full if you want to poke around here,” Kuisl grumbled, looking out over the cemetery. “Have you noticed all the suspicious deaths here recently? I count six, or rather seven, fresh graves.”
“That’s surely because of the damned fever,” Simon replied with a shrug. “Just yesterday two pilgrims in my care died, and they were probably buried in haste to avoid any excitement.”
“And how about this one?” Kuisl walked ahead a few yards, stopping in front of a fresh grave covered with black, damp soil.
“What are you trying to say?” Simon asked. “Another grave. So what?”
“Have a look at the cross.”
Only now did the medicus notice the crooked cross half hidden behind the mound of dirt. Squinting hard, he was able to make out the name on the plaque.
R.I.P., PATER QUIRIN, 12-7-1608-5-2-1666
“I still can’t see what you find unusual there,” Simon replied. “The man was buried at the venerable age of almost sixty years, and-”
“The ground on top is fresh,” Kuisl interrupted. “How can it be fresh when the man was buried more than a month ago?”
Simon stood still a moment with his mouth open wide. “You’re… you’re right,” he whispered. “It looks as if the grave was dug just yesterday.”
“Or it was excavated again. Look.” The hangman pointed to a place alongside the grave. “Here a little grass has already grown back, but beside that the ground is black and moist. And there are tracks here.”
“Tracks?” Simon bent down and noticed shoeprints at the edge of the grave, leading into the tall grass some distance off.
Then, the medicus noticed something white shining in the high grass. He bent down and picked up a handkerchief wet with dew and rain. Made of the finest quality silk, it was embroidered with a tiny monogram in one corner.
A.
Simon shuddered when he realized what this letter reminded him of.
A for Aurora.
“My God,” he whispered. “Is it possible?” With the handkerchief in hand, he rushed back to the hangman and told him what he’d begun to fear.
“Do you really think this kerchief comes from the automaton?” Kuisl asked skeptically. “That this golem was here last night and dug up the corpse?”
Simon rubbed the wet cloth between his fingers, trying to figure out what it all meant. The cloth still smelled slightly of perfume. “I know it sounds crazy,” he said, “but perhaps there really is something to this talk about golems. Perhaps the puppet really is haunting the monastery.”
“Nonsense,” the hangman scoffed. “I believe in evil, but not in ghosts. Only we humans can be evil; we don’t need ghosts for that. You’ll see… there’s an explanation for all this.” He drew so hard on his pipe that Simon could hear the crackling embers and sensed his father-in-law seething inside. This was the sound of the hangman deep in thought.
“Now put that damned kerchief away before you drive your wife crazy. She’s already scared to death of this sorcerer.” Kuisl stomped over to the exit gate where Magdalena was already waiting with the children.
Shuddering, Simon tucked the handkerchief inside his jacket and ran after the hangman. They’d barely made it through the gate when they ran into the Schongau alderman, Jakob Schreevogl. The patrician was panting and needed some time to catch his breath.
“Here you are, Fronwieser,” he finally gasped. “I’ve looked for you everywhere. Fortunately one of the pilgrims down by the wall noticed you passing by. You must come with me at once.”