“Quiet!” he kept shouting. “Quiet! Is this the way distinguished citizens of our city behave? Once more, quiet, or I’ll have the room cleared!”
Simon and Samuel glanced at one another peevishly. At an ungodly hour of the morning, a messenger with a look of annoyance on his face had pounded on the door of the Bamberg hangman’s house to take Simon first to the castle complex and then, with Samuel, to the city councilors’ offices. They’d walked past the cathedral and then toward city hall and into the council room, where the suffragan bishop had unexpectedly scheduled the first meeting of the so-called Werewolf Commission immediately after Sunday-morning mass. In addition to Simon and Samuel, a half dozen city councilmen were present, as well as a scholar from the Jesuit seminary in the nearby church, two doctors of law, the bishop’s chancellor, and even the dean of the cathedral himself, who was attracting attention with his loud prayers and laments.
The occasion was indeed serious. The night before, the Bamberg werewolf had apparently struck again, and his victim was none other than the venerable patrician Thadäus Vasold-at the age of nearly eighty, the oldest member of the council. Vasold’s servant had seen the monster with his own eyes, though there was not a trace left of the councilman himself. The growing fear of the citizenry, as well as that of the scholars in the council chamber, had soon led to a great commotion in the room.
“And I’m telling you,” insisted one of the councilmen, a gaunt, elderly man wearing an old-fashioned ruff collar, “it’s time for us to shut the town gates. This werewolf is prowling around just outside the walls. Two charcoal burners saw him in the forest just yesterday. And he can come and go in our city as he pleases.”
“And what good is that going to do?” snarled another patrician with fat, drooping cheeks. “Do you know what will happen to our businesses if we don’t allow anyone into town? Anyway, the gates were closed last night, and the beast still managed to get old Thadäus.”
“Let’s not forget, the monster has magical powers,” added one of the jurists in a solemn voice. He cleared his throat and started reading from a large book lying in front of him. “According to Formicarius, which is considered the authoritative work in the field, by the Dominican scholar Johannes Nider, werewolves can assume any shape, animal or human. Who knows?” He paused theatrically and looked around the table. “Perhaps the werewolf is sitting right here in the room with us.”
Loud shouting broke out again, and two patricians were about to pounce on the scholar.
“One last time, silence! For God’s sake, silence!”
The suffragan bishop pounded the table with his gavel again, to no effect. Harsee looked pale and unkempt, and Simon thought he could detect a nervous twitch around his mouth. Nevertheless, his eyes still glared out from beneath his monk’s tonsure with the same evil intensity as when Simon had met him the first time in the palace garden.
It was Master Samuel who finally managed to bring an end to the uproar-with a simple trick.
“Let us all pray for our friend Thadäus Vasold,” he intoned loudly while making the sign of the cross. “I believe he deserves our thoughts and prayers. Or does someone think differently?”
The members of the council paused in their squabbling and finally started praying quietly while still casting suspicious glances at one another.
“Amen,” the suffragan bishop finally said, relieved, and licked his dry lips before continuing in a piercing voice. “Dear members of our committee, we may hold different opinions as to the exact nature of this werewolf, but at least there is no doubt this beast actually exists, given what happened last night. Vasold’s servant saw this monster and unequivocally recognized it as a werewolf.”
“Just like the drunken watchman two nights before,” Samuel murmured, so softly that no one except Simon heard him. “And Vasold’s servant is just as dumb, as everyone in the city knows. He’d think a calf is a werewolf, if you just keep suggesting it enough. But no one here is considering that.”
“Is there something you wanted to tell us, Master Samuel?” asked the suffragan bishop sharply. “Or are you only talking to your learned friend?”
The physician shook his head. “I was just saying that the people we’ve heard from so far are not the most reliable eyewitnesses, but I must confess that it’s true, the honorable councilor Vasold is already the fifth resident to have vanished. In any case, we must find out why these people have disappeared.”
“Listen, he must confess.” With a sarcastic smile, the suffragan bishop looked around at the attendees. Once again, Simon noticed the dark circles under his eyes.
“In this regard, it might be interesting for members of the commission to know,” Harsee continued smugly, “that Herr Doktor released a suspect yesterday on his own authority, a shepherd from the Bamberg Forest who has been peddling magic potions here in the city. A few concerned citizens reported that to me shortly before our meeting.”
The crowd began to murmur and hiss, and many of those present glared at Samuel.
“The magic potions were arnica and crushed bark from oak trees,” the physician replied, “harmless ingredients. Both are used in the medical treatment of animals, as the learned Doctor Fronwieser here can confirm.”
Simon was stunned when Samuel turned toward him to confirm that statement, but finally the little medicus and bathhouse owner nodded, trying to sound as wise and professional as possible.
“Ah, indeed. I have written a paper about that myself,” he said, “‘On the Nature and Growth of Medicinal Plants, with Special Emphasis on Coltsfoot, and Its Effects, as Well as on Arnica, and-’”
“Very well, very well.” Harsee waved him off peevishly. “We don’t need a complicated monologue, just a brief opinion. It’s quite possible they were just harmless herbs, but a thorough questioning of the suspect would have been appropriate.”
“Your Excellency, what do you know about this troupe of actors that has been visiting here for the last few days?” asked the provost of the cathedral, a gaunt, anxious-looking man with a pinched face. “The people who come to me for confession have told me some dreadful stories. They tell of Satanic incantations on the stage, and even today, on our sacred day of rest, they portrayed a devil dancing. Could it be possible the werewolf has been attracted here by this witchcraft?”
Sebastian Harsee nodded. “That’s an important consideration, Your Excellency. These magical doings performed under the pretense of edification are a thorn in my side, as well,” he said with a sigh. “But unfortunately the prince-bishop doesn’t look at it that way. Along with his many beloved animals, the theater is his great passion, and I’ve even heard that a second troupe of actors recently arrived in Bamberg. His Excellency is considering granting them permission to spend the winter in Bamberg, as well. We’ll have to keep a close eye on these immoral persons.”
“Keep an eye on them? Is that all we’re going to do?” Trembling with anger, a middle-aged councilor rose to his feet. He was wearing a gray coat on which a mortar and pestle were depicted-the emblem of the apothecaries’ guild. “This is the monster that presumably ripped my Adelheid apart like a deer, and you are going to do nothing more than keep an eye on things?”