And tore it from his face.
The shock of this horror suddenly having a face caused Adelheid to hesitate just an instant.
It was the instant that cost her her freedom.
The man pushed her away like a dirty bundle of rags. Adelheid hit the wall behind her, bloodying her back as she slammed against the large stones, and the shard fell from her hand. Then she felt a strong pull, and the leather noose tightened around her neck.
Squinting, Adelheid saw the man standing over her, pulling on the strap. She gasped for air, desperately, in vain. She clawed at the noose around her neck, but the leather had dug itself too deep into her skin. Colored circles danced before her eyes, faster and faster, and then came the darkness.
This is the end. . This is. .
After what seemed like an eternity-or was it only seconds? — Adelheid emerged from a sea of darkness. She gasped and gagged, and wonderful cool air now entered her lungs. She reached for the strap, trembling, but it hung loose around her neck.
But why. .
Suddenly she heard someone sobbing softly. It seemed to come from far away. Shortly before losing consciousness again, Adelheid summoned up her last bit of strength and turned to see the man crouched in a corner.
His hood lay beside him on the floor, and he was crying like a small child.
Then Adelheid finally collapsed.
Simon rushed as fast as possible from the cathedral mount to the new part of town. He absolutely had to speak with Magdalena again about the postponement of the wedding. After the meeting in the council chambers, he’d had a brief conversation with Samuel, who agreed he shouldn’t leave his bathhouse in Schongau closed much longer. Samuel himself had patients to see all day, so their discussions about the werewolf had to be put off to the next day.
When Simon finally arrived at the executioner’s house, the only one there was Jakob Kuisl, who was sitting at the table smoking and brooding. Before him lay a small, tattered book that he quickly shut when he saw Simon coming.
“Where are the others?” Simon asked in surprise, looking around the empty room.
Jakob Kuisl shrugged. “Bartholomäus and Georg have some stuff to do over at the council chamber. I’m sure you know that last night an old aristocrat’s widow died under mysterious circumstances. Now the noble gentlemen have announced the hunt, a number of arrests are expected, and the city dungeon is being readied for them. I can’t tell you where Magdalena and the two children are.”
He opened the book again and began to read, as if Simon were not even there. The bathhouse owner was familiar with that sort of behavior from his father-in-law and took no offense. It meant only that Jakob Kuisl was deep in thought, and for that he needed tobacco and complete silence.
Simon sat down silently on the bench next to the hangman. While pouring himself a cup of watered-down wine, he glanced over curiously at the dog-eared book. He recognized it at once: Lonitzer’s Herb and Plant Almanac, an illustrated work found in every hangman’s personal library. Apparently the little book came from Bartholomäus’s collection in the adjoining room. The book was opened to a marked article with notes in the margin, but Jakob’s hand was on top of the book and Simon couldn’t see anything else.
After a while, the hangman put the book aside angrily and glared at Simon. “How in the world am I going to concentrate when someone is staring at me the whole time?” he growled. “So what is it? If you have something to say, then say it, and don’t squirm around here as if you’d crapped in your pants.”
Simon smiled. Sarcastic grumbling from Jakob Kuisl was his way of extending an invitation to talk.
“I was only wondering why you were suddenly so interested in plants,” he replied. “Does that, by chance, have anything to do with this mysterious werewolf? Are you perhaps looking for an herb that will protect you from such creatures?”
“Bah, humbug! Wolfsbane or Saint John’s wort can give you confidence, perhaps, but can they really protect you? No.” Kuisl frowned. “The only thing that can help you is your reason, and that’s just what’s missing here in Bamberg.”
“Then you don’t believe in the werewolf? Earlier you weren’t so sure.”
Jakob Kuisl rolled his eyes impatiently, then turned to look Simon directly in the face. “I believe my own eyes and my common sense,” he said in a firm voice. “In this city, someone is abducting and killing people in a very cruel manner. Some people claim to have seen a furry creature-some in the city, others out in the forest-and someone bought a whole bunch of wolf skins from the furrier. .”
“Wolf skins found among the possessions of the unfortunate Matheo,” Simon continued, absorbed in his thoughts. “Magdalena thinks that anyone could have put them there. Perhaps it was someone from that other group of actors.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps someone who was beginning to feel the heat and needed a scapegoat to deflect the suspicions.”
Simon frowned. “What do you mean?”
Kuisl slowly expelled the smoke from his pipe and held three chubby fingers up to Simon’s face. “There are three possibilities. First, there really is a mad beast out there. Second, there’s a madman out there, also a sort of beast. Or. .” He paused and leaned back in his chair. “Or there’s somebody smart out there following a plan. I’m sitting here with my pipe, thinking, and asking myself what kind of plan that could be.”
Simon nodded. “My friend Samuel has some interesting ideas about that. What do you think of this?” He told Kuisl briefly about the meeting that morning and Samuel’s assumptions about the council members. “Perhaps there really is a struggle for power among the patricians,” the bathhouse owner concluded. “Someone is trying to do away with his enemies and is ready to accept the deaths of other completely innocent people. Perhaps the suffragan bishop, perhaps the chancellor, or one of the noblemen on the council?”
“And to do that he kills the wife of an ordinary miller and a prostitute to cover his tracks?” Kuisl spat into the reeds on the floor. “A daring plan. But there’s something wrong with that picture. Only two of the six missing or dead people were actually council members; the rest of them don’t fit in that category.”
Simon sighed. “Samuel said that, too. But do you have a better idea?”
“Perhaps I would have come up with something a lot sooner if you didn’t always interrupt me.” Growling, Kuisl picked up the little book again. “But, yes, I have an idea. There’s something I can’t get out of my mind. .” He squinted. “The dead prostitute had a. . strange odor, like the smell of a beast of prey. .”
Simon felt the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. “A beast of prey?” he repeated anxiously. “And you’re only mentioning that now?”
“Because I refuse to believe in a werewolf. But, yes, it was the stench of wet fur,” Kuisl said. “It took a few days to figure out where I’ve smelled that before.”
“But if the prostitute smelled like a beast, that would mean that perhaps, after all, a werewolf-”
Jakob cut him off with an angry gesture. “For God’s sake, just forget the werewolf. You’re driving me crazy with your superstitious drivel.” The hangman pointed at the underlined section of the book in front of him. “There is only one herb that smells just like a beast of prey. Because of all this nonsense about the werewolf, I’ve overlooked the most obvious thing. But when you think about it. .” Kuisl grinned as he always did when he was about to spring a surprise.
Simon drummed his fingers nervously on the table. He hated it when his father-in-law tortured him like this. “Just get to the point,” he pleaded. “Why do we always need to beg you to tell us what’s on your mind? What kind of herb is it?”