Magdalena took a deep breath. Georg’s idea seemed the right thing to do, and perhaps help would come in time for the poor fellow down at the river.
She was just about to run back to Jeremias and the children when she remembered what Georg had just said about her father. He’d evidently had another quarrel with Bartholomäus. Why couldn’t the two of them get along? Jakob’s taunting words for his brother had grown meaner in recent days-and they needed Uncle Bartholomäus urgently in order to help Matheo. If the two brothers had a falling-out, Bartholomäus would most likely refuse to help, if only out of defiance. Magdalena knew her father and how quick-tempered he could be. She absolutely had to stop him from doing something in anger that they would all regret later.
She thought it over briefly, then made her decision. If she hurried, she might still catch up with her father and try to cool him down a bit. She’d leave the children in Jeremias’s care for the time being, where they’d be well cared for.
With brisk steps she set out toward the Langgasser Gate, from which a muddy road full of puddles led into the fog-shrouded Bamberg Forest.
She hoped it was not yet too late.
Simon stood in the street in front of the Hausers’ house, still perplexed at how quickly he’d been asked to leave. He heard shouting and jeering coming from down by the river, but paid it no heed. He was pondering instead what might have caused Hieronymus to usher him out so suddenly. Evidently, the scribe had remembered something-something to do with the many missing people. Perhaps he had suddenly become nervous, or. . Simon stopped short.
Perhaps there was something he needed to check out.
Simon decided to hide around the corner and wait a while. And, in fact, it wasn’t long before the door to the scribe’s house opened and Hieronymus Hauser stepped out into the street. The scribe looked distraught; he hadn’t buttoned his overcoat and evidently had forgotten his hat. He panted and puffed as he hurried down the street, then soon turned right, where a steep stairway led up to the cathedral mount. Simon followed at a safe distance, occasionally pausing as the fat old man stopped to catch his breath.
Finally they had reached the cathedral square. Hieronymus quickly crossed to the other side and hurried on toward the old palace where Simon had been with Samuel early that morning. The clerk entered the building.
Simon hesitated briefly, then decided to take a chance. If Hieronymus discovered him, he could say he’d left something behind in the council chamber. As he slipped through the doorway, he bumped into a burly guard.
“What are you doing here?” the man growled, examining the little bathhouse owner up and down. “The Inquisition Committee is meeting to make a decision about additional suspects. It’s strictly confidential. I didn’t know you were invited.”
“Ah. . no,” Simon replied. Then he pulled himself together and his voice became firmer. “As a consulting scholar I sit on the Werewolf Commission, which you no doubt have heard of. That’s strictly confidential as well,” he added with a conspiratorial whisper.
“Maybe so, but the committee in session now is the Inquisition Commission.”
Simon cursed under his breath. The guard before him appeared just as stupid as he was obedient, a dangerous mix. He decided to change his tactics.
“Well, I actually just need to speak with Master Hieronymus, the city scribe,” he said with a friendly smile, winking at the guard. “You know, the fat fellow. He just entered the room. Was he perhaps appointed to take minutes for this extremely important Inquisition Commission?”
The guard frowned. “No, he just went over to the bishop’s archive.” He pointed to a stairway behind him leading up to the next floor. “That way.”
“Ah, the archives,” Simon replied, pleased. “Then surely I may. .” He was about to walk past, but the guard blocked his way with his halberd.
“Only the scribe and the chancellor are permitted to enter the archive,” he growled. “Do you have permission from the bishop?”
“Unfortunately not.” Simon smiled innocently and raised his arms. “Well, then, I’ll just wait outside for Master Hauser. Have a wonderful, watchful day.”
He went out into the street, where he finally could let out a loud curse. How he hated this guard who was so obsessed with the bureaucracy. People like him would be the downfall of civilization. Well, at least he’d found out that Hieronymus had some business to attend to in the bishop’s archive. Did it have anything to do with their case?
Wrapped up in his thoughts, Simon strolled back across the cathedral square toward the executioner’s house. He hoped Magdalena would be waiting there for him.
They had a lot to talk about.
10
THE BAMBERG FOREST, EARLY AFTERNOON, OCTOBER 31, 1668 AD
The fog that enshrouded the forests around Bamberg at this time of year was lifting. Clouds drifted like gigantic, ghostly sheets through the treetops, where the moisture gathered on the red and yellow leaves and came trickling down. Jakob Kuisl’s boots splashed through the leaves and made a gurgling sound as they sank ankle deep into the moss and decaying foliage.
This time, he’d decided to approach the knacker’s house from the rear. He had no idea what his brother might be doing at this hour in the forest, but he didn’t want to give him any opportunity to avoid a conversation.
And, God knows, there was certainly a lot to talk about.
After Jakob had learned from Georg that Bartholomäus had left for the knacker’s house, he had immediately set out to find him. In recent days, he’d grown more and more distrustful of his younger brother. The notes in Lonitzer’s herb almanac had been the last straw. Was it possible Bartholomäus was making sleep sponges used to anesthetize the victims of the supposed werewolf? The accusation sounded so appalling that at first Jakob thought it out of the question. But then he remembered all the other strange things that had occurred in the last week: The stranger he’d seen in the cloak and floppy hat near the furrier’s house-he’d limped, and from a distance he’d seemed vaguely familiar to Magdalena. Bartholomäus always brushing off the werewolf stories, almost as if trying to discourage Jakob from looking into it any further. His wandering around the forest without any explanation. The way his servant, Aloysius, also seemed to be hiding something. And twice already, Jakob had tried to approach the back of the knacker’s house, and each time had been harshly rebuffed. Was something hidden there that he wasn’t supposed to see?
Well, this time he wouldn’t let himself be put off. He made a wide circle around the clearing and approached the house from the rear. He heard dogs barking happily nearby, as someone evidently had approached the front gate from the other side.
He cursed under his breath as he crept toward the sheds that were now visible between the trees. There was no wall or fence on this side-it was unnecessary, since a dense thicket of prickly hawthorn bushes made passage impossible. When the hangman tried to squirm his way through, thorns reached out and tore at his clothes like long claws. After one or two paces, it was clear he wouldn’t make it. He freed himself from the thorny branches and started walking alongside the bushes. Suddenly he caught sight of a natural, knee-high tunnel in the bush concealed under a covering of ferns and ivy. It looked like some animal had made its way through it just recently.
He crouched down on all fours and crawled through the bushes, cursing softly to himself as the thorns tore at his clothes. The sleeves of his shirt ripped open, thorny branches scratched him in the face, and thistles clung to his beard, but finally he made it through to the other side.
When he stood up, he found himself behind one of the sheds at the rear of the cabin. The happy barking had stopped, and he heard a low, angry growling close by.