The Hangman's Daughter (16 page)

With her newly grown wings Clara soared upward toward heaven.

“I…I can never go back home again. They’ll burn us,” she muttered, almost asleep.

“Nobody will be burned,” said a voice from far away. “There’s somebody who will help us. He’ll catch the devil, and then everything will be as it was, I promise…”

“An angel?”

“Yes, an angel. An angel with a huge sword. An avenging angel.”

Clara smiled. “Good,” she whispered. Then the wings carried her away.

About eleven o’clock in the morning Jakob Kuisl knocked at the door of the keep. From inside he heard a key turn in the lock, the heavy door opened, and the surprised bailiff Andreas looked him directly in the eye.

“You, here already?” he asked. “I thought the questioning wouldn’t begin until midday—”

Kuisl nodded. “You’re right, but I have to do some things to get ready. You know…” He gestured as if pulling at his own arm. “Today we begin with the pinching and pulling. I need a hot fire. And the ropes are worn out.”

He held a coil of new rope under the chalk-white nose of the bailiff and pointed to the interior.

“I suppose it will be all right,” Andreas muttered and stepped aside for the hangman to enter. Then he seized him by the shoulder.

“Kuisl?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t hurt her, will you? No more than you must. She brought my children into the world.”

The hangman looked down at the young man, who was a good head shorter. A smile came to his lips.

“What do you think I’m here for?” he asked. “To cure somebody? To set limbs? No. I unset them. You folks want me to do that, so that’s what I do.”

He pushed the bailiff aside and entered the dungeon.

“I…I didn’t want that to happen, no, I didn’t!” Andreas called after him.

Awakened by the shouting, Georg Riegg scrambled to his feet. As an instigator of the fight down at the Stadel he was still keeping the watchman company in the cell on the left.

“Ah, now we have important visitors!” he cried. “Now it’s going to start! Hey, Kuisl, you’ll do it nice and slowly, won’t you, so that we can have some fun when we hear the witch whimper!”

The hangman walked up to the cell and looked thoughtfully at the bridge watchman. Then suddenly he reached through the bars and grabbed him firmly by the crotch. He squeezed hard, so that the eyes of the man on the other side stood out of his head and he gasped for breath.

“You just watch it, Riegg,” whispered Jakob Kuisl. “I know your dirty secrets. I know all of you. How often have you come to me for some herb to give you a hard-on or a bottle of angel’s bane, so that the wife can abort another kid? How often have you fetched the midwife to your house? Five times? Six times? And now she’s the witch, and you’re doing just fine. Bah, you make me sick!”

The hangman let his prisoner go and hurled him backward. He slid slowly down the wall of the cell, whimpering. Then Kuisl went across to the other cell, where Martha Stechlin was already awaiting him with frightened eyes, her fingers clutching the iron bars of the cell.

“Give me back my coat, I’ve brought you a blanket,” said Jakob Kuisl loudly. He passed a woolen blanket in, while the midwife, shivering, took off his coat. As she reached for the rolled-up blanket, he whispered to her, almost inaudibly.

“Unroll the blanket in the dark at the back. There’s a little bottle there. Drink it.”

Martha Stechlin looked at him questioningly. “What is—?”

“Don’t talk, drink,” he whispered again. The bailiff Andreas had meanwhile taken a seat again on a stool near the door. Leaning on his pike, he watched them with interest.

“The important gentlemen are coming when the bell rings at midday,” Jakob Kuisl continued loudly. “You had best begin saying your prayers.”

And quietly he added, “Don’t be afraid. It’s all the best for you. Trust me. But you must drink that bottle now.”

Then he turned and descended the damp stairs down to the torture chamber to get things ready.

The two men sat together over a glass of port wine, but for one of them drinking was difficult. His pain caused him to tremble, so that drops of the precious liquid fell on his gold-brocaded coat. Spots like bloodstains spread over the garment. Since yesterday it had become worse, even though he had still been able to conceal it from the others.

“They got away from you,” he said. “I knew that you’d just make things worse. You can’t do anything by yourself, absolutely nothing!”

The other man sipped absently at his wine. “They’ll get them all right,” he said. “They can’t be far away. They’re children.”

Once again a wave of pain flooded the body of the older man. Only with difficulty could he regain the mastery of his voice.

“This is getting out of control!” he groaned. His right hand clutched the cut-glass crystal goblet. He must not give up now, not relax, so near to the goal…

“This can be our ruin, not only yours or mine but the whole family, don’t you understand? Our name will be disgraced forever after!”

“Oh, nonsense,” said the other as he leaned back in his chair. “They are children. Who’s going to believe them? It’s good that the matter of the witch is dragging on. First the children must go, then the witch can be burned. Then no suspicion will fall on us.”

He stood up and went to the door. Business was waiting; things had been neglected for too long. Someone like himself had been lacking, someone who would take the reins in his hand. They had all misjudged him.

“And what about the actual job you have to do?” the older man asked, as he tried to rise, holding on to the table.

“We paid them well to pull that off!”

“Don’t you worry, that’ll be taken care of. Perhaps even today.” He pushed down the door handle and turned to go out.

“I’ll give you another five days,” the older man shouted after him. “Five days! If the matter isn’t taken care of by then, I’ll send our men to take care of the murderers. And don’t think that you’ll get one single penny!”

While he was still speaking, the other man left, shutting the heavy oaken door behind him, which made the shouted threats hardly audible anymore.

“In five days you’ll be dead,” he mumbled, knowing well that the older man inside couldn’t hear him. “And if the devil doesn’t take you, I’ll send you to hell myself.”

As he walked across the balcony with its elaborately decorated balustrade, his gaze wandered over the roofs toward the black, silent forest that stood just beyond the gates of the town. He felt a short thrill of fear. The man out there was unpredictable. What would happen when the children were out of the way?

Would he ever stop? Would he himself be next?

They came punctually with the midday pealing of the bells. An escort of four town bailiffs led the way, with the court clerk and the three witnesses following. Jakob Schreevogl’s face was pale; he had slept badly. His wife kept waking up with nightmares and calling for Clara. Furthermore, he was still suffering from a hangover from drinking with the physician. He could no longer remember exactly what he had said to young Fronwieser. But he had the feeling he had been a better talker than listener.

In front of him walked Michael Berchtholdt. The baker had a bunch of herbs with mugwort hanging at his belt, which was supposed to protect him from witchcraft. He was softly reciting his prayers and fingering a rosary. When he entered the prison, he crossed himself. Jakob Schreevogl shook his head. No doubt the baker had blamed Martha Stechlin for all the times he had burned the bread and for the hordes of mice in his bakery. After the Stechlin woman was reduced to ashes and the bread was still burned, he would presumably seek a new witch, thought Schreevogl, and he wrinkled his nose in disdain. The sharp smell of mugwort wafted over to him.

Immediately behind him, Georg Augustin entered the prison. The son of the powerful wagon drivers’ family reminded Schreevogl a bit of the young physician. Like him, the young patrician liked to dress in the latest French fashions. His beard was freshly trimmed, his long black hair carefully combed, the calf-long trunk hose perfectly tailored. His ice-blue eyes took in the prison with disgust. The son of a powerful wagon drivers’ family was not used to such surroundings.

When the two Schongau prisoners noticed the arrival of the distinguished visitors, they began to rattle the bars of their cell. Georg Riegg still looked pale; he no longer felt like scolding.

“Your Excellency,” cried the wagon driver as he turned toward the court clerk. “May I just have a word with you…”

“What’s up, Riegg? Have you a declaration to make?”

“Let us out, please. My wife has to look after the cattle by herself, and the children—”

“You’ll stay in here until your case comes up,” Lechner interrupted him without looking at him. “And that goes for your comrade here, too, and the Augsburg wagon driver over there in the Ballenhaus. One law for everyone.”

“But, Your Excellency…”

Johann Lechner was already descending the stairs. In the torture chamber it was warm, almost hot. In the corner, red-hot charcoal glowed in a brazier standing on a tripod. In contrast to the last time, the chamber had been tidied up. Everything was ready: a new rope dangled from the ceiling, and the thumbscrews and pincers lay, sorted and oiled, on the chest. On a stool in the middle of the room sat Goodwife Stechlin, shaved bald, in a torn dress, her head bowed. The hangman positioned himself behind her, his arms crossed.

“Ah, I see, Kuisl, all is prepared. Good, very good,” said Lechner, rubbing his hands together as he sat down at the writing desk. The witnesses took their places on his right. “Then we can begin.” He turned to the midwife, who up to now had taken no notice of her visitors. “Can you hear me, Stechlin?”

The midwife’s head remained bowed.

“Can you hear me? I want to know.”

There was still no reaction from Martha Stechlin. Lechner went over to her, raised her face with two fingers under her chin, and gave her a box on the ear. Now at last she opened her eyes.

“Martha Stechlin, do you know why you are here?”

She nodded.

“Good. I’ll explain it to you again anyway. You are suspected of having caused the death of the children Peter Grimmer and Anton Kratz in a most disgraceful way. In addition, of having abducted, with the assistance of the devil, Clara Schreevogl and at the same time of having set fire to the Stadel.”

“And the dead sow in my sty? What about my dead sow?” Michael Berchtholdt had jumped up from his seat. “Just yesterday she was rolling about in the mud, and now—”

“Witness Berchtholdt,” Lechner snapped at him. “You will only speak when you are required to do so. We are now concerned with more than a dead sow; this concerns our dear children!”

“But…”

One glance from the court clerk silenced Berchtholdt.

“Well then, Stechlin,” continued Lechner. “Do you admit having committed the crimes of which you are accused?”

The midwife shook her head. Her lips were narrowed, tears flowed down her face, and she wept silently.

Lechner shrugged his shoulders. “Then we must proceed to the interrogation. Executioner, begin with the thumbscrews.”

Now it was Jakob Schreevogl who couldn’t keep his seat any longer. “But all this is nonsense!” he cried. “Goodwife Stechlin had already been in prison a long time when the little Kratz boy was killed. And it would have been equally impossible for her to have had anything to do with kidnapping my Clara and the fire at the Stadel!”

“Didn’t people say that the devil himself abducted your Clara?” asked young Augustin, who was seated alongside Schreevogl. His blue eyes looked the merchant’s son up and down, and he almost seemed to be smiling. “Couldn’t it be that the Stechlin woman asked the devil to do all this, after she was locked up here?”

“Why, then, didn’t she ask him to fetch her out of the prison? That doesn’t make sense!” cried Jakob Schreevogl.

“The torture will lead us to the truth,” the court clerk resumed. “Executioner, continue.”

The executioner reached out and took a thumbscrew from the chest. It consisted of an iron clamp, which could be closed with a screw at the front. He took the midwife’s left thumb and introduced it into the clamp. Jakob Schreevogl was surprised at the hangman’s apparent indifference. Only yesterday Jakob Kuisl had spoken out forcefully against the torture, and also the young physician had told him, over a few glasses of schnapps, that the hangman was not at all in agreement with the imprisonment of Martha Stechlin. And now he was applying thumbscrews to her.

But the midwife, too, seemed to have accepted her fate. She gave her hand to the hangman almost with indifference. Jakob Kuisl turned the screw. Once, twice, three times…A brief shudder ran through her body, nothing more.

“Martha Stechlin, do you now confess the crimes with which you are charged?” the clerk inquired in a monotone singsong.

She still shook her head. The hangman turned the screw still tighter. No movement, only her lips became narrower, a pale red streak like a closed door.

“Damn it, are you screwing it up properly?” Michael Berchtholdt asked the hangman. Jakob Kuisl nodded. As proof, he opened the screw and held the tortured woman’s arm up. Her thumb was one blue bruise, and blood seeped out from under the thumbnail.

“The devil is helping her,” whispered the baker. “Lord God, protect us…”

“We shan’t get any further like this.” Johann Lechner shook his head and put the quill, with which he intended to make notes, back on the table. “Bailiffs, bring me the chest.”

Two of the town watchmen handed the clerk a small chest, which he lifted to the table and opened.

“Look here, witch,” he said. “All these are things we found in your house. What have you to say about them?”

To the astonishment of Jakob Schreevogl and the others he produced a small bag out of the chest, poured some dark brown seeds into his hand and showed them to the witnesses. The stovemaker’s son took a few between his fingers. They smelled slightly of rotting flesh and their shape somewhat resembled caraway seeds.

“Henbane seeds,” said the court clerk, as if he was delivering a lecture. “An important ingredient of the flying salve that witches spread on their broomsticks.”