The Poisoned Pilgrim: A Hangman's Daughter Tale (25 page)

“This… this painting in the back of the church,” she giggled, pointing spontaneously at one of the paintings at the back of the apse, “there is a mouse on it crawling right into the priest’s stole.”

“You stupid woman. You really don’t know anything, do you?” Brother Eckhart descended the steps from the altar toward her, shaking his head. To her great relief, he followed her to the painting.

“What you see here is the famous mouse that led us back to the holy treasure long ago. See? It’s carrying a scrap of parchment in its mouth.”

Grateful for the diversion, the hangman’s daughter leaned in to examine the painting, graying now with age. In the picture, a tiny mouse scurried out from under the altar during mass, holding a piece of parchment in its mouth.

“After the destruction of the castle that once stood here, it seemed the treasure was lost,” Brother Eckhart continued. “Monks had buried it in front of the altar in the chapel of the castle, and the hiding place was forgotten. But a mouse pulled a piece of parchment with pictures of relics on it from the hiding place, and the relics were found again.
That
is a miracle.” He smiled sardonically. “Now give me your gift for the church and get back to your sour milk.”

“Ah, yes, my gift…” Magdalena smiled awkwardly, watching Simon and her father out of the corner of her eye. They were standing upstairs at the door to the relics room but were apparently having no luck opening it.

Damn. What are you doing up there? How long do I have to stand here looking like a dumb goose?

Magdalena leaned over and fumbled with her bodice as if searching for a few coins between her breasts. The cellarer stared back, absorbed by this unexpected sight. “Perhaps, uh… there are other ways you could be of service to the monastery,” he murmured, licking his lips. “And we could pay you. As cellarer, I have the key to the pantry, as well as to some other rooms farther down below where we store wine, bacon, and sausage. There’s also a little place there where just the two of us could be together.”

“To pray?” Magdalena batted her eyelashes.

The cellarer laughed. “You can also pray at the same time—that won’t disturb me.”

At that moment, the hangman’s daughter was relieved to see
Simon and her father disappear through the open door. Immediately a change came over her face.

“Well, what is it?” Brother Eckhart asked lustfully. “Shall the two of us go away to pray?”

“You know what, Your Excellency?” she snarled, her ingenuousness vanishing. “You’re too old for me—and too fat and too ugly. And I seriously doubt you’re at all able to do that sort of
praying
anymore. I think I’ll just donate in the usual way.” She extracted a single rusty kreuzer and tossed it at the feet of the astonished cellarer. “And now farewell. Saint Elizabeth is waiting for me at her next audience.”

Turning on her heels, she sashayed out the door, but not without stopping to bow one last time before each of the statues of Mary.

When Simon pressed the handle and realized the door up on the balcony was locked, he suppressed a quiet curse. It looked as if their visit here was for naught.

“Of course it’s locked,” he whispered. “We should have expected that.” He looked down into the nave where Magdalena was just heading to the back of the apse with the cellarer. “We’d better retreat before my wife gets herself into even more trouble.”

“You can forget that,” the hangman grumbled. “Just make sure nobody sees us, and I’ll do the rest.” He pulled out a little coil of wire and began poking around in the keyhole. “I do this in the Schongau dungeon sometimes to unlock ankle chains when I’ve misplaced the keys,” he said as he slowly turned the wire back and forth. “This won’t take long.”

There was a soft click as the door swung open. “Well, what did I say?” he beamed as they slipped inside.

“That won’t help you to open the locks at the entrance to the holy chapel,” Simon said as they hurried up the winding staircase past the votive paintings. “That’s quite a different story.”

“Idiot! I know that. I don’t want to get
into
the chapel, just have a look at the vestibule.”

Simon looked at his father-in-law in surprise. “The vestibule? Why is that?”

“You’ll see in a moment.”

They entered the little room outside the holy chapel now. Subdued sunlight fell through a single locked window on the north side, and the air smelled stale and moldy. Unlike on Kuisl’s last visit, a heavy wooden bar and an iron-reinforced door blocked the entrance to the chapel. Knee-high, waist-high, and eye-level, each of the three bars was secured with a heavy lock.

Simon pointed at the three coats of arms displayed on the door. “The white-and-blue sign of the Wittelsbachs, an eagle and a lion for Andechs, and Saint Nicolas for the prior, holder of the third key,” he explained. “That’s what it says in the chronicle, but it’s still a mystery to me how anyone could steal anything out of such a room. Are there windows inside?”

Kuisl nodded. “Three of them, but they’re all covered with iron bars.”

“How in heaven’s name could anyone steal a heavy monstrance from such a room?” Simon asked, incredulous. “The locks were untouched, you said. And both the abbot and the prior insist their keys were never out of sight. The same is probably true for the count. Was witchcraft involved here?”

“Nonsense,” the hangman grunted. “Witchcraft is an invention of the devil used to hide things from our eyes. What we have here is man-made.”

“Then there are actually only two possibilities,” Simon replied. “Either someone managed to steal all three keys for a night, or the culprit is one of the three men. Then he would only have to get hold of two keys to break in.”

“Or perhaps there’s some completely different explanation.” The hangman carefully inspected the almost empty vestibule.
The walls were covered with votive paintings of miracles, and on the left beneath the window stood a single iron-clad chest. Kuisl bent down and opened it.

“Empty,” he murmured, lost in thought. “Perhaps this chest is used from time to time to transport the relics.”

Simon nodded. “I read about that. Just during the Great War, the three holy hosts were sent to Munich several times lest they be stolen by the Swedes. Each time they were brought back again.”

“And now they’ve completely disappeared.” The hangman closed the chest. “But I think I know now who has them.”

“What?” Simon fell silent, his mouth open in astonishment. “You know who has them?”

Kuisl grinned at his son-in-law. “And you don’t? If you can add two and two, the matter is as clear as day. Simon, Simon…” He shook his head regretfully. “I really don’t know what they teach at the universities. They certainly don’t teach you how to think.”

Simon rolled his eyes. It wasn’t the first time his father-in-law had teased him; the hangman really knew more about medicine than he did, even though Simon had studied it. It seemed Kuisl couldn’t get over the fact that he couldn’t attend a university due to his dishonorable status.

“Then at least be kind enough to let me in on what you’ve learned,” Simon said with a sarcastic edge. “Or must I die clueless?”

“There’s one thing I still have to check,” the hangman responded curtly. “After all, we want to find out if the thief is also responsible for the murders. Until I know that, you’ll have to wait.” He turned back to the stairway. “Now let’s clear out, before the fat cellarer gets it into his head to come up here to dust off the votive paintings. If anyone sees us up here in the balcony, we’ll just say I was praying and you came to find me, wringing
your hands on account of a patient. After all, you not only have trouble thinking, but evidently in healing, as well.”

Kuisl stomped down the stairs, and even though his back was turned to Simon, the medicus was sure he wore a wide, satisfied grin. Grumbling softly, Simon followed. There were days when he wished he could put his father-in-law on the rack.

It would take Simon much longer than anticipated to finally hear Kuisl’s theory.

During the day, Simon continued to care for the sick with Magdalena. They were supported by Jakob Schreevogl, who’d paid a few undaunted day laborers to help them set up beds in an adjacent room. In addition, two maids from the village took charge of seeing there was always fresh water and the necessary herbs. Their only condition was that Simon would have the rooms smoked out with mugwort and St. John’s wort. Simon didn’t think this lessened the danger of infection in any way, but it was only under this condition that the men and women agreed to help the bathhouse surgeon. None of the monks had yet shown up to help.

Simon continued leafing through the book by Girolamo Fracastoro, hoping to learn more about the mysterious illness. The Italian scholar believed that sicknesses were not, as commonly assumed, spread by bad vapors, but through tiny particles in food, in water, and in the air. Could that explain the plague at Andechs?

As the setting sun cast its last warm rays through the tiny windows of the infirmary, Simon’s growling stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten since that morning. He put aside his dirty work apron, splashed some fresh water on his face, and looked around for Magdalena, who was just giving some syrup to a girl who must have been about six years old in order to bring down her fever. Their own children were playing in a corner with a
few nativity figurines that a woodcutter had donated in lieu of money.

“I’m dying of hunger,” Simon groaned. “Shall we go down to the tavern for a cup of stew and a glass or two of wine? There’s not much to do here anyway. The people will keep coughing and spitting up, whether we’re here or not.”

Magdalena looked anxiously over at Peter and Paul. “I think I’d rather go back to the knacker’s house with the children,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “The boys have been here with all the sick people for far too long, and they should go to bed soon in any case.” She pointed at Paul, who was rubbing his eyes. “But you go ahead; I’ll be all right.”

Simon grinned. “Because you’ll be back with your mute helper?”

“Matthias?” Magdalena shook her head with a laugh. “Don’t worry about that. You may talk too much sometimes, but I could never stand a man who’s silent all the time.” She took the two yawning children in her arms and waved once more to her husband as she left. “But he’s a handsome fellow, Matthias.”

Before Simon could reply, she had disappeared in the growing darkness. The medicus checked a few patients then headed outside, too, where he was greeted by a warm wind. Again his stomach growled. With pleasant anticipation, he was heading toward the tavern below the monastery when he noticed a figure approaching.

Much too late he realized it was Karl Semer.

Damn. I completely forgot about him,
Simon thought to himself.

“Ah, my dear friend, Burgomaster Semer,” he began, as he shrugged apologetically. “I remember… the conversation with the abbot. Unfortunately I haven’t yet—”

“You can forget it,” Semer interrupted. His malicious smile told Simon he had a rude surprise in store for him. “In the meantime
I’ve had a chance to talk with the prior,” Semer continued. “And lo and behold—His Excellency is of exactly the same opinion as I. He sent for the judge in Weilheim this afternoon, and I’m sure the judge will be here tomorrow to give the sorcerer his well-deserved punishment.”

“But… but…” Simon stammered.

“The abbot? It wasn’t necessary to ask him.” Semer picked at his teeth lazily, removing a long strand of meat. “Trial or not, Rambeck’s days are numbered,” he continued smugly. “The judge won’t be happy to learn that such foul deeds were kept from him. There will be pressure on the monks, and presumably Rambeck will resign on his own. In any case, the prior seems a worthy successor.”

Simon bit his lip and stared silently at the burgomaster. He knew as well as Semer did that the judge’s arrival would seal Nepomuk’s fate. There would be torture, a confession, and finally a sentence. There was no way out.

“I’ll… I’ll write my report to the monastery, as I promised.” Simon tried to sound as confident as possible. “There are still many discrepancies to clear up.”

“Do that, do that,” Semer replied, “Though I hardly believe the judge will attach much credence to the opinions of a Schongau… bathhouse surgeon.” He screwed up his face into a broad sneer. “But please go ahead and do that. And if you have any thoughts of drawing the trial out, for whatever reason…” Semer shrugged disparagingly. “The apothecary won’t burn before the festival, in any case. The wheels of justice turn too slowly for that, unfortunately. But at least we’ll know then who it was, and peace will once again reign in this monastery. Law and order are a citizen’s first duties, master Fronwieser,” he said, tapping Simon’s chest with his pudgy finger, “and the first rules in doing business, too. And now farewell.”

Semer turned and headed for the tavern, where presumably
his son, and perhaps the Wittelsbach count, as well, awaited him. Despite his corpulence, the burgomaster had a spring in his step now.

Suddenly the medicus had lost his appetite.

After darkness descended like a dark shroud over the monastery and quiet finally returned to the little streets, a large figure crept toward the watchmaker’s house. The man wore a monk’s habit and, in his right hand, held a lantern, which he’d covered so only a small slit of light fell on the ground. He looked around one last time in every direction before pressing his fingers carefully against the charred door, which opened with a soft creaking sound.

The hangman nodded with satisfaction. The monks were so afraid of this supposedly haunted place that they’d apparently made no effort to close up or lock the house pending further investigations. Perhaps, though, this oversight was due to the remarkable events taking place now in the monastery. Kuisl hoped to find something in this house that would bring all these events together—the theft of the hosts, the murders, and the disappearance of the watchmaker and his automaton. Kuisl believed he now knew who’d stolen the relics from the chapel, but the motive was still unclear. Something deep inside him told him the solution was hidden in the watchmaker’s house. It was a strange tickle in his redoubtable nose that always gave him direction when his subconscious mind was a step ahead.