Frank Schätzing - Death and the Devil

She sat astride the bench and started to clean the wound carefully with a cloth. She did it so gently it was almost enjoyable. Under different circumstances Jacob would have invented further injuries just to feel the caress of her soft hands.

“There we are.” She dropped the cloth into the pail and inspected her work. “That’s the best I can do for the moment.”

Jacob squinted down at his shoulder. It was all the colors of the rainbow. “Richmodis—” He took her hand and squeezed it. She didn’t pull her hand away, just stared at him with her green eyes and waited. He didn’t know what to say.

Eventually she came to his rescue. “You’re running away.”

“Yes.”

“You were doing that yesterday, too.”

“Yesterday I’d stolen something. That’s different. It’s my profession.”

“Aha, profession.” She raised her eyebrows in mock respect.

“It’s not what you’re thinking,” he said urgently. “I’m a thief and a cheat, I admit it. But this is different. My only mistake was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I saw someone being murdered and the murderer saw me—and the two people I told about it are dead.” His voice trailed off at the thought of Maria. He cleared his throat noisily and looked away.

She placed her index finger under his chin and turned his head back to face her. “And?”

“And nothing. I’m stuck like a rat in a trap and I don’t want to pull you in, too. Believe me, I really did want to see you again—”

“I should hope so, too.”

“—but I might be putting your life in danger. That monster chased me all around Cologne last night. I’m surprised I’m still alive.”

“Monster?” The line between her brows had reappeared.

“The murderer.”

“But you escaped?”

“Yes. For the moment.”

“Good. Then there’s nothing to worry about. If he had found you again, you’d presumably be dead as mutton by now.” She ran her fingers through his hair, then tugged it so hard he couldn’t repress a cry of pain. “But from what I hear, you’re alive.”

She let go, jumped up, and went out of the room. Creaking, rustling noises came from the other side of the door. “And who was it you saw being murdered that makes them so keen to get rid of you as well?”

“Not so loud!” Jacob rolled his eyes and ran over to where she was. The room at the rear appeared to be a mixture of kitchen and ground-level storeroom. She had opened a large chest and was rummaging around among material and other bits and pieces. He slumped against the door frame, then gave a loud groan. His shoulder! Richmodis gave him a brief glance, then returned to the tangle of cloth.

“Oh, I see,” she said. “The murderer’s in this chest listening to every word we say.”

“I can’t tell you. I don’t want someone else to get killed.”

“Here, put these on.” She threw him a tan coat and a cap with earmuffs. “If you won’t talk about it, we’ll have to do something. What are you waiting for?”

Jacob looked at the clothes. They were good, very good, well made from excellent cloth. He’d never worn anything like them in his life.

Richmodis clapped her hands. “What is it then? Does my lord require to be dressed?”

Jacob quickly put on the coat and pulled the cap so far down that not a red hair was to be seen. Richmodis strutted around, giving a pull here and a tug there, then stepped back, with a satisfied look on her face. Jacob felt stiff and hampered. He would have felt more at ease in the old, used coat.

“And now?”

“Now? We’re going for a walk.”

“Where?”

“To see my uncle. He’d better have a look at that shoulder and give you something decent to drink. Then you can tell him your story. If you manage to convince him, he’ll do everything he can to help you. He likes a little spice in his scholarly existence now and then. If not, he’ll throw you out on your backside. Without the hat and coat.”

Jacob couldn’t think of anything to say. They went out and crossed the stream. He turned around to see if anyone was watching, at which she gave him an irritated nudge and hurried him on. “Don’t look,” she whispered. “They’ll stare anyway.”

“And where does your uncle live?” asked Jacob, neatly avoiding a piglet that ran squealing between his legs.

“I told you. He’s dean of St. Mary Magdalene’s.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Never heard of it, you heathen?”

“Not heathen, not long in Cologne, that’s all.”

“Mary Magdalene’s is opposite St. Severin’s. Rather small, I have to admit. My uncle lives three doors along. That’s where he has his study, too.”

“There’s another thing, Richmodis—”

“Mmm?”

“These clothes—”

“Are my father’s, that’s right.”

Oh, dear!

“Was he angry with you about the other things you gave me?”

“You bet he was! He was furious. He chased me all around the house crying blue murder. The neighbors came to see what was up.”

“Christ! A good thing he wasn’t there today.”

“A good thing indeed.”

They passed through the old Roman gate into Severinstraße, which ran straight toward the city wall. It was no mean street. Churches and chapels, monasteries and convents jostled each other for position, not to mention solid patrician houses and inviting inns. Catering to every need, so to speak.

Richmodis was striding out.

“Tell me, fairest nose in the West,” he said after a while, “where is he?”

“Who?”

“Your father.”

She stopped and looked at him as if that was the silliest question she had ever heard.

“Where would he be? At my uncle’s.”

Matthias reached the Franciscan monastery punctually at seven. He had to look twice before he recognized Urquhart. The murderer was wearing a black monk’s habit with the hood drawn down over his face and his head bowed. He looked as if he were immersed in his devotions.

Matthias walked over to him casually, stopping beside him as if by chance. “Why the disguise?”

“It seemed a good idea for you to accompany one of the good friars on his morning walk,” he said. “Yesterday you were not very keen for us to be seen together. You may be right.”

“That’s perhaps going a little too far,” Matthias countered. “After all, no one knows who—”

“Not here. Follow me.”

With measured tread the two men walked out and around the corner into one of the city’s liveliest streets. It was full of workshops and rang with the sound of hammering, planing, and tapping, mingled with the rumble of carts, the stamp and roar of oxen, with barks, shouts, and the grunt of pigs, constantly interrupted by the bells from the countless churches and chapels. They were passing the harness makers. Matthias had commissioned a saddle that still wasn’t finished even though he had laid out so much money that he was contemplating a complaint to the guild.

They strolled past open workshops, splendid town houses, and the Münster Inn, which Daniel was frequenting more and more, much to the annoyance of the family. Then a mansion with extensive grounds.

“Your friend,” mocked Matthias.

“Friend?”

“The house of the count of Jülich.”

“William is not my friend,” said Urquhart in bored tones. “I served him for a while and he benefited from it. Now I am serving you.”

“And not without benefit,” said Matthias with a patronizing smile. He took a pear out of his coat pocket and bit into it heartily. “Gerhard is dead. Everyone is talking about an accident. Your witnesses were good.”

“Two of my witnesses were good.”