Frank Schätzing - Death and the Devil

“It’s my stomach that feels as if it had legs.” Jacob groaned. There was a thumping above his head. Rolof was working in the loft and he was doing it noisily. Too noisily for Jacob’s state of health.

“The youth of today!” Jaspar shook his head. “Go out, if you must, and stick your head under the pump.”

“I didn’t see one.”

“Where do you mean? In the yard? My house does not have the luxury appointments of Goddert von Weiden’s. Just past St. Severin’s there’s—ach, nonsense Rodenkirchen, you jackass. You mustn’t be seen outside with that burning bush of yours. I’ll go and see if I can find a habit for you.”

He scraped up the last of his porridge, licked his fingers with relish, and smacked his lips. “Excellent. Come on, eat up.”

“I can’t.”

“You must, otherwise you’re out on the street.” He grinned smugly. “And that would be a pity when I’ve thought up such a splendid plan.”

Jacob took his bowl resignedly and set about it. Jaspar was right. The stuff not only tasted good, it did him good. “What plan?” he asked from behind two hands sticky with porridge.

“Simple. There were two witnesses, you say, who spoke of an accident. Assuming you’ve got the story right, they must be lying. But what do they get out of it? They could make a lot more of a lovely, dramatic murder, so why go for a common or garden-variety little slip? What do you think?”

“I don’t. My head won’t start working again till I’ve managed to force this unaccustomed treat down me.”

“But it sticks out like a sore thumb. Even Goddert would see something so patently obvious.”

“Right then.” Jacob pushed the bowl away and tried to think. “They lied, without any clear advantage to themselves. Unless, of course, they killed him.”

“Getting warm. But if I’ve got it right, you only saw one man on the scaffolding—we’ll assume it wasn’t the Devil. Where was the second witness?”

“There was no one else there.”

“Exactly. And our oh-so-willing witnesses didn’t kill anyone, either. But they’re in league with the murderer. Why? Because he’s paying them. They were waiting nearby to be on the spot as quickly as possible, ready to tell their story before the body was cold. And what does that tell us about the murderer, Fox-cub?”

Jacob thought for a moment. “He prepared his crime?” he conjectured.

Jaspar gave a little whistle of applause. “Not bad for a thick head. But I’d go even further and say that also he could afford Gerhard’s death. Bribery costs money. Of course, they might just have owed him a favor, but it makes no difference. Either way, the witnesses were bought. Now to my simple priest’s mind, a knave will be open to other pieces of knavery. A man who sells his word for money has also sold his honor, prostituted his soul. He can be bought again. For the highest offer.” He grinned. “How about making these so-called witnesses one ourselves?”

“With money? I’d have to rob a church first.”

“I wouldn’t be entirely happy with that,” said Jaspar drily. “I was thinking more of a pretend offer.”

Jacob nodded. “Of course. I go out and start asking for the witnesses to Gerhard’s accident. How long do you think I’d last?”

Jaspar rolled his eyes and sent up a short prayer. “Don’t act more stupid than you really are,” he said. “Do you think I’ve forgotten? Gerhard’s death will have been reported to the magistrates and they will certainly have taken a statement from the witnesses. Now it so happens that one of the magistrates, since Conrad got rid of the old lot, is a friend of mine. Bodo’s his name. He’s master of the guild of brewers, so you can see we have a common interest. I’ll ask him where we can find the pair.”

“The magistrates,” Jacob mused. That was good. “How soon can you see this Bodo?”

Jaspar spread his hands. “As soon as I want. Now if you like. He doesn’t live far away.”

“Good. Give me a habit or a hat, something to hide my hair. Then we can be off.”

“Keep your hair on, Fox-cub. You’re not going at all. You’re going to be so good as to chop the firewood in my yard.”

“But—”

“No buts. I do something for you, you do something for me.”

“I’ll do anything for you, but you’ve got to take me with you, d’you hear? Disguised and in your company, I wouldn’t be in any danger. After all, it’s a magistrate we’ll be talking to.”

“I hear you.” Jaspar sighed. “And I can see you doing something silly behind my back. I’ll send Rolof to fetch Richmodis, to give you a good reason not to do something silly.”

“I—” Did Jaspar say Richmodis? “All right.”

“You see?” Jaspar rubbed his hands. “Aren’t you lucky? Old Uncle Jaspar does the spadework for you and scatters the seeds of reason. You may thank me. If it leads to anything, you can still come along.” He placed his finger on the end of his nose. “Just a minute. There was something else. Something I needed to know? Damn, we don’t get any younger. No matter. I’ll be away for an hour or two. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

Jacob was thinking of Richmodis. “Of course not.” Then something occurred to him. “Tell Richmodis to bring her whistle.”

Jaspar turned at the bottom of the stair, a severe expression on his face. “Didn’t I say something about chopping wood?”

“No problem. She’ll be the one playing.”

“But she doesn’t know how.”

“That’s why she needs to learn.”

Muttering something incomprehensible in Latin, Jaspar went to find Rolof.

That morning Bodo Schuif, master brewer, did not look like a man who meant to spend the day tending his tuns of mash. As Jaspar arrived he was wearing his best coat and about to leave.

“Nevertheless,” he said, putting his arm around Jaspar’s shoulders, “there’s still time for a jar, don’t you think, Rodenkirchen?”

“You would have to assure me that beer, consumed after large quantities of red wine, has a purgative effect, promotes the digestion, and will not impair the harmonious functioning of my organs and bodily fluids.”

“Consider yourself assured.”

“Then lead me to it.”

The brewer gave the maid a sign. Before long two foaming mugs were standing on the table and in no time at all the two men had white mustaches.

“And where is your good lady?” asked Jaspar casually.

Schuif gave a drawn-out, rumbling burp. “At the market. I told her I wanted crayfish pie today, no one makes a better. Do you fancy a bite yourself?”

Jaspar’s mouth watered. “I’m afraid not,” he said reluctantly. “It looks as if I’ll be occupied with urgent business.”

“Me too.” Schuif sighed. “There’s always urgent bloody business. Since I was elected magistrate I seem to be spending more time in the Town Hall than anywhere else. There’s another meeting this morning. Why, I don’t know, there’s nothing important to be dealt with. Recently it’s the wife who’s been looking after the business. She’s almost better at it than me, the Lord be praised.”

He laughed and took a deep pull at his beer. “D’you know,” he said when he’d wiped the foam from his mouth, “the ones who give us the most trouble are those louts who call themselves the noble houses. Instead of the council of magistrates doing what it’s supposed to do and administering justice, we spend all our time squabbling with the few patricians left on it. Conrad cleared out the cesspit that was the old council and replaced it with honest traders and craftsmen, but there’s still a few patricians among us. I ask you, what do they want, these noble gentlemen? Behave as if they’d lost all their influence when what really gets up their noses is seeing ordinary burghers getting their sweaty hands on their supposed privileges.”