Frank Schätzing - Death and the Devil

“No, they can’t stand that.”

“You know how I feel about it. I’m not petty-minded. Each to his own, I say. But the magistrates are responsible for the administration of justice and the running of the city. That means for Cologne. The whole of Cologne. Where would we be if those who represent everyone, the poor and needy as well, only came from the patrician families?”

“‘Would we be’? That’s the way things used to be.”

“Yes, and praise and thanks be to Jesus Christ that our lord archbishop took the shovel to that pile of dung! A bloody scandal, the way things used to be done! The guilds weren’t entirely free of blame, I have to admit. We let the patricians infiltrate us, even elected some guildmasters, all for the sake of profit. But that was all. Was it our fault the noble families increased their influence along with their wealth? They got everywhere, like blasted mildew. Conrad was right to kick up a fuss about them using their positions to protect criminals and help them evade his jurisdiction.”

Jaspar grinned. Bodo was so proud of being a magistrate, he never tired of trotting out the well-known facts again and again. Since becoming a magistrate he had tried to moderate his rough language, not always with success. No wonder the patricians, who had studied and seen the world, reacted to people like Bodo as if they had the itch. Despite the fact that, according to the statutes, anyone who was sound of mind and body, born within wedlock, and not convicted of any crime could become a magistrate, previously only representatives of the noble houses had occupied the magistrates’ seats. If the patricians had had their way, people like Bodo would have got a kick in the seat of the pants rather than a seat on the council. A brewer as magistrate was a slap in the eye for the old families, especially as it came from Conrad von Hochstaden.

“Well?” asked Schuif with a frown.

“You’re right, as always, Bodo.”

“That’s not what I mean. Do you like my magic potion? You’re keeping so quiet about it I almost take it as an insult.”

“Sorry.” Jaspar emptied his mug demonstratively. The beer was sweet and stuck to his teeth, almost a meal in itself.

“That’s better.” Schuif smiled. He stood up and smoothed out his coat. “And now I must be off. That is—” He frowned and gave Jaspar a questioning look. “Did you come for a reason?”

“Oh, nothing special. I was interested in poor Gerhard’s tragic accident.”

Schuif nodded fiercely. “Yes. Terrible, now the building’s coming on so well. Could it be God didn’t want him to finish the perfect church? I have a theory of my own there.”

“Huh!” Jaspar made a dismissive gesture. “Gerhard could have lived to be a hundred and not seen it finished.”

“Don’t say that. There are miracles—”

“There are architects. I’ve nothing against miracles, but Gerhard Morart was a human being like you and me.”

Schuif rested his knuckles on the table and leaned down to Jaspar conspiratorially. “Yes, perhaps we need a different word for it. You’re right, miracles are generally attributed to saints. Perhaps we should be talking of the Devil?”

“Not again.” Jaspar groaned.

“What do you mean, not again? And why not, anyway? If you ask me, Gerhard had dealings with the Arch-fiend. My wife says he jumped off that scaffolding.”

Jaspar leaned back, shaking his head. “Your wife should stick to crayfish pie. Do you really believe that?”

“Anything’s possible,” said Schuif, wagging his finger at Jaspar.

“If anything’s possible,” Jaspar countered, “what do you think of another theory, namely that Gerhard didn’t jump, but—”

“But what?”

Jaspar bit his lip. Better keep quiet about that. Instead he asked, “Have you spoken to the witnesses?”

“Yes, we questioned them.”

“Reliable?”

“I’d say so. Two respectable monks, preachers who happened to be staying in Cologne. Benedictines, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Aha,” said Jaspar. “Then they’ll be staying with their fellow Benedictines?”

“No, they’re lodging at St. Gereon’s, if you must know. Why do you want to know, anyway?”

“There’s a lot more I want to know. I’d be interested in their names.”

“Well, why not? One was called—just a moment—Justus? Brother Justus or Justinius? Can’t quite remember. The other’s an Andreas von Helmerode. I can’t for the life of me think why you want to know all this, but then you always were a mystery. My wife says with all your questions you’ll eat your way right through history. And when you come out the other side, you’ll see it’s just the same.”

“As I said, just curiosity.” Jaspar stood up. “Thanks for the beer. Perhaps you’ll come around for a jug of wine sometime?”

“Love to. When my official duties give me time.”

“I have a suggestion. Make time.”

Schuif furrowed his brow, obviously trying to work this out. Jaspar patted him on the shoulder and hurried out without a further word.

When he entered the pilgrim’s hostel of St. Gereon it was full of bustle. This was nothing unusual. Cologne attracted large numbers of pilgrims, which was hardly surprising given the presence of important relics such as the bones of the Three Kings.

St. Gereon itself boasted the bones of its patron saint, as well as those of St. Gregorius Marcus and his followers. Not long ago the fourth-century Roman atrium, on which the site was based, had been converted into imposing cloisters and the hostel had been opened the previous year. St. Gereon was a beautiful building and Jaspar took a little time to wander around the cloisters.

A monk came hurrying toward him, a bundle of scrolls under his arm. “Excuse me,” Jaspar called out.

The monk started and crossed himself, dropping half his scrolls in the process. Jaspar bent down to pick them up.

“No!” The monk pushed him away and grabbed the scrolls.

“I was just trying to help.”

“Of course. It was my fault. Brother—?”

“Jaspar Rodenkirchen, physician and dean of St. Mary Magdalene’s.”

“Brother Jaspar, these scrolls must only be touched by those authorized.”

“Of whom you are one, I assume?”

“Precisely. Can I be of assistance?”

“Perhaps you can. I’m looking for the two monks who were witnesses when God called Gerhard Morart to Him. One was called Andreas von Helmerode and the other’s name could have been Justus—”

“Justinius von Singen!” The monk nodded eagerly. “We have the honor of entertaining them under our unworthy roof. They saw him when he was called to his Maker, but I must say, I think it was a damned shame he had to die.”

“Brother!” exclaimed Jaspar in horrified tones.

Shocked at his unconscious blasphemy, the monk was going to cross himself again, but restrained himself just in time. “God’s will be done,” he said.

“On earth as it is in heaven.” Jaspar nodded, a severe look on his face. “I don’t want to keep you from your important business any longer, Brother, so if you could just tell me where I can find Andreas and Justinius—”

“I will send a novice to fetch them.”

The monk turned and passed through an archway. A short while later Jaspar saw a spotty boy in a novice’s habit shoot out and disappear into the building opposite. After a time he reappeared, followed by two monks who clearly belonged to the mendicant orders.

“There’s the man who wants to speak to you,” he muttered shyly, head bowed. He stumbled backward along the cloisters for a few yards, then turned and ran off full tilt.

“Andreas von Helmerode? Justinius von Singen?”

The pair looked at each other uncertainly. “I am Justinius,” said the shorter, fatter of the two. “But who are you?”