Frank Schätzing - Death and the Devil

The bathhouse opposite Little St. Martin’s had a number of facilities on offer, none of which contributed to the purification of the soul. Jaspar was well aware of this. Too often his weak flesh drew him to the establishment, where every attempt was made to reward it for its weakness.

“When shall I be there?” he asked.

“Ah.” Andreas’s lips curved in a slight smile. “First we need a period of quiet contemplation to thank God for the invigorating effects of hot water and massage—I mean foot baths. Come around midday, and bring the money. We’ll be undisturbed there.”

“A good idea, Brother,” said Jaspar. “May I give you a piece of advice?”

“If you wish.”

“Don’t think you’re cleverer than you are.”

The bells of the old cathedral were striking ten.

With all the dignity he could muster, Bodo entered the great meeting room of the house where the citizens meet , as it was carved in Latin above the door. He threw back his shoulders and went to join the group who were talking together in low voices.

“Ah, Herr Schuif,” said one. “And what’s your opinion?”

“About what?” asked Bodo.

“About the murders in Berlich and by the Duck Ponds?”

“Not exactly the most shining examples of Christian living,” said another, “but men and women all the same.”

“My initial opinion,” said Bodo, “is that they’re dead. Are there suspects?”

“There are always people willing to accuse others,” replied the first. “But we have to be careful. I remember the old council had a man broken on the wheel who had been accused of being a werewolf. Afterward it turned out his only crime was staying alive too long for his heirs.”

Knowing laughter and conspiratorial looks were the response.

“Things are not always as they seem,” remarked the first magistrate.

“And do not always seem the way they are,” the second added with a sage nod.

“Quite right.” Bodo saw his chance to impress. “Take the case of Gerhard Morart. I had a very interesting talk with an old friend this morning. He was asking me about the names of those two witnesses. You know, the two mendicants who saw him fall. An accident, say some. He jumped, possessed by the Devil, others think more probable.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “But my old friend was hinting at a third possibility, although propriety or perhaps caution prevented him from saying right out what he thought.”

“And what,” drawled the first magistrate, “might he have been hinting at?”

“I didn’t press him. It was only going over his words later that it struck me. I think what he was suggesting was that at least Gerhard was not responsible for his own death.”

“Who was, then? The Devil?”

“No. At least not directly.”

“Don’t keep us on tenterhooks.”

“Well.” Bodo cocked his head self-importantly. “What if someone pushed him…?”

“Murder?” The other magistrate laughed out loud and shook his head. “Is your friend right in the head? Two upright men in holy orders tell us it was an accident, they even heard his confession—”

“And we questioned the two for a long time,” added the second. “If someone had pushed Gerhard, then presumably they would have seen it and told us.”

“I know. Nevertheless.”

“Somewhat far-fetched, Herr Schuif. Did your friend really talk of murder?”

Bodo hesitated. “Not as such,” he admitted.

“But you suspect that’s what he had in mind?”

“I know Jaspar. He likes to talk in riddles. Often I can’t understand him. This time, though—”

The other cut him short. “This time we will proceed to the meeting, where we have more important matters to discuss.” He seemed to have lost interest.

Bodo shrugged his shoulders. They set off up the stairs to the council chamber on the first floor. On the half-landing he felt a hand on his shoulder. He slowed down.

It was the second magistrate. “You must excuse me if I sounded so suspicious,” he whispered as they continued slowly up the stairs. “It’s a delicate matter. Certain…persons are of the same opinion as your friend. Keep that to yourself. For various reasons it doesn’t seem opportune to discuss it in public. What did you say your friend was called?”

“Jaspar Rodenkirchen,” Bodo replied, getting excited. “And you really think—”

“What I think is neither here nor there. Let us say one must make the truth known at the right time and in the right place. This Jaspar, would you trust his judgment?”

“I should say so! He’s a physician and dean of St. Mary Magdalene’s, master of arts and so on and so forth.”

“And you think he intends to question the witnesses again?”

“He said that.”

“Hmm. I understand. I just hope he and the others are wrong, but my hopes have no legal status and my wishes are less objective than a thorough investigation. May Gerhard’s soul find peace, and may the murderers—if your friend is right—suffer unimaginable torments. But justice is a matter for the magistrates. I’d advise your friend not to take things into his own hands. Tell him to confide in us.”

They had reached the council chamber. “After you,” said the other magistrate with a friendly smile to Bodo.

Bodo gave a dignified nod and entered the chamber.

The other watched him go in. Then he turned on his heel, ran down the steps two at a time, and disappeared down Judengasse.

“Middle finger,” said Jacob.

“She’ll never learn to play, will she?” said Rolof.

“If I’d wanted your opinion, you old polecat, I’d have grunted,” Richmodis said with a laugh.

“Don’t talk to Rolof like that,” growled Goddert from the corner where he was refilling his mug with wine. He had insisted on coming. “Polecats are God’s creatures, too.”

Jacob took her middle finger and gently placed it on the correct hole. They had been practicing playing the whistle ever since Jaspar had left. Unfortunately Richmodis’s talent in that direction fell far short of her other merits. “I just can’t get the change from here to there,” she complained.

“From where to where?” Jacob asked.

“From there—to there.”

“You can do it if you try. Now blow.”

Richmodis placed the whistle to her lips and took a deep breath. The result could hardly be classified as music. Sweet as a snake bite, thought Jacob.

“Told you,” muttered Rolof. “She’ll never learn.”

“Oh, yes, she will,” retorted Goddert. “She needs a bit of practice, that’s all.”

“My fingers feel as if they’re going to break off.” Richmodis slapped the whistle down on the table, pouted, and looked at Jacob from beneath her long eyelashes. “I save your life and you torture me.”

“Torture?” said Jacob, baffled. “But you wanted to—”

“Feminine logic.” Goddert giggled. “I get it all the time at home.”

“Oh, Jacob,” she breathed, “you play us something.”

“You’ll never learn like that.”

“I do want to learn, but I need”—she gave him a sugary smile that made his heart melt—“inspiration. Just once, please. Play a dance tune so this fat lump can get some exercise. Then I’ll practice day and night, promise.”

“You will?” Jacob grinned. “How can I resist that argument?”

He picked up his whistle and started to play a fast peasant dance. Richmodis immediately jumped up and tugged and pulled at Rolof until he lumbered around the room with her, still mumbling and grumbling. Then he started to enjoy it, and the lumbering turned into a stamping that made the floor creak and tremble. Richmodis spun around and around him. Jacob watched her hair fly and played faster and faster, beating out the rhythm with his foot on the floor. Goddert decided to join in and thumped the table with his fist.