Frank Schätzing - Death and the Devil

“No, there isn’t, Goddert,” Jaspar snapped irritatedly. “All this last words stuff is a load of nonsense. Do you think someone who’s lying there with every bone in his body smashed is going to go to the trouble of thinking up some original curtain line? As if any ass turns into a poet just because he’s about to depart the stage.”

“Many a man has been inspired when the soul is freed from the prison of the flesh. Saint Francis of Assisi even spoke in verse.” Goddert puffed himself up and declaimed,

“My God, listen to Goddert! And I always thought he’d never learned anything,” exclaimed Jaspar in amazement. “You’re still wrong, though. The great man wrote those lines long before he died, but only revealed them on his deathbed. Very spiritual but not particularly spontaneous.”

“Then take Archbishop Anno. Didn’t he see the destruction of Cologne on his deathbed?”

“Anno had a fever, took several weeks to die. Plenty of time to rehearse his last words.”

“But he called on Peter and all the saints to protect Cologne.”

“Probably because he believed the Virgin had vouchsafed him such a terrible vision as a punishment for the way he’d treated the citizens.”

“Anno was a saint. He loved the people of Cologne with all his heart!”

“You’ll have known him, of course—he only died two hundred years ago, while all I’ve done is read his Life . As for being a saint, I don’t doubt his miracles, but if you ask me, I’d say he had more eyes put out than he healed. No wonder he prayed for the city on his deathbed, but more out of fear of purgatory than for the welfare of the city.”

“If I was a cleric, I’d accuse you of blasphemous talk. I sometimes wonder which of us follows the teachings of the Church more closely, you in your habit or a hardworking dyer like me.”

“You aren’t a hardworking dyer, you’re an old drunkard with a hardworking daughter. As to your mania for last words, let me remind you of Saint Clare of Assisi. She died just seven years ago saying, ‘Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit’—very pious, but not particularly original or mystical.”

“And what about all the saints who suffered and died for their faith,” cried Goddert, who had gone bright red, “and still found words of defiance for their tormentors or had visions of the future?”

“Were you there? Most of them will have said ‘ouch.’ Last words are bandied about like relics. Three months ago Conrad sent the king of France a casket supposedly containing the bones of Saint Berga. If it goes on like this, we’ll have to add another nought to the eleven thousand virgins to explain the miraculous appearance of holy bones.”

Goddert drew a deep breath to reply, but instead gave a muffled growl and emptied his mug of wine.

“And now we have another set of broken bones,” said Jaspar, looking around at them pensively. “What was going on inside Gerhard? He’s dying and he knows it. Would he say ‘It is wrong’ about his own death? No one would dream of calling God wrong when He decides to call someone to Him, even if a murderer does have a hand in it.”

“But what is it that’s wrong, then?” asked Jacob, confused. “If Gerhard wasn’t talking about himself, it’s beginning to sound like one of Goddert’s mystical utterances after all.”

Goddert nodded vigorously.

“Not mystical,” said Jaspar. He rested his long chin in his hands. “Peter Abelard said that words do not veil reality, but reveal it. What reality did Gerhard want to reveal? Or, to put it another way, why did he have to die?”

“A rival?” Goddert suggested tentatively. “There are many who would like to be in charge of building the cathedral.”

“Hmm. There’s a young man called Arnold. A good stonemason. I believe the cathedral chapter has had its eye on him for some time.”

“I certainly had no intention of accusing the chapter of anything untoward,” Goddert declared hastily. “I just thought—”

“Why not?”

Goddert stared at him, openmouthed. This time his horrified incredulity seemed genuine. “Jaspar! How could even the shadow of suspicion fall on the cathedral canons? After all, they are the ones who instigated this holy work.”

“You mean the cathedral? That’s not a holy work.”

Goddert went even redder. “What? How can you say something like that? You’re always carping and criticizing.”

“No, I’m not. I just happen to know that Conrad laid the foundation stone on the spot set aside for his tomb, which poses the question of whose glory is this temple being built to, the Lord’s or Conrad’s?”

Goddert slapped his hand on the table. “You just have to drag everything through the mud.”

“All right.” Jaspar raised his hands in appeasement. “May the Lord preserve your simple faith. Anyway, you’ll be pleased to know I’ve come to the same conclusion as you. The chapter had nothing to do with Gerhard’s death. The cathedral was an expression of its power, too, and who better than Gerhard to realize it? Arnold will probably succeed to the position, but just because he’s a capable young stonemason, not for any dubious reasons.” He sighed. “Which brings us back to the question of what Gerhard meant when he said, ‘It is wrong.’”

“Perhaps he was referring to the future,” suggested Jacob.

“The future?” echoed Goddert.

“Yes. To something that’s going to happen. Something so important it was worth using his last breath for. Perhaps he knew some secret and it weighed on his conscience. So much so that someone expected Gerhard to tell the whole world what he thought was wrong.”

“And reveal a dark secret that was other people’s secret, too. Excellent, Fox-cub.” Jaspar could hardly contain himself. “Gerhard Morart knew something he shouldn’t have. He had become a danger. He was killed so he would take the secret, his murderer’s secret, to the grave with him.”

Richmodis swallowed and looked at Jaspar. “Then it’s not just the murder of an architect?”

“No. There’s something else. Something that’s still to happen.”

“Lord preserve us,” said Goddert in a hoarse voice. “I daren’t imagine what’s behind it. If they’re willing to kill Gerhard Morart to keep it secret, then it’s not going to be some petty crime.”

“Another murder, yes?” said Rolof impassively.

Everyone turned to look at him, but Rolof was fully occupied with a pear.

“That can’t be my Rolof,” mocked Jaspar. “Someone must have been speaking through him.”

“But he could still have been speaking the truth,” cried Richmodis.

“You must go and see your magistrate friend,” Goddert insisted. “You must tell him everything.”

“No,” Jaspar decided, “not yet.”

“But there’s no point in making inquiries ourselves. It’s too dangerous.”

“Then go home, you old coward. You’re the one who was determined to help Jacob. We can’t go to the magistrates before we’ve got these supposed witnesses on our side. That reminds me. Do you happen to have forty gold marks?”

“Of course, Jaspar,” Goddert declared. “Forty thousand, if you want. I’m the richest man in Cologne, aren’t I?”

“All right, all right.”

“That’s not a bad idea at all, Uncle Jaspar,” said Richmodis. “Tell the magistrates. It’s the only way of protecting Jacob and it’ll still allow us to talk to the witnesses.”