Frank Schätzing - Death and the Devil

“They wouldn’t believe us, child,” Jaspar insisted. Whenever he called her child he was being serious. “We have no proof, and Jacob is not exactly what you’d call a pillar of society. And anyway, what do you think the magistrates would do, now the old wolves have been replaced by a herd of sheep? Conrad’s puppets wherever you look. Whatever you think of the so-called noble houses—arrogant, corrupt, cruel—there’s too few left on the council. Only this morning Bodo was boasting about his important position again. I like the old fellow, but he’s just as spineless and brainless as most of the tradesmen who fell for Conrad’s sweet talk when he got nowhere with the patricians.”

“There are still some patricians.”

“But they’ve lost influence. Perhaps it’s a good thing, but you can have too much of a good thing. Even the Overstolzes provide just one magistrate. That’s all that’s left of their power and authority.”

“That’s right,” agreed Goddert. “I heard his name mentioned recently. What was he called?”

Jaspar sighed. “Theoderich. But that’s irrelevant.”

“Bodo Schuif,” said Theoderich. “But that’s irrelevant.”

“Bodo Schuif,” mused Matthias, and he slowly strode up and down the room. “That’s that ignorant ass of a brewer. And he believes the murder theory?”

“Bodo will believe anything until someone comes to persuade him of the opposite. He’s not a danger. The one we have to concentrate on is this Jaspar Rodenkirchen.”

“You think he’s been talking to the redhead?”

“There’s a strong presumption.”

“What do you know about him?”

Theoderich Overstolz shrugged his shoulders. “There wasn’t much time. I did what I could. Jaspar Rodenkirchen is dean of St. Mary Magdalene’s; also claims to be a physician and Master of the Seven Arts. Lives diagonally opposite St. Severin’s. A braggart, if you ask me, whom God has blessed with remarkable ugliness, but loved by his congregation.”

Matthias looked at him, brows furrowed. “We can’t afford to keep on killing people. A whore I don’t care about, but a dean—”

“Forget the dean. We can let him live. What I mean is we might get at the redhead through him.”

“Too late. The fox has put the dean in the picture, therefore both represent a risk.” Matthias was rocking back and forth on his feet. He was nervous and getting irritated because he couldn’t think what to do.

“Let’s discuss it with Urquhart,” suggested Theoderich.

“Yes,” said Matthias reflectively.

“And I agree with Johann,” said Theoderich, taking a handful of grapes from a bowl and stuffing some in his mouth. “It wasn’t particularly clever to bring Urquhart into the house. We can ignore the redhead. The important thing is that no one connects the murderer with us.

Matthias shook his head irascibly. “I’ve told you a hundred times, when I brought him here he was wearing the habit of a Friar Minor. He was unrecognizable; can’t you get that into your thick skull? We’ve got other problems. We must stop this talk of murder spreading and putting people on the alert. No one’ll pay much attention to whores and down-and-outs getting killed; those kinds of things happen. But how are we going to carry out our plan if respected burghers start deciding their lives aren’t safe in Cologne, dammit? And then this problem with Gerhard’s last words.”

“Gerhard fell off the cathedral,” said Theoderich matter-of-factly, chewing his grapes. “There were no last words.”

With a few quick steps Matthias was beside him and dashed the grapes out of his hand. He grabbed Theoderich by the collar. “Urquhart said this Fox, or whatever he calls himself, put his ear to Gerhard’s lips, you idiot,” he snarled. “What if he could still speak? Perhaps he said, yes, one of my murderers is called Theoderich Overstolz, you all know him, he’s a magistrate. And Jacob tells the dean, and the dean works on Urquhart’s witnesses, and tomorrow they come to fetch you—and me as well. And they’ll drag your blind old aunt Blithildis to the place of execution and tie her between two horses, before they hand you over to the executioner.”

Theoderich took a deep breath. “You’re right,” he croaked.

“Good.” Matthias straightened up and wiped his hand on his breeches.

“Matthias, we’re starting to quarrel among ourselves.”

“Don’t be such a baby.”

“That’s not what I’m getting at. Our alliance is in crisis and I can’t see things improving. It’s dangerous. Remember Daniel and Kuno. Even you and Johann don’t always agree.”

Matthias brooded for a few moment. “You’re right,” he said softly. “So close to our goal and we threaten to split apart.” He drew himself up. “Back to this dean. You talked to Bodo—what do you think he’ll do?”

“Try to find the witnesses.”

“Hmm. The witnesses.”

“We haven’t much time. It’s past ten and I don’t know where Urquhart is—”

“But I do. He’s distributed the servants around the city. His own section is the market district. It won’t take me long to find him. There, you see, Theoderich, things aren’t as bad as they seem. Now we know where the Fox is most likely to be hiding, we know who’s protecting him, and we know they’re tracking down the witnesses.”

Matthias smiled to himself. “That should give Urquhart something to work on.”

“Aaaaah!” Justinius von Singen sighed.

The girl laughed and poured another stream of warm water over him. She was pretty and well worth the sin.

“O Lord, I thank you,” murmured Justinius, half blissfully, half remorsefully, as his right hand felt the breasts of his ministering angel and his left slipped down her stomach and under the water. At the same time he watched the girl sitting at the edge of the pool, playing her harp and singing to her instrument. She was in the bloom of youth, a veritable goddess, and her thin white dress revealed more than it concealed.

Drunk with joy, Justinius hummed to the music, out of tune, while his eyes wandered from the beautiful harper up to the galleries above the bathers, where men, young and old, some very old, were standing. They occasionally threw down coins and wreaths of flowers and the girls would jump up and, laughing, spread out their dresses to catch them, at the same time revealing their hidden charms. The music, the singing, the murmur of conversation, the splash of water all merged into a timeless stream in which rational thought was swallowed up as he abandoned himself to the siren voice of lust.

Justinius burped and laid his head on the girl’s shoulder.

Little St. Martin’s bathhouse was crowded at that hour. Clerics were there, though they tended to slip in quietly, for the attendants were as experienced in the arts of love as in giving hot and cold baths, massaging, beating the bathers with bundles of twigs, or rubbing them down with brushes made of cardoon bristles, which left them feeling as if liquid fire were running through their veins. At one time there had probably been a curtain separating the men’s from the women’s section, but all that remained were three iron rings in the ceiling.

Now the copper tubs and great brick basins were open to all. Decorated trays floated on the water, loaded with jugs of wine and various delicacies. Justinius had one right by his belly with a chicken on it roasted to such a crisp golden brown that it was a delight to the eye.

The girl giggled even more and pushed his hand away.

“Oooooh,” said Justinius, winking at Andreas, who was sitting on the other side of the basin, taking no notice of anything.