Oliver Potzsch - The Dark Monk

“No.”

The clerk paused, stunned. “I beg your pardon?”

Kuisl shrugged. “That’s my business. I’ll let you know when I have news.”

Lechner was silent for a moment; then he nodded. “As you will.” He pushed the papers in front of him to one side and pulled a large notebook from a bookshelf alongside the desk. “Let’s get to the reason I asked you to come.” He leafed through the book as he continued. “Scheller and his gang had their trial today, and-”

“They had what? ” Kuisl sat bolt upright in his chair.

“Don’t interrupt me,” Lechner said, giving the hangman a severe look. “As I said, we put the gang on trial this morning in the Ballenhaus. It lasted just a quarter hour. Your presence wasn’t necessary.”

“And Burgomaster Semer?”

“He was informed and agreed to the procedure. The execution is set for this coming Saturday; that’s in three days.” He cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, I was not successful in arranging the type of execution you requested. You’ll have to torture Scheller on the wheel.”

Kuisl could no longer stay seated. “But you gave me your word!” He jumped up so violently that his chair tipped backward and crashed to the floor. “I’m indebted to Scheller!”

The clerk shook his head as if he were speaking with a child. “Please, Kuisl! Indebted…to the head of a band of robbers?” He pointed at the chair on the ground. “Now please pick it up. We still have some things to discuss.”

Jakob Kuisl took a deep breath and stood there, his arms crossed.

“Believe me,” Lechner continued, “it’s the best thing for the city. We have to set an example. Every gang of robbers from here to Landsberg will hear Scheller scream. It will be a lesson to them. Besides”-he tapped his goose-quill pen on the document in front of him-“the execution will bring money back into the city coffers. We’ll have a big celebration with dancing, music, mulled wine, and roasted chestnuts. People need a change of pace after these cold, anxious days.” He leafed through the pages of the book. “You see, there are some things that have to be done. First, the execution site has to be cleaned. Also, I’ve checked and one of the beams is rotten. And down below, in the square, we’ll need some gallows-at least three of them. And seats with canopies for the patricians so the fine gentlemen don’t freeze their behinds off in the cold. I’m afraid the hunt for the other gangs of robbers will have to wait a bit.”

The hangman, who had listened stoically to Lechner’s words, stirred again. “And what about the children and the women?” he asked.

The clerk nodded. “They’ll go free, as promised. We’ll hang only the men and older boys. Scheller will be tortured on the wheel. Believe me, there were people on the council who wanted to hang the women and children, too.” He smiled at Kuisl. “You see, I’m trying to meet you halfway. Now get started. By Saturday noon everything has to be ready.”

With a nod, Lechner dismissed the hangman, who headed for the exit as if in a trance. After he closed the door behind him, the clerk groaned. He would never understand this pigheaded Kuisl! Torture on the wheel paid a full thirty guilders, yet Kuisl reacted as if he were being asked to string up his own daughter. Lechner watched out the window as the large man walked away. A strange man, this hangman, he thought. Strong, bright, but a little too sentimental for his job.

And definitely too curious.

Once more, Lechner removed the letter from under the table. Written on the finest stationery, it had arrived that morning. He could see from the seal that the messenger who had been here a few days earlier had spoken the truth. Someone very powerful wanted to do everything possible to keep the hangman from asking too many questions in Altenstadt.

Johann Lechner cast a final glance at the seal, just to make sure it was genuine, then held the letter over a candle on his desk. Flickering, the fire ate its way through the thin paper until there was nothing left but ashes. The instructions in the letter had been clear. No proof, no written documents, no evidence that would reveal the identity of the client.

Johann Lechner counted out the freshly minted coins that had accompanied the letter. The money would help the city, as would the executions. Once again, the clerk was at peace with himself and the world.

Simon and Benedikta arrived in Schongau early in the evening. During the entire trip back, they’d been wondering about the strange words on the plaque, but also about the man who had watched them from the top of the fir. Was he part of the same gang that had been spying on them on the way to Wessobrunn? But why, then, hadn’t the robbers attacked? Why were the two of them being observed and followed?

Simon escorted Benedikta to her quarters at Semer’s inn, where she convinced him to remain a while for a glass of wine in the tavern.

“Is it possible these are the same men who were hanging around this area a few days ago?” Simon asked. “The same ones who ambushed the hangman in the crypt? Magdalena told her father about a few black-robed strangers in Strasser’s Tavern in Altenstadt who were speaking Latin. Perhaps they’ve been following us the entire time, and-”

“Magdalena is a little girl who probably doesn’t know a word of Latin,” Benedikta interrupted. “Perhaps they were just itinerant Benedictines saying their prayers before they ate.” She winked at him. “You’re beginning to look at every stranger like a murderer.” She put her hand around Simon’s arm, but he quickly pulled away.

“Don’t you sense that our every move is being watched?” he asked with alarm. “A highwayman who doesn’t attack, the man in the fir…That can’t all be a coincidence!”

“I think you’re just imagining things!” Benedikta laughed. “Now I’ll tell you what I think. The man you saw yesterday in the yew forest was a highway robber. We escaped. And the man in the fir tree was nothing but a figment of your imagination. You can’t even give a good description of what he looked like.”

“I know what I saw.” There was a long pause. When Simon spoke again, he decided to put all his cards on the table. “You’re right,” he said. “Perhaps it’s all just my imagination. Perhaps Andreas Koppmeyer was murdered for some completely different reason. Tell me, Benedikta, your brother surely must have left a will. What does it say?”

Benedikta stared back at him in astonishment and took a deep breath. “So that’s what you think!” she finally blurted out. “You suspect me of having killed my brother! You have no doubt been harboring this suspicion for a long time, haven’t you?”

“What does the will say?” Simon persisted.

Benedikta looked at him angrily, with her arms crossed. “I can tell you. I’m inheriting a leather-bound Bible from my brother, an old armchair, and a cookbook he wrote himself. And forty guilders that will hardly make up for the losses my wine business has incurred in the meanwhile.” She leaned over to Simon. “Those are his personal bequests. Everything else goes to the church!”

Simon winced. He hadn’t once stopped to think that the priest’s possessions would, in fact, for the most part, revert back to the church after his death. In all likelihood, Benedikta had probably inherited no more than these few worthless things.

“And if that were the case,” she continued, now in such a rage that other guests turned around to look at her, “why on earth would I want to hang around Altenstadt near the scene of the crime? Wouldn’t I have just poisoned my brother, gone back to Landsberg without anyone noticing, and waited there for news of his death? Nobody would have suspected anything.” She stood up quickly, knocking over her chair. “Simon Fronwieser, you’re really out of line.” Benedikta ran out, slamming the door behind her.