Oliver Pötzsch - The Werewolf of Bamberg

Salter shrugged. “I don’t need it anymore-my work is done, though I do regret the loss of the”-he hesitated-“let’s just say the props. Some of them were valuable pieces I acquired from experienced smiths in Forchheim, but most of them were fortunately already there.”

“You mean the torturing tools?” Simon asked with surprise.

“I prefer the word props ,” Salter said with a smile. “I discovered this house on our last visit to Bamberg. People avoid it because they think it’s haunted, so no one has ever searched the old cellar, not even the Swedes back during the Great War. The former owner had a strange hobby. I found a rack down there, thumbscrews, Spanish boots, tongs. . It was like God giving me a sign. My revenge could finally begin.”

Simon surreptitiously glanced behind the actor, where Jakob approached, step by step. He seemed to be limping. Apparently he’d had an accident in the house, and Simon could only hope his injuries weren’t so serious that he couldn’t overpower Salter.

“But why now?” Simon asked. “So many years have passed. Why couldn’t you forget? Why-”

“I wanted to forget!” Salter interrupted, still threatening his struggling victim with the knife. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. “Believe me, I didn’t want all this. But then, half a year ago, I came back to Bamberg. I saw those fat patricians at the performances, some of them the same men responsible for killing my family. They’d made comfortable lives for themselves with my family’s fortune, while I scraped along as a poor actor. But I learned all about them-where they lived, their habits, trips, political intrigues. I assumed many disguises to get close to them, and lo and behold, old Gotzendörfer actually lived in one of our former houses, which he’d acquired for next to nothing. And I surprised greedy old Vasold in front of another home that once belonged to our mighty family. What a stroke of luck.” He smiled, but then his face turned serious and grim again. “It was hardest with Sebastian Harsee. That son of the former chairman of the Witches Commission, that swine, had made it all the way to the post of Bamberg suffragan bishop, even though his father was the mastermind behind the plot to destroy our family.”

“You had to make sure Sebastian Harsee died in that unspeakably horrible way,” Simon said.

“Hah! You figured it out? You know the true story of Romeo and Juliet?” Salter’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “The suffragan bishop was my masterpiece. It all began with him. A few months ago I came upon a dying fox here in the forest and got the idea of poisoning my two darlings with rabies. With Juliet it didn’t work, but it did with Romeo. I sold some religious writings to Harsee and in that way gained access to his rooms. Then Romeo kissed him.” He giggled. “I made Harsee my werewolf, the one responsible for all these horrible murders. It took a long time, almost too long, but finally he got sick at just the right time. The suffragan bishop, that bigoted zealot, finally became a warlock himself, and people believed he was prowling through the streets in the animal pelts. But it was always me-the last heir of the family that his power-hungry father destroyed.”

“Harsee almost found you out,” Simon replied. “He sent his guards to watch your actors, and that’s when you planted the pelts on Matheo.”

Salter shrugged. “I’m sorry about Matheo, but what could I do? They were hot on my heels. Later, I steered the suspicions toward Sir Malcolm. I smuggled the child’s skull and other odds and ends into his chest, just in case they were looking for a suspect.”

Jakob was now just a few steps behind Salter. He gestured at Simon to keep talking.

“I can understand why you wanted to take revenge on the members of the Witches Commission,” said Simon, “but why these innocent women-”

“They are just as innocent as the members of my own family!” Salter screamed, squeezing the blond woman’s neck until she started to suffocate. “Their only quarrel was with my grandfather, but they went ahead and killed the entire family, because they were afraid of our revenge. Now I’m taking my vengeance out on them in the same way.” His eyes narrowed to tiny slits. “The only one who disappeared without a trace was the former hangman. It was said he left no family. Then Barbara and I crossed paths. She told me that all hangmen are related and view each other as cousins. Michael Binder and Bartholomäus Kuisl, for example-so she, his niece, had to die as a member of the great family of hangmen. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.”

Simon was stunned. What had Salter just said?

She, his niece, had to die. .

Did that mean Barbara was already dead? And what about Magdalena and the others?

Just then Jakob reached the unsuspecting Salter. He jumped on him from behind with a hoarse shout, and all three fell to the ground. The woman began shouting now, too, as Salter was still holding her like a shield between himself and Jakob. The knife disappeared in the tumult.

Frozen to the spot, Simon stood just a few steps away, observing. He felt the cold iron of the pistol in his hand again. Had the moment finally come to use it? But what would happen if he shot the wrong person?

“Stop!” he shouted desperately as he fumbled around with the pistol. “Stop at once or I’ll shoot!”

But the two men had no intention of stopping. Simon saw now that Jakob looked battered, almost numbed. The smoke in the house must have made him dizzy, and he was bleeding from several wounds to his head.

Finally, the woman, still in shackles, managed to squirm free of the two unequal opponents and rolled to one side, where she lay panting. Next to her, the fight continued. Markus was nowhere near as strong as the hangman, but he was nimble and had an athletic build. The hangman, weighing nearly two hundred pounds, was sitting on top of him, but just as he prepared to throw a punch, Salter picked up a handful of dirt and threw it in his face. In the following confusion, he slipped away from Jakob-but instead of fleeing, he angrily attacked the blinded hangman with all the power of a madman.

“You. . are. . really a big damn family,” he panted as he punched the dazed hangman again and again. “How. . many. . of. . you do I have to send to hell?”

Now Simon could not wait another moment. Holding his breath, he aimed, even as Salter seemed to be jumping in all directions, and then finally pulled the trigger.

“You can go to hell yourself!” Simon cried, trembling and panting, expecting a large explosion.

There was a soft click-and nothing else. The powder had not ignited.

Salter stopped briefly, then broke out in loud laughter.

“You would make a good actor,” he giggled. “I almost thought the weapon was loaded. That’s why I seldom use a pistol, except on the stage. Sometimes just a stone is enough, and at least as deadly.”

He reached for a large rock, raised his arms, and was about to bring it crashing down on the groaning hangman, when all of a sudden there was a threatening growl.

Simon cringed. It was the same growl he’d heard earlier in the thornbush.

A deep rumble, like that of an approaching whirlwind.

“What in the world. .,” Salter mumbled, looking around.

Out of the darkness a vague shape came charging at the two combatants. It was bright, almost white, and was as large as a calf.

The werewolf! Simon thought. So there is such a thing.

Like a monster from hell, the beast attacked Salter, who was paralyzed with fear, and tore him away from Jakob. The flames were not very bright, so all Simon saw was the outline of an unequal fight. Salter screamed as the beast, with its powerful jaws, ripped off his jerkin and shirt and finally tore open his chest. With flaring nostrils, the beast sniffed at the blood-streaked upper torso of his victim and finally located the throat.