by Ellin Carsta
The doctor held up his hand. “Thank you, but I don’t have much time. How can I help you, Counselor?”
“I have a question regarding the vicar’s death. Was Bartholomäus still alive when you were called to see him?”
“Yes, my lord, but not for long, and he was in great pain. He had cramps, terrible cramps.”
“Cramps, you say? Were there any other symptoms?”
“Yes, his skin was cold and clammy. He was vomiting continuously and could hardly breathe.”
“How long did this last?”
“Well, he expired not long after my arrival. But I can’t say exactly how long he was ill before I was called in.”
“And you believe it was poison?”
“I suppose. Years ago, when I was young and first practicing medicine, I examined a child with the same symptoms.”
“A child?”
“Yes. The boy had been playing with other children along the riverbank, where he found an unusual plant.”
“And this plant was the cause of the boy’s death?”
“Precisely. The plant is called monkshood, and it unfolds itself with barely a touch. The other children only touched the plant and got away with severe nausea. But that boy put the plant’s flowers in his mouth and chewed. His death was excruciating.”
“And Bartholomäus? Let’s say that it was this plant, as you suppose, this monkshood . . .” Johannes thought of Madlen, who said that, with a carefully prescribed dose, most plants can be used to heal. How he wished she were here right now so that he could call upon her extensive knowledge.
“Yes?”
“Is it possible that this plant was used to cure the vicar of some ailment?”
“You mean, is it possible that he might have taken too much by accident?”
“Exactly.”
The doctor shook his head. “No, my lord. Monkshood kills when ingested and nothing less. And everybody familiar with this plant knows it.”
“I understand. So tell me, please—after you examined the vicar and determined that poison was likely the cause of his demise, did you speak to his guards?”
“Yes, my lord, but not right away. I was primarily focused on caring for the dying man. However, I wasn’t able to prevent his death or alleviate his suffering.”
Johannes thought it over. “When you were telling me about the boy, you said that even though the other children only touched the plant they became sick.”
“Correct.”
“If Bartholomäus was administered this poison, wouldn’t his murderer have come in contact with the plant?”
“Not necessarily. If he ground the petals carefully with a mortar and pestle or something similar, or gave the deceased a drink with the poison in it, he could very well have avoided touching it.”
“Hmm.” Johannes stroked his chin thoughtfully. “When do you think he might have been given the poison?”
“It depends on the amount administered to him. I would estimate, depending on how much he consumed, it could have been one to three hours before his death.”
Johannes considered this information carefully. If what the doctor said was true, Bartholomäus had to have been poisoned in the very early morning hours.
“Do you have any more questions for me?”
“Excuse me? What did you say?” Johannes, deep in thought, hadn’t heard the doctor.
“Do you have any more questions for me? I’m in a bit of a rush and would like to be on my way, if you have no more questions.”
“Oh, of course. Please forgive me.” Johannes stood. “You’ve been very helpful.”
“It was my pleasure. But now I must devote myself to those I can still help.”
The two men walked over to the door. “I have one more question,” Johannes said.
“Yes?”
“Who would know about this plant, this monkshood?”
The doctor paused to consider Johannes’s question. “Well, herb merchants, women trained in the use of herbal remedies, those type of people but not exclusively. The truth is, you don’t really need a formal education; much of the knowledge about plants and herbs is passed down from generation to generation. When it comes down to it, the murderer could have been anybody.”
“I understand. Thank you. I appreciate your help.”
The doctor nodded, said good-bye, then left. Johannes hung back, lost in thought. In spite of the late hour, he decided to go to Bartholomäus’s house in the hopes of tracking down one of the deceased’s servants for questioning.
Johannes knocked on the door and called out many times, but nobody answered. He couldn’t help but think that somebody inside must have heard him. He waited a moment, then knocked on the door once again. Nothing. It was dark inside, with no light coming through the crown glass windows. But had there been a flicker of light when he had approached the house? He briefly considered his options. Was someone there but choosing not to answer the door? And why would that be? He knocked one more time to no avail. Then he turned and walked away, a strange feeling running up and down his spine.
After breakfast the next morning, Johannes returned to the late vicar’s house, but again nobody answered the door. After waiting for some time, he knocked again. A well-dressed stranger stopped in the street. “God be with you. The vicar isn’t there and he’s not coming back.”
“The Lord be with you,” Johannes said to the man. “I know about the vicar’s death. I wanted to speak with his servant. I was here yesterday and nobody answered the door.”
“You want to speak with Christopeit? He was there yesterday,” the stranger said. “I saw him myself. He got picked up late last evening, and he was carrying a big bundle with him. If you ask me, he’s not coming back.”
“Who picked him up?”
The stranger shrugged. “I didn’t recognize the men. I live right over there. I’ve often seen people coming in and out of the vicar’s home. But I’ve never seen,” he said, shaking his head, “the people who were here yesterday.”
“And did you get the impression that the vicar’s servant, this Christopeit, went with these strangers freely?”
The man thought it over. “Yes, I think so. The only thing I found unusual was the hour that the men set out. But I wouldn’t say that Christopeit was forced to go with them.”
“Thank you for your time.” Johannes nodded. “May I ask your name?”
“Dietrich Tillich.”
“Lord Tillich, can you tell me whether you would recognize the men if you saw them again?”
The man tilted his head as if weighing his answer. “The one man, in any case. He was very tall, like you. And his hair was almost as blond as yours. The others . . . no, I think most likely not.”
“And you live right over there?” Johannes confirmed.
“That’s correct, right there.” Lord Tillich pointed to one of the neighboring houses. “If there is something I can do, feel free to come over.”
“Thank you. I’ll probably stop by at some point.”
“Fare thee well,” the neighbor said and nodded to Johannes as he walked on.
“The Lord be with you,” Johannes returned as he headed in the opposite direction, toward the archbishop’s residence.
“What do you mean he was taken away by two men?”
“It’s just like I said. One of the neighbors told me. He said that one of the men was unusually tall and had blond hair like me. Do you know anyone like that?”
The archbishop thought about it. “No, not as far as I know.” He plopped down hard on the chair. “And what do you hope to find out from Bartholomäus’s servant?”
“Who had the opportunity to administer poison to Bartholomäus. I spoke with the doctor. He said it was unlikely more than three hours would have passed between the time the vicar took the poison and the moment of his death.”
The archbishop exhaled noisily. “Is it possible that Bartholomäus took it by mistake? A medicine that might cure someone in small quantities can kill in larg
er doses.”
Johannes shook his head. “I asked the doctor that exact question. He said that this plant is extremely poisonous, and one touch can make a person quite ill. Whoever administered it to Bartholomäus wanted him dead.”
A knock at the door. “Yes?” Friedrich grumbled impatiently.
“Your Grace, everything’s ready for your journey.”
“I’m consulting with my legal counsel. Send me the scribe!”
“Yes, my lord.” The servant bowed and walked out.
“The vicar always took care of my administrative duties during my absences. So now I won’t be staying away for as long as I had originally planned. I can’t stop thinking about the motive for Bartholomäus’s murder. What do you suppose it could be?”
Johannes thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I really don’t know, my lord. So far as I can ascertain, there was no reason to kill Bartholomäus. Of course, it might weaken your administration for a couple of hours or maybe a couple of days. But I can’t imagine that it would affect the balance of power in the long run.”
Someone knocked on the door, and Friedrich granted permission to enter. The scribe stepped in, bowed, and looked at the archbishop expectantly.
“I need a document,” Friedrich informed him, “that states that in my absence, Johannes Goldmann is empowered to preside over my administration. Additionally, I proclaim that I support the attorney’s directives, which are to be obeyed as if they came from my own mouth. I would like three copies of this proclamation, which I will sign. One goes to my attorney here, one will be locked up in the scribe’s study, and I’ll take one myself as proof that this was decided today, should the document be challenged. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Good. Then get to work forthwith and bring me the document as soon as you’ve finished.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The scribe bowed and departed.
Johannes stood there, looking at his employer. “Your confidence in me might very well be excessive, Your Grace.”
“I doubt it. These are uncertain times; Bartholomäus’s death proves it. I need someone strong and utterly trustworthy.” As was his habit when deep in thought, he stood up, went over to the window, and looked out. “I can’t explain Bartholomäus’s death. But one thing I do know: you need to stay alert, Johannes. If Bartholomäus was killed because of the competence he demonstrated in his position, and now you hold the same position, you could end up suffering the same fate.”
“I’ll be careful, my lord. Tell me, please, where are you traveling to?”
“To Rome to visit Pope Bonifatius IX. It can’t be postponed.”
“Should I send you a message there as soon as I’ve discovered who’s behind this heinous crime?”
Friedrich turned around to look at him. “I’ll send you couriers at regular intervals to whom you can report. They’ll know where to find me.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Another knock on the door. “It’s impossible for the scribe to have finished so quickly,” Friedrich said. “Come in!”
The servant appeared at the door, then bowed even deeper than before. “My lord . . . I, I have . . . some news.”
“What are you talking about, Hugo?”
Hugo shifted from one foot to the other. “Your travel companion, my lord . . . His servant just hurried over here . . . He’s dead, my lord. Lord Bernhard von Harvehorst is dead.”
Friedrich took a couple of quick steps toward him, and the servant winced. “How? How did he die?”
“It’s terrible, a sinful death, my lord. He hanged himself. He put a rope around his neck and ended his life.”
“Never!” Friedrich roared. “I know Bernhard. He is . . . he was,” he corrected himself, “a tough old dog. More than any of us. He would never have ended his own life, especially in this way!”
Johannes turned to the servant. “Where is the deceased now?”
“Still in his house, I imagine.”
“Good. I need someone who can show me the way.”
“I’ll come with you,” Friedrich said.
“That’s probably not such a good idea. Evidently somebody is trying to prevent you from taking your trip by eliminating your closest associates. I doubt that von Harvehorst hanged himself, just as surely as Bartholomäus didn’t poison himself. Someone’s trying to hurt you, and I don’t know why or wherefore. Let me go and find out what happened.”
“Even though my journey is urgent, perhaps I should wait to go to Rome until after these crimes are resolved.”
“No, that is just what the culprit wants,” Johannes said. “Tell me, Your Grace, what meetings have you arranged on this trip and what was to be decided? It seems likely that someone wants to prevent you from accomplishing something.”
Friedrich thought it over. “That can’t be it. There are no special meetings or important decisions to make. No arguments or disputes to resolve. At least nothing that would be of any great importance. This trip is strictly a formality.”
“Who knows about the trip?”
“Everyone here, from the lowliest maid to the auxiliary bishop.”
Johannes realized this line of questioning wasn’t going anywhere.
The scribe entered through the open door, where the servant still stood. “Your documents, my lord.”
“Bring them to me,” Friedrich ordered. “I will sign and seal them in front of these witnesses.” He took the parchment and went to his desk. When he was finished, he handed one copy to the scribe, one to Johannes, and placed the third one on his desk. “I will keep this one for myself. And now I will take my leave. What you’ve concluded, Johannes, seems logical. After I arrive in Rome, I will send you a courier riding on our fastest steed with the expectation that you’ll be able to identify the person behind these murders soon.”
The scribe took the parchment entrusted to him, respectfully said good-bye to the archbishop, and walked out.
“I will tell your messenger everything I discover,” Johannes said. “And now, I will make my way to von Harvehorst’s residence.”
“Go with God,” Friedrich said.
“God be with you. Return home safely.”
The archbishop nodded and looked contemplatively at Johannes for a moment. Then he indicated with a wave of his hand that Johannes could leave. As he walked out the door, Johannes wondered if he’d ever see his employer again.
Chapter Seven
Madlen was extremely tense as she waited in the dining room. It wouldn’t be too long before the doctor came to perform the procedure. She’d promised to assist him, but in the meantime she’d become unsure about whether she could go through with it. Finally, after so many years, she was resuming her lifelong passion for healing people. But this was something entirely different. It was one thing to give people medicinal herbs to alleviate their afflictions. But to operate on somebody’s cataracts? Wasn’t this the kind of thing that only charlatans and traveling surgeons did to make money off of the desperate? After the quack had all but vanished into thin air, the poor people would take off their bandages and discover no improvement whatsoever. How could she be sure she could trust Dr. Franz? She wrung her hands nervously until Cecilia came over and cuddled up to her.
“Are you really going to help the doctor?” The little girl sounded worried.
Madlen pulled her daughter onto her lap. “Yes, sweetheart, I am.”
Cecilia began to cry.
“What’s the matter, little one?”
“You’re going to help him poke out Grandfather’s eyes?”
“What? How did you come to that ridiculous conclusion?”
“Veit told me.” She nodded her head knowingly. “The doctor is going to stick a big fat needle into Grandfather’s eyes and leave behind two big black holes.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Madlen closed her eyes for a moment to gather herself. It took all her might to suppress the profanity on the tip of her tongue. Sometimes her son really was i
mpossible. “Why do you listen to Veit? You know very well that he loves to make up stories to frighten you.”
“But this time it’s true. The doctor is coming and bringing a big fat needle, isn’t he? I overheard you and Grandmother talking about it.”
“Yes, the doctor’s coming, that’s true. Not to poke out your grandfather’s eyes, but to make him see again. He’s going to heal him, not hurt him.” She stroked Cecilia’s arm tenderly.
“And then will Grandfather really be able to see? Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am.” Madlen reassured her daughter, although she had considerable doubts about the whole thing herself. “The doctor studied in a foreign land and knows everything about healing all kinds of ailments.”
Cecilia didn’t seem convinced.
“And do you want to hear something else? In Salerno, where he came from a short time ago, he learned how to treat cataracts, which is what your grandfather has. He’s returned the gift of sight to hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people. For him it’s as easy as it is for you to tie the laces on your dress. First, one has to study hard to learn how. But as time goes by and with a little bit of practice, it becomes second nature.”
Astounded, Cecilia looked at her mother. “And so that’s what it’ll be like for the doctor to make Grandfather see again?”
“Exactly right.” Madlen felt guilty for oversimplifying this intricate procedure. But she wanted to allay the little girl’s fear, not scare her to death with cold, hard medical facts.
“Then I’m going to tell Veit that what he told me was silly.” She pulled away from her mother’s embrace, then slid off her lap.
“You do that. And tell him for me that I forbid him to upset you or anybody else with any more nonsense.” She gave her daughter a kiss on the forehead.
“I will.” Cecilia stomped away resolutely. At the door she almost collided with Elsbeth, who patted the colorful bonnet that still covered her granddaughter’s almost bald head.
“Shouldn’t the doctor be here shortly?” Elsbeth asked Madlen.
“He’ll be here soon.” Madlen tried to exude confidence, though she herself was a bundle of nerves.