“‘Would we be’? That’s the way things used to be.”
“Yes, and praise and thanks be to Jesus Christ that our lord archbishop took the shovel to that pile of dung! A bloody scandal, the way things used to be done! The guilds weren’t entirely free of blame, I have to admit. We let the patricians infiltrate us, even elected some guildmasters, all for the sake of profit. But that was all. Was it our fault the noble families increased their influence along with their wealth? They got everywhere, like blasted mildew. Conrad was right to kick up a fuss about them using their positions to protect criminals and help them evade his jurisdiction.”
Jaspar grinned. Bodo was so proud of being a magistrate, he never tired of trotting out the well-known facts again and again. Since becoming a magistrate he had tried to moderate his rough language, not always with success. No wonder the patricians, who had studied and seen the world, reacted to people like Bodo as if they had the itch. Despite the fact that, according to the statutes, anyone who was sound of mind and body, born within wedlock, and not convicted of any crime could become a magistrate, previously only representatives of the noble houses had occupied the magistrates’ seats. If the patricians had had their way, people like Bodo would have got a kick in the seat of the pants rather than a seat on the council. A brewer as magistrate was a slap in the eye for the old families, especially as it came from Conrad von Hochstaden.
“Well?” asked Schuif with a frown.
“You’re right, as always, Bodo.”
“That’s not what I mean. Do you like my magic potion? You’re keeping so quiet about it I almost take it as an insult.”
“Sorry.” Jaspar emptied his mug demonstratively. The beer was sweet and stuck to his teeth, almost a meal in itself.
“That’s better.” Schuif smiled. He stood up and smoothed out his coat. “And now I must be off. That is—” He frowned and gave Jaspar a questioning look. “Did you come for a reason?”
“Oh, nothing special. I was interested in poor Gerhard’s tragic accident.”
Schuif nodded fiercely. “Yes. Terrible, now the building’s coming on so well. Could it be God didn’t want him to finish the perfect church? I have a theory of my own there.”
“Huh!” Jaspar made a dismissive gesture. “Gerhard could have lived to be a hundred and not seen it finished.”
“Don’t say that. There are miracles—”
“There are architects. I’ve nothing against miracles, but Gerhard Morart was a human being like you and me.”
Schuif rested his knuckles on the table and leaned down to Jaspar conspiratorially. “Yes, perhaps we need a different word for it. You’re right, miracles are generally attributed to saints. Perhaps we should be talking of the Devil?”
“Not again.” Jaspar groaned.
“What do you mean, not again? And why not, anyway? If you ask me, Gerhard had dealings with the Arch-fiend. My wife says he jumped off that scaffolding.”
Jaspar leaned back, shaking his head. “Your wife should stick to crayfish pie. Do you really believe that?”
“Anything’s possible,” said Schuif, wagging his finger at Jaspar.
“If anything’s possible,” Jaspar countered, “what do you think of another theory, namely that Gerhard didn’t jump, but—”
“But what?”
Jaspar bit his lip. Better keep quiet about that. Instead he asked, “Have you spoken to the witnesses?”
“Yes, we questioned them.”
“Reliable?”
“I’d say so. Two respectable monks, preachers who happened to be staying in Cologne. Benedictines, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Aha,” said Jaspar. “Then they’ll be staying with their fellow Benedictines?”
“No, they’re lodging at St. Gereon’s, if you must know. Why do you want to know, anyway?”
“There’s a lot more I want to know. I’d be interested in their names.”
“Well, why not? One was called—just a moment—Justus? Brother Justus or Justinius? Can’t quite remember. The other’s an Andreas von Helmerode. I can’t for the life of me think why you want to know all this, but then you always were a mystery. My wife says with all your questions you’ll eat your way right through history. And when you come out the other side, you’ll see it’s just the same.”
“As I said, just curiosity.” Jaspar stood up. “Thanks for the beer. Perhaps you’ll come around for a jug of wine sometime?”
“Love to. When my official duties give me time.”
“I have a suggestion. Make time.”
Schuif furrowed his brow, obviously trying to work this out. Jaspar patted him on the shoulder and hurried out without a further word.
When he entered the pilgrim’s hostel of St. Gereon it was full of bustle. This was nothing unusual. Cologne attracted large numbers of pilgrims, which was hardly surprising given the presence of important relics such as the bones of the Three Kings.
St. Gereon itself boasted the bones of its patron saint, as well as those of St. Gregorius Marcus and his followers. Not long ago the fourth-century Roman atrium, on which the site was based, had been converted into imposing cloisters and the hostel had been opened the previous year. St. Gereon was a beautiful building and Jaspar took a little time to wander around the cloisters.
A monk came hurrying toward him, a bundle of scrolls under his arm. “Excuse me,” Jaspar called out.
The monk started and crossed himself, dropping half his scrolls in the process. Jaspar bent down to pick them up.
“No!” The monk pushed him away and grabbed the scrolls.
“I was just trying to help.”
“Of course. It was my fault. Brother—?”
“Jaspar Rodenkirchen, physician and dean of St. Mary Magdalene’s.”
“Brother Jaspar, these scrolls must only be touched by those authorized.”
“Of whom you are one, I assume?”
“Precisely. Can I be of assistance?”
“Perhaps you can. I’m looking for the two monks who were witnesses when God called Gerhard Morart to Him. One was called Andreas von Helmerode and the other’s name could have been Justus—”
“Justinius von Singen!” The monk nodded eagerly. “We have the honor of entertaining them under our unworthy roof. They saw him when he was called to his Maker, but I must say, I think it was a damned shame he had to die.”
“Brother!” exclaimed Jaspar in horrified tones.
Shocked at his unconscious blasphemy, the monk was going to cross himself again, but restrained himself just in time. “God’s will be done,” he said.
“On earth as it is in heaven.” Jaspar nodded, a severe look on his face. “I don’t want to keep you from your important business any longer, Brother, so if you could just tell me where I can find Andreas and Justinius—”
“I will send a novice to fetch them.”
The monk turned and passed through an archway. A short while later Jaspar saw a spotty boy in a novice’s habit shoot out and disappear into the building opposite. After a time he reappeared, followed by two monks who clearly belonged to the mendicant orders.
“There’s the man who wants to speak to you,” he muttered shyly, head bowed. He stumbled backward along the cloisters for a few yards, then turned and ran off full tilt.
“Andreas von Helmerode? Justinius von Singen?”
The pair looked at each other uncertainly. “I am Justinius,” said the shorter, fatter of the two. “But who are you?”
Jaspar slapped his forehead. “You must excuse me for forgetting to introduce myself. I am dean of St. Mary Magdalene’s. A good friend of Gerhard Morart. They say you saw the tragic accident from quite close to—”
The suspicion vanished from the monks’ faces. They had answered this kind of question often enough. Justinius came closer and spread his arms wide. “Like a bird he was in the sight of the Lord,” he declaimed. “As his body approached the earth, from which it came and to which it will return, his spirit rose in glory to be
united with the All Highest. As Saint Paul says in his letter to the Philippians, Seek those things which are above, where Christ sitteth on the right hand of God.”
Jaspar nodded and smiled. “Beautifully put,” he said. “Though is it not in Colossians where we find those comforting words, while in Philippians it says, For our conversation is in heaven?”
The smile froze on the fat monk’s lips. “Yes, that is possible. For the ways of the Lord are unfathomable and Holy Writ more often than not perverted by irresponsible translators, to the confusion of honest seekers after truth.”
Andreas hastened to back him up. “It doesn’t affect the sense of the words.”
“No indeed, and it is a comfort to me,” said Jaspar, going over to a window from which the monastery’s magnificent orchard could be seen, “to know that you were with Gerhard when he died. Reports say you even heard his confession?”
“Oh, certainly.”
“And gave him extreme unction?”
Andreas gave him a funny look. “How could we have given him extreme unction since we didn’t have the oil with us? Had we known—”
“Which we didn’t,” Justinius interjected.
“Now I find that surprising,” said Jaspar softly.
“You do?”
“Yes, since you both knew very well that Gerhard Morart was to die at that time on that evening, as the murderer had told you.”
It was as if the two had looked back at the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah.
“What is more,” Jaspar went on, unmoved, “you also knew beforehand what you were to say afterward. Is that not so?”
“You are—you—” gasped Justinius.
“You must be mistaken, Brother,” Andreas quickly broke in. “I am sure you have good reason to make these accusations, these, yes, vile accusations, but you’ve got the wrong persons. We are but two humble servants in the vineyard of the Lord. And you are not an inquisitor.”
“Yes, yes, I know. And you are committed to the ideal of Saint Benedict.”
“Absolutely!”
“Absolutely,” repeated Justinius, wiping the sweat from his brow.
Jaspar smiled and started to walk up and down. “We all subscribe to Benedict’s interpretation of the poverty of Christ and His disciples,” he said, “and we are quite right to do so. But it sometimes seems to me that the hunger that accompanies it—and I mean the hunger for everything: life, whores, roast pork—causes certain rumblings in our pious bellies. I’m sure you know what I mean. Being a mendicant entails accepting alms—”
“But not for one’s personal possession,” insisted Justinius.
“Of course not. You have taken on the ideal of poverty and devoted your whole lives to the praise of the Lord and the well-being of Christendom. Nevertheless, could it not be that someone came and offered special alms for, let us say, a special service?”
“‘Special services’ can cover a multitude of sins,” said Justinius, cautiously if not inappropriately.
“It can?” Jaspar brought his perambulation to an end right in front of the two monks. “Then let me be more specific. I’m talking of the ‘alms’ you were paid to present Gerhard’s murder as an accident.”
“Outrageous!” roared Andreas.
“Blasphemy!” screeched Justinius.
“I have not blasphemed God,” said Jaspar calmly.
“You blaspheme Him by blaspheming His servants.”
“Is not the opposite rather the case? Is it not His servants who blaspheme Him by telling lies?”
Justinius opened his mouth, pumped his lungs full of air and swallowed. “I see no point in continuing this discussion,” he said between clenched teeth. “Never before have I been so offended, so insulted, so…so humiliated!”
He turned on his heel and left in high dudgeon. Andreas flashed Jaspar a quick glance and made to follow.
“One hundred gold marks,” Jaspar said, more to himself.
Andreas was rooted to the spot. Jaspar turned to face him, his index finger on the tip of his nose. “Was it that much?”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” replied Andreas sullenly, but with an undertone of uncertainty.
“I’m talking about money, reverend Brother. Since you are obviously unwilling to help me formulate my offer, I can only guess.”
“What offer?”
“Twice what Gerhard’s murderer paid you.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” insisted Andreas, but stayed where he was.
“We both know whom I’m talking about, the tall man with long hair. Tell me, have the pair of you thought how you are going to justify your paid lie on Judgment Day? The Devil and his minions are looking over our shoulders, Brother, every day. Counting every syllable missed out during the anthems, every minute slept during the sermon. Now just imagine: not only do I absolve you of your grievous sin, as my office permits me, within certain limits, but you come out of the affair both purified and enriched.”
Andreas was staring. His fingers clenched. “God will reward me,” he said, not very convincingly.
“I know, Brother,” said Jaspar soothingly, patting Andreas on the cheek. “But God will be unhappy, to say the least, with the fact that you have shielded a murderer and accepted bloodstained money. Money can be washed clean, of course, but can you wash your soul clean? Is not our first reward that purgatory of which Saint Paul says it is a fire that shall try every man’s work, of what sort it is? Does not Boniface tell us of the terrible pits of scorching fire we must pass through on our way to the heavenly kingdom to decide who will arrive purified on the other side and who will descend into the sunless abyss? Do you want to burn eternally for your sins, Andreas, when I am offering you the chance of atonement and a reward into the bargain?”
Andreas looked to the side as he considered this. “How much will my remorse be worth?” he asked.
“How much were you given?”
“Ten gold marks.”
“Only ten?” Jaspar said in amazement. “You sold your souls too cheaply. What do you say to twenty?”
Now Andreas looked at him. “Each?”
“Hmm. All right, it’s a promise. But for that I want the truth.”
“The money first.”
“Not so fast.” Jaspar jerked his thumb in the direction Justinius had gone. “What about your friend?”
“Justinius? For twenty gold marks he’d admit to the murder of the eleven thousand virgins.”
Jaspar smiled. “Better and better. And just so there’s no misunderstanding: I want the truth. Then a statement to the city council so that no more innocent people are killed. Your stupid lie has had unfortunate consequences. I give you my word that I will purify your soul and”—he gave Andreas a wink—“your purse.”
Andreas looked around nervously. Monks and pilgrims kept passing, though none came too close. But the curiosity on the faces of the monks, especially the younger brethren, was unmistakable. They were always curious, about everyone and everything.
“Not here and not now,” he decided.
“Where then?”
“After mass Justinius and I were going to the bathhouse opposite Little St. Martin’s for, er, for a good wash.”
The bathhouse opposite Little St. Martin’s had a number of facilities on offer, none of which contributed to the purification of the soul. Jaspar was well aware of this. Too often his weak flesh drew him to the establishment, where every attempt was made to reward it for its weakness.
“When shall I be there?” he asked.
“Ah.” Andreas’s lips curved in a slight smile. “First we need a period of quiet contemplation to thank God for the invigorating effects of hot water and massage—I mean foot baths. Come around midday, and bring the money. We’ll be undisturbed there.”
“A good idea, Brother,” said Jaspar. “May I give you a piece of advice?”
“If you wish.”
“Don’t think you’re cleverer than you are.”
/> THE TOWN HALL
The bells of the old cathedral were striking ten.
With all the dignity he could muster, Bodo entered the great meeting room of the house where the citizens meet, as it was carved in Latin above the door. He threw back his shoulders and went to join the group who were talking together in low voices.
“Ah, Herr Schuif,” said one. “And what’s your opinion?”
“About what?” asked Bodo.
“About the murders in Berlich and by the Duck Ponds?”
“Not exactly the most shining examples of Christian living,” said another, “but men and women all the same.”
“My initial opinion,” said Bodo, “is that they’re dead. Are there suspects?”
“There are always people willing to accuse others,” replied the first. “But we have to be careful. I remember the old council had a man broken on the wheel who had been accused of being a werewolf. Afterward it turned out his only crime was staying alive too long for his heirs.”
Knowing laughter and conspiratorial looks were the response.
“Things are not always as they seem,” remarked the first magistrate.
“And do not always seem the way they are,” the second added with a sage nod.
“Quite right.” Bodo saw his chance to impress. “Take the case of Gerhard Morart. I had a very interesting talk with an old friend this morning. He was asking me about the names of those two witnesses. You know, the two mendicants who saw him fall. An accident, say some. He jumped, possessed by the Devil, others think more probable.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “But my old friend was hinting at a third possibility, although propriety or perhaps caution prevented him from saying right out what he thought.”
“And what,” drawled the first magistrate, “might he have been hinting at?”
“I didn’t press him. It was only going over his words later that it struck me. I think what he was suggesting was that at least Gerhard was not responsible for his own death.”
“Who was, then? The Devil?”
Death and the Devil Page 20