“Jaspar Rodenkirchen,” Bodo replied, getting excited. “And you really think—”
“What I think is neither here nor there. Let us say one must make the truth known at the right time and in the right place. This Jaspar, would you trust his judgment?”
“I should say so! He’s a physician and dean of St. Mary Magdalene’s, master of arts and so on and so forth.”
“And you think he intends to question the witnesses again?”
“He said that.”
“Hmm. I understand. I just hope he and the others are wrong, but my hopes have no legal status and my wishes are less objective than a thorough investigation. May Gerhard’s soul find peace, and may the murderers—if your friend is right—suffer unimaginable torments. But justice is a matter for the magistrates. I’d advise your friend not to take things into his own hands. Tell him to confide in us.”
They had reached the council chamber. “After you,” said the other magistrate with a friendly smile to Bodo.
Bodo gave a dignified nod and entered the chamber.
The other watched him go in. Then he turned on his heel, ran down the steps two at a time, and disappeared down Judengasse.
LAST WORDS
“Middle finger,” said Jacob.
“She’ll never learn to play, will she?” said Rolof.
“If I’d wanted your opinion, you old polecat, I’d have grunted,” Richmodis said with a laugh.
“Don’t talk to Rolof like that,” growled Goddert from the corner where he was refilling his mug with wine. He had insisted on coming. “Polecats are God’s creatures, too.”
Jacob took her middle finger and gently placed it on the correct hole. They had been practicing playing the whistle ever since Jaspar had left. Unfortunately Richmodis’s talent in that direction fell far short of her other merits. “I just can’t get the change from here to there,” she complained.
“From where to where?” Jacob asked.
“From there—to there.”
“You can do it if you try. Now blow.”
Richmodis placed the whistle to her lips and took a deep breath. The result could hardly be classified as music. Sweet as a snake bite, thought Jacob.
“Told you,” muttered Rolof. “She’ll never learn.”
“Oh, yes, she will,” retorted Goddert. “She needs a bit of practice, that’s all.”
“My fingers feel as if they’re going to break off.” Richmodis slapped the whistle down on the table, pouted, and looked at Jacob from beneath her long eyelashes. “I save your life and you torture me.”
“Torture?” said Jacob, baffled. “But you wanted to—”
“Feminine logic.” Goddert giggled. “I get it all the time at home.”
“Oh, Jacob,” she breathed, “you play us something.”
“You’ll never learn like that.”
“I do want to learn, but I need”—she gave him a sugary smile that made his heart melt—“inspiration. Just once, please. Play a dance tune so this fat lump can get some exercise. Then I’ll practice day and night, promise.”
“You will?” Jacob grinned. “How can I resist that argument?”
He picked up his whistle and started to play a fast peasant dance. Richmodis immediately jumped up and tugged and pulled at Rolof until he lumbered around the room with her, still mumbling and grumbling. Then he started to enjoy it, and the lumbering turned into a stamping that made the floor creak and tremble. Richmodis spun around and around him. Jacob watched her hair fly and played faster and faster, beating out the rhythm with his foot on the floor. Goddert decided to join in and thumped the table with his fist.
The door opened.
Jaspar Rodenkirchen came in, stared goggle-eyed at the goings-on, and went out again.
“Oh, dear,” said Rolof.
Jacob put down his whistle.
Richmodis pulled a face, put her hands to her mouth, and called out, “Uncle Jaspar.”
Jaspar came back in with a sigh of relief.
“What was wrong?” asked Goddert cautiously.
“What was wrong?” Jaspar scratched his bald pate. “I was in the wrong house. Must have gone next door. There were four lunatics trying to pull it down. You’re all nice and quiet, thank God. And Jacob’s chopped the wood, haven’t you, Fox-cub?”
“Oh, the wood! Err—”
“And my old friend Goddert’s drinking water from the well. Let’s see, Goddert, you crimson crayfish. What’s this? Wine? Where did you get that?”
Goddert squirmed. “Erm, you know—”
“No, I do not know.”
“The cellar was open and I thought, well, someone might go and steal the wine. I was worried, you see—”
“Oh, now I do see. And I thought you’d repeated the miracle at Cana. Could that be my wine cellar you’re talking about, and therefore my wine?”
“Your wine?” said Goddert with an astonished glance at the jug. “How could that be, my dear Jaspar, when Saint Benedict’s Rule says that monks must not own anything, not even the habit that clothes their nakedness?”
“Outrageous! You drink my wine and then dare to quote Saint Benedict at me!”
“And you? Begrudge an old friend his last glass.”
“What?” Jaspar exclaimed in horror. “Things are that bad?”
“Well, no. But if I were to die, this jug of wine might be my last comfort. Would you deny me it?”
“You’re not going to die. You’re much too busy ruining me.”
“I could have a stroke, now, at this very moment.”
“Impossible.”
“No, it’s not. What proof do you have?”
“You’re right, none at all.”
“May a thunderbolt strike you, you heartless wretch. Just imagine they came to, let’s say, arrest me—unjustly, of course—for some crime and burned me at the stake. Wouldn’t you be prostrate with grief?”
“You wouldn’t burn. You consist of nothing but wine and fat. It’d make a stench, but no fire.”
“How can you be so unfeeling?”
“I’m not unfeeling.”
“You are. You’re miserly. All this fuss about a few mugfuls. I’m ashamed of you. Your stupid wine sticks in my throat now. Why don’t you follow the example of Ensfried? You know, the priest who was asked for alms on the way to mass, and as he had no money with him, he went into a dark corner of St. Mary’s, took off his breeches, and gave them to the beggar. And he even tried to keep his work of Christian charity a secret and didn’t take off his fur cloak when he was sitting by the fire—”
“Rubbish. Your Ensfried was an invention of some pious chronicler. Are you asking me to give you my breeches?”
“Lord preserve us from the sight of your nakedness!”
“I’ll tell you something, Goddert. You can drink till you burst, for all I care, but I’d like to be asked first before you go stomping down there to draw yourself a jug. I think I’ve earned that much consideration.”
“Right then. I’m asking. Shall we have another?”
“Let’s have another.” Jaspar, back in a good mood, smacked his lips. “And while Goddert’s fetching another mug from where he found his, perhaps I will condescend to tell you what I’ve achieved this morning.”
“Why only two mugs?” asked Richmodis in a sharp tone.
“Because only seasoned drinkers are allowed wine before sext, and Jacob needs a clear head anyway.”
“Did you manage to track down the witnesses?” asked Jacob excitedly. At the same time he felt the return of the fear he had forgotten for the last few hours.
“Hm,” said Jaspar. “Do you really want to hear?”
“Please.”
“You scratch my back. Now if you’d chopped the wood—”
“I’ll chop up a whole forest if you like, but don’t keep me on tenterhooks like this.” I have to know whether I was seeing things, Jacob thought. It all seemed so long ago now, so unreal, that he had suddenly started to have doubts whether
he had actually seen the fiendish figure with the long hair.
But Maria and Tilman were dead. Or had he dreamed that, too?
Imperturbable, Jaspar waited until Goddert returned with his mug, took a long draught, and licked his lips. “Aah, I needed that. You were right, Jacob, I’ve not only found the witnesses, I’ve spoken to them.”
“And?”
“Two mendicants, Justinius von Singen and Andreas von Helmerode. The one behaves as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, the other is more open to temptation, especially when it takes the form of filthy lucre. He’s willing to recant.”
“So they were definitely bribed.”
“Yes.”
“Well, then!” Jacob leaned back and let out a deep breath.
“We have a rendezvous with this pretty pair. This time you’re coming, too. I’ll get you a fine habit with a hood you can wear to the bathhouse.”
“Why to the bathhouse?”
“Oh, did I forget to mention it? We’re to meet them in the bathhouse opposite Little St. Martin’s.”
“Monks in the bathhouse?”
“That—er”—Jaspar cleared his throat—“does happen, people say. What’s that got to do with it anyway? Aren’t you going to thank me for everything I’ve done for you? What I can’t do, of course, is supply the forty gold marks it will cost to persuade Andreas and Justinius to change their minds and give evidence to the city council.”
“They won’t do that anyway,” Richmodis broke in. “They might tell you they were bribed, but not the magistrates. That would be to admit they lied before.”
“So what, you prattling baggage? What can happen to them? They haven’t killed anyone; they just have to admit they saw someone and describe him. They can always say they kept silent out of fear, because they thought the Devil was involved. Now they come along, all sackcloth and ashes. They’ll probably be expelled from the city, but with forty gold marks in their pockets, that’s no great hardship.”
“Except they aren’t going to get them.”
“No. But if they tell us who Gerhard’s murderer is, we’ll make it public anyway and their lives won’t be worth a brass farthing. Unless they go to the magistrates for protection. Then they’ll have no choice but to tell the truth, money or no money.”
“When are we to see them?” asked Jacob.
“There’s still a good two hours,” replied Jaspar coolly.
“Two hours,” Goddert muttered. “We ought to offer up a prayer to the Virgin—”
“Yes, Goddert, you do that. You do the praying while I do the thinking.” He looked at Jacob, his brow furrowed. Then his expression brightened. “Oh, yes. Now I remember what I wanted to ask you this morning. You still haven’t told me.”
“What?”
“Gerhard’s last words.”
True! How could he have forgotten something so important?
“Well?”
Jacob thought. “It is wrong.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Richmodis, puzzled.
“That’s what Gerhard said. ‘It is wrong.’ Those were his last words, ‘It is wrong.’ I don’t find them at all puzzling. If someone pushed me off the top of a cathedral, I would have said it was wrong.”
Rolof gave a snort of laughter and immediately fell silent again.
“‘It is wrong,’” mused Jaspar, ignoring him. “You think he was referring to his murder?”
“What else?”
Jaspar shook his head vigorously. “I don’t think so.”
Goddert wagged his index finger. “Yes. There’s always something mystical, something sublime about last words.”
“No, there isn’t, Goddert,” Jaspar snapped irritatedly. “All this last words stuff is a load of nonsense. Do you think someone who’s lying there with every bone in his body smashed is going to go to the trouble of thinking up some original curtain line? As if any ass turns into a poet just because he’s about to depart the stage.”
“Many a man has been inspired when the soul is freed from the prison of the flesh. Saint Francis of Assisi even spoke in verse.” Goddert puffed himself up and declaimed,
“Praise be to Thee, my Lord, through our sister, the death of the body,
For no living man can escape her:
Woe unto those who die in mortal sin;
Blessed are those she finds in Thy most holy will.
For the second death cannot harm them.”
“My God, listen to Goddert! And I always thought he’d never learned anything,” exclaimed Jaspar in amazement. “You’re still wrong, though. The great man wrote those lines long before he died, but only revealed them on his deathbed. Very spiritual but not particularly spontaneous.”
“Then take Archbishop Anno. Didn’t he see the destruction of Cologne on his deathbed?”
“Anno had a fever, took several weeks to die. Plenty of time to rehearse his last words.”
“But he called on Peter and all the saints to protect Cologne.”
“Probably because he believed the Virgin had vouchsafed him such a terrible vision as a punishment for the way he’d treated the citizens.”
“Anno was a saint. He loved the people of Cologne with all his heart!”
“You’ll have known him, of course—he only died two hundred years ago, while all I’ve done is read his Life. As for being a saint, I don’t doubt his miracles, but if you ask me, I’d say he had more eyes put out than he healed. No wonder he prayed for the city on his deathbed, but more out of fear of purgatory than for the welfare of the city.”
“If I was a cleric, I’d accuse you of blasphemous talk. I sometimes wonder which of us follows the teachings of the Church more closely, you in your habit or a hardworking dyer like me.”
“You aren’t a hardworking dyer, you’re an old drunkard with a hardworking daughter. As to your mania for last words, let me remind you of Saint Clare of Assisi. She died just seven years ago saying, ‘Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit’—very pious, but not particularly original or mystical.”
“And what about all the saints who suffered and died for their faith,” cried Goddert, who had gone bright red, “and still found words of defiance for their tormentors or had visions of the future?”
“Were you there? Most of them will have said ‘ouch.’ Last words are bandied about like relics. Three months ago Conrad sent the king of France a casket supposedly containing the bones of Saint Berga. If it goes on like this, we’ll have to add another nought to the eleven thousand virgins to explain the miraculous appearance of holy bones.”
Goddert drew a deep breath to reply, but instead gave a muffled growl and emptied his mug of wine.
“And now we have another set of broken bones,” said Jaspar, looking around at them pensively. “What was going on inside Gerhard? He’s dying and he knows it. Would he say ‘It is wrong’ about his own death? No one would dream of calling God wrong when He decides to call someone to Him, even if a murderer does have a hand in it.”
“But what is it that’s wrong, then?” asked Jacob, confused. “If Gerhard wasn’t talking about himself, it’s beginning to sound like one of Goddert’s mystical utterances after all.”
Goddert nodded vigorously.
“Not mystical,” said Jaspar. He rested his long chin in his hands. “Peter Abelard said that words do not veil reality, but reveal it. What reality did Gerhard want to reveal? Or, to put it another way, why did he have to die?”
“A rival?” Goddert suggested tentatively. “There are many who would like to be in charge of building the cathedral.”
“Hmm. There’s a young man called Arnold. A good stonemason. I believe the cathedral chapter has had its eye on him for some time.”
“I certainly had no intention of accusing the chapter of anything untoward,” Goddert declared hastily. “I just thought—”
“Why not?”
Goddert stared at him, openmouthed. This time his horrified incredulity seemed genuine. “Jaspar! How could even the shadow
of suspicion fall on the cathedral canons? After all, they are the ones who instigated this holy work.”
“You mean the cathedral? That’s not a holy work.”
Goddert went even redder. “What? How can you say something like that? You’re always carping and criticizing.”
“No, I’m not. I just happen to know that Conrad laid the foundation stone on the spot set aside for his tomb, which poses the question of whose glory is this temple being built to, the Lord’s or Conrad’s?”
Goddert slapped his hand on the table. “You just have to drag everything through the mud.”
“All right.” Jaspar raised his hands in appeasement. “May the Lord preserve your simple faith. Anyway, you’ll be pleased to know I’ve come to the same conclusion as you. The chapter had nothing to do with Gerhard’s death. The cathedral was an expression of its power, too, and who better than Gerhard to realize it? Arnold will probably succeed to the position, but just because he’s a capable young stonemason, not for any dubious reasons.” He sighed. “Which brings us back to the question of what Gerhard meant when he said, ‘It is wrong.’”
“Perhaps he was referring to the future,” suggested Jacob.
“The future?” echoed Goddert.
“Yes. To something that’s going to happen. Something so important it was worth using his last breath for. Perhaps he knew some secret and it weighed on his conscience. So much so that someone expected Gerhard to tell the whole world what he thought was wrong.”
“And reveal a dark secret that was other people’s secret, too. Excellent, Fox-cub.” Jaspar could hardly contain himself. “Gerhard Morart knew something he shouldn’t have. He had become a danger. He was killed so he would take the secret, his murderer’s secret, to the grave with him.”
Richmodis swallowed and looked at Jaspar. “Then it’s not just the murder of an architect?”
“No. There’s something else. Something that’s still to happen.”
“Lord preserve us,” said Goddert in a hoarse voice. “I daren’t imagine what’s behind it. If they’re willing to kill Gerhard Morart to keep it secret, then it’s not going to be some petty crime.”
Death and the Devil: A Novel Page 21