The Council of Twelve

by Oliver Pötzsch

  “Yes?” he asked impatiently.

  Magdalena held up her bundle of washing. “I’m the new maid the master ordered,” she said with her head lowered. “I’m supposed to return the mended sheets and be of service to the master and mistress for a few days.”

  “Oh, the new maidservant,” the footman said. He eyed Magdalena suspiciously. “Let me tell you one thing: if I catch you stealing, even if it’s just a crumb of bread, I’ll personally make sure the hangman whips you out of town. Is that clear?”

  Magdalena nodded, and the servant let her in. The corridor first led through the kitchen, then into a high-ceilinged reception room, which was lined with red damask and decorated with numerous paintings.

  “Wait here,” the footman ordered. “I’ll fetch the master.”

  He climbed a staircase that was as wide as an entire room, and Magdalena had a chance to admire the furnishings. The handrail was made of the finest polished ebony; the marble steps gleamed white. The painting on the wall leading to the second floor didn’t depict a biblical scene or a king or duke, but a patrician, dressed in a black coat with an ermine collar. He was holding a quill and paper, and behind him stood a desk laden with coins. The artist had clearly tried his best, but he hadn’t been able to hide the fact that the man was rather ugly: short, with thin hair and watery, bulging eyes—he looked like a fish turned human.

  Magdalena jumped when that very man came walking down the stairs. He smiled a thin smile, practically undressing her with his fish eyes.

  “Ah, the new maid,” he said happily. “Look at that, Uffele wasn’t lying. You’re even prettier than the last one.” He studied Magdalena appreciatively. “Truly, a good recompense for the fact that I’m still waiting for my money. Perhaps a tad old, but that doesn’t matter. Age brings experience, doesn’t it?” Meanwhile, the man—evidently the city treasurer, Daniel Pfundner—had arrived downstairs and brushed his hand across her behind. Then he leaned forward and sniffed her décolletage. Magdalena trembled a little, but kept her temper.

  “You and I are going to have a lot of fun,” Pfundner said and winked at her. “Just the two of us. I’ve taken the whole day off—they don’t expect me back at the city hall until tomorrow.” He giggled and pointed at the laundry in Magdalena’s hands. “Uffele’s idea with the mended sheets is brilliant. When you leave tonight, I’ll give you more washing to take.”

  Suddenly a shaky female voice called out from upstairs. “Daniel, who is it?”

  Pfundner rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, Waltraud!” he shouted back. “It’s just the new maid. Josef is going to show her the kitchen and the laundry in a moment.”

  “I’m in so much pain, Daniel,” the woman moaned. “Can’t you call for the doctor again?”

  “Dr. Geiger is at the hospice today,” Pfundner replied. “But he might manage to squeeze in a brief visit.” In a quiet, strained voice he added, “As if I hadn’t spent enough on that woman already.”

  He turned back to Magdalena. “There’s something else you can do for me today. I’m receiving a somewhat unexpected visitor in a little while. Take the pastries and wine upstairs and sweep the floor. And when he arrives, give him your best smile. He might just make use of your services, too.” He gave her a more serious look. “It’s important that he feels at ease, do you understand? Very important. For you, too.” He giggled secretively.

  “Yes, sir,” Magdalena replied with a curtsy.

  “Like a lady-in-waiting. I like you, you naughty thing.” Laughing, Pfundner gave her a slap on the backside. “I’m going to ask Dr. Geiger to give my wife a decent dose of poppy juice.” He lowered his voice and leaned close to Magdalena’s neck. “And then the two of us are going to enjoy ourselves until the small hours. You like to enjoy yourself, don’t you, my little dove?”

  Magdalena smiled, but her hands were clenched into tight fists. She could only pray her husband would never find out about this.

  Simon clutched the leather satchel that held the rolled-up pages of his treatise nervously while he stood outside the doors of the Munich Hospice of the Holy Ghost.

  He hadn’t slept much the night before—the impressions from the previous evening had been too overwhelming. Attending the opera with Peter—the orchestra, the painted set, singers, a flying machine, the other colorful props . . . And all of it surrounded by courtiers, patricians from Munich, and the electoral family. It had been like a trip to another world—a trip that had ended abruptly when the coach had driven them back to the dirty Anger Quarter. At least he and Peter had been allowed to keep the borrowed clothes. Apparently, the messenger expected them to visit the Residenz again soon—or at least Peter. Simon’s son had shared an opera box with the crown prince himself, as Peter had told him excitedly on the way home. He’d been asked to visit the palace gardens today.

  Simon’s happiness was marred by the fact that Magdalena hadn’t been at his side through it all. Even worse—while he and Peter had listened to Italian arias, wearing expensive clothes, Magdalena had spent the night at the silk manufactory. She’d sent word to the family; evidently, she was hoping to find out more.

  Simon was glad Walburga and Barbara were looking after Sophia and the two boys. That left him free to accept Dr. Geiger’s invitation to visit him at the Hospice of the Holy Ghost. He felt confident he’d find an opportunity to raise the subject of his treatise with Geiger, and he did his best to ignore the fact that he was supposed to be looking for the electoral lapdog.

  The hospice was situated behind Old Peter and bordered by the city wall to the south. Hospices like this had become widespread and generally housed a town’s old and sick. Schongau had a similar hospice, which was why Simon had expected a single building. Instead, he was amazed to find an entire village. Even bigger: the Hospice of the Holy Ghost was almost like a city within the city.

  Once he entered through the large gateway, he found himself in a maze of lanes, houses, stables, and courtyards. The hospice even had its own stream filled with cages of trout, lethargic from the cold. Farther back, Simon saw a large cathedral. He walked past a brewery, a bakery, and a blacksmith, but he had no idea where Dr. Geiger might be working. Surely there must be an infirmary somewhere.

  He asked an elderly man who was pulling at a stubborn cow.

  “The doctor, hmm . . .” The old man scratched his nose. “I think he might be over at the foundling house. Try your luck there.”

  “And how do I find the foundling house?” Simon asked.

  The man grinned. “Just follow the racket.” He pointed to the right, and indeed, Simon could hear the wailing of infants from a low building. Simon rushed to the house, entered, and was immediately enveloped in stink and noise. He counted at least two dozen children, most of them still in cradles. Their diapers were dirty, their faces haggard and red from screaming. Clearly, they were hungry. A few older boys and girls sat at a table in the center of the room, where a pinched-looking nurse was doling out porridge with a ladle. When she noticed Simon, she glared at him as if he were a thief.

  “Hey, what are you doing here?” she mumbled between her few remaining teeth. “Are you a sponsor, or are you only bringing another squalling mouth to feed? Where am I supposed to put all the brats, can you tell me that?”

  “It’s all right, Martha,” a voice sounded from farther back, where the lack of windows kept the room in relative darkness. “The gentleman is here for me, isn’t he?”

  Simon was thrilled—he had actually found Malachias Geiger. Like yesterday, the doctor wore a plain black coat; his beard was neatly trimmed, and his right eye strangely enlarged. Only on second look did Simon realize Geiger was wearing a monocle, which he now removed with a smile.

  “I mainly wear it because the children like it,” he explained and shook Simon’s hand. “What was your name again, dear colleague?”

  “Uh, Fronwieser. D-Dr. Fronwieser from Schongau,” Simon stammered. He could hardly believe that the famous physician had called him a colleague.


  “I liked your diagnosis at the opera last night,” Geiger said. “Brief and honest, just the way it ought to be. I’m sorry we couldn’t talk more. Treasurer Daniel Pfundner doesn’t have it easy with his wife, so you must forgive his rough demeanor. He’s a very good treasurer—he’s done a lot for the city.” He shrugged. “Being a good husband doesn’t seem to be his specialty, however.”

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation. I was just—”

  “Come over here,” Geiger said, leading him to one of the beds. “Perhaps you can give me some advice.” An approximately six-month-old baby was lying in the cradle, covered in festering pustules. The little child screamed pitifully and kept scratching its face, which was already streaked with blood.

  “The poor thing was left outside the hospice church last night,” Geiger said with a sad look at the infant. “It’s the third child this month. The other two were newborns; apparently the mothers didn’t want them. Illegitimate, most likely.” The doctor shook his head. “Ever since the old elector, Maximilian, toughened the laws against wantonness again, the number of abandoned children keeps going up. It’s enough to drive you to despair.”

  “At least the mothers didn’t kill their babies,” Simon muttered, realizing this wasn’t a good time to mention his treatise.

  “You’re right,” Geiger replied. “But it’s a crime nonetheless—whether committed by the mother alone or by all of us, someone else can judge.” He pointed at the wailing infant in front of them. “A typical case of scabies, common among poor families, and already described by the great Avenzoar of Seville. How would you proceed, dear colleague?”

  “Well, um . . .” Simon cleared his throat. He knew scabies from Schongau. The old bathhouse surgeon used to prescribe church dust, which he scraped off the Altenstadt basilica. Or he advised patients to apply a paste of ground grain. Simon had a feeling Dr. Geiger wasn’t interested in such methods.

  “Uh, Constantine of Africa believed nature forced the bad fluids to the surface of the skin to cleanse the body.” Simon scraped up his scant knowledge from the university. “But I prefer the theory of Persian scholar al-Tabari, namely that scabies is in fact caused by tiny creatures that eat into the skin. I use an ointment of sulfur and quicksilver to kill them off.”

  “Quicksilver, hmm . . . Interesting.” Geiger frowned. “I should try it sometime. Here, the children are often put in the hospice smokehouse, which usually results in temporary improvement, as with other undesirable vermin. Unfortunately, these creatures are so small that one can barely see them, let alone squash them.”

  Simon remembered the book he stole from the shop on Sendlinger Street. It was a work on magnifying lenses strong enough to make even the tiniest animals visible. He decided to take another look at the book that evening—perhaps he’d find something on scabies.

  Geiger leaned over the crying child and gently rubbed cream from his bag on the sores. Simon helped him and bandaged the little hands so the infant couldn’t scratch himself bloody anymore. The two doctors walked to the next bed, where a girl about a year old seemed happy and healthy. But she had a cleft lip. She beamed at Simon and Geiger with sparkling eyes.

  “This child was born here,” Geiger explained sadly. “But the mother didn’t want to keep it. She was destitute. The poor thing is never going to grow up with a family, even though there’s nothing really wrong with her.”

  Simon involuntarily thought of his own daughter, Sophia. Her clubfoot already made her an outcast, even at her young age. But at least she had parents who looked after her, and hadn’t been abandoned like this girl here.

  “I believe this hospice is far more than just a shelter for the old and sick,” Simon said, reaching for the girl’s little fingers.

  Malachias Geiger nodded. “Aside from the regular hospice for the elderly, we also have the foundling house, a birthing room for homeless women, and even a lunatic asylum.”

  “A lunatic asylum?” Simon asked, surprised.

  “Well, a place for all those who have lost control of their senses.” Geiger sighed. “They need looking after, too. Once a week I fulfill my duty as a good Christian at the hospice, and I’ve done so for over thirty years. On all other days, I cut out the boils of the rich or treat them for gout they brought on themselves with their gluttony. The world isn’t fair.” He shook his head and turned to Simon. “But enough about me. Tell me, what brings you to Munich, dear colleague?”

  My hour has finally arrived, Simon thought.

  “Well, actually . . . ,” he began, fiddling with the pages of his treatise in his leather satchel, when they suddenly heard an inhuman-sounding scream from one of the nearby houses. Simon winced. “My God, what is that?” he asked, horrified. “It sounds worse than a torture chamber.”

  “I’m afraid that’s one of the pitiful creatures I just mentioned,” Geiger replied. “Follow me. Let’s go see what happened.”

  Simon hastily stuffed his treatise back in his bag and followed the doctor out the door. They ran across the lane and toward a house that looked a little like a prison, with its barred windows and heavy doors. The shrill screams coming from inside sounded as if someone were being flayed alive.

  Just then the door opened and a bald, broad-shouldered man stared at them with surprise. “Doctor, thank God you’re here,” he gasped. “It’s old Traudel. I just can’t calm her down. I’m truly at my wits’ end.”

  “Let me take a look.” Malachias Geiger rushed past him, and Simon followed. The building looked like a prison on the inside, as well. To Simon’s left and right were a half dozen foul-smelling cells each, and behind the bars cowered the most wretched-looking people he had ever seen. With their long, matted hair, dirty torn shirts, and wild eyes, they seemed more like animals than humans. Some of them, he couldn’t tell whether they were man or woman. Most of them just sat apathetically in a corner, stammering silent words or merely staring straight ahead, but at the far end of the corridor, an old woman threw herself against the bars of her door again and again, screaming at the top of her lungs. Now Simon could make out some words and phrases.

  “The girls . . . the dead girls!” the old woman screeched. “They’re knocking on my ear. Take them away, they . . . they’re knocking on my head, like a hammer.”

  “What in God’s name is she talking about?” Simon asked the bald-headed man, evidently the lunatic warden. He just shrugged.

  “I don’t know. I think someone told her about the murders in the city, and now she’s completely beside herself. Normally, Traudel is harmless—she’s been sitting in her cell for over twenty years. She’s never caused me trouble before. And now this.”

  “For over twenty years?” Simon asked, shocked.

  “Hmm, perhaps even longer.” The warden scratched his head. “We keep good records of all our cases. Traudel is definitely our oldest.”

  Simon shook his head in disbelief. “By God, if she wasn’t crazy beforehand—she sure is now.”

  “The poor girls!” wailed Traudel. “All dead, dead, dead! Oh, and there’s going to be more. Many more! It’ll never end, no, no, no!”

  “It’s enough to drive you up the wall,” Geiger shouted against the noise. “I’m going to give her some poppy juice. It was supposed to be for the treasurer’s wife, but this seems more important.” He looked at Simon. “I’ll need your help, young colleague. Can you please hold the poor woman down so I can give her the juice?”

  Simon nodded, and the warden cautiously opened the door. Traudel immediately launched herself at the three men like a fury. “It’s you, it’s your fault!” she screamed over and over. “It’s all your fault!”

  The warden grabbed Traudel and held her like a vise. The old woman screamed and spat, frothing like a rabid dog. “It’s your fault!” she roared. “All of yours!”

  “You have to hold her head,” Geiger commanded. “Or I can’t give her the medicine.”

  Simon reached for her head, but Traudel turned and bit his hand.r />
  “Ouch, damn it!” Cursing, Simon held his aching hand, but when he saw Geiger’s look of impatience, he tried again. This time he managed to hold Traudel’s head and open her mouth at the same time. Geiger rummaged in his medicine bag and produced a small bottle. Carefully, he dribbled the contents into the woman’s mouth, and the warden held her nose shut so she had to swallow. Geiger gently stroked her filthy gray hair as if she were a small child.

  “It’s going to be fine, Traudel,” he whispered. “Just calm down and then—”

  Suddenly the old woman’s eyes widened and she giggled. Her voice was very soft now, barely audible.

  “I know who killed them,” she whispered.

  “Killed who?” Geiger asked.

  “The girls, of course. All those sweet young girls. I know who killed them. Who’s always been killing them in this cursed city.”

  “And who would that be?” Simon asked, feeling a tingle of excitement. Suddenly, the old woman didn’t seem very insane anymore. Her voice sounded calm and composed.

  “I can’t tell,” she whispered. “I promised. A long time ago.” She sounded almost pleading now. “If I tell you, I’m next. I beg you, stop this monster.”

  “Who killed those girls?” Simon tried again. “If you really know, you—”

  “It’s your fault!” she shouted again, shaking herself like a wet dog. “Yours! Yours! Yours!”

  Malachias Geiger turned away with a sigh. “She’s truly out of her mind. I hope the poppy juice brings her some relief.”

  “But what if she really knows something about the murders?” Simon objected.

  “You aren’t serious, are you?” Geiger looked almost mockingly at Simon. “You heard yourself who she thinks the murderer is. All of us. It’s a shame someone told her about it in the first place. Now she’s completely confused. At least the medicine seems to be working now.”

  Old Traudel had stopped screaming and thrashing about. Her head sank to her chest and her muscles relaxed. The warden placed her gently in the dirty straw on the ground, and the three men left her cell.