The Werewolf of Bamberg (57 page)

I’m grabbing book after book from the shelves, looking, paging through, and finally I find something. I’m in front of the shelves, but the book is too heavy
to spend any more time standing here and leafing through it. I can’t hold it any longer, so I go . . .

Simon opened his eyes and looked around.

To the lectern.

There in the corner stood the lectern with a pile of books on top. A large book lay open at the bottom of the pile, looking similar to the other books on the floor. Simon hurried over, took the books on top and put them on the floor, and then studied the open page of the book that had been on the bottom. At first he was disappointed, for once again what he saw were lists and columns of income and expenses. But suddenly he noticed a particular name and knew at once he was on the right track.

Confiscation of the property of the Haan family, 4,865 guilders, distributed in equal parts to the commission, the city, and the Prince Bishopric . . .

“Did you find something?” Jakob asked, rising from his stool and looming over Simon like a huge shadow.

Simon nodded silently, then continued reading.

. . . less 400 guilders to the Carmelite Cloister on the Kaulberg to care for the minor Wolf Christoph Röhm, son of Martin Röhm and Katharina Röhm, née Haan. Attested to December 17, anno domini 1629 . . .

Now Simon turned to the others, looking at them ashen-faced.

“I think we’ve found our werewolf,” he said in a soft voice. “It says here
Wolf Christoph Röhm
—son of a Haan, so, in fact, the chancellor did have a grandson. What irony.” He shook his head. “His parents really gave him a suitable name for his crimes to come.”

Magdalena waited impatiently in the little guardroom of the city prison for Captain Lebrecht to finally release her and Bartholomäus. She was certain their family was worried and eagerly awaiting them. But there was nothing they could do—the captain was not going to let them off that easy. It seemed to her he was even intentionally taking his time with the paperwork.

“And you come from Schongau, do you?” he asked her for perhaps the tenth time. “Where’s that again?”

Magdalena sighed. “A few hours south of Augsburg, north of the Alps, like I’ve already told you.”

Lebrecht didn’t answer but continued scratching letters with a quill into a thick folder. Magdalena shifted nervously back and forth in her seat and cast annoyed looks at her uncle.

Just as they’d been leaving the old house with the baboon stashed safely away in the cellar, the city guards, alerted by the beggar Josef, appeared. In a fierce struggle, the men succeeded in pulling the biting and scratching Luther out of the cellar and tying him up. Three guards wrapped the animal in a blanket and took him back to the menagerie, while Captain Lebrecht ordered Magdalena and Bartholomäus to follow him back to the city jail. Ostensibly, the reason was to take their testimony, but Magdalena quickly realized that Martin Lebrecht had something quite different on his mind.

“I want to stress again that nothing—I repeat, absolutely
nothing
—about this incident is to be made public,” the captain said, gazing sternly at Magdalena. “This order, by the way, comes not from me but from the prince-bishop himself, and I’m telling you this only to stress its urgency. His Excellency fears that the citizens of Bamberg might blame this entire werewolf story on him.”

“But it’s clear that Luther can’t kill or kidnap anyone,” Magdalena added, shaking her head. “He’s much too small for that, and then the traces of all that torture—”

“Perhaps that’s clear to you, but for many people such a strange animal would be taken for an emissary of the devil,” Lebrecht interrupted, sounding exhausted and rubbing his temples. “If you don’t want to obey the order of the bishop, then do it for me. I’ve been looking for this beast for days and am elated that the problem has been solved. It doesn’t do anyone any good if an outraged mob storms the bishop’s menagerie and opens the cages.”

Bartholomäus grinned. “But Solomon, the old bear, would be thrilled. The succulent bodies of people would be much more to his taste than the old, stinking meat scraps that I bring him when I stop by.”

“You’ll have plenty of work to do, Master Bartholomäus,” Lebrecht answered, pointing back to the entrance to the dungeon. “We have almost a dozen sinners here to be tortured soon, most of them actors from that troupe that performed yesterday evening. I hope they’ll confess quickly, so we can finally put an end to this madness.” He sighed. “But I’ve just heard that the torturing will be postponed once again, until after His Excellency the elector and bishop of Würzburg has left the city. These high and mighty gentlemen don’t know what to do, either, and we commoners have to pay for it with this chaos.”

Suddenly the captain stopped short and turned to Magdalena. “It just occurred to me that the leader of this group, a certain Malcolm, asked about you this morning. He urgently wanted to talk to you. I just put him off, but since you’re here . . .” He shrugged. “If you wish, I’ll let you in to see him for a few moments. But be careful. We discovered some magical devices in his possession, and he seems to be a warlock.”

Magdalena hesitated. She and Bartholomäus should have returned home hours ago. On the other hand, she couldn’t turn down this request from Sir Malcolm. She was still convinced that he was innocent and the allegedly magical objects were only props. She could certainly find a little time for him. Besides, she was curious what Sir Malcolm might have to say to her.

“I’ll go and visit him,” she said finally. “Where can I find him?”

Lebrecht pointed down the hall. “In the last room. The guards will show you the way. But take the hangman along. Maybe the fellow will soften up a bit when he sees the executioner and we can spare ourselves a long and expensive interrogation.”

Bartholomäus mumbled his agreement, and they had the guards lead them to Malcolm’s cell.

It took a while for Magdalena to spy Malcolm’s crumpled figure in the darkened cell. He lay in a corner like a bundle of carelessly discarded rags. Cautiously, Magdalena walked toward him and bent down to speak. His face was turned toward the wall, and he seemed to be sleeping.

Or is he dead already?
The thought flashed through Magdalena’s mind. She noticed the bloodstains spattered on Malcolm’s cloak. Evidently some of the citizens had already taken out their anger on him.

“Sir Malcolm,” she whispered. “Can you hear me?”

Malcolm flinched and slowly turned around, and Magdalena stared into his battered face. She put her hand over her mouth in order not to scream in horror. He’d been so badly beaten that his eyes were nothing more than two slits in a pasty mass of black and blue. He looked more like a monster than Jeremias. Nevertheless, he tried to smile cheerfully, which was clearly hard for him to do with his several missing teeth.

“Ah, the beautiful sister of our most talented actress,” he murmured as if in a dream. “So my pleas were heard. This captain is not as bad a man as I thought.”

“Lebrecht probably saved your life,” Bartholomäus interjected. “You ought to thank him. From what I heard, he and his men stepped in to save you just as the mob was about to string you up from the tallest willow on the Regnitz.”

“Ah, yes, the fate of a great artist,” Malcolm said softly, managing, despite his injuries, to inject a note of pathos into his voice. “Beloved, celebrated, and then cast out just the same.”

“Lebrecht said you wanted to see me,” said Magdalena. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

Malcolm placed his trembling hand on her skirt, to quiet her. “I’m afraid no one can help me now,” he whispered. “I’m dying, like Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar in the third act—slowly, but with style. But my men have not deserved such an exit from the stage.” He coughed. “They’re innocent.”

“Does that mean
you
are guilty?” Bartholomäus asked. “Speak up, fellow! What do you have to do with all this hocus-pocus? Are you the werewolf?”

Sir Malcolm let out a dry laugh, which quickly turned into a painful coughing fit, and he spat out another tooth. “I’d be a pretty pathetic little wolf,” he croaked, “if I let myself be whipped like that by a few thugs. You can bet on it, hangman—if I’d played the part, I would have been the greatest werewolf of all time, fearsome and powerful, with a voice rumbling like an approaching tornado, and—”

“Unfortunately, I’m afraid we don’t have much time,” Magdalena interrupted. “The guards are telling us to be quick. So is there something you wanted to tell me?”

Malcolm nodded. “You’re right, I should shorten the monologue, that’s what people keep telling me. Very well.” He took a deep breath, then continued in a whisper. “They say they found objects of mine that I used for incantations and magic, but I swear I’ve never seen those things before. After all, I know how dangerous such props can be in a Catholic bishopric. I’m asking you: a child’s skull?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Things like that are found only in tawdry farces. At first I thought Guiscard had planted these knickknacks on me—”

“Unlike your troupe, he and his men were able to get out of town in time,” Bartholomäus interrupted. “Lebrecht told me that earlier. Apparently Guiscard bribed one of the guards at the gate.”

Malcolm flashed him a toothless grin. “Hah! That rabble packed up their things while we were still on stage. I saw it with my own eyes. Guiscard knew he’d lost. What an ingenious move of mine to convince him to play that boring
Papinian
while we performed
Peter Squenz.
I upstaged them all, and Barbara played her role splendidly. We’re the clear winners.”

“Guiscard would probably see it differently,” Magdalena replied. “In any case, he’s free, and you’re lying here in the dungeon. But you were going to tell us who planted these magical things on you, I think.”

“Well, I assume it’s the same person responsible for all the murders in Bamberg,” Malcolm said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial hush. “I had lots of time last night to think about that, and I have a suspicion who it might be. And finally, I put two and two together . . .”

Malcolm started talking, and as he did, Magdalena felt a chill running up her spine.

It looked like they’d finally found their werewolf.

A rowboat was making its way slowly downstream on the Regnitz. Two people sat inside, one pulling hard on the oars and steering the boat past the many islands of mud, gravel, and flot-sam. Here in the southeastern part of Bamberg, the forest extended down to the shore, where many brooks and tributaries carrying leaves and branches emptied into the wide river.

Exhausted, Barbara snuggled up in the woolen blanket that Markus Salter had given her before they’d left. She sat on a wooden box in the stern of the boat, looking out at the marshland with its willows, birches, and little ponds as they drifted past. A light but constant drizzle had set in, gradually soaking them to the skin.

“Is it much farther?” she asked, her arms covered with goose bumps.

Markus Salter shook his head. He briefly stopped rowing and pointed toward a hill about half a mile away, with a few houses on top. “Up ahead of us is the little town of Wunderburg,” he said, turning more cheerful. “In the Great War, the Swedes destroyed much of the town, but the bishop’s stud farm is still there, so there are a lot of warm stables where we can hide. We can stay there for a while, and when things have calmed down a bit, I’ll go back to the city and tell your father you’re all right. I promise.”