The Werewolf of Bamberg (64 page)

“But what about Father and Barbara—” Magdalena started to say.

“Forget both of them,” her uncle interrupted. “If we want to save Georg, we’ve got to get him out of here right away. Everything will be going up in flames here in a minute. The floors are dry and crumbling, and there’s a cellar under the entire house. When it starts to burn down there, the wind will come roaring through the halls like in a chimney.” He held Magdalena’s hand. “You must be strong now. If Barbara and your father are somewhere down below, there’s nothing more we can do for them. But we can help Georg.”

“Then you take care of Georg,” she said as another fit of coughing shook her entire frame. “I’m going to keep looking for them—”

“Girl, come to your senses. There’s nothing more you can do here—your stubborn father made a mess of it all. Now we’ve got to salvage what we still can.” Georg moaned as Bartholomäus began pulling him away. “Now hurry up and help me. With my stiff leg and all the smoke, I can’t get this heavy guy out fast enough by myself. The windows are nailed shut—we’ll have to go all the way back to the front.”

Magdalena bit her lips and clenched her fists. She’d never in her life felt so helpless. Did she really have to decide between Georg and Barbara? The twins, so different from one another, were like her own children. How often she’d given them a goodnight kiss or sung them a song. She’d watched them grow up. And now she had to decide their fate in this lonely house in the forest. Was this really the end?

What shall I do? Oh, God, help me. What shall I do?

Bartholomäus had pulled the groaning Georg to his feet, but it was clear her brother couldn’t walk by himself.

“Hurry up!” Bartholomäus yelled, tugging at her dress. “This whole place is about to collapse.”

“I . . . I can’t,” she mumbled as the wooden floor beneath her grew hotter and hotter. The first tongues of fire were already licking through the cracks.

“You must.” Bartholomäus gave her a shove. “Do you want to burn to death? Is that what you want? Do you want Georg to die along with you just because you can’t decide?”

“Georg won’t die,” she replied in a flat voice. “I’ll help you take him out, but then I’m coming back to look for Father and Barbara. I’ll never—”

At that moment a form emerged out of the smoke from one of the doorways. The man coughed, but he stood up straight. He waved the smoke aside with his hands and staggered toward them. For a moment, Magdalena thought it was a ghost.

But then the ghost started to speak, and she knew who it was.

“Out! Get out, all three of you,” Jeremias said. “I know where Barbara is, and I’ll get her out, just as surely as I’m the former executioner of Bamberg.” He shuffled quickly past them. “And now, please get out—this is my job.”

Somewhere far below, several timbers could be heard collapsing.

17

T
HE
B
AMBERG
F
OREST
, NIGHT
, N
OVEMBER
2, 1668 AD

O
UTSIDE, IN FRONT OF THE
house, Simon nervously clutched the pistol in his hand. The wind had gotten stronger; the tops of the trees creaked and groaned, and the howling of the wind made it almost impossible to hear what was happening inside the house.

It had been quite a while since Magdalena, Georg, and Bartholomäus had entered. Simon had thought it best to stay behind the thornbush and wait to see what happened. From there he could keep an eye on everything, and if necessary he could . . .

He hesitated.

Indeed, what could he do?

It was his job to stop the abductor if he should leave the building, but no one had told Simon how to do that. Suspiciously, he eyed the loaded weapon in his hand. He probably wouldn’t have any luck with the old firearm unless Salter was standing directly in front of him, and even then it was questionable whether it would fire at all.

Simon sighed and wiped a few raindrops from his face. Until just a while ago, at least he had Jeremias at his side, but during the long wait, the old man had grown increasingly silent. He had just stared at the dilapidated hunting house, shaking his head occasionally and mumbling softly to himself. It looked like he was thinking it all over. Once or twice, during brief lulls in the wind, Simon thought he heard muffled cries coming from the house. What was going on in there, anyway? Should he go and have a look? He never should have let Magdalena enter the house. But once his wife had put her mind to something, it was very hard to get her to change.

Impossible, actually.

Just as he’d decided to sneak closer to the house, smoke had suddenly started pouring out some of the windows, and then flames appeared on the ground beneath them.

At that moment, Jeremias stood up and ran toward the house, where he disappeared through one of the windows.

Leaving Simon alone.

The iron pistol in his hand felt cold, and in a strange way reassuring, but nevertheless his fear increased, as well as a gnawing uncertainty that tormented and paralyzed him. Almost his entire family was over there in that strange building, which was burning down before his eyes. He couldn’t just stand idly by. He had to help. But how? Should he perhaps rush into the burning house, hoping to find Magdalena and the others? But what if—

Suddenly, very close to him, there was a menacing growl, deep, almost like an approaching whirlwind.

The werewolf,
Simon thought.

But then he scolded himself for being such a fool. Good Lord, there was no such thing as a werewolf, there was only a madman taking his cruel revenge—and he was over there in the house and not here in the thornbush.

What was it, then?

Again he heard growling, and a rustling sound as if something large was creeping through the thicket.

Right toward him.

That was more than he could take. With the pistol in his hand he ran toward the building, where smoke was now pouring out on all sides. He turned around a few times but couldn’t see anything in the darkness.

But he did see something right in front of him.

Two figures, a man and a woman, came crawling out of a cellar door. At first he thought they were Jakob and Barbara, but as they came closer, that hope vanished. The man was far thinner and shorter than the hangman, and the woman at his side was considerably older than his sister-in-law. He didn’t know either of them, but he guessed that the man was Markus Salter. He was holding a knife to the throat of the woman and pushing her in front of him.

With a determined look, he pointed his weapon at the abductor. Finally he knew what he had to do. He was trembling slightly and hoped Salter wouldn’t notice it.

“Stay right where you are, you rotten scoundrel!” he shouted, “And drop your dagger if you value your life.”

Only now did Salter appear to notice him in the darkness. With a calm, relaxed demeanor, he turned to Simon. Simon was astonished. The man in front of him looked sensitive and intelligent, not someone Simon would expect to commit such dastardly crimes.

“When my life ends is something I’ll determine myself,” Markus said, so softly that Simon could barely understand him over the sounds of the wind and the raging fire. “And the final curtain has not fallen.”

Not until now did Simon have a chance to look more closely at the woman, whose hands were clearly shackled. She looked haggard and drawn, and her dress was soiled and ripped. She was no doubt one of the people Salter had abducted. Were there others trapped down below in the burning cellar? If so, they had little chance of making it out alive.

“Where is Barbara?” Simon demanded with a trembling voice. “The hangman’s girl? What did you do with her, you devil?”

“So
that’s
what you want to know?” Salter smiled. “Are you one of her relatives? It must really be a large family—almost as large as mine was once.” The smile vanished. “I’ll make you an offer: I’ll tell you where Barbara is, and you’ll let the two of us go.”

“By God, if she’s still down there, I’ll shoot your head off,” Simon replied grimly, pointing at the barrel of the gun.

Salter gave him an innocent look. “Who says she’s there? Perhaps I’ve taken her somewhere else altogether.”

“She’s—” the woman started to gasp, but Salter put his arm around her neck and held the knife to her throat.

“Don’t say a word or you’re dead,” he hissed, then turned back to Simon. “Well, what do you say? Throw the pistol away, and I’ll talk.”

“And suppose you don’t? What do I do then?” Simon asked.

Markus Salter smiled. “That’s just the risk you’ll have to take.”

Simon took a deep breath. What should he do? Accept the madman’s offer? He was about to go into a long-winded reply, just to buy time, when from of the corner of his eye he saw someone climbing out of the shaft. And this time he was quite sure who it was.

It was Jakob Kuisl.

Salter couldn’t see him, as his back was to the building, and Jakob was still a good thirty yards behind him. The hangman raised his hand in a warning to Simon.

I’ve got to stall him,
Simon thought.
Just a bit, until Jakob is close enough.

“What a splendid hideaway you have here,” he said, keeping a firm grip on the pistol. “It’s too bad it’s all going up in flames.”

Salter shrugged. “I don’t need it anymore—my work is done, though I do regret the loss of the”—he hesitated—“let’s just say the
props.
Some of them were valuable pieces I acquired from experienced smiths in Forchheim, but most of them were fortunately already there.”

“You mean the torturing tools?” Simon asked with surprise.

“I prefer the word
props
,” Salter said with a smile. “I discovered this house on our last visit to Bamberg. People avoid it because they think it’s haunted, so no one has ever searched the old cellar, not even the Swedes back during the Great War. The former owner had a strange hobby. I found a rack down there, thumbscrews, Spanish boots, tongs . . . It was like God giving me a sign. My revenge could finally begin.”

Simon surreptitiously glanced behind the actor, where Jakob approached, step by step. He seemed to be limping. Apparently he’d had an accident in the house, and Simon could only hope his injuries weren’t so serious that he couldn’t overpower Salter.

“But why now?” Simon asked. “So many years have passed. Why couldn’t you forget? Why—”

“I wanted to forget!” Salter interrupted, still threatening his struggling victim with the knife. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. “Believe me, I didn’t want all this. But then, half a year ago, I came back to Bamberg. I saw those fat patricians at the performances, some of them the same men responsible for killing my family. They’d made comfortable lives for themselves with my family’s fortune, while I scraped along as a poor actor. But I learned all about them—where they lived, their habits, trips, political intrigues. I assumed many disguises to get close to them, and lo and behold, old Gotzendörfer actually lived in one of our former houses, which he’d acquired for next to nothing. And I surprised greedy old Vasold in front of another home that once belonged to our mighty family. What a stroke of luck.” He smiled, but then his face turned serious and grim again. “It was hardest with Sebastian Harsee. That son of the former chairman of the Witches Commission, that swine, had made it all the way to the post of Bamberg suffragan bishop, even though his father was the mastermind behind the plot to destroy our family.”

“You had to make sure Sebastian Harsee died in that unspeakably horrible way,” Simon said.

“Hah! You figured it out? You know the true story of Romeo and Juliet?” Salter’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “The suffragan bishop was my masterpiece. It all began with him. A few months ago I came upon a dying fox here in the forest and got the idea of poisoning my two darlings with rabies. With Juliet it didn’t work, but it did with Romeo. I sold some religious writings to Harsee and in that way gained access to his rooms. Then Romeo kissed him.” He giggled. “I made Harsee my werewolf, the one responsible for all these horrible murders. It took a long time, almost too long, but finally he got sick at just the right time. The suffragan bishop, that bigoted zealot, finally became a warlock himself, and people believed he was prowling through the streets in the animal pelts. But it was always me—the last heir of the family that his power-hungry father destroyed.”

“Harsee almost found you out,” Simon replied. “He sent his guards to watch your actors, and that’s when you planted the pelts on Matheo.”

Salter shrugged. “I’m sorry about Matheo, but what could I do? They were hot on my heels. Later, I steered the suspicions toward Sir Malcolm. I smuggled the child’s skull and other odds and ends into his chest, just in case they were looking for a suspect.”

Jakob was now just a few steps behind Salter. He gestured at Simon to keep talking.

“I can understand why you wanted to take revenge on the members of the Witches Commission,” said Simon, “but why these innocent women—”

“They are just as innocent as the members of my own family!” Salter screamed, squeezing the blond woman’s neck until she started to suffocate. “Their only quarrel was with my grandfather, but they went ahead and killed the entire family, because they were afraid of our revenge. Now I’m taking my vengeance out on them in the same way.” His eyes narrowed to tiny slits. “The only one who disappeared without a trace was the former hangman. It was said he left no family. Then Barbara and I crossed paths. She told me that all hangmen are related and view each other as cousins. Michael Binder and Bartholomäus Kuisl, for example—so she, his niece, had to die as a member of the great family of hangmen. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.”

Simon was stunned. What had Salter just said?

She, his niece, had to die . . .

Did that mean Barbara was already dead? And what about Magdalena and the others?

Just then Jakob reached the unsuspecting Salter. He jumped on him from behind with a hoarse shout, and all three fell to the ground. The woman began shouting now, too, as Salter was still holding her like a shield between himself and Jakob. The knife disappeared in the tumult.

Frozen to the spot, Simon stood just a few steps away, observing. He felt the cold iron of the pistol in his hand again. Had the moment finally come to use it? But what would happen if he shot the wrong person?

“Stop!” he shouted desperately as he fumbled around with the pistol. “Stop at once or I’ll shoot!”

But the two men had no intention of stopping. Simon saw now that Jakob looked battered, almost numbed. The smoke in the house must have made him dizzy, and he was bleeding from several wounds to his head.

Finally, the woman, still in shackles, managed to squirm free of the two unequal opponents and rolled to one side, where she lay panting. Next to her, the fight continued. Markus was nowhere near as strong as the hangman, but he was nimble and had an athletic build. The hangman, weighing nearly two hundred pounds, was sitting on top of him, but just as he prepared to throw a punch, Salter picked up a handful of dirt and threw it in his face. In the following confusion, he slipped away from Jakob—but instead of fleeing, he angrily attacked the blinded hangman with all the power of a madman.

“You . . . are . . . really a big damn family,” he panted as he punched the dazed hangman again and again. “How . . . many . . . of . . . you do I have to send to hell?”

Now Simon could not wait another moment. Holding his breath, he aimed, even as Salter seemed to be jumping in all directions, and then finally pulled the trigger.

“You can go to hell yourself!” Simon cried, trembling and panting, expecting a large explosion.

There was a soft click—and nothing else. The powder had not ignited.

Salter stopped briefly, then broke out in loud laughter.

“You would make a good actor,” he giggled. “I almost thought the weapon was loaded. That’s why I seldom use a pistol, except on the stage. Sometimes just a stone is enough, and at least as deadly.”

He reached for a large rock, raised his arms, and was about to bring it crashing down on the groaning hangman, when all of a sudden there was a threatening growl.

Simon cringed. It was the same growl he’d heard earlier in the thornbush.

A deep rumble, like that of an approaching whirlwind.

“What in the world . . . ,” Salter mumbled, looking around.

Out of the darkness a vague shape came charging at the two combatants. It was bright, almost white, and was as large as a calf.

The werewolf!
Simon thought.
So there is such a thing.

Like a monster from hell, the beast attacked Salter, who was paralyzed with fear, and tore him away from Jakob. The flames were not very bright, so all Simon saw was the outline of an unequal fight. Salter screamed as the beast, with its powerful jaws, ripped off his jerkin and shirt and finally tore open his chest. With flaring nostrils, the beast sniffed at the blood-streaked upper torso of his victim and finally located the throat.