Death and the Devil

“To see my uncle. He’d better have a look at that shoulder and give you something decent to drink. Then you can tell him your story. If you manage to convince him, he’ll do everything he can to help you. He likes a little spice in his scholarly existence now and then. If not, he’ll throw you out on your backside. Without the hat and coat.”

Jacob couldn’t think of anything to say. They went out and crossed the stream. He turned around to see if anyone was watching, at which she gave him an irritated nudge and hurried him on. “Don’t look,” she whispered. “They’ll stare anyway.”

“And where does your uncle live?” asked Jacob, neatly avoiding a piglet that ran squealing between his legs.

“I told you. He’s dean of St. Mary Magdalene’s.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Never heard of it, you heathen?”

“Not heathen, not long in Cologne, that’s all.”

“Mary Magdalene’s is opposite St. Severin’s. Rather small, I have to admit. My uncle lives three doors along. That’s where he has his study, too.”

“There’s another thing, Richmodis—”

“Mmm?”

“These clothes—”

“Are my father’s, that’s right.”

Oh, dear!

“Was he angry with you about the other things you gave me?”

“You bet he was! He was furious. He chased me all around the house crying blue murder. The neighbors came to see what was up.”

“Christ! A good thing he wasn’t there today.”

“A good thing indeed.”

They passed through the old Roman gate into Severinstraße, which ran straight toward the city wall. It was no mean street. Churches and chapels, monasteries and convents jostled each other for position, not to mention solid patrician houses and inviting inns. Catering to every need, so to speak.

Richmodis was striding out.

“Tell me, fairest nose in the West,” he said after a while, “where is he?”

“Who?”

“Your father.”

She stopped and looked at him as if that was the silliest question she had ever heard.

“Where would he be? At my uncle’s.”

A MORNING WALK

Matthias reached the Franciscan monastery punctually at seven. He had to look twice before he recognized Urquhart. The murderer was wearing a black monk’s habit with the hood drawn down over his face and his head bowed. He looked as if he were immersed in his devotions.

Matthias walked over to him casually, stopping beside him as if by chance. “Why the disguise?”

“It seemed a good idea for you to accompany one of the good friars on his morning walk,” he said. “Yesterday you were not very keen for us to be seen together. You may be right.”

“That’s perhaps going a little too far,” Matthias countered. “After all, no one knows who—”

“Not here. Follow me.”

With measured tread the two men walked out and around the corner into one of the city’s liveliest streets. It was full of workshops and rang with the sound of hammering, planing, and tapping, mingled with the rumble of carts, the stamp and roar of oxen, with barks, shouts, and the grunt of pigs, constantly interrupted by the bells from the countless churches and chapels. They were passing the harness makers. Matthias had commissioned a saddle that still wasn’t finished even though he had laid out so much money that he was contemplating a complaint to the guild.

They strolled past open workshops, splendid town houses, and the Münster Inn, which Daniel was frequenting more and more, much to the annoyance of the family. Then a mansion with extensive grounds.

“Your friend,” mocked Matthias.

“Friend?”

“The house of the count of Jülich.”

“William is not my friend,” said Urquhart in bored tones. “I served him for a while and he benefited from it. Now I am serving you.”

“And not without benefit,” said Matthias with a patronizing smile. He took a pear out of his coat pocket and bit into it heartily. “Gerhard is dead. Everyone is talking about an accident. Your witnesses were good.”

“Two of my witnesses were good.”

“But there were only two. Or am I wrong?”

“There were three.”

“There were?” Matthias stroked his lips. “I must be getting old. But three is better, of course.”

“It is not. The third was not part of the plan.”

Matthias stared at the marks of his teeth in the pear. “Tell me.”

“There was a thief,” explained Urquhart. “Presumably stealing the archbishop’s fruit. He saw me push Gerhard off the scaffolding. Too stupid. I had no idea he was stuck in that tree, until he fell out. Presumably from sheer fright.” He sucked the air in through his teeth contemptuously.

“What now?” exclaimed Matthias, somewhat horrified.

“Keep your voice down. We have a witness who can tell the good citizens of Cologne the opposite. That Gerhard did not slip.”

“Who’s going to believe a beggar, a thief?”

“No one, I should imagine.” Urquhart stopped. His eyes glinted at Matthias from under the hood. “But do you want to take the chance?”

“What do you mean, me?” spluttered Matthias. “It’s your fault.”

“No.” Urquhart’s rejoinder was calm. “You can’t know every bird roosting in the branches. Not even I can. But don’t start complaining too soon. There’s more. It is possible—though I wouldn’t swear to it—that Gerhard said something to the man.”