Death and the Devil

“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.”