Death and the Devil

“All right.” Jaspar raised his hands in appeasement. “May the Lord preserve your simple faith. Anyway, you’ll be pleased to know I’ve come to the same conclusion as you. The chapter had nothing to do with Gerhard’s death. The cathedral was an expression of its power, too, and who better than Gerhard to realize it? Arnold will probably succeed to the position, but just because he’s a capable young stonemason, not for any dubious reasons.” He sighed. “Which brings us back to the question of what Gerhard meant when he said, ‘It is wrong.’”

“Perhaps he was referring to the future,” suggested Jacob.

“The future?” echoed Goddert.

“Yes. To something that’s going to happen. Something so important it was worth using his last breath for. Perhaps he knew some secret and it weighed on his conscience. So much so that someone expected Gerhard to tell the whole world what he thought was wrong.”

“And reveal a dark secret that was other people’s secret, too. Excellent, Fox-cub.” Jaspar could hardly contain himself. “Gerhard Morart knew something he shouldn’t have. He had become a danger. He was killed so he would take the secret, his murderer’s secret, to the grave with him.”

Richmodis swallowed and looked at Jaspar. “Then it’s not just the murder of an architect?”

“No. There’s something else. Something that’s still to happen.”

“Lord preserve us,” said Goddert in a hoarse voice. “I daren’t imagine what’s behind it. If they’re willing to kill Gerhard Morart to keep it secret, then it’s not going to be some petty crime.”

“Another murder, yes?” said Rolof impassively.

Everyone turned to look at him, but Rolof was fully occupied with a pear.

“That can’t be my Rolof,” mocked Jaspar. “Someone must have been speaking through him.”

“But he could still have been speaking the truth,” cried Richmodis.

“You must go and see your magistrate friend,” Goddert insisted. “You must tell him everything.”

“No,” Jaspar decided, “not yet.”

“But there’s no point in making inquiries ourselves. It’s too dangerous.”

“Then go home, you old coward. You’re the one who was determined to help Jacob. We can’t go to the magistrates before we’ve got these supposed witnesses on our side. That reminds me. Do you happen to have forty gold marks?”

“Of course, Jaspar,” Goddert declared. “Forty thousand, if you want. I’m the richest man in Cologne, aren’t I?”

“All right, all right.”

“That’s not a bad idea at all, Uncle Jaspar,” said Richmodis. “Tell the magistrates. It’s the only way of protecting Jacob and it’ll still allow us to talk to the witnesses.”

“They wouldn’t believe us, child,” Jaspar insisted. Whenever he called her child he was being serious. “We have no proof, and Jacob is not exactly what you’d call a pillar of society. And anyway, what do you think the magistrates would do, now the old wolves have been replaced by a herd of sheep? Conrad’s puppets wherever you look. Whatever you think of the so-called noble houses—arrogant, corrupt, cruel—there’s too few left on the council. Only this morning Bodo was boasting about his important position again. I like the old fellow, but he’s just as spineless and brainless as most of the tradesmen who fell for Conrad’s sweet talk when he got nowhere with the patricians.”

“There are still some patricians.”

“But they’ve lost influence. Perhaps it’s a good thing, but you can have too much of a good thing. Even the Overstolzes provide just one magistrate. That’s all that’s left of their power and authority.”

“That’s right,” agreed Goddert. “I heard his name mentioned recently. What was he called?”

Jaspar sighed. “Theoderich. But that’s irrelevant.”

RHEINGASSE

“Bodo Schuif,” said Theoderich. “But that’s irrelevant.”

“Bodo Schuif,” mused Matthias, and he slowly strode up and down the room. “That’s that ignorant ass of a brewer. And he believes the murder theory?”

“Bodo will believe anything until someone comes to persuade him of the opposite. He’s not a danger. The one we have to concentrate on is this Jaspar Rodenkirchen.”

“You think he’s been talking to the redhead?”

“There’s a strong presumption.”

“What do you know about him?”

Theoderich Overstolz shrugged his shoulders. “There wasn’t much time. I did what I could. Jaspar Rodenkirchen is dean of St. Mary Magdalene’s; also claims to be a physician and Master of the Seven Arts. Lives diagonally opposite St. Severin’s. A braggart, if you ask me, whom God has blessed with remarkable ugliness, but loved by his congregation.”

Matthias looked at him, brows furrowed. “We can’t afford to keep on killing people. A whore I don’t care about, but a dean—”

“Forget the dean. We can let him live. What I mean is we might get at the redhead through him.”

“Too late. The fox has put the dean in the picture, therefore both represent a risk.” Matthias was rocking back and forth on his feet. He was nervous and getting irritated because he couldn’t think what to do.

“Let’s discuss it with Urquhart,” suggested Theoderich.

“Yes,” said Matthias reflectively.