The Hangman's Daughter

The figure at the table continued to work the pie into a stew of meat and lumps of pastry. The knife rose and fell frantically.

“Bah, the hangman! Who’s going to believe him?”

“Don’t underestimate Kuisl. He’s as sly as a fox.”

“Then the little fox will run into the trap.”

The man at the window quickly took the few steps to the table and struck him hard in the face with the back of his hand. The other held his cheek for a little, then looked up apprehensively into the face of his assailant. He noticed how his assailant put his hands on his stomach and was panting in pain.

A slight smile played on his lips. This problem would soon resolve itself.

“You will stop this nonsense now,” murmured the older man, grimacing in pain. A steady ache throbbed from inside his abdomen. He leaned forward over the table.

“You leave it alone. I’ll take care of it myself now.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t?”

“I’ve handed it over to someone else. One who won’t let us interfere with his work anymore.”

“Call him off. It’s enough. When the Stechlin woman confesses, we’ll get our money.”

The older man had to sit down for just a second. It was difficult for him to speak. Damn this body! He needed it still, just until they got hold of the money. Then he could die in peace. His life’s work was in danger and this useless fool was ruining everything. But not as long as he himself could breathe. Not as long…

“This is an excellent pie. Would you like some?”

With his knife, the younger man had speared the pieces of meat spread out on the table and began to eat them with relish.

At the end of his strength, the old man shook his head. The younger man smiled.

“Keep calm, everything will be all right.”

He wiped the gravy out of his beard, took his sword in hand, and hurried to the door.

Without waiting for the jailer, Simon headed to the Kratzes’ house, which stood in a narrow side street in the Lech Gate quarter. Clemens and Agathe Kratz were regarded as hardworking grocers who had acquired a modest fortune over the years. Their five children all went to the local grammar school, and they did not treat their ward Anton, who after the death of his parents had been assigned to them by the town council, any differently than their own four children. Clemens Kratz, the father, sat huddled by the counter. With his right hand he mechanically caressed the shoulder of his wife, who was pressed against him, sobbing. In front of them on the counter lay the body of the boy. Simon did not need to look long at it to determine the cause of death. Someone had cut little Anton’s throat clean through. Clotted blood had dyed his linen shirt red. The eyes of the ten-year-old boy were fixed on the ceiling.

When they found him an hour earlier he had still been breathing noisily, but in minutes the life had ebbed from his little body. The only thing that Bonifaz Fronwieser could do was confirm the death. When Simon came in, the work was already done. His father briefly looked him up and down, and after expressing his sympathy to the Kratzes packed up his instruments and went out without saying goodbye.

After Bonifaz Fronwieser had left the house, Simon sat for a few minutes by the dead child and looked at his white face. The second death in two days…Had the boy known his murderer?

Finally the physician turned to the boy’s father.

“Where did you find him?” he asked.

No answer. The Kratzes were sunk in a world of grief and pain not easily penetrated by the human voice.

“I’m sorry, but where did you find him?” repeated Simon.

Only then did Clemens Kratz look up. The father’s voice was hoarse from much weeping. “Outside on the doorstep. He just wanted to go over quickly to his…friends. When he didn’t come back we opened the door to go and look for him. And there he was, lying in his blood…”

Mother Kratz began to whimper again. On a wooden bench in a back corner sat the four other Kratz children, their eyes wide open with fear. The youngest daughter pressed a doll made of scraps of cloth to her chest.

Simon turned to the children. “Do you know where your brother wanted to go?”

“He isn’t our brother.” The voice of the eldest Kratz boy sounded firm and defiant in spite of his fear. “He’s an orphan.”

And you certainly let him know that often enough, thought Simon. He sighed. “All right. Once more, then. Do you know where he wanted to go?”

“Just to the others.” The boy looked him straight in the face.

“Which others?”

“The other orphans. They always met down by the Lech Gate. He wanted to go there again. I saw Sophie, the redhead, with him at the four o’clock bells. They were planning something. They had put their heads together like a herd of cattle.”

Simon couldn’t help thinking of the small girl he had only a few hours before rescued from a beating. The red hair, the defiant eyes. At the age of twelve it seemed that Sophie had already made a lot of enemies.