The Hangman's Daughter

In front of him walked Michael Berchtholdt. The baker had a bunch of herbs with mugwort hanging at his belt, which was supposed to protect him from witchcraft. He was softly reciting his prayers and fingering a rosary. When he entered the prison, he crossed himself. Jakob Schreevogl shook his head. No doubt the baker had blamed Martha Stechlin for all the times he had burned the bread and for the hordes of mice in his bakery. After the Stechlin woman was reduced to ashes and the bread was still burned, he would presumably seek a new witch, thought Schreevogl, and he wrinkled his nose in disdain. The sharp smell of mugwort wafted over to him.

Immediately behind him, Georg Augustin entered the prison. The son of the powerful wagon drivers’ family reminded Schreevogl a bit of the young physician. Like him, the young patrician liked to dress in the latest French fashions. His beard was freshly trimmed, his long black hair carefully combed, the calf-long trunk hose perfectly tailored. His ice-blue eyes took in the prison with disgust. The son of a powerful wagon drivers’ family was not used to such surroundings.

When the two Schongau prisoners noticed the arrival of the distinguished visitors, they began to rattle the bars of their cell. Georg Riegg still looked pale; he no longer felt like scolding.

“Your Excellency,” cried the wagon driver as he turned toward the court clerk. “May I just have a word with you…”

“What’s up, Riegg? Have you a declaration to make?”

“Let us out, please. My wife has to look after the cattle by herself, and the children—”

“You’ll stay in here until your case comes up,” Lechner interrupted him without looking at him. “And that goes for your comrade here, too, and the Augsburg wagon driver over there in the Ballenhaus. One law for everyone.”

“But, Your Excellency…”

Johann Lechner was already descending the stairs. In the torture chamber it was warm, almost hot. In the corner, red-hot charcoal glowed in a brazier standing on a tripod. In contrast to the last time, the chamber had been tidied up. Everything was ready: a new rope dangled from the ceiling, and the thumbscrews and pincers lay, sorted and oiled, on the chest. On a stool in the middle of the room sat Goodwife Stechlin, shaved bald, in a torn dress, her head bowed. The hangman positioned himself behind her, his arms crossed.

“Ah, I see, Kuisl, all is prepared. Good, very good,” said Lechner, rubbing his hands together as he sat down at the writing desk. The witnesses took their places on his right. “Then we can begin.” He turned to the midwife, who up to now had taken no notice of her visitors. “Can you hear me, Stechlin?”

The midwife’s head remained bowed.

“Can you hear me? I want to know.”

There was still no reaction from Martha Stechlin. Lechner went over to her, raised her face with two fingers under her chin, and gave her a box on the ear. Now at last she opened her eyes.

“Martha Stechlin, do you know why you are here?”

She nodded.

“Good. I’ll explain it to you again anyway. You are suspected of having caused the death of the children Peter Grimmer and Anton Kratz in a most disgraceful way. In addition, of having abducted, with the assistance of the devil, Clara Schreevogl and at the same time of having set fire to the Stadel.”

“And the dead sow in my sty? What about my dead sow?” Michael Berchtholdt had jumped up from his seat. “Just yesterday she was rolling about in the mud, and now—”

“Witness Berchtholdt,” Lechner snapped at him. “You will only speak when you are required to do so. We are now concerned with more than a dead sow; this concerns our dear children!”

“But…”

One glance from the court clerk silenced Berchtholdt.

“Well then, Stechlin,” continued Lechner. “Do you admit having committed the crimes of which you are accused?”

The midwife shook her head. Her lips were narrowed, tears flowed down her face, and she wept silently.

Lechner shrugged his shoulders. “Then we must proceed to the interrogation. Executioner, begin with the thumbscrews.”

Now it was Jakob Schreevogl who couldn’t keep his seat any longer. “But all this is nonsense!” he cried. “Goodwife Stechlin had already been in prison a long time when the little Kratz boy was killed. And it would have been equally impossible for her to have had anything to do with kidnapping my Clara and the fire at the Stadel!”

“Didn’t people say that the devil himself abducted your Clara?” asked young Augustin, who was seated alongside Schreevogl. His blue eyes looked the merchant’s son up and down, and he almost seemed to be smiling. “Couldn’t it be that the Stechlin woman asked the devil to do all this, after she was locked up here?”

“Why, then, didn’t she ask him to fetch her out of the prison? That doesn’t make sense!” cried Jakob Schreevogl.

“The torture will lead us to the truth,” the court clerk resumed. “Executioner, continue.”