The Hangman's Daughter

Simon cursed as he slipped once more on the boggy ground of the clay pit and fell into the red mud. His hose was smeared all over with clay and his boots got stuck in it so firmly that he had trouble extricating himself. The hangman and his daughter stood at the edge of the pit and looked questioningly down at him.

“Well?” Jakob Kuisl called down into the pit. His face was lit by a torch so that it glowed as a point of light in the otherwise complete darkness. “Any hollows or niches?”

Simon managed to shake the largest clumps of dirt from his doublet. “Nothing! Not even a mouse hole.” Once again he held up the torch and looked around the pit. The torch let him see just a few yards. All else was swallowed up in darkness. “Children, can you hear me?” he shouted once again. “If you are here any where, let us know! It’s all right. We are on your side!”

Only the noise of a thin stream of water could be heard, otherwise there was silence.

“Damn it!” grumbled Simon. “What a stupid idea, to go looking for the children in the clay pit in the middle of the night! My boots are two slimy clods of dirt, and I might as well throw my doublet away!”

Jakob Kuisl grinned as he heard the young physician cursing.

“Don’t make such a fuss. You know very well that time is short. Let’s have a look in the tile kiln.”

He held the ladder steady while Simon clambered up over the slippery rungs. When he reached the top, Magdalena’s face appeared in front of him. She held the torch so that it shone right in his eyes.

“You do look rather…beaten up,” she giggled. “Why did you keep falling over on your nose?”

With the corner of her apron she wiped the clay from Simon’s forehead. It was useless. The colored soil stuck to his face like paint. Magdalena smiled.

“Perhaps I’ll let you keep a bit of the dirt on your face. You’re a bit too pale around the nose anyway.”

“You be quiet. Otherwise I’ll start asking myself why it was me who had to climb down into this damned pit.”

“Because you are young, and a few tumbles in the mud won’t hurt you,” came the hangman’s voice. “Anyway, you would hardly expect a young, delicate girl to climb down into such a filthy hole.”

Jakob Kuisl had already strolled over to the kiln. The building stood at the edge of a clearing with the forest directly behind it. Kindling wood was piled up in six-foot stacks all over the clearing. The building itself was constructed of solid stone, and a tall chimney came out of the center of the roof. The kiln was situated between the forest and the river and was a good two furlongs from the tanners’ quarter. To the west Simon could now and then see lights from lanterns or torches in the town. Otherwise the darkness around them was complete.

The tile kiln was one of Schongau’s most important buildings. After a few devastating fires in the past, the burghers were now required by law to build their houses with stone and roof them with tile rather than straw. Also, the craftsmen of the stovemakers’ guild fetched their raw materials from here for the manufacture of earthenware products and stoves. During the day, thick smoke almost continually covered the clearing. There was a constant coming and going, with oxcarts transporting the tiles to Altenstadt, Peiting, or Rottenbuch. But now, at night, there was not a soul about. The heavy door leading to the interior of the kiln was shut. Jakob Kuisl walked along the front of the building until he found a window whose shutters hung crooked on their hinges. With a determined tug he ripped off the right-hand shutter and held the torch in to illuminate the interior.

“Children, don’t be afraid!” he called into the dark room. “It’s me, Kuisl from the tanners’ quarter. I know you had nothing to do with the murders.”

“You really think they’ll come out when the hangman calls them?” hissed Magdalena. “Let me in. They’ll not be afraid of me.”

She tucked up her skirt and climbed into the building over the low windowsill.

“A torch,” she whispered.

Without a word Simon passed her his torch. Then she disappeared into the darkness. From listening to her steps the two men could hear how she tiptoed from room to room. At last they could hear the creaking of boards. Magdalena was walking up the stairs.

“The devil’s in that girl,” growled the hangman, sucking his cold pipe. “She’s like her mother, just as stubborn and cheeky. Time she got married and had somebody to keep her mouth shut.”

The physician wanted to reply, but at that moment a crash and a scream were heard above.

“Magdalena!” cried Simon and clambered into the interior, where he landed painfully on the stone floor.

He arose at once, took the torch in his hand, and ran in the direction of the stairs. The hangman followed him. They crossed the room with the kiln and rushed up the stairs to the attic. It smelled of smoke and ashes.