The Werewolf of Bamberg (62 page)

A sudden sound caused Magdalena to spin around, and, looking up, she saw something black swooping down on her and Georg. At the last moment, she threw herself to one side, dragging her brother along with her. There was a crash, and Georg let out a loud shout.

“Damn it!” he gasped. “What is that? That hurts like the devil!”

Magdalena, beside him, smelled a sharp, biting odor that made her cough. Choking, she turned and bumped into something metallic.

“Be careful, that’s lime!” Bartholomäus shouted. “It seems there was a tub of it up there that fell down. Quick, get away. The stuff is as sharp and biting as devil’s piss.”

Magdalena felt a burning spot on her hand. Quickly, she rubbed it against her skirt, and the stinging subsided. Then she moved cautiously away from the balcony and was just barely able to make out Georg and Bartholomäus standing along the wall on the opposite side of the room.

“I nearly tripped over something,” Georg whispered as he also rubbed his hands. “I think there was a wire leading up to the balcony. That bastard set traps here to scare off intruders.” Then he turned toward his sister. “I have to thank you. If you hadn’t pushed me away, I’d probably be blind now.”

“So would I,” she mumbled.

Magdalena couldn’t help thinking of Jeremias and his scars. If she or Georg had gone just one step farther, they would have ended up looking just like him.

Did our werewolf use this caustic treatment on his victims?
She shuddered.
Is that how he disposed of them?

“We’ve got to be careful,” Bartholomäus said. “Perhaps my brother ran into a trap like that a few minutes ago. God knows what’s still in store for us. From now on, we’d better think about every step we take.”

They passed through the door on the right, under the stairway, into another dark room that seemed just as large as the first and led them to two more hallways. By now, Magdalena’s eyes had grown accustomed enough to the dark that she could see more than just outlines. The walls were lined with deer antlers covered with dense cobwebs, and alongside them, in wooden frames, faded paintings so horrifying that even the marauding Swedish mercenaries didn’t want to take them along. Something scurried between their feet, squeaking—a rat or mouse that they had startled.

Again there was a loud scream. The voice seemed to be both nearby and very distant, and Magdalena’s heart skipped a beat. Then she heard her father calling.

“Good Lord,” she whispered. “If we want to help Barbara and Father, we’d better hurry. I’m afraid we have to just not worry about other traps.”

They all ran to the next door.

“Barbara? Where are you? Barbara!”

Jakob’s voice rang through the dark rooms and hallways of the old hunting lodge. The hangman had stormed blindly into the building and had made it through the first room when he realized he had badly miscalculated. He should have waited for the others, as now he had to fend for himself. But he couldn’t hesitate a moment longer now that he’d alerted Barbara’s abductor of his presence. He was struggling to think it all through, clearly and precisely, as he always did, but his fear for his daughter’s welfare made it impossible to think straight. Where had this madman hidden her?

Barbara, my little Barbara . . .

He groped through the darkness randomly, running through rooms, falling over rotted pieces of furniture, getting to his feet again, and kept looking. Strange beasts lurked in the corners—or were they just wardrobe closets and chests? He felt as if he was in a dream. He continued onward, through doors and corridors. Once, next to his feet, he heard a metallic snap, which he ignored, and another time a voice calling. It sounded like his brother’s voice, but perhaps it was someone else. Perhaps the madman?

Barbara . . . Where is Barbara?

By now he’d gone almost all the way through the first floor of the house; he had to be somewhere in the back of the building. He bumped into a table, hard, and there was a tinkle and clatter of broken dishes. As he was about to turn back to the rooms in front, he saw what looked like a black, square-shaped opening behind the table. He approached it cautiously and saw it was the entrance to a stairway leading to the cellar. The wooden hatch was open, as if someone had just entered the staircase.

The cellar. I’m on the right track.

His suspicions were confirmed when he heard shouts again from down below. He had already entered the stairwell when his sensitive nose detected an odor he knew only too well. Something was burning down there, and he was sure it was no cozy fire in the hearth.

Grimly he reached for the oak cudgel he’d been carrying on his belt and hurried down the steps. Now that there was not even a ray of moonlight coming through the cracks in the walls, it was as dark as the inside of a coffin. The stinging odor became stronger now and his eyes began to tear up, but still he continued running down the dark, steep stairs.

Suddenly he felt pressure on his right shin, then something thin and very hard cut through his trousers. A searing pain passed through his leg, as if someone had struck it with a whip. Thrashing about, he staggered like a shot and wounded bear, trying to grab onto the wall to keep his balance, but it was like trying to stop a mighty oak from falling after it had been severed at the root. He plunged down the dark staircase, turning head over heels several times on the way down.

A wire
was the thought that flashed through his mind.
It must have been a wire. This devious bastard, this—

Then he landed hard at the bottom and darkness flooded over him like a warm bath.

Hieronymus Hauser writhed in pain on the rack and screamed like a lunatic while his torturer watched him with interest. Barbara and Adelheid lay shackled in a corner, paralyzed by the horror taking place before their eyes.

“Is that the way my grandfather screamed, back then?” Salter asked, turning the wheel a bit tighter. “Tell me. You were there. You were the scribe and wrote everything down so carefully. Did you make a note of how long he screamed, how loud, how shrill? Did you? Tell me!”

“Oh, God, please stop,” Hauser whimpered. “I was just the scribe. I . . . I had no choice.”

“Yet you took the blood money, didn’t you?” Salter persisted. “A part of our family fortune went to you, as well. I’ve seen your house at the Sand Gate, Master Hauser. A simple scribe can’t afford anything like that. Tell me, you bought your house with the blood of my family, didn’t you? Well?” Once again he turned the wheel a bit, and Hauser’s joints made a crunching sound like a dry hemp rope.

“Yes! Yes! I did!” the scribe screamed. “And if I could, I swear I’d pay it all back to you. Believe me, I have suffered, too. Every night I’ve dreamt of those tortures. They’ve never let me go.”

“And they’ve finally caught up with you,” Salter replied in a whisper. “You knew they would, didn’t you? I could see it in your face in the palace hall. I enjoyed your fear as I looked down at you from the stage. You thought you could get away from me, but in the general confusion it was easy for me to strike you down and bring you to the boat.” Salter’s face darkened. “When I came back to plant the magic props on Malcolm, the crowd seized me. That was not part of my plan, but then, that’s how I found the little hangman’s daughter. God sent her to me.”

“It’s not yet too late to return to God’s just way,” Hauser gasped. “If you release me now, I promise you—”

“You disgust me with your begging,” Salter interrupted. “I’m certain that my grandfather, my father, my mother, and all the other Haans died with far more dignity than you will. Let’s end this pathetic farce.”

He was just turning to the brazier in the corner, where a tong was already glowing red-hot, when they heard a loud hammering overhead. Then Barbara heard a deep, muffled voice, coming most likely from up on the first floor, though all she could understand were random words. But she did recognize her father’s voice.

Barbara!

Her heart leaped for joy. It was her father calling. He’d found her!

When Markus Salter heard the noise from the floor above, he flinched. Then he suddenly stopped and stood still, like a fox in an open field, and shook his head in disbelief.

“This . . . this is impossible,” he stammered. “This can’t happen now. The play isn’t over yet, or . . .” Suddenly a smirk passed over his face. He reached for the tongs and walked toward Barbara.

“It’s your uncle, isn’t it?” he said. “Or your father. In any case, someone from your accursed clan of hangmen. Well, whoever it is, he will soon get a big surprise. The audience likes that, doesn’t it? Surprises.” He listened intently as if waiting for what would come next, but when he didn’t hear anything else, he turned back to Barbara and Adelheid with a shrug. “Your family has destroyed mine, and now they’ll have to watch how I deal with their relatives. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a—”

There was a metallic crash, and from the corner of her eye Barbara could see that the heavy brazier had tipped over and the glowing pieces of coal were rolling like stones across the floor. Adelheid, who had been crouching along the wall directly next to the brazier and until then had remained silent, had given it a violent kick with her shackled feet. The room immediately filled with an acrid odor, and some of the pieces of coal rolled into the bales of straw, which immediately began to smoke. Flames rose up along the hanging paintings to the wooden ceiling. Stunned, Salter stumbled back a few steps.

“What . . . what are you doing?” he stammered. “Why—”

“Here we are!” Adelheid yelled. “Down here in the cellar! Help us, whoever you are!”

Again there was a crash outside. Evidently something heavy had fallen down the stairs. Barbara was still paralyzed with fear.

What’s going on outside, for heaven’s sake? Where is Father? He should have gotten down here already. Is it possible he didn’t hear us?

She looked back at her torturer. The overturned brazier had given them no more than a brief respite. Salter seemed to have already gained control of himself.

“If that’s what you want, then burn!” he bellowed. “Burn just like my parents and grandparents. Burn, all of you!”

Red and blue flames rose from the bales of straw. One bale stood close to the rack, and flames reached out eagerly to devour the dry wood. Hauser gasped and writhed on the rack, whimpering softly, then turned his eyes away and lost consciousness again.

Markus was about to run to the door when he stopped and turned back to Adelheid with a look of determination.

“You’re coming with me,” he said. He rushed over to her, pulling her up by the hair so hard that she screamed. “The hangman’s girl and the scribe can burn, but I still need you. Who knows what’s waiting for me outside? You’re my hostage.” He stared into her emaciated, ashen face. “You were always my favorite, Adelheid—so strong, so full of the will to live. I almost let you go, but it can’t end like this. Not yet.”

As he spoke, he removed the leather strap around Adelheid’s neck, loosened the shackles on her feet, and dragged her to the doorway. The apothecary’s young wife cast a last, desperate glance at Barbara, then disappeared with him in the corridor, and the door closed with a loud bang.

Smoke crept like a bitter potion down into Barbara’s throat.

“Father,” she gasped, trying to crawl across the floor toward the door with her shackled feet, but the leather strap around her neck held her back, and every time she moved, the noose closed tighter. “Father. Here . . . I . . . am . . .”

Then the clouds of smoke finally blocked her sight.