Of Witches and Werewolves Trilogy Boxed Set Page 6

“When I left the tavern last night, I saw you hurry upstairs with this woman. You were the last one seen with her.”

  There was a momentary pause, and then Georg’s eyes went wild, and he let out a primal growl. He flew toward Heinrich before the investigator could prepare, and cocked his arm back. His fist smashed into the investigator’s jaw, and Heinrich went skidding to the ground.

  Heinrich’s head hit the grass hard and a bright light tore through his vision. He tasted blood.

  “You cur,” Georg shouted, standing over the investigator. He thrust a finger down at Heinrich, who spit blood on the grass and rolled to his back, groaning.

  Tomas was on Georg within moments, ripping his sword from its sheath and pointing it at the hunter’s neck.

  “That drunk fool from last night was right,” Georg continued, ignoring the sword at his throat, “you’re nothing more than a rotten cur. Do you have an ounce of shame in that skinny body?”

  Heinrich waved Tomas off. “Shame?” he croaked. “I seek the truth, hunter, and nothing else. I will do whatever it takes, ask whatever I must, to get it. I am an officer of the law, you boar!”

  “Your law be damned,” Georg said.

  “Your God be damned!” Heinrich propped himself onto his elbows. He massaged his jaw and gingerly opened and closed his mouth. “That’s the second time I’ve been struck in as many days, and it will be the last.”

  “Not if you keep flapping your unruly tongue.”

  Heinrich helped himself to his feet. He was dizzy, and could feel another bruise forming on his jaw.

  Heinrich knew it was a foolish thing to have said, but the logic was simple. Every investigator worth his salt knew that there was a direct correlation between how a man reacted when accused of something, and his guilt. The more angry and defensive a man became when accused, the more likely he was innocent. A guilty man would have deflected and quietly shown the shame on his face. An innocent man would, well, punch the accuser in the face to defend his honor and virtue.

  “I apologize,” Heinrich said at last. “I had to see how you would react. And you . . . well, you played the part well.” The investigator massaged his jaw again.

  “Played the part? Are you mad? This isn’t theater, investigator. Two women are dead. I could have loved Josephine. She reminded me of my wife—all fire and beautiful passion.”

  Heinrich squinted. That was the first time Georg had spoken about his family, even when Heinrich had pried for that information. The investigator decided he would have to learn more about Georg’s family, if only to help strike Georg from the suspect list altogether.

  “And what about you, you smarmy rodent?” Georg pointed at the investigator. “You saw me go upstairs with Josephine last night. What else did you do? Who’s to say that you didn’t wait for her to leave and kill her yourself.”

  Heinrich shrugged. “I went home to sleep off my drunkenness, as you suggested. And what motive would I have of killing this whore?”

  Georg stammered, opened his mouth, and stared at the grass, as if he hadn’t thought his allegation through. “She wasn’t a whore,” he mumbled, turning away.

  After a lengthy silence, Heinrich walked up beside the hunter and put an arm around his shoulder. “Tell me,” he said, “something that might lead me in the direction of Josephine’s killer. I can’t help if I have no leads.”

  Georg shrugged away the investigator’s arm. “Well, I didn’t want to say anything last night, but . . .”

  Heinrich leaned closer with glinting, eager eyes.

  “Someone followed me to the tavern last night. I never caught the culprit, or saw his face, but I did give chase.”

  Well, that’s a foolish thing to omit, Heinrich thought. Why would someone follow him? What’s Georg’s importance in Bedburg?

  The investigator spit more blood on the ground. “See if you’re followed again tonight, on your way to the tavern. Don’t take pursuit, but let me know if you were tailed. If we’re lucky, we can trap this miscreant.”

  Georg shook his head. “That’s not going to work. Lars doesn’t want you coming in and riling up his patrons, threatening them with arrests. It’s bad for business.”

  Heinrich sighed and put his hands on his hips. “Well, are you still flush with funds from your hunt, or are you in need of money, my good hunter?”

  Georg stared at the investigator and then nodded and looked down at the ground, as if he was ashamed.

  “Then I have a proposition for you,” Heinrich said. “What if I were to pay you to be my . . . liaison? Lars seems to be quite the back-alley tongue-flapper. What if you were to feed me information? For Josephine’s sake.”

  The hunter pulled at his thick beard and shrugged. “I don’t see any harm in that.”

  “Good,” Heinrich said with a smile, and then slapped the hunter’s back. He reached into his coat and came out with a handful of silver coins. “Then your first order of business is to find out what you can about Karl Achterberg’s family.”

  “The farmer? How will that help Josephine?”

  “One thing at a time, my friend. I believe all of this is connected, and that Dorothea Gabler’s killer will lead me to Josephine’s.” The investigator nodded, and then strolled over to his horse. He started to mount, then turned to Tomas and motioned toward Josephine’s body. “Tomas, clean this up. I don’t want the public seeing this.”

  Tomas nodded.

  Heinrich eyed Georg. “Meet me at your inn tonight with whatever you find out.”

  “How do you know where I stay?”

  “It’s my job to know,” Heinrich said with a smirk.

  “And where are you going?”

  “To find answers, my good hunter.”

  An hour later, Heinrich Franz was at the doorstep of Karl Achterberg’s house, which was built on the bottom of a hill less than half a mile from Peter Griswold’s estate. Both houses were just a few miles from the two crime scenes.

  Peter Griswold had not lied when he said that Karl’s farmland was much smaller than his own, and they were such close neighbors that a marriage between Karl’s son and Peter’s daughter seemed like a good idea for the Achterbergs. Heinrich could understand Peter’s reluctance to forge such a familial alliance: Karl’s home was built in a windswept nook, at the bottom of the hill. His fields looked desperate, and his cattle looked malnourished.

  Light drizzle started to come down during Heinrich’s northern ride from Josephine’s murder site. He shivered and pulled his coat tight as he walked up to the door. He knocked.

  The door swung open and a middle-aged woman appeared in the frame. She was big, round at the stomach, with frumpy brown hair and a sullen look on her pocked face.

  “What is it?” she asked, staring at Heinrich from head to toe. She crossed her arms over her formidable chest, and frowned.

  “Are you Karl Achterberg’s wife?” Heinrich asked, and then peeked at the parchment in his tunic, “Frau Bertrude?”

  “What’s it to you? If you’re looking for my husband, he’s not here.”

  “No, no, I’m not looking for him. I wish to speak with you and your son. I am Heinrich Franz, chief investigator to Lord Werner of Bedburg.” He thrust his hand out and gave his best fake smile. Bertrude stared at the gloved hand as if it were a snake waiting to strike.

  Over Bertrude’s shoulder, Heinrich could see a young boy poke his head up, trying to see who was at the door. He was perhaps thirteen or fourteen, and was a frail thing, despite his hefty mother.

  “Ah,” Bertrude said, “so you’re the man who mangled my husband’s hand.”

  Heinrich cleared his throat. “Er, well, not directly. I simply seek the tru—”

  Bertrude held her palm up. “Save it. I don’t care what you do to that worthless fool.”

  “Worthless?” Heinrich asked with raised eyebrows. The rain started to pick up, and the investigator motioned toward the living room. “May I?”

  Bertrude paused and then shrugged, stepping away from
the doorway. Heinrich walked inside, which was warm but sparse. There were two closed doors at the end of the living room, and a hearth in the left corner. In all, it appeared that the Achterbergs hadn’t had company in quite some time.

  “So . . . where is your husband, if I may ask?” Heinrich rubbed his hands together.

  “Do I look like his watchdog?” Bertrude sat down on a chair next to the fireplace.

  Heinrich frowned. His patience was already wearing thin with this sour country bumpkin. “No,” he said flatly, “you look like his wife. And wives usually know where their husbands are.”

  “Not me. Maybe he’s hiding from you.”

  Heinrich couldn’t tell if the woman was smirking or passing gas.

  “What do you want with me and Martin here? It’s nearly time for supper.”

  “I don’t smell anything cooking.” Heinrich noticed a pot in the corner of the room, but it wasn't even set to boil.

  “It’s nearly time for supper,” Bertrude repeated.

  Heinrich sighed and struggled to pull off his wet gloves. “I’m here on the matter of Dorothea Gabler’s death.”

  “I thought that little sapling’s case was resolved. Isn’t that why you let Karl go?”

  “Resolved?” Heinrich said. “Not in the least.” He walked closer to the fireplace and reached his hands out to warm them. “Your estate doesn’t seem in the best of conditions.”

  “Should I blame Karl for that, or you, for imprisoning him?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Bertrude waved at the investigator. “It’s no matter . . . Karl is a spineless man.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Never mind,” Bertrude said. “He can’t support us, even in this dung heap. Like you said, our estate isn’t in the best of conditions.”

  After a moment of silence, Heinrich turned to look at the boy, Martin. His eyes seemed strangely sad and tired at the same time. When Heinrich looked at him, Martin made sure to quickly stare at the ground, as if finding something interesting on the floor.

  A bitter mother, a missing father, and a downtrodden boy, Heinrich thought. I don’t need to be an investigator to know a broken family when I see one. Perhaps Dorothea’s murder has something to do with it.

  “I’ll get to it, then,” Heinrich said after the lull in conversation. He reached into his tunic and pulled out his piece of parchment and his quill. “It’s come to my attention that the day before Dorothea’s murder, she was seen at this house.”

  Out of his peripheral, Heinrich saw young Martin’s eyes shoot up, as if shocked to hear that revelation.

  “Who told you that?” Bertrude asked quickly—almost too quickly.

  “Sybil Griswold,” Heinrich said.

  Bertrude scoffed and waved off the investigator. “Ever since our failed marriage between Martin and her, that little harlot has had it out for my family.”

  “Mother,” Martin said in a shy voice, speaking for the first time. “Don’t call Sybil a harlot. She’s my friend.”

  “Keep quiet, boy,” Bertrude snapped.

  Heinrich faced the boy and asked, “Sybil Griswold was your friend? Even after you weren’t able to marry her?”

  “It wasn’t her fault,” Martin said with a shrug. “My father and her father don’t like each other.”

  “I’ve heard,” Heinrich said. “But you do like Sybil?”

  Martin blushed. “Well, not like that.”

  Heinrich twisted his mustache. He decided to try a different approach. “Was there someone else who you had feelings for, Martin?”

  “Don’t answer that, Martin,” Bertrude said.

  The boy wrapped his hands behind his back and kicked at the floor. Heinrich could tell the boy was eager to say something. Martin slowly began to nod, and Heinrich thought he saw tears forming in the boy’s eyes.

  “Dorothea,” he said.

  Bertrude growled. “Martin, not another word, you little heathen.”

  Heinrich scribbled fiercely on his parchment. He had Sybil’s name written next to Martin’s, but he slashed through Sybil and wrote Dorothea above it.

  The boy never wanted to marry Sybil in the first place. Did Dorothea have the same feelings for Martin as he did for her?

  As if reading Heinrich’s mind, Martin’s voice rose in volume and he said, “Why, mother? You know it’s true! I loved Dorothea!”

  Bertrude struggled, but she stood from her seat and pointed toward one of the closed doors at the back of the house. “Go to your room right now, boy!”

  Martin scampered off, and then Bertrude turned her motherly wrath on Heinrich. “I want you out of my house. Now! I won’t be answering any more of your questions.”

  Heinrich had a few choice words to say, but Bertrude cut him off. “I said now! Or I’ll pummel your skinny hide so badly that even God won’t recognize you.”

  Heinrich opened his mouth to speak, but decided he’d been pummeled enough over the past twenty-four hours, and that his face had no more room for bruises, so he turned and left.

  CHAPTER TEN

  GEORG

  Following Josephine’s death, a palpable hysteria swept through Bedburg. Her murder struck the community in a much different way than Dorothea’s had: one was an innocent girl, the other was a beloved, beautiful woman, despite being a harlot. That fact only boosted her popularity with the lonely men of the city.

  One thing that became clear following Josephine’s death was that no Catholic was safe, and it scared the folks of Bedburg. The fact that Dorothea’s murder was no closer to being solved pushed that sense of fear and uncertainty to a fever pitch.

  As Georg made his way through the streets of Bedburg, he watched as peasants, merchants, and nobility alike spoke in whispers, walked a bit faster, and constantly looked over their shoulders. Laymen and priests preached on the open streets, damning the killings as works of Satan.

  Georg strolled along the Erft River and passed Castle Bedburg, where the tone was more reserved than in the heart of town. Soldiers held worried looks and clutched their spears with white knuckles. One man was in the corner of the keep, vomiting from a hangover. Another soldier spoke softly to a comrade, saying, “I just saw her three nights ago—she was such a lovely lass.”

  The other soldier smiled. “The lovely lass with the lovely ass.”

  Georg felt a flash of anger flow through his body. He clenched his fists and kept walking away from the men, heading east toward the tavern.

  It was nearly twilight when he arrived, and the streets were all but empty. It seemed Josephine’s murder had enacted a self-imposed curfew throughout the town.

  While the people outside the tavern were scared and nervous, inside the tavern was a different feeling altogether. The attitude was stuffy and angry and rebellious. Fists pounded on tables and voices shouted over each other. One man stood on his stool with a frown and yelled, “We have to do something about this! This damned monster took one of our own!”

  A chorus of yells followed in overwhelming agreement.

  Another man stood from his table and raised his mug. “Revenge for Josephine!”

  “Our wives and children and families won’t be safe until the Beast of Bedburg is dead!” said another.

  Georg stared at the grim faces in the crowded tavern and shook his head. Give fearful men some stiff drinks and they all become heroes, he thought. But he couldn’t blame them. He felt the same as the rest of the drunks.

  He ambled to the bar and met the eyes of Lars. The barkeep came over to him and laid his hands on the table. “A right damn shame,” he said, handing over a mug to the hunter.

  Georg nodded. “She was a fine woman.” He jutted his head toward the other people in the bar, who were now cheering and shouting their undying love for the fiery redhead. To Georg, it seemed that everyone had some compliment to say about the woman, but they all neglected to mention the darkest detail: that her unborn child had been torn from her.

  Perhaps no one wan
ts to take that responsibility—that their possible child has been taken from them . . . or perhaps they do not know. Surely that sly investigator only lets information slip when he wants it to.

  Another man shouted an empty claim of revenge, and it finally sent Georg over the edge. He turned and faced the ravenous crowd, and bellowed, “And what, exactly, do you valiant knights have in mind? How do you plan on finding this monster and exacting your vengeance?”

  The commotion came to a dead stop, and all eyes turned to Georg. A few of the men stammered, but then looked down, around, and any direction away from the large hunter. What they needed to do was clear, but how was a different question entirely.

  One man stepped forward. He had been the first to stand on his chair and lament. He was about as tall as Georg, more stout, and had an eye-patch covering his left eye.

  Georg pinned the man as a soldier. He knew the type—the swagger, the deep frown, the dark eyes—much the same way as Investigator Franz had pinned Georg when they first met.

  “I propose we stage a hunt,” the man said in a deep, gravelly voice. “If Lord Werner is going to sit and dawdle, then it’s up to us, the people, to quell this madness.”

  People started nodding their heads and murmuring. Soon, the murmurs rose to shouts once again.

  It seems the knights have found their king.

  The man grinned and gazed around the room. “Tomorrow, then, in the morning, we go hunting! Bring all the firepower we can muster—pitchforks, torches, rakes—anything we can use.”

  “You don’t think a hunt will raise alarm with Lord Werner?” Georg asked.

  The man faced Georg. “I hope it does! We can claim it as a hunt to mark the beginning of winter and the end of autumn. Isn’t that what this town does every year?”

  Georg had to admit that the man was quick on his feet, and he had conviction. He reminded the hunter of . . . himself. Perhaps the man’s idea wasn’t as foolish as it sounded. But Georg still couldn’t help but play devil’s advocate. “So we hunt as many wolves around the country as we can find, and hope that one of them turns into a man once it’s killed?”