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.”
The executioner reached out and took a thumbscrew from the chest. It consisted of an iron clamp, which could be closed with a screw at the front. He took the midwife’s left thumb and introduced it into the clamp. Jakob Schreevogl was surprised at the hangman’s apparent indifference. Only yesterday Jakob Kuisl had spoken out forcefully against the torture, and also the young physician had told him, over a few glasses of schnapps, that the hangman was not at all in agreement with the imprisonment of Martha Stechlin. And now he was applying thumbscrews to her.
But the midwife, too, seemed to have accepted her fate. She gave her hand to the hangman almost with indifference. Jakob Kuisl turned the screw. Once, twice, three times…A brief shudder ran through her body, nothing more.
“Martha Stechlin, do you now confess the crimes with which you are charged?” the clerk inquired in a monotone singsong.
She still shook her head. The hangman turned the screw still tighter. No movement, only her lips became narrower, a pale red streak like a closed door.
“Damn it, are you screwing it up properly?” Michael Berchtholdt asked the hangman. Jakob Kuisl nodded. As proof, he opened the screw and held the tortured woman’s arm up. Her thumb was one blue bruise, and blood seeped out from under the thumbnail.
“The devil is helping her,” whispered the baker. “Lord God, protect us…”
“We shan’t get any further like this.” Johann Lechner shook his head and put the quill, with which he intended to make notes, back on the table. “Bailiffs, bring me the chest.”
Two of the town watchmen handed the clerk a small chest, which he lifted to the table and opened.
“Look here, witch,” he said. “All these are things we found in your house. What have you to say about them?”
To the astonishment of Jakob Schreevogl and the others he produced a small bag out of the chest, poured some dark brown seeds into his hand and showed them to the witnesses. The stovemaker’s son took a few between his fingers. They smelled slightly of rotting flesh and their shape somewhat resembled caraway seeds.
“Henbane seeds,” said the court clerk, as if he was delivering a lecture. “An important ingredient of the flying salve that witches spread on their broomsticks.”
Jakob Schreevogl shrugged. “My father also used it to flavor his beer, and you aren’t going to describe him, God rest his soul, as a sorcerer.”
“Are you blind?” hissed Lechner. “The proof is clear. Here!” He held up a spiny capsule that looked something like a chestnut. “A thorn apple! Also an ingredient for the witches’ salve, and also found at Stechlin’s house. And here!” He showed them a bunch of small white flowers. “Hellebores! What they call Christmas roses! Freshly gathered. Also a witches’ herb!”
“Excuse me for interrupting you,” Jakob Schreevogl broke in again. “But isn’t the Christmas rose a plant that is supposed to protect us from evil? Even our reverend parish priest recently praised it in his homily as a sign of new life and resurrection. Not for nothing does it bear the name of our Savior…”
“What are you, Schreevogl?” Georg Augustin interjected. “A witness or her advocate? This woman was with the children, and the children are dead or have disappeared. In her house we find the most devilish herbs and mixtures. She is scarcely imprisoned when the Stadel burns down and the devil stalks through our town. It all began with her, and with her it will come to an end.”
