“That knight said the Jews were to blame, since near the place of both crimes one could smell foetor judaicus, the typical stench of Jews… In order to remove that odour, Jews drink Christian blood, as is commonly known. Thus, the killings, the stranger continued—heedless of the fact that the Reverend Tylman was splitting his sides laughing—bore the marks of a ritual murder and the culprits should be sought in the local qahals, particularly in Brzeg, since the rabbi of Brzeg had just been seen in the vicinity of Strzelin, in the company, to boot, of the young Reinmar of Bielawa, who, as Your Excellency knows—”

“I know. Go on.”

“Hearing such a dictum, the Reverend Bishop Suffragan Tylman declared it all poppycock, saying that both had been murdered with swords. Added that the said Albrecht of Bart was a strongman and a born swordsman. And that no rabbi—not from Brzeg or anywhere else—could have overcome Lord Bart, even if they had chosen to fight with Talmuds. And began to laugh again.”

“And the knight?”

“He said that if the Jews hadn’t killed the noble gentlemen Bart and Piotr, then the Devil must have. So, in essence it’s all one.”

“And what was Bishop Konrad’s response?”

“His Eminence,” the seminarian cleared his throat, “glared at Reverend Bishop Tylman, evidently displeased by his merriment, and spoke at once, most sternly, seriously and officially, and ordered me to note it down—”

“He discontinued the investigation,” interrupted the canon, very slowly pronouncing the words. “He simply discontinued the investigation.”

“It is as if you had been there. And the Reverend Bishop Suffragan Tylman didn’t say a word, but his expression was strange. Bishop Konrad noticed that and said, angrily, that the argument was in his favour, that history would testify to it, and that it was ad maiorem Dei gloriam.”

“He said that?”

“Using those very words. For that reason, Reverend Father, don’t take this matter to the bishop. I guarantee it won’t change anything. Furthermore—”

“Furthermore what?”

“The stranger told the bishop that if he invoked anyone, submitted any petitions or demanded further investigation, he insisted on being informed about it.”

“He insisted,” repeated Otto Beess. “And how did the bishop respond?”

“He nodded.”

“Well, well—Konrad, an Oleśnica Piast—nodded.”

“He did, Reverend Father.”

Once again, Otto Beess looked at the painting, at the torture of Bartholomew, from whom the Armenians were flaying long strips of skin using enormous pliers. Were one to believe the Golden Legend of Jacobus da Varagine, he thought, the sweet scent of roses hung over the place of his martyrdom. Like hell. Torture stinks. A stench hangs over all places of torment and torture, as it did over Golgotha. I swear there weren’t any roses there, either. There was, how aptly, foetor judaicus.

“Please, my boy. Take it.”