The men drank and lavished compliments upon Wunbaldus and the Dominicans while the Blackheads served dried salted cod, white sausages, garlic ham and baked pastries to accompany the copious amounts of beer. Melchior sampled these morsels and had to admit that no one else in the town could compare with the Council’s cook.
He had noticed that none of the guests dared talk of the murder on Toompea until it was brought up by Spanheim. The Commander’s tongue had now loosened, though, and the ghastly event very soon became the subject of every conversation.
Gallenreutter spoke loudly at Melchior’s side. ‘So, just when I had wished to speak to the Knight, to bow before him and declare myself his most loyal and humble of servants – because we both hail from the same area, you see – he was snuffed out. Like a heavenly scourge, am I right?’
‘You, Master Mason, wished to speak with Clingenstain?’ Melchior heard the Commander enquire from his own table with astonishment.
‘That I did,’ Gallenreutter confirmed. ‘However, your guardsmen sent me away. I am a stranger, and they know me not. I am indeed a foreigner here in Tallinn, but Clingenstain and I are both from the same place, and I do declare that this fine beer would have been very much to his liking also …’
Many then turned towards Magistrate Dorn to demand news of how the Council’s hunt for the murderer was progressing. Who is he? Is he from Tallinn? Where is he in hiding? Why did he slay a Knight of the Order? Gallenreutter likewise asked how the man was being sought and who it might be.
Dorn could do little more than proclaim loudly, ‘Tallinn’s Council has given the Order its word. This man will not escape, as that would bring shame upon the entire town. The court servants and guards are searching for him at this very moment, and he will soon be in chains and so forth, and then to trial on Toompea.’
Sire Tweffell bleated in laughter, ‘Hear, but tell us, if you know not who this man is then how are you searching for him? Are the court servants asking every townsperson, “Good sir, it was not you perchance who deprived our Knight of his head?”’
‘The Council certainly knows how the Council will search,’ Dorn retorted. ‘It’s not as if this is the first time. Murderers of an even more horrendous character have been apprehended before. We already know quite a good deal about him …’
‘What exactly does the Council know?’ Tweffell demanded. The councilmen at the table shook their heads and averted their gaze. Dorn looked pleadingly towards Melchior for a moment.
‘Well, that he came from the town and what not,’ the Magistrate slowly stammered, ‘that … with a sword and off with his head … and then back to the town and …’
Melchior sipped his beer, coughed loudly then rose from his chair and began to speak commandingly.
‘What do we know about the murderer? Esteemed Alderman and honourable Commander, we know quite a great deal. We know that he must be a strong and robust man capable of wielding a sword, one for whom chopping off a head poses no great difficulty. We know he had to have come into contact with the Knight somewhere before and that the killer bore enmity against him. We know that it must have been someone familiar with both the town of Tallinn and with Toompea, meaning that he is not a stranger. No one could have thought the man’s presence there unusual, and he has to be as bold and brutal as Satan himself. If he had been discovered then he would have fought back with the same sword. It is someone who was not where he was meant to be yesterday evening at eight o’clock. How will the Council catch this murderer? I answer: with the Lord’s aid and by its own wit.’
The room was silent. Spanheim finally nodded approvingly. ‘Those are righteous words, Melchior,’ he said. ‘This devil must be seized and dragged to Toompea. Certainly we will then hang him and desecrate his corpse in the same way he did Clingenstain’s. We will chop off his head and drive it on to a stake for all to see.’
‘On to a stake?’ someone exclaimed. The Commander dismissed this with a gesture and did not bother to respond.
Tweffell shrugged and mumbled just loud enough to be heard, ‘I still do not comprehend how you will ensnare him if you do not know who he is.’
Before Melchior could open his mouth to reply Gallenreutter spoke up.
‘If you will, then please allow me to tell you all a tale from my home town of Warendorf, where I built a church a few years ago, when a councilman was treacherously murdered in the dead of night. The killer slipped in through the window and choked the councilman in his sleep.’
‘Do tell, Master Gallenreutter. It sounds exciting,’ someone called out, and several others voiced their approval.
Gallenreutter rose to his feet and continued. ‘As one might suppose every councilman has many mortal enemies, yet how can the right one be found when all swear they did not commit the act and there was no witness? It’s not as if a town council would dare to put a single wealthy merchant on the rack or send him before the Lord’s judgement based on suspicion alone. Luckily there was a very clever magistrate in the town of Warendorf, a smart and able man, who began to investigate more closely how the murderer had broken into the councilman’s home late at night. And what did he do? He found the locksmith who had crafted the lock on the councilman’s door, and they tried together to see how to break the lock in the way the killer had done. Next, the magistrate went to look for the ropemaker who had woven the rope with which the councilman was strangled. Third, he took note of the fact that rain fell on the night of the killing; there was mud and patches of filth in front of the councilman’s home at the time, but the entry hall was clean and no trail of mud led from the door to the councilman’s chamber. Fourth, the magistrate started considering who would benefit most from the councilman’s death. And what became clear? It turned out that –’
Before Gallenreutter could continue Melchior butted in, ‘If I may interrupt you, Master Mason, then I would deduce what became clear.’
‘By all means. Have at it, Sire Melchior.’
‘I would say that, as you have already mentioned these circumstances, it is not difficult to conclude that the door’s lock could only have been broken in that particular manner from within, a similar rope was found inside the councilman’s house and his wife would enjoy the greatest benefit from his death …’
‘Indeed, Melchior …’ Gallenreutter exclaimed in surprise.
‘Yes,’ the Apothecary continued, ‘and would I be mistaken if I also postulated that the household had a major-domo? The murderer did not enter from outside; he came from within the house.’
Gallenreutter seemed somewhat disappointed but acknowledged that Melchior was correct in his guesses. ‘No, Melchior, you err not. That very same major-domo had recently purchased an identical hemp rope and, after he had been tortured for a short time, confessed that he and the councilman’s wife had been staining the master’s sheets probably since the very day the councilman brought the young man into his house.’
‘Have some clemency, Master Gallenreutter,’ the listeners shouted upon hearing this. ‘What a dreadful tale.’
Even Pastor Rode stood up angrily and proclaimed, ‘Womenfolk! Temptresses! Serpents! Even St Augustine said they must be kept away from holy men.’
‘I hope that whore was stoned to death,’ the Commander grunted.
‘Oh no. She was buried alive,’ Gallenreutter replied. ‘The major-domo was hanged, although he had admitted on the rack that the woman had bewitched him and seduced him into murdering her husband. They had planned to sell off the councilman’s assets after his death and continue to live their life of sin in some other town. However, what I wanted to say through this story was that even when there are no witnesses to a murder, some clever man can always be found.’
‘As can such a magistrate …’ Melchior quipped.
‘Yes, and our magistrate is – as we know now– a sharp and clever chap. But some astute man able to read the signs a criminal leaves behind must always be found; a man who can track down witnesses even when it seems at first as if there
is none. Even the most impossible of crimes can be deciphered and the guilty parties served their just punishment.’
Then the festivities continued, as no one wished to hear any more such horrifying tales. Melchior visited the rear courtyard to relieve himself and afterwards moved around the room from one conversation to another. Prior Eckell and Master Goldsmith Casendorpe had begun to talk business. The Prior may have been gravely ill, but the management of monastery affairs did not seem too far from his mind even at the beersampling table. He assured the artisan that no one paid as good a price for the craftsman’s gold as the Dominicans.
‘Our brothers sold so much good oily herring to the vassals over the last fasting that our money will rust if we do not get rid of it quickly. We can also count the free masses and prayers said for all of your deceased family members as payments in kind,’ Eckell assured the Goldsmith, who still seemed doubtful.
‘Gold is in short supply, Father,’ Casendorpe reasoned. ‘Gold is expensive, as you well know, and it is rising in price. The last ship that was supposed to bring me gold from Bruges either sank or was ransacked by that Vogt of Turku …’
Melchior could tell the Goldsmith had already made his final decision and was simply pushing the price up. He will, without question, make that precious golden chalice for the Dominicans’ altar – of that Melchior was certain.
Sire Tweffell was positioned near Kilian at the beer table and instructing the minstrel in the principles of shrewd business. Kilian sat listening attentively, seeming to pay not the slightest heed to Freisinger’s repeated demands for him to play his lute. He was much more interested in what he was being told about wax trading.
The evening’s fine beer had unbound Tweffell’s tongue. ‘Buy wax from the Russians in winter,’ he tutored, ‘and drive the price down so far that they start to shout with rage – and don’t even think of speaking about this to anyone before St George’s Day either. Don’t bother selling it in Livonia; everyone here is poor. Sell it instead to Bruges where there are moneyed monasteries – and a large number of them at that. When they start dipping candles they do it till their fingers bleed – and they do not sleep for weeks on end; all they do is make candles.’
‘I will remember that, dear uncle,’ Kilian promised obediently. ‘Of course you’ll remember it. When I am under the ground who else will instruct you? No man has ever become rich by playing tunes either. Now, where was I? Ah, so, if you want to buy felt and fabric from Bruges, then, you know, I’ve heard that those damned Victual Brothers, of whom our sea is now much clearer, have – at least as many of the demons there are left since their chief’s head was chopped off – now based themselves near Zeeland and continue to pirate merchant ships from there. And I’ll say, too, that the Teutonic Order may have trounced them on Gotland, yet who pays for all of those war-going galleys that purify the sea of this scourge? Hanseatic merchants pay for them. It is the merchants not the Order or any other overlord. We pay. We pay for our own laws and rights and all else. Tell me, boy, what good would these barons and Fürsten be without merchants? Where would they obtain their fine clothing and silver plates? My eyes will not see such a time, but yours might look out on a world when barons bow before traders.’
To his surprise Melchior noticed that Spanheim had left his table of honour in order to hear the Master Mason of Westphalia spin his tales. The Apothecary slipped in amongst the men while Gallenreutter rambled on about how constructing a castle, a church and a house are completely different art forms. The most difficult of these was, of course, a church.
‘A church does not merely have to be pleasing to the eye,’ he continued, ‘it must be visible from afar. A church is not built by one single master, because a man needs to know so much and has to consult others who also possess great knowledge – and not just about sacred matters. A master must have knowledge of the town, of its people and its history. Just as in the construction of any building, a church begins first and foremost with digging. You dig at the site of the future church in order to build strong foundations. You root and sift through the layers of mixed earth; you dig deeper and you see what stood on that place before and all that there is within the folds of the earth. Alas, time has no other path – the old must always make way for the new.’
Several others were listening to Gallenreutter, Pastor Rode and even Kilian amongst them – since Sire Tweffell had pulled some councilmen aside in the meantime to complain about the shoddy work done by the Tallinn Mint. Gallenreutter’s narrative rippled smoothly from church construction to the Guild of Stonemasons, the membership of which included many Estonians that spoke German oh-so poorly and who occasionally even conducted affairs in some strange tongue amongst themselves as if they were not baptized Christians at all.
‘Estonians? Yes, they are good stonecutters,’ the Commander grunted, elbowing his way into the conversation. ‘Brutish, burly men. Fine warriors. None can contend with them when it comes to swinging a battleaxe. Devil’s dawn – they’ve the brawn of many men put together.’
‘One evening,’ Gallenreutter continued, ‘I made merry with them beyond the town walls, although they did not understand my manner of speaking very well nor I theirs …’
‘That language of theirs is devilish, yes, such that the God of Christians certainly did not come up with it,’ the Commander affirmed. ‘Although you hand them a battleaxe, send them against the Russians and they will chop and chop and chop.’
‘But their songs,’ continued the Master Mason, ‘I didn’t understand their songs nor they mine.’
Kilian and a couple of Blackheads immediately began pressing Gallenreutter to state whether he was a singing man. The Westphalian Master maintained that his mouth worked better with food and beer than it did singing and that he certainly was not blessed with the gift of music.
‘A mason’s trowel, that is my instrument. With a trowel I can truly conjure incredible and godly tunes. However, if a whistle happens into my hands then even stray dogs try to flee my presence,’ Gallenreutter exclaimed raucously. Still, Melchior noted again that the Westphalian Master was in no way as drunk as he seemed to want to pretend.
‘So what you are saying is that you still occasionally sing, Sire Gallenreutter,’ Kilian persisted.
‘Ah, what singing, really? I stirred up a racket there in the tavern, singing a song I thought that the masters of Tallinn’s guilds should know, but, alas, they had never heard of it,’ Gallenreutter hollered in return.
‘No matter. You sing,’ Kilian exclaimed and positioned his lute. ‘Sing for us, Master Mason, sing, and I will play. So, how goes that song? Worry not, sire. I’ve travelled across half the world and know more tunes than I would be able to perform over the entire forty days of Lent.’
An even larger crowd had now collected around Gallenreutter, amongst them Sire Casendorpe, who asked what song it was which all Tallinn guildsmen should supposedly know. He himself was unaware of any such thing.
‘Ah, it is an old song said to have originated in Tallinn itself, composed by the very first guild to make its way to these parts,’ Gallenreutter declared.
Casendorpe erupted into laughter. ‘Well then, ask the Master Blackhead, as they believe themselves to be the very oldest here in Tallinn. Ha! The oldest … what rubbish. Our Guild of St Canute was already famed across the entire Hanseatic League and the Holy Roman Empire before anyone had even heard of the Blackheads.’
Freisinger immediately bustled over to the group of men upon overhearing Casendorpe’s boast. ‘What is this I hear? Is someone casting aspersions on the age of our guild?’ he enquired good-naturedly.
‘I cast nothing. I simply stated that you are not nearly as old as Jesus Christ or the city of Rome,’ the Goldsmith declared loudly.
‘I remember now how that old song went,’ Gallenreutter exclaimed. ‘I cannot sing well, but I can recall a few verses. I think it is in a very old dialect. Kilian, play.’
The Master Mason truly lacked skills in the art of singing.
None the less, his voice rang clear and strong as he followed Kilian’s melody, reciting loudly and articulately:
Come, for daybreak is nigh and light gleams from the east
oh, my friend, our seven brothers await thee at the crossroads
nonpareil the Lord’s temple, to which they’ll show ye the way
radial compass and trowels, they hold
aid them to drink the light that glimmers at the grave
their oaths as ancient as Solomon’s wisdom
unto the seven masters, their shields extended
solemn Death drapes in his cloak he who is afore all
Favete linguis et memento mori
relic calls afar for its blood
elegiac yesterday is closer to Christ’s blood which floweth down the walls.
Gallenreutter gave a powerful performance, and all the men seated at the table fell silent and listened. When Gallenreutter had finished Kilian put down his lute and sighed heavily. The song had not been all that special after all.
‘Master Gallenreutter, I certainly have no knowledge of such a song. It isn’t even much like a song but rather some kind of riddle,’ Kilian said glumly.
‘Truly, Gallenreutter, that may be some kind of ditty or riddle of the masons, but never in my lifetime have I heard that in our Guild of St Canute,’ said Casendorpe. ‘And if the guildsmen of St Olaf’s are unaware of it, then …’ He turned to address members of the other guilds. ‘Hey, Sire Tweffell and you others. Listen, do you know any song about seven brothers, Solomon, a trowel and walls and death that covers something with its cloak … or how did that go again?’
‘What in the name of St Victor are you asking now, Master Goldsmith?’ Tweffell barked hoarsely, pulling himself away from a conversation with the councilmen. ‘My old ears did not hear.’
Apothecary Melchior and the Mystery of St Olaf's Church Page 13
