Keterlyn took no notice. Keterlyn believed, hoped, loved.
Be it godly wrath, be it a demonic curse, be it a scourge for whatever sin, but Keterlyn was an honest Christian and would fulfil the oath she swore to God before the altar. Neither St Catherine nor St Gerdrud nor any other saint could stop her from doing so, as she had vowed to be at her husband’s side in distress and in worry, in storms and in blizzards, in life and in death.
There was a drink that Melchior had mixed for himself for these occasions. It was so strong that it dried the moisture from his eyes and knocked the wind out of him, but Keterlyn did not dare to dash to the pharmacy to search for it at this stage. She was the wife of a Wakenstede and must do her duty. Melchior was unconscious, babbling. He shrieked, ‘Father, Father’, and when Keterlyn kissed him on the mouth she found that it was salty blood not sweat that now encrusted his lips.
Keterlyn cast the blanket off and gripped the man in her embrace. Melchior resisted, but she caressed his body with her lips. She straddled him, grazed his stomach with her breasts and buried his mouth in deep kisses so that his howling could no longer be heard. She squeezed his hips with her legs and ground her vulva against his penis and testicles, which did not yet seem to understand what was expected of them. Keterlyn was tough; she was no pampered town girl but rather descended from the ancient Viru elders in a line in which the women had always been known for their prowess in taking what they needed. Keterlyn rubbed herself against her husband’s skin, covering his naked body with hers. Her tongue penetrated deeply into his mouth, and she finally sensed Melchior beginning to grow calmer and something twitching between his legs. She slowly slipped down along his body, brushing his staff gingerly with her lips. It was still small, but Keterlyn took it into her mouth and tickled along the length with her tongue. The townspeople called this ‘the bishop’s love’, although the art had also been known in Viru since time immemorial. Melchior’s senses were still not in their right place, but his body began to calm itself and follow the summoning of his wife’s lips. Keterlyn continued to move her tongue around Melchior’s penis and sucked the erect shaft straight in towards her throat until she felt her vagina moistening. Melchior groaned – and now no longer from pain. Keterlyn ran her hands along his stomach and chest while caressing below with her tongue until Melchior’s cock was fully engorged with a manly force. She moved her tongue more rapidly and swallowed down more strongly, rubbing Melchior’s cannonballs with one hand and his buttocks with the other. Melchior was still not yet aware of his surroundings, but the curse was retreating. When his cock began to throb with anticipation and his hips moved with his wife’s rhythm Keterlyn released him from her mouth, straddled him again and worked Melchior’s firm trunk inside her. She placed one of Melchior’s hands on the curve of her buttock and the other against her firm breast, feeling how a wave of pleasure moved like molten iron upwards from between her legs through her abdomen. She moved her hips more rapidly and rocked her thighs backwards and forwards until Melchior’s body loosened and he ejaculated. Keterlyn threw herself off of him and clutched her husband’s quivering church tower as if it were an udder, milking it to the very last drop. And then, finally – thank St Catherine and all the saints; thank the ancient Viru shaman – she felt Melchior’s hand groping her breast and the brush of his lips against them. She heard him whispering sultry words to her, and she knew that the curse had been broken for this time. And only when Melchior started to breathe regularly and slept did Keterlyn raise her naked body from his, slide off of the bed, sit on the cold floor and rub herself between her legs until her body, too, shook from pleasure.
Under the bed Keterlyn kept a stork’s beak and a multicoloured cloth band knotted in Viru, which had been blessed by the shaman of Iinistagana – just in case St Catherine’s blessing might not work. Keterlyn reminded herself she must send some beer and salted meat to Iinistagana. It would also be better if Melchior did not find out about the objects yet. There might be other medicines that counter the Wakenstedes’ curse apart from the biographies of saints and the recipe books of Roman sages.
Keterlyn pulled on her nightshirt, covered Melchior with a blanket and snuggled up at his side. She fell asleep immediately to the sound of Melchior’s peaceful breathing.
They both awoke earlier than usual. The clamour of market-goers filled the room together with the first rays of dawn sunlight.
‘Christ Almighty … killed … the Toompea Murderer … his head chopped off, holy heavens, his head has been chopped off … the Toompea Murderer has killed again.’
19
ST NICHOLAS’S CHURCHYARD
18 MAY, EARLY MORNING
MASTER MASON GALLENREUTTER’S headless corpse lay in St Nicholas’s churchyard. It was discovered in the mud near the lilac bushes behind St Matthew’s Chapel next to a small path that ran to the sacristy. The spot was hidden from Mäealuse Street by a thick hedge. Headstones were dotted around the southern end of the cemetery, and the walls of houses on Seppade Street bordered it on the west. The Master Mason of Westphalia had been killed in a shadowy place, into the darkness of which curious eyes had not yet penetrated. His body was draped over an old Danish-period cross, and his head had been driven on to the branch of a pine tree, its eyes staring at those who had gathered to inspect the rest of the remains. The yellowy grass was covered in clotted pools of blood. Blood was sprayed over the cross and the lilac buds. Blood was everywhere. The morning warmth had not yet reached this dark corner; the sky was cloudy, and a half-hearted gust of wind stirred Gallenreutter’s long, blood-soaked hair.
Dorn had managed to push back the crowd that had been gaping at the scene by the time Melchior arrived, and he was now arguing with the unhappy old Vicar of St Nicholas’s – an old, skeletal man of Swedish descent who had been in the post for as long as Melchior could remember. Another man was leaning over the body. Melchior recognized him as a foreign journeyman mason that had likely travelled with Gallenreutter to work on St Olaf’s Church.
The Vicar was just telling Dorn that he had found the body of the unfortunate victim when crossing the churchyard first thing that morning. The man was complaining that holy ground had been desecrated, and they would now have to implore the bishop to bless it anew.
‘The Toompea Murderer.’ The journeyman was distraught. ‘The one who escaped to the town. The Knight had his head chopped off, and our mason came from the very same town as that Knight of the Order. He said so himself.’
Gallenreutter, Melchior thought, Master Mason Caspar Gallenreutter from the town of Warendorf. The same who had wanted to call upon Clingenstain. Are only Warendorf men being killed in Tallinn now? Incredible. Melchior had run to the scene immediately on hearing the shouts and now stared dumbfounded at the corpse. He had still not fully shaken off the dreams of the night before and wanted to believe that this was all part of his nightmare. It had been a painful night, and he felt like someone who had just been taken off the torturer’s rack. He always felt this way after a bout of the Wakenstedes’ curse, and if it hadn’t been for Keterlyn then he would now be half dead with anguish and pain … Melchior shook these thoughts from his head and bent over the headless corpse.
‘When will you capture this Toompea Murderer, Magistrate?’ the Vicar demanded. ‘He is a scourge to the entire town if he is now starting to kill within the walls of Tallinn.’
‘As soon as I find him I will capture him,’ Dorn snapped crossly. ‘Although he is running out of time. What business did Gallenreutter have here at St Nicholas’s?’
‘He has not been here before. I don’t even know him. I have no idea what business he may have had in our churchyard at night,’ the Vicar replied in a snivelling voice.
Melchior touched the body and wiped some blood on to his fingertip. From what he knew this man must have been dead for many hours already. The slaughter had certainly not been carried out that morning. He reached into the breast pocket of the dead man’s bloody doublet, and his finger brushed a piece of
blood-encrusted paper. Gallenreutter’s doublet was covered in blood, yet how had it found its way beneath the man’s long jacket? Melchior untied the laces fastening the front of the doublet and inspected the victim.
Meanwhile Dorn was interrogating the journeyman mason. ‘How did your master mason end up here? Did he have some business to conduct in the churchyard, eh?’
‘In the name of St Victor, that I cannot guess,’ said the latter in a daze. ‘He left yesterday after work and did not return to the chapel this morning. That was when I went to look for him. He was boarding with some relative in a house not far from here. There were people running past me saying over and over that there had been a murder … I said from the off that it wouldn’t bring good fortune, and none did it.’
‘What wouldn’t bring good fortune?’ Melchior called over from where he was still inspecting the body.
‘That coffin or crate or whatever it was that we dug up. It contained some bones,’ the boy explained, ‘and it looked like it had been buried directly beneath the old walls and not within the graveyard, you see. And he said he would have a look to see what it contained and took it away. No good fortune did it bring. We should have got the Pastor to rebury those bones.’
‘What bones were they then?’ Melchior asked. He plucked the paper from Gallenreutter’s breast pocket, smoothed it out and ran his eyes over it. The scrap held four lines of quickly scrawled writing. Melchior could not decipher much of the text initially, as the first letters of each row were covered in blood. He rose and approached the pine tree, peering with interest at the head of the unfortunate Gallenreutter, whose glazed eyes still showed fear and dread.
‘May St Nicholas forgive me,’ Melchior mumbled and prised Gallenreutter’s mouth open. A clot of blood rolled off of the purplish tongue. Melchior stuck his fingers into the cavity and fished out a coin. Just as one would have guessed, he thought.
The journeyman mason was explaining that those at St Olaf’s had no idea whose bones they were. ‘Doubtless they were the bones of a man, right there where the old church once stood, but Master Gallenreutter took them away, and … I don’t know.’
‘Speak now, boy. Did anyone hold a grudge against him?’ Dorn continued. ‘Had anyone threatened him with a knife or vowed to do away with him? Speak honestly and with a pure heart.’
‘I don’t know,’ the boy cried and drew into himself. ‘I’ve not seen anyone draw a knife on him or anything. All we do is build the church – and who has ever heard of a man building a house of God having his head chopped off?’
‘Lord cast thy mercy upon us. Lord cast thy mercy upon us,’ the Vicar intoned.
Dorn ordered the mason to get moving and tell all the other journeymen that when a court servant arrived then they must all appear before the Magistrate and swear in the names of all the saints that they will only speak the truth about what they know of the killing.
‘Magistrate, come over here,’ Melchior called.
‘He’ll have to be buried now, and the Council will have to write to his relatives. Well, this is certainly something … Yes, Melchior?’ Dorn fell silent and turned his head. The Vicar kneeled next to the corpse and began to pray.
Melchior wiped the coin clean on the grass and showed it to Dorn.
‘Look what was stuffed into his mouth.’
‘Jesus and Mary, another coin. So it really was the Toompea Murderer,’ Dorn exclaimed.
‘So it seems. But why did he do this to poor Gallenreutter? See, it’s not a Gotland ørtug this time; it’s a Tallinn artig.’
‘An artig, yes. Damnation, Melchior, that is a great deal of money,’ Dorn marvelled.
‘Clingenstain came from Gotland and had an old Gotland ørtug in his mouth. However, Gallenreutter came from Westphalia …’ Melchior thought out loud.
‘Well, yes, but what does this mean then?’
‘Damned if I know. Gallenreutter and Clingenstain both hailed from the same region, although … It’s a muddled situation. And one more thing. Gallenreutter has a deep wound near his heart. It appears he was stabbed with a dagger.’
Dorn now stared at Melchior in bewilderment. ‘Why did he need to stab him? Are you certain?’
‘There is a deep wound to the heart.’
‘What? The killer cut off his head and then stuck him with a knife just to make sure?’
‘Well, perhaps it could have happened that way around, yes,’ Melchior reasoned, ‘although it is more likely that first the dagger was thrust into his heart and only then was he beheaded.’
‘Actually, yes, that makes sense. But why? Why still chop his head off when a blade was already in his heart?’
‘Evidently Gallenreutter would not agree to being deprived of his head while still alive. The murderer therefore dealt his death blow in advance and only then removed the head. He did not have the same problem with Clingenstain, as the Knight was so drunk that the killer didn’t have to try very hard. However, I still do not comprehend why it was necessary to chop Gallenreutter’s head off with an axe, attach it to a tree and leave this coin here for us to speculate over.’
‘This murderer is not ungenerous, you have to admit. No doubt he’ll tell all on the torturer’s rack, why …’ The Magistrate suddenly fell silent and furrowed his brow. ‘With an axe? You said “with an axe”.’
Melchior nodded. ‘The bloody axe is lying there beneath the lilac bush. A court servant could check to see if there are any distinguishing marks on it or whether anyone is aware of its origins. However, I doubt very much that the murderer will have taken it from his own home and then left it lying here.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ they heard the Vicar said wearily. ‘It is the axe from our woodshed. A church servant complained yesterday that it had disappeared. It is usually kept next to the woodpile.’
‘Yesterday?’ Melchior repeated, amazed. ‘Interesting. Poor Gallenreutter’s fate had already been decided then, so it wasn’t an argument that got out of hand or simple bloodlust.’
‘Melchior,’ the Magistrate shouted, his eyes bulging. ‘Melchior, this man was from the town of Warendorf, just like Clingenstain.’
‘Yes,’ nodded the Apothecary. ‘That we know, yes.’
‘But do you recall what Gallenreutter said about Warendorf at the Brotherhood of Blackheads?’
‘I certainly do,’ Melchior replied and tried to call back the memory. ‘He said that …’ The words died upon his lips. ‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ he whispered.
‘Precisely.’ The Magistrate grabbed him by the sleeve and carried on at speed, ‘You recall that he told a story about a murder in the town of Warendorf and then mentioned that even when there have not been witnesses to a murder a clever man can always be found who can decipher the clues left by a criminal and find witnesses even when at first it seems as if there is none. And that in this very manner even the most impossible crimes can be solved and the guilty brought to justice.’
‘I’ll be damned,’ Melchior murmured again. ‘Everything considered, his words were quite unusual.’
‘Maybe they were meant for the ears of the murderer. And why did he feel obliged to say it, eh? Maybe because he was that clever man who knew something about the murderer and was able to decipher the clues …’
‘And the murderer must have been at the Brotherhood of Blackheads,’ Melchior concluded. ‘I would prefer not to believe this, but you may be right. It is possible he did not yet know the murderer’s exact identity, yet he believed that the man was at the beer-tasting and that he had some idea as to who it might be.’
‘But, Melchior, it is truly not possible that the murderer could have been there. Every man there was known and of some position in town.’
‘Why not?’ Melchior replied gruffly. ‘Every man who visited Clingenstain on Toompea was also there at the Brotherhood of Blackheads – Casendorpe, Tweffell, Ludke, Kilian, Eckell, Hinricus, Wunbaldus …’
‘But, Melchior, none of them could be the Toompea Murderer.’ The M
agistrate seemed absolutely convinced of this. ‘Of course, there were a couple of dozen other merchants and officials there, but they didn’t go up to the castle. It’s very confusing.’
‘And it only gets more confusing. Look what I found in poor Gallenreutter’s pocket.’
Melchior drew the bloody piece of parchment from his breast pocket and held it up to Dorn.
The Magistrate squinted. ‘There is something written here. Some … some sort of verse. I can’t make out what it says.’
‘It is in very small handwriting, yes. I don’t know what it is, but this is what is written:
‘… ined angels will bring our town a protector, higher than us all
… istic death will dance a jig around their names
… n eternal secrecy be affirmed the first’s oath of flesh
… umen, of the holy flesh, seven will have part.’
Dorn shook his head. ‘Is it some kind of song, or a riddle?’
Melchior shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I don’t understand it.’
‘No doubt the Master Mason then constructed poems, too,’ Dorn reasoned. ‘Or is it some kind of sermon?’
‘It is a strange verse, a very strange verse for a builder.’ Melchior was about to say more, but he then looked up and from the corner of his eye glimpsed a figure in black approaching. Prior Eckell had appeared from around the side of the church with Brother Hinricus immediately behind him. The Prior approached at speed, although it was obvious, even from a distance, that his infirmity had not passed. He limped and wheezed, and Hinricus seemed poised to catch him if needed.
Apothecary Melchior and the Mystery of St Olaf's Church Page 19