‘According to the Lord’s teachings such a soul can always find the right path,’ Rode asserted.
‘It may already be too late for some,’ Melchior suggested.
‘No, it was not yet too late for Brother Wunbaldus,’ Eckell said in his defence.
‘Did you know this man before he came to Tallinn?’
‘This man? Did I know him? Yes and no. He came here to repent his sins, and his path of penitence had not yet reached its end.’ The Prior looked around the chamber, at the whitewashed limestone walls, and it was as if he spoke to Melchior yet with someone else at the same time, possibly himself, as if thinking out loud. ‘It could never have been completed in all eternity, and he knew this. He was humble and patient. He knew that he would never see the Kingdom of Heaven, but he believed he might come closer to it – only a small step, maybe, but still closer. Although he left a very long stretch of this path untravelled, because some people’s lives are too short for such journeys, he nevertheless believed and repented. Did I know this man? Yes and no. God had punished his body but left him with a soul that he so yearned to save. Alas, perhaps this had not been ordained.’
‘Did he die without taking confession? Here, alone in this chamber?’ Rode said.
‘Yes, and that much longer is his path now. Yes, he was in his chamber for the entire evening and died in terrible pain.’
‘Why do you ask this, Pastor?’ Melchior enquired.
The Pastor appeared to waver then came to a decision. ‘This man, Brother Wunbaldus, was not in the monastery the entire evening. He came … he came … to the Church of the Holy Ghost, and …’
‘He took confession,’ Melchior exclaimed, finishing Rode’s statement. This explained the Pastor’s sudden appearance at the monastery. ‘He went to the Church of the Holy Ghost and asked to take confession.’
‘No, no. Impossible. That is impossible,’ Eckell cried out.
‘Why is it impossible if Sire Rode confirms it? You yourself said no one had looked for him yesterday evening, that you last saw him before mass but not afterwards. He could have left the monastery, could he not?’
‘Regardless, it not possible that he would have gone to the Church of the Holy Ghost for confession.’
‘I do confirm that he visited the church,’ Rode stated.
‘Wait now. Hold on,’ demanded the Magistrate. ‘Are you saying that Wunbaldus took confession at the Church of the Holy Ghost, returned to the monastery and then took poison?’
‘He did not return immediately, he –’
Rode began to speak, but the Prior raised his hand and shouted, ‘That is a secret of the confessional, Sire Rode, a secret of the holy sacrament.’ This exclamation seemed to sap his last scrap of strength. The Prior struggled for air, sat upright, clutched at his throat and wheezed. Melchior and Dorn rushed to support him.
Rode shouted, ‘The Prior is unwell. Call for help.’
Eckell’s speech was restored, however. His brow was dripping with sweat as he rasped, ‘I hold power over this – yes – I still do, and I can dismiss you from your post as can the Bishop of Tallinn. And that I will do, that I will do …Wunbaldus would never, in all eternity, have allowed his body to be dragged through the mud to the gallows. Never. He saved the lives of three holy men, and all Dominicans are for ever in his debt …’
The Prior’s speech was muddled, and if he was trying to make a point then Melchior did not get it. Brother Hinricus dashed into the room together with two other monks and the infirmarer. The men supported the Prior and took him to the infirmary to let blood.
It was time for Melchior and Dorn to leave.
21
BETWEEN THE DOMINICAN MONASTERY AND TALLINN TOWN HALL
18 MAY, BEFORE MIDDAY
MELCHIOR AND DORN were walking from the monastery towards the market square. The wind had scattered the morning’s clouds, and sunshine now warmed the cobblestones. A salty sea breeze scampered through the streets.
‘This matter is becoming ever more muddled,’ Dorn finally harrumphed glumly.
‘This matter?’ Melchior said.
‘Of course. Don’t deny it. You are thinking the same as me. It’s as if Clingenstain unleashed some sort of killing machine into the town.’
‘So you believe that these deaths are …’
‘Linked? Certainly. Clingenstain brought a scourge to Tallinn.’
‘So it seems.’
‘Damned if I understand what is going on here, though,’ said Dorn. ‘Clingenstain comes and purchases a gold collar, bickers with Tweffell and confesses to the Prior. Then, after confession, someone lops off his head and two days later removes, in the very same manner, the head of that unfortunate master mason, who came from the same town as Clingenstain and who wished to speak to the Knight about something. Now Wunbaldus is also dead – he was up there that day and might have heard or seen something.’
‘You seem very sure about this connection,’ Melchior grunted.
‘True,’ the Magistrate acknowledged. ‘If you view the circumstances in this way, then I do indeed have some sort of an idea, but I am unable to tie it all together properly. Is it possible, Melchior, that Clingenstain confessed something to the Prior, which … ?’ He fell silent and looked directly at his friend.
Melchior shrugged. ‘I understand what you say, but we are still missing several tiles from this mosaic, and it is for those that we must search.’
‘And then there is Gallenreutter’s tale of the clever man. It’s like he talked himself into trouble.’
‘The murderer set a trap for him the following day,’ Melchior said pensively. ‘He readied the axe and invited Gallenreutter to come to St Nicholas’s in the evening. It is not hard to work out why he chose that place – it is safe from prying eyes. You could ask the town watchmen if they saw anyone around after nine o’clock – although I believe that the killing took place before nine because the murderer is very careful. No one takes a stroll behind St Nicholas’s after nine o’clock when it is dark. But there are other hidden places, in courtyards and alongside the wall. After the murder he would have been covered in blood, so he then either cast the bloody clothes aside or, because he did not have to go far to go, he was able to avoid being seen.’
‘Of course he would have been covered in blood,’ Dorn agreed. ‘Although, tell me now, how was it that poor Wunbaldus had so much blood on him if he had no new wounds?’
‘One thing comes to mind, Magistrate, but it is not worth rushing to say anything out loud.’
‘You wish to say that …’
Melchior touched the Magistrate’s sleeve and shook his head. ‘No, I do not want to say anything yet. Did you notice that there were two tankards in Wunbaldus’s chamber?’
‘You think he’d been drinking with someone else?’
‘That’s possible. Of course, it could have been one of the brothers, but Sire Freisinger also visited the monastery yesterday evening.’
‘One of the Blackheads visits the monastery every day, Melchior, as if you didn’t know. Freisinger seems not to have anything to do with this, though. He didn’t set foot on Toompea that day.’
‘He did not. Not that I’m saying that the murderer has to be someone who visited Toompea on the day in question. However, we are simply laying the groundwork by finding out who from the town had what to do with Clingenstain, and thus, step by step, we might find our way to the truth. Freisinger could not have been the Knight’s killer, if only because he was at the Brotherhood of Blackheads when the murder took place. But the fact that Freisinger unexpectedly spurned the Goldsmith’s daughter so soon afterwards makes me want to find out why. And, by the by, did you notice that there was no trace of blood anywhere else in Wunbaldus’s chamber? Not on the floor or the walls or on the door or in the passageway but only on Wunbaldus’s clothing.’
Dorn nodded. It was one conundrum out of many that had been laid before them.
Melchior continued, ‘I believe we should step into the Churc
h of the Holy Ghost for a moment and that we should also speak to the other masons at St Olaf’s. That coffin is troubling me. And that scrap of paper I found on Gallenreutter, is it not an odd song to dig out of a mason’s pocket?’
Melchior fished out the scrap of parchment and read it aloud again. Dorn listened and shook his head. It wasn’t from the Scriptures; it was more like a riddle or a verse.
‘Some angels will bring our town a protector, higher than us all,’ Melchior spoke. ‘A kind of death will dance a jig around their names …the devil take me, were I only able to read those words that have been covered here by blood. Body affirming an oath … have you ever heard anything like that before? Seven will have a part of the holy flesh.’
‘Muddled and silly,’ Dorn reasoned. ‘Some kind of heretics’ jest.’
‘Heretics?’ Melchior murmured. ‘Interesting.’
‘In any case, I am now driven to thirst,’ the Magistrate said, ‘and hunger is also upon me. I think I’ll head for the tavern just outside the Savi Gate and ladle out a sinfully large bowl of sprat soup for myself, because no one cooks it better than the old Kiruna hag there. The beer there is terrible, though … Our town has been left without its best brewer now that Wunbaldus is gone. Damned demons, where will we find another like him?’
‘He was a fantastic brewer,’ Melchior said. ‘May he rest in peace, and may the brothers pray for his salvation – although they also have their work cut out in keeping their Prior fit and well.’
‘What’s wrong with him, Melchior? Eckell is quite sick, and it seems to me that not everything is quite right in his mind any more.’
Melchior shook his head gravely. ‘He is indeed sick and appears at the end of his strength, but no doubt a bloodletting will help him back on his feet again. It seems to me that he is confused. He is worried about something; something troubles him dreadfully. That much is clear.’
‘Which brings me back to the question of what it was the Commander of Gotland confessed to the Prior that has meant people have begun to die,’ the Magistrate grumbled.
They stood at the side of the market square, where the everyday hustle and bustle was in full swing. Melchior bade farewell to Dorn, who trotted off to find his sprat soup. He decided to look in the market for the butcher who made the delicious barley sausages he liked, and he would ask Keterlyn to fry them up with sauerkraut for lunch. Yet Melchior’s thoughts kept returning to Wunbaldus and Eckell and to the poison that had snuffed out poor Wunbaldus’s candle of existence. Wunbaldus’s agonized expression in death materialized before him – a face contorted with pain and asphyxiation and disbelief that he had to die in such a way. Why had Eckell called them to the monastery in the first place? The Prior had been shaken; that was certain. Seemingly he wanted a second opinion on what was already clear, that Wunbaldus was poisoned, and he wanted to show the Apothecary and the Magistrate something he did not dare put into words.
22
AT THE CHESSBOARD
18 MAY, MID-AFTERNOON
THE TOWN COUNCIL often arranged meetings at the Church of the Holy Ghost, which is why it was also known as the Council Chapel. There was no session on that day, however. The councilmen had been to the church the previous week to decide what to write to the Vogt of Turku and to the trade office in Novgorod, as each accused the other of robbing ships. While it was true that the Victual Brothers had disappeared from the eastern Baltic, it was equally the case that greedy magistrates were likely to appropriate ships that had run aground and blame it on the pirates, whom they would then pursue yet somehow never find. As long as goods are transported by sea they will continue to be plundered.
So the Church of the Holy Ghost was currently empty. Melchior cracked open the squeaky door and stepped into the cool interior. Deacon Holte approached to ask what the Apothecary needed, and his eyes nearly popped out of his head when Melchior told him he wanted to inspect the confessional chair.
‘The confessional chair?’ the Deacon asked, baffled. ‘Does the Sire Apothecary want to confess? He must await Pastor Dorn in that case.’
‘No, no,’ Melchior replied quickly. ‘I merely want to have a quick look. Apparently someone came here to confess quite late last evening?’
‘True,’ he nodded. ‘It was already dark. Who it was, I don’t know. Sire Rode was here alone, and I was in the brewery.’
Melchior was then told that no one had confessed so far that day; no one had sat in that chair since the previous evening. Holte directed him to the booth, and he carefully examined the chair, the floor and the walls and grunted in amazement.
‘No one has washed anything down in here?’ he asked the deacon. ‘Bloodstains, for example?’
‘Bloodstains?’ the poor deacon echoed in surprise. ‘There has never been a single bloodstain here. This is a confessional chair, Sire Apothecary …’
Afterwards Melchior walked to St Olaf’s Church along Pikk Street, which led towards the harbour. There was a great mass of people at the church and even greater commotion at the southern end of the building behind the churchyard where construction on the new chapel was under way. Rocks had been hauled by wagon from the nearby quarries and wooden beams and boards had been brought to the site; however, the carpenters, masons, diggers, haulers, attendants and other craftsmen had no idea what to do with the materials because the Master Mason’s head had been chopped off that morning, and the journeymen were unable to direct them. No doubt the Council would have to employ a new master mason, although it would have to be a brave man who took up such a position when the Toompea Murderer would promptly wield his axe. Melchior pricked up his ears. He overheard a journeyman blacksmith saying something about an old curse that befell every master mason at St Olaf’s; one drayman knew of the exact place where one builder of St Olaf’s tower fell to his death. Melchior jostled his way through the crowd and inspected the new chapel’s foundations. He saw that the ground had been properly excavated around the site, the foundations and posts that once supported the old church hade been broken up, loaded and stacked into piles. He finally glimpsed amongst the crowd the journeyman mason who had been present at St Nicholas’s that morning. Melchior pulled the boy aside and asked him to point out where the coffin had been dug up. The boy willingly showed him the place. It was on the eastern edge of the old wall where rubble had already been piled high.
‘There were bones there, yes,’ the boy said, ‘and maybe even a skull, too – not that I saw anything all that clearly myself. Someone suggested reburying it elsewhere, but Sire Gallenreutter said he would arrange the matter with the Pastor on his own and took the coffin away.’
After hunting around for some time Melchior managed to find the Pastor of St Olaf’s amidst the chaos. The man was fractious and distracted, saying in an irritated voice that Gallenreutter had not shown him any kind of coffin nor told him about any bones, that burials had once been held there, and who knew how many battles had been fought on that soil; bones surfaced every time you put a spade into the ground.
Melchior stopped by the Köismäe stables and exchanged a few words with the stableman who had taken care of Tweffell’s horse. The stables were very close to the monastery and had been built recently to take the strain off the old workshop stables at the foot of Toompea. The horses belonging to the town’s cavalry and the guilds were kept at Köismäe, and Tweffell had ordered his to be stabled there because it was more peaceful. Two horses had recently broken their legs in the stables at the base of the hill. There was heavy work going on there from morning through dusk – cannons were cast and boards sawn in the workshops – and the merchant moved the horse for its own well-being. The days went by more calmly at Köismäe, said the stableman, and a healthy beast simply dropping dead for no reason had never happened there before. The horse had been in good health in the morning; however, just as if it had been hexed, it suddenly collapsed into spasms, foaming at the mouth, and the stableman took a hammer to its head with the Sire Merchant’s permission in order to end its s
uffering. All the other animals were fine. They had eaten the same hay and drunk the same water but had no troubles at all.
Melchior did not go home immediately. He chatted with the stableman for a while longer, expressing an interest in anything else he might have heard, and as the day went on Melchior could be spotted at several establishments along the town walls where beer was sold; he could be seen stepping into the tanners’ workshop, the stonecutters’ shops, the cobblers’ stands and ropemakers’ workplaces. He enquired about various goods and chewed the fat about trifling matters until the conversation led to the Toompea Murderer. Oh, there were stories of all sorts. Clingenstain, that high-ranking Knight of the Order, had been chopped into pieces on Toompea; his head, arms and legs sliced clean from his body. He had been hung upside down before his head was removed and driven on to a stake. Or the head had been impaled on a pike or thrown into the mud. And there were plenty of stories of a similar nature concerning what the Toompea Murderer had done with poor Gallenreutter’s head. Rumours – yes, they were rumours. Someone knew someone who had heard from someone else who had seen it. Yet all of the rumours agreed on one thing: both of the heads had been removed and then placed somewhere for all to see. The insane Toompea Murderer was loose in the town and searching for his next victims.
When he arrived home he found that Keterlyn had left him copious notes on the day’s transactions, and he spent some time adding them to his ledger. Business had been good, but today this would not cheer him up. He drew columns on a piece of paper, entering numbers and shorthand notations about goods between the lines, just as his father had instructed him. He had been taught that there was no point writing things out in full, especially when there was no standard way in which a word should be written. Symbols and signs did the job just as well – and, besides, a stranger, should he happen across the notes, would be less likely to be able to work out what had been written. Everything in the ledger had to tally; money could not simply appear out of nowhere from God’s good grace nor could it fall short without leaving a trace. Everything had its own cause, and all events influenced one another. Melchior saw his calculations matching up, and his mood began to lighten. When the recent deaths came to mind, however, his face became darker once again, and he gripped the quill so tightly that it scraped harshly on the paper. Those incidents were an entirely different matter – what had once seemed simple now became complicated, and things that had previously appeared to be absolutely impossible now felt incredibly simple.
Apothecary Melchior and the Mystery of St Olaf's Church Page 21
