‘Although what, Melchior?’ Dorn pressed.
‘Yes, it was arsenic, but there is something odd about it. I do not understand it … Hair that comes out in clumps, lines there on his fingernails, and then there is everything I know about Prior Eckell’s last days. He complained of pains, he had difficulty digesting food, he breathed heavily and was short of breath, he had aching cramps. Sometimes he carried on strange conversations, as if all was not right in his head. These are all the effect of arsenic, but they are symptoms of long-term poisoning.’
No one understood what Melchior meant at first. They demanded that he explain, which he did. ‘The hair does not start to fall out immediately, not after half an hour. White lines do not appear on a man’s fingernails in minutes. De Ardoyn writes that all of these symptoms, along with weakness and pain, show that arsenic has worked its way into the body in small doses over a long period of time, as if he had swallowed a minuscule quantity each day. Arsenic poisons slowly and unnoticeably at first if it is fed to a person regularly, bit by bit over time. It is said that a compressed ball the size of a pea will kill a man quickly, but … no, that is ridiculous. The light scent of garlic can be detected on the Prior’s mouth, which is another characteristic of arsenic, yet …’
‘Has he been poisoned or not, Melchior?’ ‘What are you trying to say?’ the men demanded.
‘Oh yes, oh yes – it was arsenic.’ Melchior nodded fervently. ‘However, the Prior ingested it over some time. He certainly did not drink poison here, today, at the Blackheads’ guildhall.’
‘And that is as definite as an “amen” in a church,’ exclaimed Freisinger. ‘You see for yourselves. I am alive.’
‘That is true. Just as the bold Sire Blackhead demonstrated to us, his food cannot have been poisoned,’ Melchior concurred yet continued to look baffled.
‘But how could the Prior have been poisoned then?’ Kilian asked.
‘It must have happened earlier, perhaps at the monastery?’ Dorn suggested.
It was Pastor Rode who now spoke up. ‘Wunbaldus. It must have been Wunbaldus who killed the Prior. That murderer …’
‘That is certainly possible, but why then did Wunbaldus only admit to killing two people during confession?’ Melchior queried. ‘Shouldn’t poisoning the Prior have inflicted the greatest torture on his soul if he had elected to take his own life contrary to the Scriptures and to Christian duty? I do not understand it. Furthermore, how could arsenic have been there in the monastery? The Prior assured me that they kept none; the Magistrate heard this also. It is a mystery.’
Commander Spanheim put an end to the Apothecary’s reasoning. He brusquely cleared a space for himself at the front of the crowd and announced that the Prior’s death might be a mystery but at least they now knew who had killed Clingenstain and the Master Mason. And as soon as the Town Council informed him that Wunbaldus was indeed recognized as the murderer and the golden collar was returned to the Order then all may forget this unfortunate occasion and ask God that such criminals might no longer find their way into a monastery.
The Commander’s words reminded Melchior of the Prior’s last moments. Eckell had torn open his clothing, he had difficulty breathing, had ripped something from around his neck and thrown it … towards the table. While the other men gathered around the Commander and praised his words Melchior inspected the floor around and underneath the table. He got down on all fours, crawled across the floor and finally found what he was looking for. He held it up for the others to see.
‘It looks like something made of silver, maybe in the form of a saint. It was probably choking him, and he broke free of its constraint …’ someone suggested.
‘Simply some amulet. I’ve seen many like it,’ Kilian added.
‘It is indeed made of silver, but it is the work of an ordinary apprentice. Nothing valuable,’ Casendorpe remarked.
No one could comprehend Melchior’s excitement as he showed them the silver amulet hanging from its leather string. But Melchior knew what it was, just as any apothecary would. Spanheim doubtlessly recognized the object as well, since his expression darkened as Melchior displayed his find. The amulet was in the shape of a small chest that could be opened from the side. Something was engraved on its surface, although the text was worn away. Melchior could make out a few words in Latin – it was apparently a phrase taken from a prayer. Many noblemen and other lords of high status wore such amulets; they were used as protection against evil and sometimes as a defence against poisoning. Items such as powdered dried snake scales or gems were placed into amulets of this kind to protect the wearer. But this did not protect against poisoning because the poison was there inside it. Melchior carefully opened the tiny box. It unlatched more easily than he expected.
‘The Prior and I recently spoke about the plague,’ Melchior said with passion. ‘Prior Eckell said he believed there was a medicine that protected one from plague.’
‘Of course,’ Kilian exclaimed suddenly. ‘I have seen others like it in Milan – the Black Death laid waste to that place terribly. Many in the town wore similar amulets.’
‘Yes, and I am amazed that I only recalled this just now,’ Melchior responded. ‘Quite a number of doctors have written about the phenomenon. If a man wears a silver amulet that holds arsenic around his neck it is supposed to protect against plague.’
‘Yes, I think I’ve heard something of the sort, too,’ said the Commander.
The tiny chest contained a white powder. The others backed away from the Apothecary in horror, leaving him standing alone before the body.
‘White powder,’ Melchior uttered gravely. ‘Just as I thought.’
‘Yet that was around his neck, was it not?’ Spanheim pointed out. ‘How then did it penetrate his body?’
Melchior took a deep breath and closed the small box. His hands were shaking. ‘Magister de Ardoyn writes that arsenic is such a strong poison that if a person spends sufficient time in its vicinity or inhales the substance then he will surely die. The death will be slow and painful; the man’s hair will fall from his head; he will experience pains and addled thinking; and white lines will appear on his fingernails. It was Prior Eckell who poisoned his own body. It was the Prior himself and certainly not Wunbaldus – or whoever that man was.’
24
MELCHIOR’S PHARMACY, RATASKAEVU STREET
18 MAY, AROUND MIDNIGHT
MELCHIOR COULD NOT sleep that night; too much had happened. His head was spinning; there were too many questions to which he had no answer, which maybe he did not wish to answer. He had seen three violent deaths in a single day, and that was too much even for an apothecary. And perhaps he did not dare to fall asleep. He had managed to drive memories of the curse that had seized him the night before down into the depths of his soul, but the pain still remained. Just when he had secretly begun to hope that the prayers he and Keterlyn had recited might be helping, that the saints had heard his plea, that he was finally free from his bloodline’s curse … No, he had not been freed. It had returned crueller than ever before, just as always with each new onslaught. This was known by all Wakenstedes: the curse never gets easier; it will only become more brutal.
Yesterday it had been the pain over his father’s death that had tortured him. The time before it had sparked by a realization of his own mortality and over his sins – because he had never received any reassurance that they would ever be absolved. Tomorrow it could be the fear of a dark room – as it had been with his grandfather. The curse would appear in a different guise every time until the sufferer would be driven mad, until he became an inconsolable wretch who could no longer find solace in anything earthly. Over the centuries no amount of new blood, or pilgrimages, or donations to monasteries, or fasts, or confessions, or medicines … nothing had been able to break its hold. Only an even greater descent into sinfulness could bring relief. A Wakenstede must marry the right woman. Only a woman could save the damned man’s soul, although she would destroy her own in so doing.
At some point, when the man’s bouts began to become more frequent and painful, at some point the woman would break and lose the peace within her own soul; she would not be able to bear the strain any longer because for her it would also become more agonizing every time until she would be able to take no more. A loyal, strong Wakenstede wife would die before her husband; a weak wife would get herself to a nunnery because she could not love the man in whose eyes flickered the flames of madness. A Wakenstede man will either destroy his own soul or that of his wife; such is their fate.
The Wakenstedes had studied the art of healing and had been searching for a cure for generations. Alas, as Melchior’s father had said, it is impossible to find a cure for an ailment if you don’t know the cause, and if his father had ever learned the source then he had not had time to tell his son. The curse had not touched Melchior’s father – he had been blessed – but it now troubled his son that much more acutely.
Melchior was now bent over his writing. Set before him on the table was a bottle filled with a concoction prepared according to Master de Ardoyn’s instructions. The liquid’s colour spoke in a clear tongue of what the deceased Prior Eckell had worn around his neck. It spoke in a clearer tongue than the old tomcat that sometimes padded around the front of the pharmacy and meowed for scraps of food.
Melchior jumped as he heard footsteps approaching from the doorway. He straightened and looked up, worried, at Keterlyn, who stood behind him holding a candle.
‘Literacy is a curse to some,’ she said softly. ‘What are you doing still up so close to midnight? Still toiling away at your star chart? You are not trying to figure out who the Toompea Murderer was any more, are you? It was Wunbaldus – you know that.’
Melchior and Keterlyn had not spoken about the previous night – they never spoke about his episodes – but her eyes became darker after each one.
‘Oh yes, yes, it was Wunbaldus, all right. I’d already came to that conclusion some time ago,’ Melchior replied, stroking his wife’s hand. ‘Which does not mean that everything is clear to us concerning all of the murders.’
He showed Keterlyn the list he had written about things that left him puzzled, to which he had now added a few more entries.
Gotland coin stuffed into Clingenstain’s mouth
Kilian says that Clingenstain wore the golden collar after confession
Clawes Freisinger’s change of mind
Wunbaldus admitted at confession that he has killed two people
A Tallinn artig was in Gallenreutter’s mouth
The Dominicans’ habit is black and white
Everything from the northern nave of the church, where the
Blackhead’s altar lies, is easily heard in the dormitory
Keterlyn read the list and shrugged.
‘There is nothing particularly odd here, not as far as I can see. Wunbaldus confessed to killing two people, and two people have been killed.’
‘Yes, that is true,’ Melchior chuckled.
‘So why are you still puzzled then?’
‘Because things don’t fit.’
‘What things don’t fit? Two men have had their heads chopped off. One of them was Clingenstain and the other was that foreign Master Mason from St Olaf’s.’
‘And he had a Tallinn artig stuffed into his mouth. That’s on my list. Why would Wunbaldus have done that?’
‘Why would a monk kill a mason building a church? That is against all reason. But I really don’t understand why you’re bothering with all this now; the man admitted to the crimes.’
‘Precisely because there is no obvious reason for it,’ Melchior exclaimed. ‘Even if I do work out why he killed Clingenstain –’
‘Wasn’t it over that golden collar?’
‘No, no.’ Melchior waved the comment away. ‘Certainly not. That collar was no longer in Clingenstain’s chambers when the murderer arrived; it was already in the thief’s pocket and on its way to where it rests now. Clingenstain was definitely not killed over the collar, and because of that it is curious that Gallenreutter was killed in the same manner but that a perfectly ordinary Tallinn coin was placed in his mouth.’
Keterlyn asked why he was killed in that case. Melchior spoke on. Why do some people kill? They kill from greed, fear, revenge, over money. They kill from treachery. Gallenreutter announced at the Brotherhood of Blackheads that, although an act of murder may not have a single witness, it is possible for a clever man to identify the criminal by interpreting the clues. Did Wunbaldus hear this and fear that Gallenreutter would reveal him as the killer? But why kill at all if the murderer afterwards takes confession, admits to the crime and then takes his own life?
Keterlyn shook her head, perplexed. There were many things that she did not comprehend either, such as why her husband troubled himself with such questions when he had a talent bequeathed by God for mixing medicines, had his own home and a successful business and when he was troubled by such a dreadful curse.
‘You asked why people kill,’ Melchior continued. ‘I will tell you why they kill. They kill out of fear and foolishness. Darling wife, I watch what goes on at our neighbours’ every day, and I pray that Sire Tweffell does not accidentally tumble down the stairs or that the troubles of his old age don’t induce a stomach sickness that quickly leads him to the grave. I pray that when he dies he will do so in the full view of others and in the manner that old men perish.’
‘Heavens have mercy. What are you saying?’
‘I speak of that which only the blind do not see. Were old Tweffell to die and Gerdrud to marry Kilian …’
‘What sinful talk is that? Really, Melchior.’
‘Kilian would then become a town citizen and inherit most of old Tweffell’s assets thus allowing him to become a man of quite some status – and not to mention that he would also gain a young, pretty wife with whom he is already head over heels in love.’
‘That’s true enough, but would Gerdrud consider marrying Kilian?’
‘Tell me, what does she think of then? Does she think of her old crippled husband’s stiff limbs and rotting legs while Kilian bats his eyelashes and endlessly woos her with his songs?’
‘Gerdrud is a faithful wife,’ Keterlyn replied determinedly.
‘And Kilian is a very astute young man. He stole a silver spoon from us, by the way, so slyly that I almost didn’t spot it.’
‘A spoon?’ Keterlyn said, amazed.
‘Yes, when I knocked them off of the table in feigned clumsiness. He sneakily slipped a spoon up his sleeve while he gathered them up. But Gerdrud? Yes, oh yes, of course she is chaste. What else would she be? Yet when has chastity ever stopped a woman from considering children and her happiness in life? Old Tweffell – who is a fine man and has done so much good for the town of Tallinn – simply married her so that he could make his final days just that bit more enjoyable. It is no accident that he boards that young relative in his house. Only a very stupid man would invite Kilian to live under his roof if he was married to Gerdrud. But Sire Tweffell is not a stupid man, and he has ordered Ludke to keep an eye on him. And it is for this reason that I say a small prayer every evening that old Tweffell not stumble on the stairs by chance and that Kilian and Gerdrud might have the wit to wait and be patient and humble. Patience is wisdom’s best companion, so said St Augustine. If my intuition does not deceive me then Tweffell has already written his last will and testament. However, my dear wife, people do kill over such things. They have killed before and will kill in the future, regardless of how innocent and chaste they may appear. Greed and carnal desire have driven people to bloodshed since biblical times.’
‘I cannot allow myself to believe that you think about Gerdrud and Kilian like that,’ Keterlyn whispered.
‘I don’t think anything. I simply watch what’s going on. Our magistrate is a fine man, but he often does not see the details, and he does not understand people, not in the way that some apothecaries can. He does not spot things that are right there in front of him
– although he is quite capable of making complicated matters very simple. It was he, for example, who suggested that Gallenreutter might have brought about his own demise with his allegory. Wentzel Dorn is my friend, and I must help him. That is why I sit here and think.’
‘You are thinking about the fact that the Dominicans’ habits are black and white,’ Keterlyn stated with a smirk after she had read through Melchior’s list again.
‘Yes. I cannot help the feeling that the Dominicans’ colours are somehow the key to this entire mystery. White, which symbolizes purity of the soul and the Lord’s grace, and black, which stands for the death that awaits us all and reminds us that it is every mortal’s duty to be prepared for it. These are also the colours on a chessboard. But what is significant is that, although the Dominicans wear a black cloak, Prior Eckell was not wearing one when he died this evening. Because it was warm he was only in his white tunic. Lay brothers wear almost the same clothing, although they have a black scapular instead of a white one. Aside from that they also wear a white tunic and a black cloak.’
‘Everyone knows that, Melchior. It’s hardly a secret.’
‘Exactly, although our Magistrate hasn’t spotted the significance.’
Keterlyn shook her head again slowly. ‘Do you not have too many keys and too many riddles?’
‘I do indeed. It seems to me that this entire affair is much simpler if viewed from the right angle, although I lack that one correct clue which explains all of the rest.’
‘I still don’t understand you.’ Keterlyn gently ruffled her husband’s hair and nipped at his ear. Melchior covered her hand with his and continued. Talking things through out loud helped him find the right path through the thicket of his thoughts, although the trail still seemed to lead nowhere.
‘Every sound from the northern nave of the Dominican church, where the Blackheads have their altar, is clearly audible in the dormitory. Is this not an interesting fact that our Magistrate has failed to pick up on? That it’s obvious that all the various strands of this affair appear to converge on the monastery?’
Apothecary Melchior and the Mystery of St Olaf's Church Page 24
