Magistrate Dorn stepped towards Freisinger with his glinting sword raised, followed by the court servants.
‘What do you have to say in response to the accusation?’ he asked.
‘Is this is some kind of a joke?’ Freisinger asked in an icy tone. He stood proudly with a defiant sneer on his face and his arms crossed. ‘This apothecary cannot truly swear by the names of all the saints that this is really the absolute truth,’ he added.
‘Oh, but it is the truth, and by the names of all the saints I accuse you, Sire Clawes Freisinger, of these murders. And, in my mind, I had accused you of killing Gallenreutter from the very moment that I found the Tallinn artig in his mouth, because you, Sire Freisinger, were the only person in the town other than the Commander, Magistrate Dorn and me who knew that a coin had been placed in Clingenstain’s mouth and that his head had been driven on to a stake. Yet you did not know what kind of coin it had been. And you swore to a lie when you claimed to have spoken of this to Hinricus. You spoke of it to no one – Brother Hinricus had nothing to do with these killings. And it was you, Freisinger, who asked about a bounty immediately, as if you knew the identity of Clingenstain’s killer. You knew that it was Wunbaldus because you had been near the Blackheads’ altar in the Dominican Monastery the previous evening when you overheard Brother Wunbaldus confessing his crime to the Prior.’
‘Yes, I was there – yes, I was – but I didn’t hear a thing,’ Freisinger snapped.
‘You most certainly did – at least enough to know that Wunbaldus had killed the Knight. But you didn’t approach the Council with this knowledge because you were waiting for a bounty to be offered. Then, however, during Smeckeldach you heard what Gallenreutter had dug up from under St Olaf’s, and a man within you awoke – the man you were when you arrived here, the man you were sent here to be: a murderer. What I heard was you two making a trade. Gallenreutter reckoned that one of the guests at the Brotherhood of Blackheads, one of the guilds’ aldermen, might be the man he was looking for. He made a false claim that Tallinn was a poor town where hardly anyone would want to pay him to keep quiet. And it was you, Freisinger, who said in reply that Tallinn – and the Blackheads – had an abundance of wealth. You threatened Gallenreutter, saying the Blackheads would reach for their weapons – sadly he took no notice. With this statement you told Gallenreutter that you were the very man for whom he was searching and that you had enough money to pay for his silence. And the deal was done. A barrel of Riga silver, and Gallenreutter would remain silent. Oh yes, yes, he fell silent all right, although he did so for all eternity because you could not allow the fact that he had read the verse and would now know the master mason’s name. The Blackheads have always been secretive, and not much is known of your own past. You Blackheads came to this town at some time yet have always kept to yourselves. I must now believe that some ancient pact ties you to brotherhoods of church builders, whose symbol is a trowel and a compass and which are similarly organized into their own brotherhoods, veiled in mystery, that are scattered throughout German towns. This pact requires you to keep watch to ensure the name of the builder of St Olaf’s Church remains a secret. So Gallenreutter had to die. First, however, was Wigbold, whom you knew as Wunbaldus. You were a daily guest at the monastery, Freisinger, because the Blackheads’ altar is there. No one paid the least attention to you when you called on Wunbaldus and doubtless set a fantastic brew before him for the tasting, having slipped the arsenic stolen from Eckell into the beer. It was for this reason that you tested the arsenic on that unfortunate horse. The arsenic was deadly. Eckell spoke often of his fear of plague and at some point had told you what was in his amulet. When Wunbaldus was dead you stole a Dominican habit. You dressed in his clothes and rushed off to take confession because the secrecy of the confessional is not sacred for a man who commits suicide, and so all would soon find out that Wunbaldus killed both the Knight of the Order and the Master Mason. Then Gallenreutter’s time was up. You had stolen an axe from the workshop at St Nicholas’s earlier and hidden it not far from the meeting place. Before you used the axe, however, you killed Gallenreutter with a dagger. St Nicholas’s churchyard is well hidden from prying eyes – an appropriate place for two conspirators to meet, and Gallenreutter would not have suspected any foul play. You had by this time made sure word had spread throughout the town about the Knight’s head being staked to the wall. What next? Only Eckell remained. You were both at the monastery the next day, and you dissolved arsenic into his food or drink while you were there. Why? Because Eckell would have found out the truth sooner or later. You knew that he and Wunbaldus were friends and Eckell would not believe the story about the Lay Brother’s confession. You poisoned him in the hope that he would perish immediately at the monastery and that no one would have the slightest suspicion of poisoning because the Prior was known to be old and sick. Yet you were unaware that the Prior’s body was already accustomed to the arsenic after having inhaled the poison for many years. He did die, but he died less quickly than you would have wished. He died, but he still managed to tell us who his murderer was before his final breath. “You poisoned.” Those were his last words.’
Freisinger listened to Melchior contemptuously and shook his head. Only Dorn noticed that a cold sweat had broken out on his forehead and that his cheek twitched slightly.
‘What a load of mindless nonsense,’ he snorted. ‘The Apothecary is always going on about poison. He swore by the names of all the saints, and so now I, too, swear by the same oath that it is untrue. Yes, take me before a Council trial and allow them to judge according to Lübeck law whether an apothecary’s yarn trumps an honest merchant’s account when he swears by the names of all the saints.’
‘Do not insult the saints or swear to a lie in their name,’ Melchior shouted, livid. ‘You certainly swore to a lie earlier when you vowed to Master Casendorpe’s daughter that you would take her as your wife. You came to this town as a bachelor and thus became an alderman of the Brotherhood of Blackheads, just as your pact with the church builders apparently prescribed. And you were supposed to remain a bachelor. However, you fell in love with Hedwig, and the secret of St Olaf’s Church seemed to be buried for all eternity, so you began to forget the true reason for your presence here. You wanted to marry Hedwig and become a citizen of Tallinn, and you would happily have given up your association with the Blackheads. No doubt someone new would have been sent, and you would have been freed from your obligation, but Gallenreutter’s discovery struck like a bolt of lightening from clear sky. One day you had vowed to wed Hedwig, and the next you told her that you were now not ready for marriage and did not want to make her unhappy. You thrust away the love of a young woman – for whose hand half the young goldsmiths in the Hanseatic towns would have run their legs to the bone – because you were already bound by a blood oath. Gallenreutter, Wunbaldus and Eckell had to die, and you would remain the Sire Blackhead and guardian of the secret of St Olaf’s.’
‘That is only your claim? Your fairy-tales and contrived fantasies?’ Freisinger retorted. ‘Yes, let Lübeck law weigh up this apothecary’s tale. No one can be accused of murder because of legends and because he did not marry a girl. The Blackheads number many in Tallinn and in other towns as well. They will rise in my defence, because the claims of one apothecary –’
‘It is not only the claim of one apothecary,’ Melchior said, cutting off Freisinger’s words, ‘because we all witnessed Prior Eckell’s last testimony. He knew the identity of his killer just as we all do now. Why did you do it? Maybe because it was so simple. To mix odourless, tasteless arsenic into his drink – it was so simple. You were already used to killing. A murderer is like a weed in a garden. He will sprout time and time again because he believes he has the right to do so, that he must do so. Let us revisit the Prior’s last moments. He was no longer able to speak, but he was still capable of commanding his body. He ripped the treacherous amulet from around his neck and cast it towards us; he showed us where the poison came from
. He accused someone, he pointed towards someone – towards whom exactly? He demonstrated it to us. He managed to pull the Commander’s black scapular down on to his head – black head. He told us it was a Blackhead and accused him. “You poisoned.”’
‘That is absurd,’ Freisinger shouted. ‘Absurd. A mad old monk’s convulsions before death – ha! Black head … This apothecary is out of his mind.’
‘What was absurd was your foolish attempt to make us believe that no poison had been in Eckell’s food and drink,’ Melchior continued. ‘It was childish and idiotic, because no person in their right mind would dare taste food consumed by a man who had just died of poisoning. You wished to demonstrate to us the Blackheads’ integrity and innocence, but you merely demonstrated your own foolishness. You showed us that you knew Eckell’s drink had not been poisoned, and you knew this because you had administered poison to him several hours earlier.’
Freisinger’s words became lodged in his throat. He continued to stand defiantly but was unable to reply when faced with Melchior’s confidence. Every man in the room stared at him blankly, except Dorn and the Councilman, who exchanged a glance. Dorn did not know what to do now. Should a Council trial be convened immediately? He did not notice Melchior wink at Kilian – as if giving him a signal or looking for assistance – and the boy, who up until that time had been poring over Melchior’s sheets of paper, waved his arm.
‘Wait just a moment, wait now,’ Kilian appealed and continued speaking without waiting for Dorn’s permission. ‘I wish to say that this riddle, this song written here … something had already tickled my ear before, although you wouldn’t notice it before reading these lines … That is, I know who is he, who is afore all. It’s written here that solemn Death drapes in his cloak he who is afore all, and then later that in eternal secrecy be affirmed the first’s oath of flesh. He who is afore all is before these lines, these lines of text. If you read down the first letters of the sentences one by one from top to bottom, then … then a person’s name lies here.’
‘The name of the builder of St Olaf’s Church, yes,’ Melchior confirmed. ‘Who died and whose bones were buried beneath St Olaf’s.’
‘And the name is, well, that is … it is incomplete.’ Kilian continued heatedly.
‘Because we do not have the last three lines of the song, although those are unimportant.’
‘But one can nevertheless still read here …’ Kilian exclaimed. ‘That the name is C-O-N-R –’
Kilian had barely managed to pronounce the letters, when he was interrupted by a ghastly roar erupting from Freisinger’s throat. He had pulled a dagger from his breast pocket at lightning speed and was rushing towards Kilian.
‘Silence, you idiot minstrel,’ Freisinger howled. ‘That name is a secret if you want the church to endure. Shut your mouth.’
Dorn was none the less defter than the younger Blackhead. He leaped in front of Freisinger, barging him with his shoulder and knocking the dagger from his hand as the two court servants seized Freisinger from behind.
The merchant thrashed in their grip, struggling to break free, and screamed in rage, ‘You fools, you don’t understand what you are doing. It is forbidden to say that name. It must remain secret or your church will fall into ruin, your town will fall into ruin …’
Dorn pressed the tip of his sword against Freisinger’s breast and demanded, ‘Stand still. Do you now admit it? Do you admit your guilt? Do you admit to killing Wunbaldus, Gallenreutter and the Prior? Do you admit it, or shall Kilian read the name aloud? Kilian, read.’
Kilian had no time to do so. Freisinger’s voice burst with loathing and rage.
‘I admit, yes, I admit it. Yes, I killed them. Order that minstrel to stay silent.’
‘To the prison cell. Take him to the prison cell,’ Dorn commanded. ‘In the name of the Grand Master of the Order, the town and Lübeck law, take him to the prison cell.’
31
ST MICHAEL’S CONVENT, THE BREWERY TAVERN
22 MAY, AFTERNOON
EVERY NOW AND again Melchior really enjoyed spending time here at the St Michael’s Convent brewery – which nestled right up against the wall between the Nunnadetagune and Gut Dack towers – where the nuns sold beer to the townsfolk. It was a quiet part of town, and a somewhat higher class of customer – journeyman artisans, vassal servants, town watchmen and members of the monastery – drank here compared with those who went outside the town walls. The holy sisters’ beer had a pleasant, bitter taste, and Melchior was especially partial to one of the brews that the nuns flavoured with mint. On this tranquil afternoon the Apothecary sat with Kilian and Brother Hinricus, who had finally managed to slip away from the monastery. The last few days had been quite difficult for the cellarius, as he had been tasked with a great deal of written correspondence, organizing a funeral service and the reorganization of monastery affairs. Sub-prior Gerbhardus was an old man, and so the younger brothers were required to take on the running of the monastery, while he spent his days praying in the chapel. Melchior was glad that he had been able to get out of the pharmacy for a spell, because word had spread throughout the town that it was he who had assisted the Council in capturing the murderer, and so a steady stream of townspeople had been stopping by his pharmacy demanding news – and, of course, to buy his goods. Melchior’s business was booming, but it was tiring. Still, he was certainly now a step closer towards his dream of a house on Town Hall Square.
At the moment, however, Melchior, Hinricus and Kilian took swigs of beer and discussed the incredible events that had occurred over the last few days in Tallinn. The Commander, the Dominicans and the Town Council had held a fierce debate over what to do with the body of Wunbaldus, or Wigbold, so that relations between the town, the monks and the Teutonic Order should not be too disrupted. In the end Wunbaldus’s body was handed over to the Order – it was hanged at the gallows then dumped in the mud at Tõnismäe. His body was then disposed of as the Dominican Lay Brother Wunbaldus, because neither the Commander nor the town – not to mention the monks – wanted it known that he was once a Victual Brother thought to have died years before. There was no hard proof to support that theory anyway; Wigbold’s name was not mentioned in any monastery document. The town of Tallinn did not want the reputation of having provided sanctuary to a thief notorious across the Baltic Sea. The Council simply announced to the townspeople that Wunbaldus and Clingenstain had an argument, and the monk beheaded him in a fit of rage and later breathed his last during a harsh bout of penitence at the monastery. The Toompea Murderer was dead, the Order had received the killer’s body from the town, and it was executed in an appropriate manner. And may that dreadful story be forgotten henceforth.
What Hinricus now told Melchior, however, was that the man had been confirmed as having been the infamous Wigbold. Old Gerbhardus had known. That old man – Eckell’s peer – had also been at the monastery in Visby and remembered Wigbold well. Hinricus saw tears amongst the wrinkles below Gerbhardus’s eyes when the Order attendants arrived at the monastery to drag Wunbaldus’s body up to Toompea. The old man admitted to Hinricus in private that the prayers he had said for Wigbold had not helped – once a murderer, always a murderer.
‘He escaped the executioner’s axe, but Satan had marked the murderer’s soul,’ the old man whispered. ‘St Catherine sees that he repented his sins. He saved three Dominicans from the fury of his own brothers, yet he was not forgiven for those other souls whose bodies rest at the bottom of the sea. His greatest sin was that he called himself a friend to the Lord.’
‘Wigbold survived one death and will live through another,’ Melchior said to Hinricus. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if some will see him as a kind of hero one day, although he will for ever remain a mystery. But, Hinricus, tell me, have you forgiven me for my ignoble scheming?’
‘I wasn’t angry with you,’ Hinricus replied with a smile. ‘Of course, it all happened so fast that I was truly unable to believe that you were really accusing me of the ki
llings. I have always believed that you are a sensible man and that such madness could have come upon you … However, when Freisinger lied in the names of all the saints then I understood immediately that it must have been a trap. Why else would he have had to tell such a dreadful untruth?’
‘I had to be certain,’ Melchior replied, ‘certain that if he were given the chance to shift the blame on to someone else that he would do it. The man thinks very quickly, but this time he thought too quickly. I had to be absolutely confident that he was lying because otherwise I would not have dared to approach the Council with my accusations. Your surprise also had to be genuine for him to take the bait. After his lie I knew I was right, and then everything fell into place.’
Apothecary Melchior and the Mystery of St Olaf's Church Page 32
