Apothecary Melchior and the Mystery of St Olaf's Church (25 page)

‘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 Magistrate 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.

‘Gallenreutter … Gallenreutter has been killed?' the monk shouted in a tremulous voice as he approached. ‘Is it true?'

‘Yes, Father. The Toompea Murderer has made the Master Mason of St Olaf's shorter by the length of a head,' Dorn replied and bowed.

The Prior came closer, drew back in shock upon seeing the headless body and crossed himself. Hinricus stood behind him, deathly white, mumbling a prayer.

‘By the Lord's will, this was not the only death in Tallinn last night,' Eckell spoke gravely, ashen-faced. His left eye twitched nervously as he looked up from the corpse. ‘Magistrate, you have no power within our walls according to canon law, but I request that you accompany us to the monastery. Melchior, you, too, please.'

‘Father, is there also … in the
monastery
… ?' Melchior asked, horrified.

‘Brother Wunbaldus,' Eckell replied. ‘The Almighty has called him unto his own. I would like you to see him.'

‘Brother Wunbaldus? Dead?' Dorn cried. ‘Him, too?'

The Prior lowered his eyes and swayed.

Hinricus buttressed him and said, ‘He did not come to morning prayers today, nor did he attend to his duties at the brewery. The esteemed Prior held morning mass for the Blackheads, and then we went to search for him. He died wracked by dreadful torments.'

T
HE
D
OMINICANS' BLACK
robe serves to remind us that we are all mortal and that everyone is equal in death, Melchior pondered as he stepped once more through the doorway to the monastery. Today it seemed quieter in the courtyard – death had breathed here, and death's breath brings silence and an icy chill. We avoid speaking loudly in the presence of death, as if the Grim Reaper has not yet departed, as if he is searching for his next victim and we might draw attention to ourselves. Perhaps death was lurking right here in the garden of the monastery, in the damp soil beneath the fruit trees, where Brother Wunbaldus used to busy himself; where medicinal herbs and vegetables grew in rows planted straight as rope; where the monk came to pick peppermint and cress to flavour the Dominicans' beer. Death's cloak was shrouding the monastery. One of their own had departed that day, but it had not been a natural departure, this Melchior sensed immediately, although the Prior and Hinricus had been quiet on the subject. There was mourning here but also anxiety blacker than the Dominican cloak, deeper than the knowledge that death will some day come for every one of us. There was something wrong about this passing, otherwise the Prior would not have requested the Magistrate's presence.

They moved in silence. Hinricus opened the creaking door to Wunbaldus's chamber. The Prior crossed himself, and Hinricus lowered his eyes. Dorn looked towards Melchior questioningly then ducked to pass through the low doorway and disappeared into the room. Melchior followed.

Everything in the room was almost as it had been the previous time –
relics on the shelf, the half-built wall of the passageway through which a dull light seeped into the chamber, a chair and work desk, a pitcher of water, two beer tankards, a box of chess pieces and a mattress – but today Wunbaldus was lying on the latter. His soul had departed, and this must have happened in the throes of dreadful torments indeed. A stench hung in the room. The Dominicans had not yet washed and cleansed their departed brother.

Wunbaldus's stiffened body was curled up, his rigid fingers clasping at his chest as if he had tried to tear the source of his pain from his body. He lay with his head arched back, pain disfiguring his face, his chest covered in foul matter. Wunbaldus's white tunic … yes, it was blood, stained with brown spots both around his torso and on his sleeves.

Dorn had frozen in front of the corpse in shock.

‘He … he's … ?' he stammered, unable to finish his sentence.

‘From as much as I know about the art of healing,' the Prior spoke in a cracked voice, ‘and all Dominicans know a thing or two about that, he died last night not long after evening prayers. I did not see Wunbaldus there, but he had many jobs to do, so we did not search for him yesterday evening. I thought that he would be in his chamber.'

‘And here he was, it seems,' Melchior said quietly. ‘You realize, of course, that death arrived in a manner that points to some ghastly sickness.'

‘As far as I know he was in good health. I am the one here whose soul teeters on the brink.' The Prior nodded to Melchior. He approached the body, squeezed Wunbaldus's joints lightly, forced open his eyelids, opened his mouth, sniffed, unfastened his tunic and inspected his body.