Apothecary Melchior and the Mystery of St Olaf's Church (28 page)

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 suffering. 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.

Once Melchior had finished he noticed a small bag of chess pieces and a wooden chessboard on the table in the corner of the room. Keterlyn had borrowed the set from their neighbour. Melchior poured himself a beer and unpacked the set. Tracing his fingers over the wooden pieces brought back old memories. His father had taught him what the pieces were – king, queen, bishops, knights, rooks and pawns – and that to win the game one must trap the opponent's king into a position where it will be taken on the next move or all of the other pieces have been taken. Melchior stared at the black and white pieces and was reminded again of the Dominicans' habit – white symbolizing the Lord's grace and black reminding us of our mortality and obligations towards our souls. The Apothecary remembered exactly how the pieces had been positioned on the board at the Dominican Monastery – not many had been left – and he now set the pieces up in this same way. Who was vanquishing whom? Was white defeating black, or was it the opposite? Wunbaldus the Prior, or the Prior the Lay Brother? Was it not an odd time to be playing chess – in the middle of the day, when both Eckell and Wunbaldus should have been run off their feet? Melchior was so engrossed in the state of the game that he did not notice the proud figure of Clawes Freisinger in his doorway.

‘A thousand greetings to you,' Freisinger bellowed – evidently he had been standing there for some time before Melchior had taken notice. ‘Is business not being done in the pharmacy today?'

‘Sire Freisinger?' Melchior rose. ‘Sire Blackhead.'

‘I heard sad news, Melchior,' Freisinger spoke in a more serious tone. ‘However, it concerns an ailment that medicine from a pharmacy is unlikely to able to counter.' He stepped in.

‘Caspar Gallenreutter and Brother Wunbaldus in a single day … Is there anything I can do for the Sire Blackhead?'

‘If only you could …' Freisinger sighed. ‘I came to look for Kilian, who appears to have vanished. I would like him to be present this evening with his instruments because the minstrels we usually invite have gone off to some manor today along with Councilman Herberstein. Then I thought I would step into the pharmacy for a moment as well …' He broke off, shook his head and said in a tone that sounded as if he were angry with himself, ‘Well, no, what tale am I spinning? I am indeed searching for Kilian, although I actually also wanted to hear better news in order to offset the bad. What is going on in Tallinn, Melchior? Has some kind of demented executioner been let loose upon the town?'

‘I don't yet know whether I can say anything for certain,' Melchior replied. ‘However, you mentioned this evening … Does that mean … ?'

Freisinger nodded. ‘Yes. At first even I thought that we should perhaps delay the beer-tasting now that the town's best brewer is dead. Nevertheless, the Prior himself sent word that nothing should be cancelled in the name of Wunbaldus's salvation, and everything must carry on as arranged. I was amazed, as you can imagine, because St Olaf's Guild ordered a mass to be said for Master Gallenreutter in the church, and it had all the appearance of a service during a time of plague. However, we cannot allow the Toompea Murderer to chop away at the town's good traditions, and what has been arranged should take place regardless.'

‘Agreed,' Melchior murmured.

‘I also heard from the monastery that you and the Magistrate went to inspect the body of the unfortunate Wunbaldus this morning. He now lies in the chapel awaiting the Prior's decision. There is word passing around through the monastery that Wunbaldus drank the poison himself. Melchior, do tell. What are we to make of such talk?'

‘We should all act according to our best judgement and not hold as true that which has not been proven. We should concentrate on what we
know for sure. Sire Freisinger, you were likely the last person to see Wunbaldus alive yesterday, were you not?' Melchior switched tack so abruptly that he surprised even himself. Freisinger might have taken his question as inappropriate, even impolite, but the merchant only nodded seriously; his eyes were crystal clear, and sadness flashed in their depths, the Apothecary noted.

‘I do believe I was one of the last. I had matters to conduct at the monastery. Hinricus and I needed to tally our accounts because something had got mixed up somewhere. The Blackheads needed to buy candles for the guild's altar, but both of our calculations spoke a different tongue. We went down to the garden to count the candles, and Wunbaldus was standing right there busying himself with the grain measures, weighing out the correct amount for a new batch of beer.'

‘So he had brewing on his mind and not the drinking of poison?'

‘Holy heavens, I don't know what was on his mind. We spoke together briefly as we walked from the garden towards the dormitory. I joked about today's tasting and whether he would be greatly saddened if the Blackheads' beer triumphed over the monks', but he simply replied that that would perhaps be heavenly will.'

‘Afterwards he took confession at the Church of the Holy Ghost,' said Melchior.

‘So I heard – although he was heading off towards his own chamber after we said farewell.'

‘And he did not seem to be overly serious or in any way ill?'

‘Ill? Certainly not – although his demeanour was always serious. I never once saw him laugh – and our monks are not exactly reclusive souls once they get behind a tankard of beer.'

‘Unquestionably.' Melchior nodded. ‘One could never say that our Prior does not laugh raucously at times, although he has not done so of late. He appears to be quite sick.'

Freisinger concurred. Prior Eckell had grown more and more frail over the period that the Blackhead had been visiting the monastery. His gaze then fell upon the chessboard.

‘Has the Sire Apothecary begun playing chess as well?' he asked. ‘I suppose it is becoming ever more popular – I even heard that the Harju vassals play chess instead of rolling dice these days.'

‘No, I don't really play,' Melchior answered. ‘I was just trying to remember what my father taught me about the game.'

‘That I can see,' Freisinger replied and concentrated for a moment on the state of play.

‘Can the Sire Blackhead play chess?' Melchior asked.

‘A little. Not that I would dare play against the Harju vassals for money, but sometimes I do for fun. Prior Eckell and I have waged a few battles.'

‘Ah. Hm. And with Wunbaldus as well?'

‘Oh, he was a true master – always routing the Prior,' the merchant spoke absentmindedly and squinted at the chessboard, studying the pieces. ‘Now then, Melchior, there is something wrong here. This is a very unusual way for a game to have progressed.'

‘How so?'

The merchant explained with enthusiasm. ‘Well, first, how have the pawns ended up here? Second, the black pawn will take the white knight here on the next move. White will be left with only his king, queen and two rooks – see, these towers here. The white king will be defeated after a couple of moves, as the queen will not be able to come to his assistance in time – there would be two knights, a rook and a bishop attacking her. The white player's only chance is to bring a rook in to protect the king, but then his queen will most likely fall.'

Melchior stared at the board, and for a moment it was as if human faces had materialized on the black-and-white board in place of the pieces. The carved wooden figures were made human, and he now saw something completely different from Freisinger's explanation – but what exactly this was he did not yet understand. The thought flitted away from him, although for a brief instant it felt real enough for him to seize hold of it.

‘That is very interesting,' Melchior murmured. ‘Is there no way white can triumph?'

‘Triumph? Only if black abandons all plans to win, and if this knight here and this rook and pawn are all sacrificed. Then, perhaps. As it is now white can only hope that the rook protects the king, meaning that the queen will fall and which will merely delay the white king's demise. Black would have to lay down its arms. Best case would be that the white king would remain under the protection of its rooks and without the queen will be left in a position where it can neither win nor lose. However, black would still have to play very foolishly for this to happen.'

‘So white will be overpowered …'

‘Whether the king submits to check and acknowledges its defeat or is
protected by the rooks the queen will fall either way. Neither player would then win. And that would defeat the object of the game – it would be a failed match.'

Melchior studied the positions of the pieces excitedly. Once more, for a brief moment, living souls and faces appeared before him on the table; the key was so close … He recalled his father's words, ‘The knight and bishops are weapons – they must be used for attack – pawns, although at first they seem weak and defenceless, may also be strong in attack. Whoever loses his weapons also loses the game.'

‘Why did you say that this is such an unusual way for a game to progress?' Melchior asked animatedly.

The merchant shrugged. ‘Games typically do not reach this point. White must have played very carelessly, and it would have been wiser to concede earlier and begin a new game. Would you like to start playing chess, Melchior?' It seemed that Freisinger had now lost interest in the topic.

‘Possibly. It is said that chess is a metaphor for the natural arrangement of people's lives and of world affairs. And my father wished for me to understand the game, but I'm sorry to say I have forgotten what he taught me.'

‘So it may be,' Freisinger nodded. ‘However, one occasionally hears in sermons that chess is evil because it has no god and no faith – and nor can it, because a person may not rise to the status of God and start playing with Him as if with a chess piece.'

Melchior blinked rapidly. ‘That depends on how you look at it …'

‘True,' Freisinger conceded, ‘because the holy brothers play it, and, well, it is just a game after all. And we, the Blackheads, enjoy all manner of games and feats of strength.'

The two bade one another good-day, and Melchior promised he would definitely be sampling beer in the Brotherhood of Blackheads' guildhall in a couple of hours, because ritual is ritual and it must be observed. After Freisinger had left the Apothecary immersed himself in the chess game once more. He stared at the board at length, and at last a sorrowful smile mixed with astonishment crept on to his face.