Apothecary Melchior and the Mystery of St Olaf's Church (35 page)

‘I only know of one golden collar that it could be, one that I made with my own hands, and Wunbaldus was said to have pilfered that. So, what golden collar?' Casendorpe roared.

Casendorpe had left his journeymen in charge of the workshop to take a turn or two around the town with his daughter to show everyone that nothing was wrong with Hedwig, that she was a beautiful and desirable young girl – and if anyone dared to suggest that she had been dumped by a Blackhead then that was a shameless lie, and the slanderer should have their tongue ripped out. And at that very moment the Casendorpes ran into Clawes Freisinger. The Blackhead, who was sporting a new feathered cap, had just come through the gate – no doubt from somewhere behind St Barbara's Chapel or a tavern on Tõnismägi that he often frequented. Upon seeing them Freisinger stopped dead and bowed politely to Casendorpe and to Hedwig, who turned away from him.

‘Aha, Sire Blackhead,' the Goldsmith snapped, ‘are you busy scouring the town for a new bride?'

‘No, Master Casendorpe,' Freisinger replied civilly. ‘I have just been to St Barbara's Chapel. As we did not have a chance to speak yesterday following that terrible incident, I am asking you now to accept my apologies.'

‘Apologies,' Casendorpe barked.

‘Indeed,' Freisinger returned. His voice was steady and clear, but his eyes were sad. He discreetly pointed towards a street that ran in the direction of Karja Gate, past the poorer houses that lined the city wall and which had many yards that were safe from the eyes of passers-by. ‘I implore you, Master Casendorpe, please be so kind as to give me a minute of your time.'

A few minutes later, standing between the town wall and a copse of lindens, Freisinger bowed deeply again towards Hedwig and said, ‘Please accept my apologies and with them my affirmation that I truly have no plans to marry any time soon. May lightning strike me if I lie and I were to search for a bride in Tallinn or elsewhere else. I would never want to force anyone into marriage, but nor can I force myself when I feel I am not yet ready to be a good husband – especially to such a beautiful young woman as you, Hedwig.'

Hedwig sobbed, and Casendorpe said angrily, ‘Better that you cease tormenting the girl.'

‘I genuinely regard Maiden Hedwig to be the most virtuous and lovely young woman within the town of Tallinn, and I would be the happiest man in the world were I able to offer her my hand and my heart. But I cannot, in all conscience, coax her into a marriage in which she would be unhappy,' Freisinger replied. His eyes now begged for understanding and forgiveness just as intensely as they had begged for Hedwig's gentle touch just a few days earlier.

The girl could no longer hold back the full flood of her tears, but to cover this she shouted, ‘Don't even dare to think that I could have ever been happy as your wife. If I agreed to marry you then it was only out of duty to my father and to my family.'

Freisinger nodded, crestfallen, and addressed the Goldsmith. ‘Think back to your youth, Sire Goldsmith. Did you not feel doubt gnawing at your heart when you stepped up to the altar? Did you not ask yourself whether love – as sweet and beautiful as it may seem – requires more for growing into a blissful marriage than you could offer at that moment? Did you not say to yourself, “Yes, I do indeed love this girl, but am I able
to be a good husband to her, the kind that she truly deserves?” I asked myself exactly that, and I replied, after looking deep into my heart, “Not yet.” I am not yet worthy of your daughter Hedwig, who is too virtuous in her youth, in her gentleness and innocence, to be a companion to a man such as myself.'

‘In other words,' Casendorpe spat angrily, ‘you do not wish to give up the life and freedoms of a Blackhead, which many a pastor would call –'

‘In other words, I wish to remain true to myself, to my friends and to the young maiden, whom I truly love. I am honest enough not to want to make her – or her family – unhappy. I wanted to tell you all this yesterday evening, to thank you, after what had happened, for still accepting the invitation to the Brotherhood of Blackheads and for honouring us with your presence. I would have said every word of this yesterday had Prior Eckell's horrific death not taken place.'

Hedwig truly could not hold back her tears any longer. She clung to her father's sleeve and cried, ‘If you have the heart to admit that you love me, then where is this show of honesty towards yourself if you wish to marry someone else?'

‘I assure you again that nothing would make me happier than to find the courage within myself, right here and right now, to fall down on one knee before you and offer you my hand and my heart,' Freisinger said softly. ‘I genuinely ask your forgiveness, Hedwig. I do not know any young woman in all of Livonia worthier than you, and I appeal to all the saints that they guide you to a suitor who is worthy of you.'

‘I … I, on the other hand, would rather become the wife of some journeyman tanner before I would ever become yours.'

‘Whatever makes you happy, dear maiden,' Freisinger said despairingly.

‘Don't talk rubbish, girl,' Casendorpe reprimanded. ‘In any case, it is time for us to leave. I had not planned on wasting my time with you, Freisinger.'

‘I, on the other hand, am very glad that we met,' said the Blackhead, ‘for my soul aches, and I ask forgiveness for everything that I might have allowed to transpire in my carelessness. Farewell, Maiden Hedwig. I beg you to find room for me in your prayers, just as I shall for you, now and for ever.'

They went their separate ways. On reaching Kuninga Street Casendorpe encountered a Court servant who had had been looking for him.
The servant brought a message from Magistrate Dorn. The Magistrate had requested that a number of esteemed citizens of Tallinn come to his official chambers that evening, men who were able to provide testimony regarding the dreadful murders and who had been authorized by the Tallinn Council to decide whether the town's obligation to deliver the murderer to Toompea's authority had been fulfilled. As such, Sire Dorn had the honour of requesting Sire Casendorpe, as the Alderman of St Canute's Guild, be amongst these men.

Casendorpe said that he would certainly attend. A very odd request, indeed, he thought. He believed, however, that the invitation came from Melchior rather than the Magistrate.

G
REAT
G
UILD
A
LDERMAN
Mertin Tweffell was secure in the knowledge that he could regard himself as one of the wealthiest men in Tallinn. Whether or not this wealth – or rather the donations to churches and the masses paid for with it – had been enough would become clear when he departed this world in the not-too-distant future. There was no doubt in his mind that this would be soon. He felt his vitality gradually leaving his body, his organs falling one after another like soldiers on a battlefield, his soul preparing to depart its aged vessel. He reassured himself that he was an honest Christian, although he was perfectly well aware that he had seen faith just as another trade deal, as a contract. It was only in recent months that he had begun to doubt whether or not his own end of this bargain had been met as diligently as it should have been. He realized that had he attended church more regularly, given larger donations, paid closer attention to sermons, searched for signs that everything was still right with his contract and that the goods would be delivered, that he would enter Heaven. When he spoke with clergymen about this matter they talked of the dangers that lie in wait for all men at the point of death. They told Tweffell that he should not be too proud or arrogant, that he must be humble and patient, that he must hope. Impatience is a temptation, and it is Satan's trick for leading a man off the righteous path of death.

Tweffell had not been satisfied with their words. He was really interested solely in conducting his worldly affairs in peace and knowing that he no longer need worry about Heaven, that his provisions had been noted and the contract fulfilled by all parties. Mertin Tweffell still had a few matters to set right in the world, and this entitlement – to recognize
good and evil and to act accordingly – had been given, he was absolutely convinced, to man by God along with a sense of reason.

A court servant had come calling around noon and informed him of the Magistrate's desire that the merchant appear at his official chambers before evening. Tweffell considered briefly whether or not to go to speak of this with the Town Council; however, he decided there was little point in doing so. He had nothing to fear from the Council – the members of the Council were almost all also members of the Great Guild, and he would have received word if his neighbour Melchior had figured something out, something important.

Mertin Tweffell sat in the rear chamber of his house, and, although the weather was clement, he had ordered Ludke to heat up his foot warmer. His old body required extra heat – and he always came up with his best ideas when in a warmer place. The merchant ordered Ludke to bring him a bottle of spiced wine along with a holy book about the life of a saint. He then also requested a sermon inscribed upon a scroll, which he had purchased from St Nicholas's Church and which had been blessed. And, finally, Ludke was to bring him a crucifix.

When he noticed the shocked expression on the boy's face Tweffell added with a chuckle, ‘Don't imagine for a second that I'm about to drop dead, you dog. These are meant for you.'

Tweffell then commanded Ludke to tell him where the other members of the household were at that moment. Mistress Gerdrud was in the kitchen preparing supper, the old maid was doing the laundry in the courtyard and Kilian, when last heard of, had been hanging about in a garden near Karja Gate strumming his lute.

‘Ah, so,' Tweffell said, drumming his fingers on the tabletop, ‘very good. Now, Ludke, tell me. Do you know what it means to swear in the names of all the saints?'

‘It is very sacred and important, and one must not swear to a lie or else the saints will punish you,' the boy responded quickly. If Ludke was uneasy he managed to hide the emotion behind his expressionless face. He did not fool Tweffell with this act, of course, otherwise the old man would never have employed the boy as his servant. A sharp intelligence was hidden behind the boy's dim-witted, rough appearance. Curses, the mutt even played chess better than Tweffell.

‘Now, tell me whether you understand what it means to lie to your master,' Tweffell continued.

Ludke cast his eyes to the side and recited, ‘It is a much worse thing than swearing to a lie in the names of all the saints. It is the worst thing that a servant can do because it will be the last lie of his life.'

‘Precisely so. Now, place one hand on this holy book and the other on the crucifix and lean closer to me.'

Ludke did as he was commanded, but as he bent his face to within reach of Tweffell's hands the old man suddenly grabbed the boy by his jaw with his long, stiff fingers, squeezing so hard that his fingernails broke through Ludke's skin and a sharp pain shot through the boy's body.

‘Listen to me now,' hissed the old man. ‘I want to impart a few words of wisdom because, Lord knows, I believe you need to hear them. Listen carefully now. I am already an old man and am not long for this world. So that things that I have regarded as fair might remain so after my death I have set you a number of tasks that I believe you have fulfilled to the letter. However, if I ever find out that you have lied to me, Ludke, then you will be driven out of Tallinn and forbidden ever to step foot within its walls again – ever. You will continue to live, yet it will be the life of a blind, dumb cripple who must beg, rolling in the mud outside the taverns, for alms with the single remaining hand that he has left. So … You already know this, of course. But now, slave, you will swear to me in the names of all the saints, and your own salvation as well, that everything you told me about Toompea was the truth and nothing but the truth, otherwise you will find yourself a blind and crippled mute, Ludke.'

He released the boy's face from his grip and took a sip of wine. Ludke appeared to consider for a moment how best to hold both the holy book and the crucifix, then placed the book on the table, set his right hand on top and extended his left hand in which he held the crucifix.

‘I swear in the names of all the saints,' he said, even, despite the gravity of the situation, managing somehow to maintain an air of dissociation, ‘that it was all the truth and nothing but the truth, and not one single word was false. Everything that I told you I witnessed with my own eyes.'

Tweffell stared at Ludke, burrowed into the boy's eyes with his owl's gaze and concluded that it probably had to be the truth. He had witnessed much duplicity and falsehood during his years as a merchant.

‘So the whole thing was true, that you remained on Toompea to keep an eye on Kilian after I left?'

‘The Almighty's truth.' The boy nodded.

‘And you saw him singing and drinking with the Order attendants?'

‘With my own eyes.'

‘And you saw that …'

‘I saw that he was left there alone, and he slipped into the house where that knight was staying and came out again very soon after, went back to the churchyard and carried on singing to the attendants.'

‘And afterwards?'

‘Afterwards I followed carefully so no one saw me when he started walking down to the town, and I saw with my own eyes that he came to the side of the well here near our house and hid something behind a loose stone at its base. And he believed that no one saw him.'

‘And
after
that?' Tweffell demanded.

‘After that I did everything precisely as I was commanded – and Master himself knows that this command was fulfilled.'

‘Yes,
that
I certainly know now,' Tweffell said. ‘That we may know for a fact because matters are indeed as they stand and justice has been done. However …'