Apothecary Melchior and the Mystery of St Olaf's Church (12 page)

I know not how I can stand it

No joy nor consolation nor hope have I

The lone knight is defeated, ground into dust …

T
HAT AFTERNOON
M
ELCHIOR
walked along Pikk Street, where work on the main building of the Great Guild was under way. He strolled past the rear of the Church of the Holy Ghost and then down Munga Street, which led to the Dominican Monastery and their new church dedicated to St Catherine. The Dominicans were to be found in a quieter part of the town, edged up against the wall and at a slight remove from the daily bustle and clamour of the busier streets, yet still close enough so that they could easily make their way out to preach amongst the townsfolk.

Tallinn will no longer be recognizable in a few years, Melchior mused. Sire Dorn was right. There was construction work everywhere: here, members of the Great Guild were building themselves a structure nearly as grand as the Town Hall; there, St Olaf's Church was being raised to evermore lofty heights; along the wall St Catherine's Church had been completed just a few years ago, but the Dominicans were already putting up new buildings within the monastery walls. Work was in full swing everywhere, and the Magistrate should actually be pleased by that fact. A town that does not continue to build is marked by death, and Tallinn's endless expansion meant that it was attracting greater wealth. New faces arrived from Germany every summer, not to mention those from even more distant parts of the Holy Roman Empire. A merchant from Burgundy had even purchased a residence behind the weighing-house, and the number of people from Bruges and elsewhere was growing as well.

Today, however, the mood in the town was agitated, as court servants walking through the streets proclaimed in their clear, shrill and commanding voices that the Town Council was pursuing a murderer. One
crier walked past Melchior at the corner of Munga Street, proclaiming, ‘And, therefore, all citizens allegiant to the town of Tallinn who have become aware of the location in which this very murderer doth conceal himself, or of his name, must appear at once before the Tallinn Council and declare these facts and confirm this statement with a vow that they have not lied. Hear ye, hear ye, citizens of Tallinn and all others …'

Yes, this was how things ran under Dorn's authority. All tower guards, town watchmen and boatmen had been warned to keep an eye on any and all suspicious persons, and Council servants declared the news about the town. However, if the murderer was cunning and no one had witnessed his act then the effort might be for naught. The criers had made similar rounds last spring following the fatal stabbing of a Stralsund skipper in a tavern beyond the town walls – although the killer was not found on that occasion. Even Sire Rinus Götzer was unable to give Melchior a lead … It actually wouldn't be a bad idea to look for old Götzer now, he thought. The former skipper and almsman possessed more knowledge of matters in the town and harbour than all the councilmen put together.

Vespers had just finished at the Dominican Monastery, and a current of townspeople exited the gates. Several guilds finished their daily work just as the church bells began sounding the call to evening prayers, and the Dominicans – who were quite talented in their preaching – attracted a greater congregation to their sermons than the town's pastors. Melchior had heard that complaints had even made their way to the Council that the Dominicans preached too much – and too well, Melchior thought – and were taking followers away from the Church of the Holy Ghost and St Nicholas's. Yet, the fact was that the Dominicans, as an itinerant order who moved from one monastery to the next in any number of faraway lands, were well versed in exciting tales and received extensive instruction in both the Scriptures and worldly life – hence they knew how to talk to ordinary people about matters that brought both care to their souls and stimulated their minds. And, of course, keeping in with the Dominicans was definitely beneficial to the townsfolk at times. The monastery of nearly fifty brothers functioned as one big craftsmen's guild, producing goods for sale and also purchasing items, both for their own use and in order to resell, making a profit in the process. The Dominicans' beer was famed throughout Harju and Viru and had been spoken of even much further abroad since the Lay Brother Wunbaldus had become involved in
the brewing. Oh, the Dominicans have certainly brought much honour and renown to Tallinn, Melchior thought, and all by the Lord's blessing. Even the Blackheads, who were now so very active in Tallinn under the direction of Sire Freisinger, had their own altar consecrated right within the Dominican Monastery, and –

Melchior's train of thought was cut off by the appearance of Magistrate Dorn. The man elbowed his way through the crowd of churchgoers, protesting that even the church bells couldn't be heard through the masons' pounding – although by Melchior's calculations the evening service had already ended.

The Apothecary agreed with Dorn's grumblings when the latter came closer. The pair reckoned they should wait until the crowd had dispersed then send word of their arrival to the Prior. People were presently making their way out through the wall gate where Brother Hinricus stood holding his donation basket amongst all the cripples and tramps who were begging there as usual.

‘Forgive me, esteemed Magistrate – you are indeed the Magistrate, are you not?' A voice bearing a hint of a foreign accent sounded from behind the Apothecary. Melchior turned to see its source. A cloaked man who looked like a mason had stepped up to them, and Melchior thought he vaguely recognized the figure.

‘I and none other,' Dorn grumbled and eyed the man up. ‘And you are … ?'

‘Caspar Gallenreutter, from Westphalia,' said the man. ‘Your humble servant, a master mason by trade.'

‘Right, right. You're the one building that chapel there next to St Olaf's. We have certainly met before, but my ageing head no longer desires to hold its memories so well,' Dorn said.

Gallenreutter laughed, albeit in a somewhat forced manner. ‘It was at the Brotherhood of Blackheads that we met, at the penny-beer drinking to which I was invited last month. However, it was a very merry time, and it is no wonder that you do not remember me.' He turned towards Melchior. ‘And you are our town apothecary, are you not?'

Melchior bowed slightly. ‘By the grace of St Nicholas, I am. Whether you be afflicted by stomach flu or some other health ailment begs to be healed, you are most welcome to stop by, and we will certainly find a cure.'

It turned out, however, that the Master Mason Gallenreutter did not
want to talk to the men about his health. He began to speak then broke off, appeared to search for the right words and then asked, ‘The thing is, my good sirs, I wished to ask whether it is true – what they said in church – that Commander of the Order Henning von Clingenstain met his end in a dreadful manner yesterday on Toompea.'

‘Unfortunately it is true,' Dorn said gloomily. ‘His head was chopped off in a single blow and –'

Melchior jabbed Dorn with his finger. The Magistrate was inclined to ramble on instead of listening.

‘It is indeed so, Master Mason,' Melchior continued in Dorn's stead. ‘His head was chopped off.'

‘How could such a thing have happened? Did the knights go on a rampage amongst themselves, or … ?' Gallenreutter asked, prying.

‘No one can say for certain yet,' Melchior replied. ‘But the murderer will certainly be captured.'

‘And at roughly what time did this happen?'

‘If you will allow me to enquire, why should this be of such interest a foreign master mason?' Melchior questioned.

‘Why should it be of interest?' Gallenreutter peered about nervously. ‘When I heard about that dreadful bloodshed then I started to fear that maybe
I
was on Toompea at that very hour and that maybe –'

‘You visited Toompea yesterday?' Melchior interrupted. He now observed the Master Mason more closely. Gallenreutter looked to be around forty years of age and was a strong man with soft facial features and saffron-coloured hair; his shoulders were broad and his face tempered by the wind. He had clever eyes, but his awkwardness and agitation did not seem to be affected. Yes, Melchior now reckoned that he had seen Gallenreutter at the Brotherhood of Blackheads, although they had not been drawn into conversation.

‘Yes, I was on Toompea yesterday,' Gallenreutter confirmed. ‘About what time did that killing take place?'

‘It happened shortly before the Long Hill gates were shut, at around half-past eight in the evening,' Melchior replied slowly, studying the man closely.

‘And what business did
you
have on Toompea?' Dorn prodded, perhaps in a harsher tone than was necessary, as the Master Mason drew into himself even further.

‘I wanted to call upon Clingenstain, but I was not admitted into the
castle. And just now, when I heard that he had been killed yesterday, then I thought suddenly that I … that maybe I was on Toompea at the same time. Oh, what a horrible, horrible tale … Although if it was at half-past eight then it certainly could not have occurred when I was there.'

‘Tell us, Master Gallenreutter, at what time
were
you there? This is the first time I've heard that you also went to call upon Clingenstain,' Dorn asked.

‘I did not speak to him because I was not allowed to enter,' the Master Mason reiterated.

‘Master Gallenreutter, this is a very important matter. I ask you – and the Magistrate asks as well – please, tell us in greater detail about your visit. You see, thus far not one person has mentioned you being on Toompea yesterday. So, at what time did you attempt to call upon Clingenstain?'

Gallenreutter breathed in deeply, cracked his knuckles nervously and spoke. ‘It was in the afternoon, shortly after I had lunched near St Olaf's. They wouldn't allow me through the castle gates. They said the Knight was not present and I should make myself scarce.'

‘And what business did you have with the Commander of Gotland in the first place?' Dorn enquired. ‘Was he an acquaintance?'

‘Oh no, not at all. You see, he was born near the town of Warendorf, where the roots of my family tree extend as well, so I wanted to visit him to pay my respects and tell him that my father built his uncle's house, and to say that if the Grand Master of the Order knows of any wall that needs to be constructed somewhere or of any church someone desires to be built, then my skills and hands would always be at his service. We both come from Westphalia, and in these times, when masters mason are multiplying everywhere, such ties are increasingly important.'

‘And you were not permitted to say this to Clingenstain?' Melchior asked.

‘Curses, no. I was turned back at the gate. It was all quite odd up there. Not a soul to be seen, only some singing and the telltale sounds of beerdrinking under the trees in the direction of the Dome churchyard. There was one watchman at the gate, but he was fast asleep and snoring. I woke him up, and he went to call the other watchmen, who were having a singsong elsewhere at the time. Two Order attendants then came and asked who the devil I was and what I wanted. I waited while they went into the castle, and when they came back they said Clingenstain wasn't there and that I should clear off. Which I did.'

‘Intriguing,' Melchior murmured. ‘Did you see who was singing?'

‘No, I did not, but it was some very muddled song, a song about nothing at all – something about a horse and some kind of puzzle. I made no attempt to look closer. In any case, I was sent away and not even allowed to leave a message for the Knight.'

‘And you, Master Mason, did you leave then? You saw no one else?'

‘I went back to St Olaf's, yes, seeing as the chapel needs to be built. And today, when I heard that Clingenstain had been killed, I wondered … Lord have mercy, might that have been at the very time that I was there …'

‘No, it occurred much later,' Melchior replied, ‘at least we must believe that to be so.'

‘It occurred later,' the Master Mason repeated in a more confident tone. ‘And the fact that you are searching for this murderer here in the town, does that mean … is he a townsman? Is his identity known with any certainty?'

Dorn started to reply, but their conversation was interrupted by a piercing but gravelly voice. Melchior glimpsed Great Guild Alderman Mertin Tweffell approaching. The merchant's young bride Gerdrud was on his arm, and his loyal servant Ludke plodded in his master's wake.

‘Hear, Magistrate,' Tweffell bellowed. ‘Stop right there, in the name of the saints.'

Gallenreutter bade them farewell. He bowed quickly, wished them luck in their search and said that – if the Lord willed it – they would see each other that evening at the Brotherhood of Blackheads. Old Tweffell marched directly towards the Magistrate, while Melchior turned and caught up with the Master Mason of Westphalia to ask him to wait a minute.

‘You heard the sound of singing coming from the churchyard,' Melchior said. ‘Tell me, did you happen to see a Dominican lay brother or Prior Eckell himself walking in that direction?'

Gallenreutter shook his head quickly and said he saw no one there other than the drunken guardsmen. The mason then left, and Melchior walked back to Dorn. Alderman Tweffell was presently demanding that the man inform him of the latest news.

‘Yes, someone from the town,' Dorn was saying, ‘although whether it was some unknown rogue or a town citizen I do not know. When we apprehend him we will drag him up to Toompea where a tribunal of
knights will condemn him to death by hanging at the very least – that is certain, yes.'

Gerdrud stood obediently, arm-in-arm with her husband, and if one were to observe them carefully it would have been evident that the young woman was not simply standing but was actually supporting her husband. The woman did so deftly, however, to minimize any chance that a passer-by might notice. Ludke towered a few steps away, a behemoth, a flaxen-haired Estonian whose brawny wrists were like oak stumps. Gerdrud blushed lightly, and Melchior could not blame her for doing so. The young woman always looked abashed when she accompanied her husband about town. Stories, Melchior thought, nasty and spiteful stories. Oh, Gerdrud has certainly caught wind of those. Merchants' journeymen and apprentices, wagon haulers and other townsfolk of the sort – Melchior had even half overheard, while sipping beer at the master carpenter's workshop, how the men there made fun of the Alderman's marriage. No doubt they took pleasure in discussing how the young maiden wet her husband's dried-up old sausage and rubbed it with oils just so that it might have even the slightest trace of vitality. Nevertheless, Melchior felt that Tweffell himself was guilty by dint of the fact that such a young girl had become the object of such derision. He pricked his up ears, however, as Master Tweffell was speaking about Clingenstain.