Apothecary Melchior and the Mystery of St Olaf's Church (10 page)

‘You do not truly believe that the Goldsmith, the Prior, Sire Tweffell or that Meistersinger might have dispatched Clingenstain, do you?' Dorn objected.

‘I am unable to believe anything at this stage. I only
know
that each one of these men might have something useful to say or know something that we do not.'

‘So you think they might have spotted a vagrant?'

‘Vagrants cannot gain access to Toompea; they are expelled immediately. No, Magistrate, the murderer could not have been a vagabond or an ordinary thief because, as we both know, such men do not wander through Tallinn very often.'

‘And it could not have been any honest townsman,' Dorn said resolutely.

‘Actually, Magistrate, it could have been absolutely anyone – and just as likely a resident of Toompea or any Order attendant who bore a grudge against Clingenstain for some reason unbeknownst to us and who was confident and audacious enough to shift the blame on to the town.'

Dorn snorted and made a brusque, dismissive hand gesture. To
perturb him just a little bit more Melchior remarked that, in truth, they knew nothing at all. They could not even be sure that the head once rested upon Clingenstain's shoulders because neither had ever seen the man.

‘Have you gone completely mad?' Dorn grunted crossly.

‘Worry not, my friend. My thoughts are clearer than ever before,' Melchior said cheerfully. ‘See here, we actually know exceedingly little; only as much as the Commander told us. He stressed that it would be best if the murderer were some thief that happened upon the town by chance. I agree with him entirely, and that would be the most fortunate outcome for both the Order and the town. But we do not know whether perhaps a bit of bloodletting might have taken place on Toompea during the night amidst the heavy drinking, whether perhaps some honourable knight had freed Clingenstain of his head while their minds were awash with beer froth …'

‘No, you must be mad if you do not believe the words of our esteemed Commander,' Dorn said.

‘I have not said I do not believe them. I simply cannot say with complete certainty that the events did not unfold as such, and yet if they had then it would indeed be most favourable for the town to drag some thief up to Toompea, who, upon being subjected to torture, would confess that he killed Clingenstain, the Pope and even the Holy Roman Emperor. What I wish to say is that we know not whether it might have been some vassal or Knight of the Order who wished to give the misleading impression that the murderer escaped to Lower Town. Anyone could have thrown a sword near Short Hill Gate – if indeed it was there in the first place – and it is likewise no difficult task to leave a false trail of blood. Nevertheless, I admit that the Commander's version seems to carry the most weight. The murderer cast the sword aside when he reached land under the town's jurisdiction, having no further need for the blade nor anywhere to take it.'

Dorn's temper dampened somewhat upon hearing this response, and he turned to leave. ‘We do not have the right to doubt what the esteemed Commander tells us,' he said.

‘Oh no, of course we don't,' Melchior mumbled, distracted in thought, ‘so we
must
look for the murderer within the town. We
must
look for some foreign vagabond, whose capture would not jeopardize relations between the Order and the town, all of which would be agreeable to the
Grand Master. Or we – and you in particular, Magistrate – must protect the innocent foreign vagrants who have not killed Clingenstain yet who might apparently have done so with great zeal according to the preferences of some lofty overlord.'

Melchior stood in front of the Town Hall, pondered a bit then decided that he would not visit a brewer – the business he would otherwise have had today, requiring, as he did, half a dozen tankards of beer – but would instead track Kilian down. Melchior held faith in the fact that he would find Kilian at the place where he usually idled at this hour – sitting in front of Tweffell's residence on the edge of the well, strumming his lute and doing his best to attract the attention of the lady of the house. Melchior furrowed his brow at this thought then turned to head towards home.

Artisans' lunch hour had just ended, the town pulsed with a sea of faces, and Melchior recognized the majority of those bobbing along on the tide. Tallinn is growing, he thought. Tallinn is becoming bigger and more important, wealthier and more beautiful; but there are still not so many living here, and one of them, a face that I would likely recognize, one of them murdered a high-ranking Knight of the Teutonic Order yesterday. The market square and the grandiose new town hall that bordered it were the very heart of the town. All of Tallinn's arterial streets came together in this spot, and it was the most protected area of Lower Town. If an enemy were to get past the moats and walls of Tallinn then the streets would be piled high with stones and Town Hall Square would be fortified – and no enemy could conquer Toompea. The square before the Town Hall was an important place. A market was run here during the day, tournaments were organized in the open space during holidays when merchants might, even for a fleeting moment, compare themselves with the nobility; Council declarations were made and festivities held here when the town was visited by some person of elevated status. Trials were sometimes held there, and a criminal might be executed or, more likely, chained to the pillory.

Before Melchior moved off, however, he cast a glance across the square towards the north-west corner. Several small houses stood there behind the pillory with their rear walls facing the Church of the Holy Ghost. One of these was home to the town weighing-house, another belonged to the Church of the Holy Ghost and the third – a snug two-storey building of modest appearance – was currently without a tenant. A Danish merchant
named Lovenkrands had ordered the house to be built nearly ten years before but had died before he could to undertake the journey to Tallinn. Lovenkrands' descendants now wanted either to rent it or sell it off. The house was empty. Is it worth it, Melchior? thought the Apothecary. All that you do, all is worth doing. Help the Town Council apprehend a murderer and you are one step closer towards your dream. It is one thing to be an apothecary by permission of the Council; it is quite another matter when your pharmacy stands on the market square across from the new Town Hall with its regal tower and bears the name ‘Town Hall Pharmacy'. No one is forbidden to dream. Melchior's father had purchased a small building in Tallinn when he arrived because he knew that the town had no pharmacy at that time. He had taught his son that nothing is more rewarding for an apothecary than to be a
Council
apothecary, to practise through a council's endorsement and contract. You must become so essential to the Council and stand out so boldly for your extraordinary work that the Council will purchase a house for the pharmacy and rent it to you. Such was the case in many towns in Germany, and Melchior's father had wished for it to be so in Tallinn as well.

Having briefly admired his dream home Melchior turned and began to make his way home. Rataskaevu Street, which was still called Mäealuse Street when Melchior was a boy, had acquired its new name in reference to the roofed well with a wooden frame and a windlass that had been built around the time that Melchior's family had relocated from Lübeck. Mäealuse Street had been much shorter in those days and was flanked by fewer buildings, yet the more the town grew and accumulated wealth the more important Rataskaevu Street became and the more townspeople took up residence there. Many merchants, a few councilmen, as well as the Pastor of St Nicholas's Church, lived on this street, and there was even one house said to be haunted. Alas, the building bought by Melchior's father was becoming too small to hold his growing business. The Apothecary's workshop was slowly drowning amongst the buildings owned by eminent merchants. The place for a building as important as a pharmacy in a town the likes of Tallinn should be the Town Hall Square.

Melchior strolled down the street alongside the aqueduct – a long pipe fashioned from oak casks – until the sound of Kilian's melodies began to reach his ear. On this occasion, however, the song was more
woeful than usual, even more so than when Melchior had listened to the boy in St Nicholas's churchyard that morning.

Kilian had been living in that house for nearly a year already, yet the Apothecary had to admit the boy had become even more incomprehensible than he had been initially. Oh, there was certainly much more to him – with his tall, cocked cap – than a mere wandering minstrel; of this Melchior was certain. To regular townspeople Kilian might appear to be a carefree drifter; Melchior sometimes felt that since his arrival in Tallinn the boy had been working on a devious plan. He sensed an avaricious devil hiding behind the suave joker. Yet Melchior sincerely hoped that these seeds of thought only germinated when he was gripped by depression and exhaustion from life's toils, when gripped by that demon that haunted him on occasion.

Melchior now found Kilian sitting in his usual place, plucking mournfully at the strings of his lute, and he asked why Tallinn's merry singing journeyman should be so glum on this fine spring day, why he was not off somewhere playfully flirting with the girls through his songs.

‘Apparently you have formed an impression of me as being overly lighthearted, Sire Melchior,' Kilian responded. ‘I sing not to titillate anyone at all.'

‘Ah, but of course. You are a Meistersinger.'

‘Only a travelling journeyman for now, although I practise my art of song in order to heap praise upon myself and to cheer others. I have just composed a new tune and was searching for the right words to accompany it.'

‘You know, Kilian,' Melchior said decisively, ‘it seems to me that all this singing has weighed heavily on your heart. Come, I will treat you to a cup of elixir – and please also allow Keterlyn to hear your new tune. Come, come, step inside. I entreat you. Otherwise you will squat here alone singing to the birds and the beasts like St Francis.'

In no time Melchior had poured Kilian a cup of sweet elixir and offered him a cake, and it seemed that Kilian's mood had begun to lift.

The boy is educated, Melchior noted when their conversation turned towards the saints, one of the Apothecary's favoured topics. Kilian informed him that St Andrew was the patron saint of the Nuremburg Guild of Singers.

‘St Andrew, well, well,' Melchior spoke cheerfully. ‘And you bear the name of a saint yourself. However, Andrew is a worthy saint in every
respect, and your guild is fortunate to have only a single patron. Last year I wanted to hang a handsome signnext to the pharmacy designating it as “St Cosmas's Pharmacy”; alas it turned out not a single church in Tallinn has a statue of St Cosmas to whom I wished to light a candle and from whom I would receive a blessing for my business. And you know what, Kilian? When I went to take counsel from Prior Eckell at the Dominican Monastery we ended up having a heated debate. As the Father already knew – and who am I to argue with him? – pharmacists are also guarded by the patron saints Nicholas, Damianus and two Jacobs and, to top it all, the Archangel Rafael and Mary, the Mother of God. And I, fool that I am, thought St Cosmas was alone in his task.'

‘I do not believe I have even heard of him,' Kilian said uncertainly.

‘Many have not,' Melchior nodded, ‘although my father, who also ran a pharmacy in the town of Lübeck, taught me that St Cosmas is the protector and guardian of all who concoct medicines. Ah, but here is your elixir, Kilian. Drink it down. It might not help to counter all the troubles of the soul, but it should certainly lighten your mood and help to overcome a sad state of mind. It is called burned spirits, and I have made it all the more fiery by adding ginger and pepper. Drink, drink. It will cheer you up.'

Kilian drank and began to cough profusely. Tears streamed from his eyes, and his precious lute nearly slipped from his grasp. Melchior gave him a few manly claps on the back while he caught his breath.

‘Oh, hairy devil,' the boy cursed between coughs. ‘And what then became of your saint? You still do not have that sign of St Cosmas here.'

‘What happened was that I continued to attend St Nicholas's Church – which I had done previously – to express my gratitude to St Nicholas in my faith and am joyful that he has given his blessing to the success of my business. And I issue medicines for no charge to all in need of them on St Nicholas's Day, the 6th of December. Naturally, I also donate to St Nicholas's Church so that they might proclaim the eternal love and care that he bestows,' Melchior said warmly.

‘Then I have only gladness for you,' Kilian reasoned.

‘Another small stein?'

‘Praise St Andrew. Bring it forth, Sire Apothecary.'

‘Here you are. And since St Andrew also protects fishermen, without whom life in Tallinn would be exceptionally hungry, I will also pour for myself an honest ginger spirit. To your health, Kilian, and to the blessing of your gift for song.'

The two clinked their glasses together, drank, coughed, drank some more, and before long the heavy atmosphere that had surrounded Kilian had indeed been lightened. That is, until Melchior informed the boy in confidence that he had just come from the Town Hall. And, if his intuition was not wrong, that the Council's court attendants were presently searching for a murderer who had escaped from Toompea to the town after chopping off the head of Commander of the Teutonic Order Henning von Clingenstain the previous day.

Kilian's hand froze suddenly, still clutching the cup of elixir. The boy turned pale. His shock was genuine. Melchior did not doubt it.

‘Lord Jesus,' Kilian exclaimed. ‘Escaped to the town? I must tell this to old Tweffell straight away. Who was this murderer? Is his identity known?'

‘Not yet, but the Magistrate will find him,' Melchior replied. ‘The Council will no doubt offer a bounty, too.'