Apothecary Melchior and the Mystery of St Olaf's Church

by Indrek Hargla

  Rode looked around the room, confused and appealing for support. The men, however, stared back at him, and there seemed to be no help coming to him from any direction.

  ‘No, no, I did not know his voice,’ Rode said in defeat. ‘I have not heard him speak, or if I have … The man at confession spoke in a very deep voice and rasping tone, as if he had a sore throat …’

  ‘Aha,’ Melchior shouted. ‘He spoke in a rasping tone, perhaps as if he were disguising his voice. But why would he have needed to do that if you were not familiar with his voice? And when I spoke to Wunbaldus the previous day there had been nothing wrong with his voice. Prior Eckell was with him the very same day and saw that he was healthy, something Sire Freisinger mentioned, too. So why disguise his voice? The only answer can be that you would have been able to recognize the voice because it was someone you do know.’

  Councilman Bockhorst raised his hand for quiet. ‘This is an unexpected development for the Council. What are you suggesting?’

  ‘I simply want to point out that we have no clear evidence that that man was, in fact, the Lay Brother Wunbaldus,’ Melchior replied. ‘Anyone can pretend to have a hump on his back and steal a lay brother’s white tunic and scapular. A tunic has disappeared from the monastery, which Brother Hinricus can confirm.’

  ‘In that case,’ Dorn spoke up, ‘we do not then know who killed Clingenstain. Is that what you are saying?’

  A mischievous grin flashed across Melchior’s face. ‘I didn’t say that. I know who killed Clingenstain. There’s only one person it could have been.’

  ‘You believe that it was the man who pretended to be Wunbaldus?’ Casendorpe called out.

  ‘No, I didn’t say that either,’ Melchior replied confidently.

  The Councilman looked bemused as he listened to the circling conversation.

  Melchior continued, ‘Sires, I ask, how could it be that Wunbaldus, whose white habit was bloodied, did not leave a single drop of blood on the confession bench? Sire Rode, will you confirm that fact?’

  Rode, who looked dizzy, now nodded keenly. ‘That is true. The man’s white habit did not look bloody, and although the light was dim, still … And there was no blood on the confession bench. There were no bloodstains there.’

  ‘I can corroborate this. I visited the confessional the next morning to investigate, and there was no blood. How is it possible that a man who claimed to have just killed and beheaded a master mason does not leave behind a single drop of blood when his tunic is absolutely soaked in it later?’

  Silence governed the room for a few moments before Kilian spoke cautiously, ‘It is possible only in the event that the man did not kill that master mason after all. That he had lied.’

  ‘True, that is possible,’ Melchior agreed. ‘However, he was truly dead, was he not? Consequently, it is also possible that the confessor either witnessed the murder and lied or that he killed Gallenreutter later, after he had taken confession.’

  Shouts of astonishment filled the room once more, but the Com- mander’s infuriated voice could be heard above the rest. ‘Your story makes no sense at all. Why should someone confess to an act that he did not commit? And, everything else aside, I want to know who killed Clingenstain. That builder’s murder has nothing to do with the matter in hand. Was it Wunbaldus, or was it not?’

  Melchior bowed to the Commander. ‘Once again, what apt words from the mouth of the esteemed Commander. And so, who killed Commander of the Teutonic Order of Gotland Henning von Clingenstain? Who was it that chopped off his head and stuffed a coin in his mouth – a worn Gotland ørtug? I couldn’t get that old coin out of my mind. Why did the murderer feel he had to do this? Desecration of the body, abasement … Revenge possibly? This type of cruel execution does suggest it was a revenge attack. Yet, again, why the coin? The ørtug is rare in Tallinn; it is not often that merchants come upon it. But I will remind you that on that very day Clingenstain had purchased a gold collar from the workshop of Master Goldsmith Casendorpe.’

  ‘Melchior, I fail to understand. What was it about that coin that you couldn’t get out of your mind?’ snapped the Commander. ‘No doubt it was Clingenstain’s own. He had recently arrived from Gotland after all …’ But after saying this the Commander bit his lip and fell silent.

  ‘I see that you now also remember,’ Melchior said, and nodded. ‘Precisely. The fact is that Clingenstain had given all his money to Casendorpe. If anyone in Tallinn had any ørtugs in his possession that evening it was Master Casendorpe. You will confirm this, Master Gold- smith, will you not?’

  The Goldsmith had leaped to his feet, his face ashen, and searched for words to express his rage.

  ‘Listen, you … you dastardly apothecary and mixer of poisons,’ Casendorpe finally roared. ‘Do you wish to claim that I, that I, the Goldsmith of the town of Tallinn and Alderman of St Canute’s Guild, that I killed that knight over some measly thirty marks? You despicable liar and –’

  Dorn was forced to interfere once again and shout that Melchior certainly had not accused the Goldsmith. He appealed to Casendorpe in the name of the Council Court to behave in a dignified manner.

  ‘I only requested your confirmation of the fact,’ Melchior replied, but a dark shadow flitted across his face as he eyed Casendorpe. ‘You told me that you and Clingenstain had agreed a fee of sixty marks for the collar, but the Knight haggled down the price. He emptied his chest right down to the very last coin, and it had held those ørtugs worth ten Riga marks apiece. Is that correct?’

  ‘Reply, Sire Casendorpe,’ the Councilman said threateningly. ‘No one has accused you of anything.’

  Casendorpe inhaled deeply, shot an angry glance towards Melchior and then nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘so it was. He had not a single penny left and sent his servant to the ship, and he brought back those old ørtugs mixed in with the other coins. When I weighed them I had close on thirty marks’ worth, which was a ridiculously low price for that collar.’

  ‘So, Clingenstain had the ørtugs with him on Toompea,’ continued Melchior. ‘He also emptied his coffers entirely to pay Master Casendorpe. When I heard this the identity of Clingenstain’s murderer only became clearer in my mind.’

  ‘Tell us, Melchior,’ Spanheim demanded. ‘What was wrong with those coins then?’

  ‘Naturally, I considered who had visited Toompea that day and who might have had a reason to hate the Knight. And, naturally, I also considered that it might have been the Master Goldsmith, from whom the Order had extorted that collar at half its price that very same day. And, naturally, I also considered Master Merchant Tweffell, who has for some time held a grudge against Clingenstain regarding a ship –’

  ‘Melchior, the whole town knows that Clingenstain of Gotland robbed me,’ Mertin Tweffell remarked.

  ‘Master Merchant, that was not exactly what happened,’ Spanheim said.

  ‘Robbed, I say.’ Tweffell sharpened his tone. ‘That was exactly what happened, and everyone in Tallinn knows that Clingenstain stole my ship and its cargo for himself to cover some personal debts. And I have also made it known in every corner of this town that I did not wish for the Knight’s death, as the Grand Master of the Order would not then be able to demand that Clingenstain issue me any goods in recompense. Nevertheless, he truly deserved such a death. I have nothing to fear – I am an old man, and every townsman knows perfectly well that I am unable to hold a sword in my grasp and that I am too feeble to get the better of a man in his prime, even if he were as full of drink as Clingen- stain was that night.’

  ‘Oh no, I would never have believed that you yourself could have got the better of Clingenstain,’ Melchior replied. ‘However, Master Tweffell, you do have a loyal and devoted attendant who is unequalled in strength. You have Ludke, who disappeared from town shortly after your visit to Toompea and who was not seen any more that day. Ludke claims he went to fetch leeches, which may well be true. Just as true as the fact that Ludke served in the Council’s armed forces and is highly
skilled in weaponry. I do not know a more loyal servant in Tallinn, one who under- takes all of his master’s commands, either verbal or those that his master has not actually spoken out loud. Ludke is a seasoned warrior – and he had no reason to love Clingenstain.’

  Tweffell stared at Melchior for a moment, frozen, then scoffed at him. ‘Pah! I fail to understand what you are getting at here, Melchior. I did send Ludke to bring back leeches and to call in a debt. You may go to the village yourself if you want confirmation of this – if there is still anyone there in good enough health to speak to you, heh-heh-heh. Ludke is a strong-armed boy, and when he realizes that someone doesn’t want to repay a debt to his master, then …’ Tweffell fell silent, as if appalled by his own words.

  ‘Precisely so, Sire Tweffell, precisely so,’ Melchior spoke. ‘Ludke is capable of holding a sword, and Ludke does not tolerate those who have wronged his master. Ludke was also in your company on Toompea.’

  ‘Hold on now, Melchior. You aren’t really saying that …’

  ‘I speak to explain my train of thought. But I always came back to the gold collar and the coin. Could stealing the collar have been the reason for the murder? Possibly, although one does not have to chop off some- one’s head and stuff a coin into his mouth, as if in compensation, to do that. But then I remembered something that the esteemed Commander Spanheim said.’

  ‘Me? What did I say?’ the Commander demanded curiously.

  ‘When the Magistrate and I visited the castle the honourable Com- mander informed us who else had been on Toompea the previous day. He also recalled Brother Wunbaldus, who just as usual – I repeat, just as usual – made his rounds on Toompea with the alms basket and had come into contact with Clingenstain.’

  ‘So he had,’ the Commander grunted.

  ‘Brother Wunbaldus had collected alms on Toompea,’ Melchior con- tinued, ‘and, according to Master Casendorpe, we know that Clingenstain only had ten marks in ørtugs in his chest at the time he paid for the collar. How else could this rare old coin have ended up on Toompea in the first place if not from Clingenstain’s own coffers?’ Melchior’s voice had now risen to a fevered pitch. ‘Only Brother Wunbaldus could definitely have possessed an old Gotland ørtug. And this had been given to him by Clingenstain himself. Is it not reasonable to believe that stuffing the coin into the mouth of Clingenstain’s decapitated head was like throwing it back at its benefactor out of contempt and hatred and old enmity? Who regularly spent time on Toompea? Who knew all its hidden courtyards and shadowy corners? Whose presence on Toompea did not raise anyone’s curiosity? Wunbaldus was as regular a figure on Toompea as any Knight of the Order. He would not have been noticed at all.’

  Councilman Bockhorst now piped up again to ask, shaking his head, ‘Melchior, you said just a moment ago that Wunbaldus was not the man who admitted to the murder at confession, so how now again … ?’

  ‘I didn’t say that the confessor might have lied,’ Melchior spoke on with passion. ‘No, he told the truth about Clingenstain’s murder. What do we actually know about Wunbaldus? Who was he? When I discussed this with Brother Hinricus he admitted that no one else in the monastery knew anything about him other than Prior Eckell – only the man who had received him as a lay brother and served as his overseer. No one knew where he had been born or in what other monasteries he had previously spent time, with the exception of Oxford in England. However, he was a strong man and had arrived at the monastery about five years ago. Prior Eckell had known him already, though. But from where? Where might they have met? Who was Brother Wunbaldus really, aside from the fact that he was a master of seven arts?’

  No one had an answer to that, but then the former captain Rinus Götzer stood up and dared to open his mouth before the high lords without having asked permission.

  ‘A master of seven arts?’ he asked, and all turned towards the almsman.

  ‘That he was. Sires, Prior Eckell had previously been at the Dominican Monastery in Visby, at the time that the Victual Brothers governed the island of Gotland. Eckell was there when the Teutonic Order ruthlessly expelled the Brothers and massacred them on the island’s shores. And so I began to ask myself – just who was Wunbaldus? Is it possible that …’ He shook his head, and then gestured towards Götzer. ‘But, Skipper Götzer, maybe you can tell us what you know about Magister Wigbold?’

  Magister Wigbold. Gasps could be heard across the room. Everyone knew the name, and invoking it was as if someone had invoked Lucifer himself.

  ‘Oh, no one knows much about him, no one knows much at all,’ the old captain spoke gruffly. ‘He was said to be the wiliest and cleverest of the Victual Brothers’ chiefs, just like an old fox, he was, and no one knew what he looked like – he didn’t show his face it to strangers – and if anyone did see it, well, they didn’t last long. And he could avoid every trap –’

  ‘But his head was chopped off near Hamburg, wasn’t it?’ Freisinger called out.

  Götzer continued his tale, awkwardly at first because he was not used to speaking in front of people of such high status, but, as he spoke, he became increasingly confident as he gained courage. There are those who believe that he wasn’t beheaded at all, since four separate men claimed to have been Magister Wigbold – all of whom laughed before their executions. Others believe Wigbold escaped, because he was so clever. He was evil to boot, although he as known to listen to pleas for clemency and to persuade others into sparing the lives of prisoners. The Victual Brother called Magister Wigbold was wiser than all the rest and was known as the Master of Seven Arts. All the most notable and cunning acts of piracy were said to have been planned by him. They also say that he had once lived as a monk at an English monastery and university, which was where he had acquired those arts. Others again say that he would knock some sense into the other pirates from time to time but that at other times he could be like Satan himself and would brandish his sword with such fury that heads would fly when he fell into a fit of rage.

  When the old man fell quiet and wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, Melchior spoke again. ‘Wunbaldus arrived at Tallinn’s monastery five years ago, three years after Wigbold’s reported beheading. Brother Hinricus once heard Prior Eckell saying that on one occasion Wunbaldus had saved the lives of three Dominican Brothers from the pirates. Wigbold had lived at a monastery in England; Wunbaldus had been a brother in Oxford. Eckell and Wunbaldus had met before. Prior Eckell treated Wunbaldus with special attention, as if he were his own son. Yes, I believe that the man whom we all knew as the Lay Brother Wunbaldus was actually none other than the Victual Brother, Magister Wigbold.’

  30

  THE TALLINN MAGISTRATE’S OFFICIAL CHAMBERS ALONGSIDE TOWN HALL SQUARE

  19 MAY, EVENING

  MELCHIOR’S WORDS HAD the effect of a cannonball crashing into the Magistrate’s chambers, as every man in the room suddenly jumped to his feet, shaking his fist and shouting. It was unheard of. It was absolutely impossible that the town of Tallinn might have provided refuge to such a man, that the Dominicans might have taken this manifestation of Satan into their fold. Councilman Bockhorst, himself just as stunned as the others, waved his arms and cried for all to remain quiet, but the Commander’s voice overpowered the Councilman’s own as he roared, ‘That murderer. That scoundrel. How could the monastery have allowed him to live amongst them?’

  Brother Hinricus responded, shouting back at the Commander with passion, ‘The monastery is a sanctuary. The monastery offers asylum to all sinners who request it. But I swear to you, not one of us had ever heard that Wunbaldus might have been a Victual Brother.’

  When the Councilman and the Magistrate, who were equally shocked by Melchior’s revelation, finally managed to restore order, Melchior was again given the podium.

  ‘When I viewed Wunbaldus’s corpse,’ he said, ‘and the Magistrate is my witness here, we saw that Wunbaldus had evidently been a warrior. His body was covered in scars. He must have fought in numerous battles, and the last and most
painful wound was inflicted by an executioner’s axe. This blow should have sliced his head clean from his neck, and only the Lord God knows how he managed to escape that fate. In any case, an axe blow was what turned him into a hunchback. It had been a miraculous escape, and I believe that a man rescued from death in such a way must thank the Almighty and start considering his life, must start to wonder whether avoiding death this way might have been a heavenly sign. Wigbold, or Wunbaldus, had earlier been a Dominican and lived in a monastery. Prior Eckell said Wunbaldus came to the monastery to repent his sins, and I believe that this is true.’

  ‘Repent his sins, ha!’ the Commander spat. ‘A maggot. A murderer.’ ‘Murderers can also repent,’ Melchior countered. ‘Wigbold searched for a sanctuary after his incredible escape. This man, the smartest of the Victual Brothers who on more than one occasion talked sense into his comrades, this man searched for sanctuary. I believe that Wigbold saved the lives of three Dominicans from the Victual Brothers’ fury on the island of Gotland, and that this was the reason why he – as a fugitive and a penitent – appeared before Prior Eckell five years ago and the Prior granted him sanctuary in the monastery. Yes, I believe that Wigbold repented.’

  ‘Melchior, are you certain of this?’ asked the Councilman. ‘It would be a dreadful shame upon the town if we had granted refuge in our own monastery to a murderer and a thief wanted throughout the Hanseatic League.’

  ‘Granting sanctuary does not shame a town,’ Hinricus retorted. ‘The monastery provides sanctuary on the basis of divine justice. A monastery does not judge, nor does it cut off heads.’

  ‘That monastery is in the town of Tallinn,’ Tweffell berated. ‘And if other Hanseatic towns find out that a murderer who was hunted by all was in hiding here in Tallinn, then …’

  ‘If Wunbaldus was indeed Wigbold,’ Hinricus remarked.