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.
‘All signs point to it,’ Melchior said, ‘as does the brand that we found at the base of his skull. There was a mark burned into his flesh, two letters that looked to be an E and a K.’
‘That’s true,’ the Magistrate confirmed. ‘He had been branded like a criminal.’
‘Although those letters were actually not E and K, but rather B and K. A scar cut through the B so that it looked like an E. B and K –’
Rinus Götzer’s hoarse shout cut off Melchior’s words. ‘Bunte Kuh, the Brindled Cow. That was the name of Simon von Utrecht’s ship.’
‘You are correct.’ Melchior nodded.
‘When Victual Brothers were caught it was customary to brand them with the initials of the warship that captured them,’ Götzer explained spiritedly, ‘and whichever had the most prisoners with their ship’s branding received a bounty per head.’
‘And the mark of Simon von Utrecht’s ship was branded on to the back of Wunbaldus’s neck,’ Melchior spoke slowly. ‘He had been a prisoner on the Bunte Kuh. Magister Wigbold, the Master of Seven Arts, who had pirated ships on the Baltic Sea for ten years and always evaded every trap, had even escaped from Simon von Utrecht’s ship and the axe of the executioner on the island of Grasbrook, this most clever and cunning of all Victual Brothers met his end in the town of Tallinn.’
‘What were those seven arts?’ Freisinger demanded. ‘You don’t mean the seven free arts taught in a monastery?’
‘I do not believe’, Melchior responded, ‘that Wigbold was titled the Master of Seven Arts through becoming skilled at those seven free arts, which are … Brother Hinricus, what are they exactly?’
‘Rhetoric, Latin grammar, dialect, music, astronomy, arithmetic and geometry,’ replied the monk. ‘However, I can assure you that Brother Wunbaldus was not skilled at music or at dialect.’
‘He was skilled in seven other arts, however,’ continued Melchior, ‘and every one of us should be quite familiar the most important of these – Wunbaldus was a fantastic brewer, having studied the art in England. He was also trained as a goldsmith, because upkeep of the reliquaries was under his care at the monastery. He was familiar with justice and canon law, which altogether makes three arts. He had great knowledge of the Scriptures, as Brother Hinricus will tell you. That is four. Wunbaldus was known in the monastery to be an accomplished healer who knew how to prepare salves and medicines. He was well versed in medicine.’
‘You have now listed five. Yet what were the sixth and the seventh?’ asked the Councilman.
‘The sixth was chess. As some of you know, Wunbaldus played chess at a level of mastery. Chess was also what helped provide me with a clue to how the first crime was committed. Perhaps Sire Freisinger recalls the match that was in play on my board when he dropped into the pharmacy?’
Freisinger rose in surprise. ‘Yes, I do. It was a strange state of play on the board – but, in the name of God, how could that have given you a clue?’
‘Chess is sometimes called a mirror of life. Each piece holds a particular significance, and we know that the Prior and Wunbaldus played regularly. The chess-pieces can be arranged in a way that resembles some kind of life situation. When the Magistrate and I visited the monastery, Wunbaldus – or should we call him Wigbold? – appeared to be involved in an unfinished game with the Prior. I later recreated the positions on a board, and Sire Freisinger happened to see it. He said that –’
‘I said that such a situation rarely unfolds in a game,’ Freisinger interrupted. ‘But I fail to grasp how chess could tell you anything about the killing.’
‘It did so because it was not a half-finished match but, in fact, Prior Eckell was communicating with Wunbaldus through the chess pieces. The Prior had a heavy load bearing down upon his soul, and he arranged the pieces on the board in the way he viewed the situation in earthly life. He depicted Clingenstain’s killing and his own dilemma. Prior Eckell envisioned himself as the white king, Clingenstain was a white knight and two white rooks signified the monastery as a sheltering house of the Lord. Do you remember, Sire Freisinger?’
‘Yes, I remember,’ Freisinger murmured in astonishment. ‘Although I did not read the arrangement that way at all.’
‘Nevertheless, Clingenstain’s killing was laid out pictorially. The black pawn would take the white knight on the next move, meaning Clingenstain would be killed. Eckell is threatened with his downfall after a couple more moves because the white queen would not come to his aid in time – the queen being the Virgin Mary or heavenly grace. The only escape route for Eckell’s soul would have been to bring the two rooks into play – meaning he would shield himself behind the monastery walls and do nothing, yet, in doing so, abandoning his queen, that is betraying his belief. Eckell, playing with white, was losing the game. This position on the board depicted Eckell’s thoughts. If the pawn were to kill Clingenstain then Eckell would be deprived of the Lord’s sacred grace; he would have to betray all that he held true and conceal himself within the monastery. If he did not do this – if he wished to preserve his queen – then he himself would have to fall, to admit his defeat. Sires, this arrangement showed that white could only be victorious if the black pawn were to abandon his plans to take the white knight. If, however, Clingenstain were killed then Eckell would have to surrender in order to save his own soul.’
‘That is mad talk, Melchior,’ the Magistrate remarked.
Oh no, not in the least,’ Freisinger exclaimed excitedly. ‘Yes, now I understand. Of course, that was precisely it. Yet that would mean Prior Eckell knew …’
‘Of course he knew,’ Melchior said gravely. ‘He was conveying an allegory to Wunbaldus using the chess pieces when we entered the room. Apparently, he had difficulty voicing his thoughts aloud and conversed with Wigbold through his sixth art.’
‘Sixth? But what was his seventh?’ Dorn asked.
‘His seventh? But surely we know this last one best of all?’ Melchior said. ‘Is it not the very reason that we are gathered here now? Which art must the Magister have possessed most excellently if not the art of killing? This might have been a joke for the Victual Brothers, yet it was the sad fate for hundreds of unfortunate souls along the shores of the Baltic Sea. Yes, Wunbaldus was without question the man who killed Clingenstain – he and none other. He had indeed come to Tallinn to escape and to repent his sins, to thank God for his incredible escape, but, alas, once a killer always a killer … Clingenstain had killed dozens of Wigbold’s friends and brothers, had skinned and burned them alive, had chopped off their heads and driven them on to stakes on town walls. He did this when the Order’s forces conquered Gotland and drove the Victual Brothers from its shores. And now, suddenly, nearly ten years later, Wigbold had the chance to get his revenge. The Butcher of Gotland was right before his eyes and completely drunk. And the last straw for Wigbold? The Gotland coin Clingenstain gave him. So, he stuffed it back into the mouth of his mortal enemy. Wigbold knew Toompea intimately. He held back for several days, waiting for the right moment, and this occurred when Jochen, Clingenstain’s servant, was away and the man himself was too drunk to stand and incapable of fighting back.
The Councilman nodded, finally, as if he now saw the light. This certainly meant nothing good for the town, but the monastery was none the less a sanctuary, and, what’s more, that dreadful man was now dead.
Spanheim also appeared to be content with this. He sat nodding at length then proclaimed, ‘In that case, if it is also the ruling of the Council Court, then I demand that the corpse of that Wigbold be handed over to the Order. Yes, just so. And may the Council Court itself reach a verdict on the details of why that Wigbold, or Wunbaldus, killed Gallenreutter …’
‘Oh, but he didn’t,’ Melchior said quietly. ‘No, that wasn’t Wunbaldus.’
The room exploded, and Melchior had to wait for the noise to die down a little before speaking again.
‘So now you all know who killed Commander Henning von Clingenstain and why. That story is over. Now, however, I must tell a completely different tale. I began to think that perhaps Wunbaldus was Clingenstain’s murderer after learning that it was the Knight himself who had donated the ørtug to the monk. Later, after Gallenreutter’s body was found, I just couldn’t understand why a Tallinn artig had been crammed into his mouth. If it was Wunbaldus, then why? There was no rational explanation. Wunbaldus – Wigbold – had no reason to exact revenge on Gallenreutter. And the there was the fact that the Master Mason had been stabbed to death with a dagger and only then beheaded. Once I was convinced that Wunbaldus was actually Wigbold – and the brand was final confirmation of this – then the situation became even more confusing. Wigbold killed to revenge his brothers and the loss of Gotland. Did Gallenreutter know something and threaten to unmask him, as Sire Dorn reckoned? After all, what Gallenreutter said at the Brotherhood of Blackheads could only have been a challenge to the murderer. Yet why should the man then confess and drink poison? I want to remind you of Sire Rode’s words when Prior Eckell freed him from his duty to maintain the secrecy of the confessional. Sire Rode, would you be so kind as to list again the sins that the man confessed?’
‘He said that greed drove him to commit criminal acts and that he had killed two people. He said he had chopped off their heads. He said that one had been a Knight of the Teutonic Order and the other a master mason …’
‘Two people,’ Melchior exclaimed. ‘Two people. Only two. Once I knew for sure that Wunbaldus was Wigbold I knew that the confessor could have been Wigbold, because that man has killed not two but twenty or maybe two hundred …’
‘But who … who was he then?’ Rode asked very softly.
‘Who? The man who killed Master Mason Gallenreutter; the man who killed the monk he believed to be Wunbaldus; the man who killed Prior Eckell. Four murders have been committed over these last few days, and only one of them was carried out by Wunbaldus. The man who killed the other three sits here amongst us.’
‘Melchior, are you going to accuse someone?’ demanded the bewildered Magistrate.
‘Yes,’ Melchior replied, ‘but not yet. First, I will remind you of how Prior Eckell freed Pastor Rode from keeping the secrecy of the confessional. Eckell felt very ill, and he knew that he was not long for this world. During the last few moments of his life he freed Pastor Rode from his obligation of secrecy, something that requires the approval of clergymen of high authority and is extremely rare. Nevertheless, he did so.’
‘Yes, he did so, and he did so because a man who takes his own life also loses his rights to the holy sacraments,’ said Rode.
Melchior shook his head. ‘Oh no, that wasn’t the reason. He did it because he knew that the man who took confession could not have been Wunbaldus. He did so because he knew that it was a false confession. Someone pretended to be Wunbaldus, so it wasn’t a true confession but rather a step in the murderer’s cunning plan. This was very astute of the Prior, because the murderer made the mistake of only admitting to only two murders. He did not know Wunbaldus’s true identity. Prior Eckell, on the other hand, knew exactly who Wunbaldus really was, but he also knew that Wunbaldus would never have confessed to killing Clingenstain, much less at the Church of the Holy Ghost. Also he would never believe that Wunbaldus would take his own life. Yes, Prior Eckell had worked it all out and as he took his final breath he saw … Well, I will address this shortly, but now I want to turn to why someone should have impersonated Wunbaldus, and there can only be one answer. So that Wunbaldus would then be blamed for the murder of Master Mason Gallenreutter. Someone wanted him out of the way, and chance or fate had given him the opportunity to shift the blame on to Wunbaldus. He would dispatch Gallenreutter in the same manner as the Toompea Murderer had killed Clingenstain, and when Clingenstain’s killer was apprehended then all would believe he had two men’s lives on his soul. Wunbaldus himself was the only obstacle, as he would very likely have worked out who was responsible for the second murder, so he also had to go. Even if the monk lacked any firm evidence, the murderer could not allow any suspicion to fall on him. Sooner or later someone would have worked it out. And so, who killed Gallenreutter, the man building a chapel for St Olaf’s Church? Why did he have to die? Was it some mortal enemy, someone he’d argued with, someone of whom he was jealous? All these are possible, but whoever it was must have known that Wunbaldus was Clingenstain’s killer – and not only that but how the Knight was killed. My suspicions fell on one individual, although I couldn’t work out a motive.’
‘Who? Who do you accuse?’ Freisinger pressed.
‘Yes, tell us, Melchior. Who?’ croaked Casendorpe.
‘Please, I ask for quiet,’ said Bockhorst. ‘In the name of the Council, Melchior, do tell us who this man is.’
‘Someone who knew how Clingenstain died … but how could he have known that Wunbaldus was the murderer? The solution is very simple. The Dominicans’ church is currently being reconstructed, and every sound from the northern nave can be heard clearly in the dormitory and in Wunbaldus’s chamber. Is that not correct, Brother Hinricus?’ So pointed was Melchior’s tone that everyone turned to stare at Hinricus, who had been sitting quietly. The young monk was taken aback. He raised his head, his hands pressed together in his lap in prayer and shock in his eyes.
‘What? Yes, I do believe it is. Yes, it certainly is. The north side of the old church has been knocked down, and only the eastern wall of the new passageway has been built thus far, so everything from the northern nave of the church sounds clearly into the lay brothers’ dormitory. There aren’t any walls separating the two. But I don’t understand. How is this significant?’
‘Because if everything from the church’s northern nave and the Blackheads’ side altar is clearly audible in the dormitory then sounds can pass just as easily in the opposite direction. In other words, there is one place in the church where everything that goes on in the lay brothers’ dormitory can be heard.’
‘That seems right,’ Hinricus said, his voice wavering. ‘Yet I still fail to understand, in what way –’
‘Nor did I at first,’ Melchior spoke sharply, eying Hinricus intently. ‘But Gallenreutter’s murderer had to find out about Wunbaldus somehow, and he could have overheard Eckell and Wunbaldus, perhaps as they played chess. This explains some of Eckell’s statements and his behaviour – it also explains why he was killed.’
Hinricus wiped the sweat from his forehead and said, ‘Now that you mention it, then yes … I must agree … Prior Eckell was rather odd and melancholy during those final days … as if he suspected someone and … But still, Melchior, how? Gallenreutter … no, I don’t understand.’
‘You see, all of the murders were tied to the monastery. The murderer had to have been connected to the monastery; he had to know that Eckell carried arsenic around his neck; he had to have heard Wunbaldus speak to Eckell about his own act of murder; he had to steal the Lay Brother’s white tunic. He had to have been in Wunbaldus’s chamber that evening and drunk a tankard of beer with him, a tankard into which he slipped the fatal arsenic.’
‘You mean that all this took place in front of us and that we didn’t notice a thing?’ Hinricus questioned with fear in his voice.
‘Someone must have had the opportunity of stealing the arsenic from Prior Eckell’s amulet and replacing it with flour,’ Melchior continued, his gaze still locked on Hinricus. ‘Magistrate Dorn already knows that on the evening Prior Eckell died his amulet contained flour and not arsenic. The murderer swapped the arsenic for flour so the Prior didn’t become suspicious. And, by the way, you might recall that Master Tweffell’s horse died that same day.’
‘What? Ah, my horse, yes. Dropped dead as if hexed. A strapping, strong animal it was, too. How is that relevant?’ Tweffell asked.
‘Because your horse was probably the murderer’s first victim. All the symptoms of its death point to arsenic poisoning. The murderer knew where the Prior put the amulet when he removed it to say mass. He needed to be sure that it really was arsenic and to check that its poisonous effect hadn’t had worn off with time, so tried it out on Tweffell’s horse because, they say, a compacted ball of arsenic the size of a pea will kill a horse or a man. Isn’t that so, Kilian?’
‘Yes, at least that’s what they say in Italy. Arsenic has been known there since Roman times,’ Kilian replied cautiously.
‘Who is the man?’ Tweffell thundered. ‘Give him up, and Ludke will make mincemeat of him. But before that, he will pay me compensation for that dray.’
‘So we know that the man took Eckell’s arsenic, administered it to Wunbaldus in a tankard of beer, stole the Lay Brother’s habit and took confession at the Church of the Holy Ghost before killing Gallenreutter, so that he would not get covered in blood, and later poisoned the Prior. But before revealing his identity I want to explain the puzzle of the poisonings and the secrets of arsenic. It is very important that we understand this correctly – and I have to believe that when an evil and malicious man came amongst us then St Cosmas hovered above the town and also sent an apothecary with a great knowledge of poisons.’
Magistrate Dorn remarked upon this that the Council Court would certainly appreciate it if St Cosmas’s envoy were to explain the mystery of poisonous flour.
‘Prior Eckell wore arsenic around his neck for many years and gradually inhaled its vapours,’ Melchior continued. ‘This in itself is not immediately deadly, but signs of arsenic poisoning do develop over a long period of time – the victim’s hair begins to fall out, white lines appear on his fingernails, his thoughts become somewhat addled and his joints ache constantly. We all witnessed Prior Eckell experiencing these symptoms. Now, while inhaling these vapours may ultimately result in arsenic poisoning and kill the victim, the death would be long and tortuous. But the Prior died suddenly, and he himself was convinced that he had been poisoned. A light scent of garlic wafted from his mouth, which is also a sign of arsenic poisoning … not long-term poisoning, however, but rather the ingestion of a single fatal dose. The rapid onset of pain that causes a man’s organs to convulse with uncontrollable vomiting, this is all indicative of arsenic but, once again, not of long-term poisoning. So, what should an apothecary then conclude? The Prior had inhaled arsenic for several years, and he had consumed arsenic through food or drink. Yet, as we already know, this did not happen that evening at the Brotherhood of Blackheads because arsenic was not present in our food or drink and neither was it in Prior Eckell’s, because Sire Freisinger ate and drank from the Prior’s dishes and – as we can see – he is alive to this very day.’
‘By the Lord’s grace,’ Freisinger murmured.
‘And we praise Him for this as well,’ Melchior concurred. ‘But how did the Prior die? Arsenic? Yes, certainly. But his food and drink were not poisoned, and if he had swallowed arsenic earlier – in the monastery, let us say – then he would have died sooner because arsenic works fast. I was troubled by this for a time and could not make up my mind whether or not the Prior had, in fact, been poisoned. But the answer is simple. I found it in Magister de Ardoyn’s book, and it explains everything. The murderer did poison the Prior while he was still at the monastery. Each separate strand of this case leads us back to the Dominicans.’
‘Melchior – sacred heavens and the Virgin Mary – what are you saying?’ Hinricus pleaded.
‘What am I saying? I am saying that the arsenic did not work as quickly as it should have because the Prior’s body had built up a resistance to the poison as he had already been exposed to it for a number of years. Our murderer knew how much a deadly dose should be and administered it, expecting the Prior to die much quicker. Eckell was old and sick, and his death would have been believed to have been through natural causes. The killer certainly did not want the Prior to die at the Brotherhood of Blackheads, where he himself was also present. But the Prior held out for longer than expected.’
‘And this man was someone from the monastery?’ the Councilman demanded.
‘I asked myself whether it could someone who had been present at all of these events, always in the background and hatching his dreadful plan. I want to ask whether it is possible that you, Hinricus, are this man. The man who accompanied the Prior to Toompea, one so unnoticed there that no one paid you any heed.’
Everyone in the room jumped to his feet, but Melchior’s words had been so unexpected that no one was yet capable of saying anything. Hinricus stared back at Melchior, ashen-faced, and then collapsed to his knees.
‘Could it have been you who heard the conversation between the Prior and Wigbold sounding in the church when the latter admitted to killing Clingenstain?’ Melchior demanded, enraged. ‘Could it have been you who knew about Prior Eckell’s arsenic? Could it have been you who stole that arsenic and poisoned Wigbold? I want to ask whether it was you who was so enraged that the Prior had received that murdering pirate into the monastery – an insult to St Catherine – that you condemned them both to death for this? You were the last person at Eckell’s side during the final moments of his life. You supported him, and could it have been you who forced the final dose of deadly arsenic into his mouth when you saw that the amount given to him at the monastery had had no effect? Could it have been you who disguised yourself as Wunbaldus and then – since all at the monastery would have seen through your masquerade – took confession at the Church of the Holy Ghost in order to transfer the blame for Gallenreutter’s death on to another?’
‘Gallenreutter?’ Dorn exclaimed. ‘But why would this feckless monk want to kill him?’
‘The question lies rather in how he would have known to put a coin into the man’s mouth,’ Melchior replied.
A terrified Hinricus kneeled on the cold floor, praying. Dorn was reaching for the handle of his sword in order to command the court servants to take the monk prisoner.
‘Sire Freisinger,’ Melchior spoke abruptly, and the Blackhead turned a surprised gaze towards him, ‘Sire Freisinger, you were the only person in the town besides the Magistrate and I who knew about the coin that had been forced into Clingenstain’s mouth. That Order attendant let this fact slip carelessly and against the Commander’s orders when speaking to the Magistrate, and he mentioned this at my pharmacy, which is where you heard it. You visit the monastery frequently. Tell us, is it possible that you spoke of this to Brother Hinricus?’
‘Heavenly grace, oh merciful Lord,’ Hinricus whimpered, his face shrouded beneath his cowl. He rocked back and forth on the floor in fevered prayer. The Magistrate approached him, his hand on his sword.
‘St Catherine,’ Freisinger stammered in alarm, ‘did I truly say that?’
‘That is what I am asking.’
‘I do remember now, that, yes, the Magistrate spoke of this, although it had slipped from my mind, but …’ Freisinger stood perplexed, racking his brains. A look of astonishment then flashed across his face. It seemed he now remembered something. ‘Of course,’ he cried out. ‘Yes, now I remember. Yes, I mentioned this to Hinricus in the monastery garden when we were counting the money. Yes, I acknowledge this, in the names of all the saints.’
‘That is a lie,’ Hinricus shouted in distress. ‘That man is swearing to a lie. He never said anything of the sort to me.’
Melchior now spoke rapidly. ‘At the time Dorn spoke of the coin in the pharmacy he did not yet know that it had been an old Gotland ørtug, so Freisinger could not have known that either. The murderer therefore placed any old coin into Gallenreutter’s mouth, unaware that it should carry a special significance. And this is what gave him away. This is what confirmed to me that Gallenreutter’s killer was another man.’
‘It was not me,’ Hinricus cried. ‘I am innocent. I’ve never killed anyone. It was someone else.’
‘It was the man Prior Eckell accused in his final minute. While he was no longer able to speak, he pointed this man out to us. When he felt the sudden onset of pain, then he understood; he understood everything that had taken place, and he knew the identity of his killer. Sires, the Prior himself pointed this man out to us.’
‘Who did he point to?’ Dorn bellowed. He gestured towards Hinricus. ‘Was it this man here?’
‘Melchior, do not put the Council’s patience to the test,’ Bockhorst said sternly. ‘Do you or do you not accuse the Dominican cellarius Hinricus of these dreadful acts?’
‘The esteemed Prior died right in front of us, and if he had pointed to someone then we would have seen it,’ Rode spoke.
Melchior waved his hand and raised his voice, ‘I still pose the question. Who needed Master Gallenreutter dead? Who wanted to kill the man building a chapel alongside St Olaf’s Church? We should all know this because there is only one person it can be. Each and every act in connection with these murders has taken place right in front of us. I ask you now to name the master who built St Olaf’s Church two hundred years ago. What was the name of the man who raised a steeple so high that it could be seen many miles out to sea? What was this man’s name?’
A sudden silence filled the room. The men looked at one another in surprise, and Tweffell tapped a finger on his chest.
‘Why don’t you ask the Council Secretary to look this up in the ledger or ask the Pastor of St Olaf’s or something? Of what relevance is this now, Melchior?’ Bockhorst asked.
‘I would like everyone to recall the first evening of the beer-tasting festival at the Brotherhood of Blackheads. It is possible that not everyone was listening, but Master Gallenreutter recited a song that, as Kilian aptly remarked, was more of a riddle. It was a strange song, and no one knew it – not even Kilian, who knows hundreds of songs. Gallenreutter spoke to us about church construction and how one must dig up the site of the old place of worship before the building can start. And then the Master Mason came to his song. I was already certain at the time that it was not mere chance, that it was not simply to warm his tongue during the course of conversation, but rather that Gallenreutter skilfully worked his speech so he could present his song.’
Melchior took a sheet of paper from his pocket and spread it out on the podium. He read aloud:
‘Come, for daybreak is nigh and light gleams from the east
oh, my friend, our seven brothers await thee at the crossroads
nonpareil the Lord’s temple, to which they’ll show ye the way
radial compass and trowels, they hold
aid them to drink the light that glimmers at the grave
their oaths as ancient as Solomon’s wisdom
unto the seven masters, their shields extended solemn Death drapes in his cloak he who is afore all
Favete linguis et memento mori
relic calls afar for its blood
elegiac yesterday is closer to Christ’s blood which floweth down the walls.
‘And now,’ he continued, ‘here are four more lines that I found in Gallenreutter’s pocket after he was murdered. He inscribed these on paper. The first letters had been obscured by blood, but it isn’t difficult to work out what they should be. So this song – and it is one and the same – continues as follows:
‘illumined angels will bring our town a protector, higher than us all
sadistic death will dance a jig around their names
in eternal secrecy be affirmed the first’s oath of flesh
numen lumen, of the holy flesh, seven will have part.’
The Apothecary was met with blank stares, and even Hinricus had risen to his feet.
‘I recall the song,’ said Casendorpe. ‘Probably everyone does – Gallenreutter even said that it probably originated in Tallinn and was composed by the first guild ever to be founded here.’
‘And which guild was that?’ Melchior asked. ‘Sire Freisinger will assert that it was the Blackheads – although nobody really took any notice of them until Sire Freisinger arrived a few years back, so if the Blackheads were indeed here in the early days of the town then it was probably just a group of old fogeys whom no one remembers. Freisinger was not familiar with the song either.’
‘Melchior, you have completely lost me now,’ Freisinger said. ‘The Blackheads are not mentioned at all in that muddled verse. What are you on about?’
‘It is true, they aren’t,’ Melchior replied. ‘But what is it about then? I’ll tell you. It is not a song but, rather, an oath and a riddle. Let us solve it. It mentions seven brothers who show the way to the Lord’s temple, that is, a church. It is clear that it also speaks of master builders, apparently church builders, who are not ordinary masons. Further on, one can deduce that the master builders have secret oaths that date from the time of Solomon’s – and they say Solomon’s temple was the progenitor of all modern churches. I believe these lines also mean that church builders have been organized into a single guild that has guarded their secrets since the time of Solomon. Solemn Death drapes in his cloak he who is afore all. Who is before all? Who does Death drape in his cloak? We should understand from this that he who is afore all is dead. Favete linguis et memento mori? Favete linguis means to hold one’s tongue and memento mori to remember your mortality. Thus we are instructed to keep quiet about he who is dead but also to remember him. The next line – relic calls afar for its blood – we know that Gallenreutter found a box containing bones while digging beneath the old church, so might this be that very same relic? And its own blood that calls afar … if a person’s remains call for his own blood then could this verse be talking about lineage? A descendant perhaps? Elegiac yesterday is closer to Christ’s blood, which floweth down the walls. I believe this means that because Christ lived a long time ago the ancient secrets of the masons originated much nearer to Our Lord’s time than ours.’
‘Hold on now, Melchior,’ Bockhorst said. ‘I don’t understand why this old riddle is of any relevance to us here.’
‘I promise that all will become clear post haste. Let us recall those final four lines that I found in Gallenreutter’s pocket:
‘illumined angels will bring our town a protector, higher than us all
sadistic death will dance a jig around their names
in eternal secrecy be affirmed the first’s oath of flesh
numen lumen, of the holy flesh, seven will have part.
‘What is the protector of our town, higher than us all? What shows our position from far out at sea and guides ships into our harbour, keeps the merchants in business and from the pinnacle of which our enemies’ forces are also visible from a long way off?’
‘Holy Christ,’ Dorn murmured, ‘you are speaking of St Olaf’s Church.’
‘Gallenreutter knew that the excavated coffin held the remains of a man, and he must have found this riddle within the box as well. And he understood; he understood everything. Sadistic death will dance a jig around their names. This sounds like a threat or a warning. Death will dance around the names of those who built St Olaf’s. The last lines leave no doubt. Who was the first? Why the first? What does this mean? Remember, solemn Death drapes in his cloak he who is afore all. Who is before all? And who built St Olaf’s Church?’
‘Isn’t there some old legend that goes something like that?’ Tweffell asked. ‘I remember something of the sort. My aged head certainly fails to keep hold of most things, but I do recall that people would speak of a master who died during the building of the church.’
‘Every legend holds a kernel of truth,’ Melchior affirmed. ‘An old folk tale tells of a foreigner who arrived promising to build a church, but no one was allowed to know his name. He supposedly also said that if his name were to be found out then Tallinn will never become a large, famed and wealthy town as the townspeople wished but instead a time of unrest, fires, plagues and misfortunes would follow and strife and misfortune would befall the town and the church that he built would not stand for long.’
‘I have also heard something similar, although surely it’s just some old legend,’ Freisinger said. ‘Just that and nothing more.’
‘Are you absolutely sure of that, Sire Blackhead?’ Melchior asked. ‘And do you know how the story continues? They say the townspeople did find out the name of the church builder – Olaf – and when this name was shouted by a crowd of townsmen then Satan himself was said to have pulled Olaf down by his legs from the top of the steeple, and the man fell to his death. The master’s journeymen were then said to have buried his remains in a place that no one saw and subsequently disappeared.’
‘So the story probably goes,’ Freisinger replied, shrugging. ‘Still, I do not see any –’
Melchior interrupted him, speaking with a passion, ‘This may be a legend, and many elements of it will have certainly been imagined, but when we put it side by side with Gallenreutter’s riddle and the lines of verse found in his pocket, then … then they add up to a whole in some places. No one really knows who built St Olaf’s because the master’s name was to remain a secret for all eternity. The man’s name definitely could not have been Olaf, because Olaf was king of the Norwegians and the saint after whom the church was named, as a great number of Norwegian and Danish traders passed through this town at that time. Yet the church builder met his death, and no one knows where his remains were buried. Legend brings us a tiny grain of truth, and that truth has to remain a secret. But what do the last lines of the verse tell us? Do they not tell us that this builder had to die in order that the church remain standing and that the masters each received a part of his body, as in holy communion, and that they confirmed this with ritual so that his name would remain an eternal secret?’
‘You mean that the master was eaten?’ Casendorpe cried.
‘I mean that Master Mason Caspar Gallenreutter from the town of Warendorf in Westphalia became aware of the name, and so he had to die. Gallenreutter had a vague idea who he was looking for once he found the name out, someone in Tallinn who guards the old secrets of the town. He made some careful enquiries because it looks like he had decided that he wanted payment in exchange for keeping quiet about this secret. And the transaction was made right before our very eyes. Remember, at the beer-tasting festival?’
‘I remember,’ Kilian exclaimed suddenly. ‘I remember the conversation, Sire Melchior. Could you show me the riddle on those pieces of paper? It’s as if something tickled my ear … I am not entirely certain, though.’
‘But, Melchior, Hinricus was silent the entire time at the Blackheads.’ Dorn spoke gruffly.
‘The man Prior Eckell pointed out to us was not Hinricus,’ Melchior declared. ‘It was not Hinricus who made a trade with Gallenreutter. Think, who was it was that seized upon the verse when Gallenreutter recited it? Who bartered with him right there in the Blackheads’ guildhall? Magistrate Dorn, I am now ready to make my accusation. Sires, find favour with the Lord. I stand here according to the provisions of Lübeck law, and I ask that the Magistrate’s sword be unsheathed for the first time.’
These were words of Lübeck law, words spoken in the presence of a councilman and the Magistrate, which signified that someone demanded justice and was to accuse another. Dorn unsheathed his sword, the court servants stepped behind him and he sheathed it again. A deadly silence filled the room.
‘Sires,’ Melchior repeated, ‘find favour with the Lord. I request that the Magistrate’s sword be unsheathed a second time.’
Dorn raised his sword. ‘Here will I hold trial in the name of the Grand Master of the Order, the Town Council, justice and the accuser,’ he proclaimed. ‘I forbid the violation of order a first and second time. I demand that no one leave this place and that the accuser’s speech not be interrupted.’ He slid his sword back into its sheath.
‘Sires,’ Melchior said once again, ‘I request under Lübeck law that the Magistrate’s sword be unsheathed a third time.’
Dorn raised his gleaming sword for a third time. ‘Town citizen Melchior Wakenstede has demanded that the Magistrate’s sword be unsheathed on the basis of Lübeck law. Allow him to speak, and may no one interrupt him under threat of a fine.’
‘I remind you of Sire Freisinger’s words during a conversation at the Brotherhood of Blackheads. “Tallinn is a prosperous town, and a peril such as a shortage of coins has never nipped at the Brotherhood of Blackheads’ heels. We Blackheads have always had quite sufficient funds for maintaining our dignity and significance, as ours is the oldest guild in Tallinn.” He then went on to say that the Blackheads helped dedicate this town’s holy sanctuaries to the Lord Christ and that “when death dances around the town it is the Blackheads who are the first to reach for their arms”. Those were his exact words, “when death dances around the town”. This was a signal to Gallenreutter, who now knew he had found a buyer. He asked whether the Blackheads are then so warlike that they reach for their arms immediately. Freisinger responded that more is accomplished with good counsel and a barrel of silver Riga marks than with a halberd. Yes, this was a trade that took place right before our very eyes. Gallenreutter got a response to his question because someone acknowledged that he knew the ancient secret of St Olaf’s Church. Someone recognized the words of the old verse. In the name of Lübeck law, it was you, Sire Blackhead, Clawes Freisinger, who killed the former Victual Brother Wunbaldus, Master Mason Caspar Gallenreutter of Westphalia and the Dominican Prior Balthazar Eckell. And under Lübeck law you must now be held accountable for your acts before the Town Council.’
Magistrate Dorn stepped towards Freisinger with his glinting sword raised, followed by the court servants.
‘What do you have to say in response to the accusation?’ he asked.
‘Is this is some kind of a joke?’ Freisinger asked in an icy tone. He stood proudly with a defiant sneer on his face and his arms crossed. ‘This apothecary cannot truly swear by the names of all the saints that this is really the absolute truth,’ he added.
‘Oh, but it is the truth, and by the names of all the saints I accuse you, Sire Clawes Freisinger, of these murders. And, in my mind, I had accused you of killing Gallenreutter from the very moment that I found the Tallinn artig in his mouth, because you, Sire Freisinger, were the only person in the town other than the Commander, Magistrate Dorn and me who knew that a coin had been placed in Clingenstain’s mouth and that his head had been driven on to a stake. Yet you did not know what kind of coin it had been. And you swore to a lie when you claimed to have spoken of this to Hinricus. You spoke of it to no one – Brother Hinricus had nothing to do with these killings. And it was you, Freisinger, who asked about a bounty immediately, as if you knew the identity of Clingenstain’s killer. You knew that it was Wunbaldus because you had been near the Blackheads’ altar in the Dominican Monastery the previous evening when you overheard Brother Wunbaldus confessing his crime to the Prior.’
‘Yes, I was there – yes, I was – but I didn’t hear a thing,’ Freisinger snapped.
‘You most certainly did – at least enough to know that Wunbaldus had killed the Knight. But you didn’t approach the Council with this knowledge because you were waiting for a bounty to be offered. Then, however, during Smeckeldach you heard what Gallenreutter had dug up from under St Olaf’s, and a man within you awoke – the man you were when you arrived here, the man you were sent here to be: a murderer. What I heard was you two making a trade. Gallenreutter reckoned that one of the guests at the Brotherhood of Blackheads, one of the guilds’ aldermen, might be the man he was looking for. He made a false claim that Tallinn was a poor town where hardly anyone would want to pay him to keep quiet. And it was you, Freisinger, who said in reply that Tallinn – and the Blackheads – had an abundance of wealth. You threatened Gallenreutter, saying the Blackheads would reach for their weapons – sadly he took no notice. With this statement you told Gallenreutter that you were the very man for whom he was searching and that you had enough money to pay for his silence. And the deal was done. A barrel of Riga silver, and Gallenreutter would remain silent. Oh yes, yes, he fell silent all right, although he did so for all eternity because you could not allow the fact that he had read the verse and would now know the master mason’s name. The Blackheads have always been secretive, and not much is known of your own past. You Blackheads came to this town at some time yet have always kept to yourselves. I must now believe that some ancient pact ties you to brotherhoods of church builders, whose symbol is a trowel and a compass and which are similarly organized into their own brotherhoods, veiled in mystery, that are scattered throughout German towns. This pact requires you to keep watch to ensure the name of the builder of St Olaf’s Church remains a secret. So Gallenreutter had to die. First, however, was Wigbold, whom you knew as Wunbaldus. You were a daily guest at the monastery, Freisinger, because the Blackheads’ altar is there. No one paid the least attention to you when you called on Wunbaldus and doubtless set a fantastic brew before him for the tasting, having slipped the arsenic stolen from Eckell into the beer. It was for this reason that you tested the arsenic on that unfortunate horse. The arsenic was deadly. Eckell spoke often of his fear of plague and at some point had told you what was in his amulet. When Wunbaldus was dead you stole a Dominican habit. You dressed in his clothes and rushed off to take confession because the secrecy of the confessional is not sacred for a man who commits suicide, and so all would soon find out that Wunbaldus killed both the Knight of the Order and the Master Mason. Then Gallenreutter’s time was up. You had stolen an axe from the workshop at St Nicholas’s earlier and hidden it not far from the meeting place. Before you used the axe, however, you killed Gallenreutter with a dagger. St Nicholas’s churchyard is well hidden from prying eyes – an appropriate place for two conspirators to meet, and Gallenreutter would not have suspected any foul play. You had by this time made sure word had spread throughout the town about the Knight’s head being staked to the wall. What next? Only Eckell remained. You were both at the monastery the next day, and you dissolved arsenic into his food or drink while you were there. Why? Because Eckell would have found out the truth sooner or later. You knew that he and Wunbaldus were friends and Eckell would not believe the story about the Lay Brother’s confession. You poisoned him in the hope that he would perish immediately at the monastery and that no one would have the slightest suspicion of poisoning because the Prior was known to be old and sick. Yet you were unaware that the Prior’s body was already accustomed to the arsenic after having inhaled the poison for many years. He did die, but he died less quickly than you would have wished. He died, but he still managed to tell us who his murderer was before his final breath. “You poisoned.” Those were his last words.’
Freisinger listened to Melchior contemptuously and shook his head. Only Dorn noticed that a cold sweat had broken out on his forehead and that his cheek twitched slightly.
‘What a load of mindless nonsense,’ he snorted. ‘The Apothecary is always going on about poison. He swore by the names of all the saints, and so now I, too, swear by the same oath that it is untrue. Yes, take me before a Council trial and allow them to judge according to Lübeck law whether an apothecary’s yarn trumps an honest merchant’s account when he swears by the names of all the saints.’
‘Do not insult the saints or swear to a lie in their name,’ Melchior shouted, livid. ‘You certainly swore to a lie earlier when you vowed to Master Casendorpe’s daughter that you would take her as your wife. You came to this town as a bachelor and thus became an alderman of the Brotherhood of Blackheads, just as your pact with the church builders apparently prescribed. And you were supposed to remain a bachelor. However, you fell in love with Hedwig, and the secret of St Olaf’s Church seemed to be buried for all eternity, so you began to forget the true reason for your presence here. You wanted to marry Hedwig and become a citizen of Tallinn, and you would happily have given up your association with the Blackheads. No doubt someone new would have been sent, and you would have been freed from your obligation, but Gallenreutter’s discovery struck like a bolt of lightening from clear sky. One day you had vowed to wed Hedwig, and the next you told her that you were now not ready for marriage and did not want to make her unhappy. You thrust away the love of a young woman – for whose hand half the young goldsmiths in the Hanseatic towns would have run their legs to the bone – because you were already bound by a blood oath. Gallenreutter, Wunbaldus and Eckell had to die, and you would remain the Sire Blackhead and guardian of the secret of St Olaf’s.’
‘That is only your claim? Your fairy-tales and contrived fantasies?’ Freisinger retorted. ‘Yes, let Lübeck law weigh up this apothecary’s tale. No one can be accused of murder because of legends and because he did not marry a girl. The Blackheads number many in Tallinn and in other towns as well. They will rise in my defence, because the claims of one apothecary –’
‘It is not only the claim of one apothecary,’ Melchior said, cutting off Freisinger’s words, ‘because we all witnessed Prior Eckell’s last testimony. He knew the identity of his killer just as we all do now. Why did you do it? Maybe because it was so simple. To mix odourless, tasteless arsenic into his drink – it was so simple. You were already used to killing. A murderer is like a weed in a garden. He will sprout time and time again because he believes he has the right to do so, that he must do so. Let us revisit the Prior’s last moments. He was no longer able to speak, but he was still capable of commanding his body. He ripped the treacherous amulet from around his neck and cast it towards us; he showed us where the poison came from. He accused someone, he pointed towards someone – towards whom exactly? He demonstrated it to us. He managed to pull the Commander’s black scapular down on to his head – black head. He told us it was a Blackhead and accused him. “You poisoned.”’
‘That is absurd,’ Freisinger shouted. ‘Absurd. A mad old monk’s convulsions before death – ha! Black head … This apothecary is out of his mind.’
‘What was absurd was your foolish attempt to make us believe that no poison had been in Eckell’s food and drink,’ Melchior continued. ‘It was childish and idiotic, because no person in their right mind would dare taste food consumed by a man who had just died of poisoning. You wished to demonstrate to us the Blackheads’ integrity and innocence, but you merely demonstrated your own foolishness. You showed us that you knew Eckell’s drink had not been poisoned, and you knew this because you had administered poison to him several hours earlier.’
Freisinger’s words became lodged in his throat. He continued to stand defiantly but was unable to reply when faced with Melchior’s confidence. Every man in the room stared at him blankly, except Dorn and the Councilman, who exchanged a glance. Dorn did not know what to do now. Should a Council trial be convened immediately? He did not notice Melchior wink at Kilian – as if giving him a signal or looking for assistance – and the boy, who up until that time had been poring over Melchior’s sheets of paper, waved his arm.
‘Wait just a moment, wait now,’ Kilian appealed and continued speaking without waiting for Dorn’s permission. ‘I wish to say that this riddle, this song written here … something had already tickled my ear before, although you wouldn’t notice it before reading these lines … That is, I know who is he, who is afore all. It’s written here that solemn Death drapes in his cloak he who is afore all, and then later that in eternal secrecy be affirmed the first’s oath of flesh. He who is afore all is before these lines, these lines of text. If you read down the first letters of the sentences one by one from top to bottom, then … then a person’s name lies here.’
‘The name of the builder of St Olaf’s Church, yes,’ Melchior confirmed. ‘Who died and whose bones were buried beneath St Olaf’s.’
‘And the name is, well, that is … it is incomplete.’ Kilian continued heatedly.
‘Because we do not have the last three lines of the song, although those are unimportant.’
‘But one can nevertheless still read here …’ Kilian exclaimed. ‘That the name is C-O-N-R –’
Kilian had barely managed to pronounce the letters, when he was interrupted by a ghastly roar erupting from Freisinger’s throat. He had pulled a dagger from his breast pocket at lightning speed and was rushing towards Kilian.
‘Silence, you idiot minstrel,’ Freisinger howled. ‘That name is a secret if you want the church to endure. Shut your mouth.’
Dorn was none the less defter than the younger Blackhead. He leaped in front of Freisinger, barging him with his shoulder and knocking the dagger from his hand as the two court servants seized Freisinger from behind.
The merchant thrashed in their grip, struggling to break free, and screamed in rage, ‘You fools, you don’t understand what you are doing. It is forbidden to say that name. It must remain secret or your church will fall into ruin, your town will fall into ruin …’
Dorn pressed the tip of his sword against Freisinger’s breast and demanded, ‘Stand still. Do you now admit it? Do you admit your guilt? Do you admit to killing Wunbaldus, Gallenreutter and the Prior? Do you admit it, or shall Kilian read the name aloud? Kilian, read.’
Kilian had no time to do so. Freisinger’s voice burst with loathing and rage.
‘I admit, yes, I admit it. Yes, I killed them. Order that minstrel to stay silent.’
‘To the prison cell. Take him to the prison cell,’ Dorn commanded. ‘In the name of the Grand Master of the Order, the town and Lübeck law, take him to the prison cell.’