Apothecary Melchior and the Ghost of Rataskaevu Street (13 page)

A little later Goswin was sitting in the kitchen, his feet in a bucket full of warm water, and Annlin was kneeling before him and rubbing her Master's spindly, hairy leg in the liquid. This time of the morning was Goswin's best time for thinking. Annlin's soft hands and the warm oat water stimulated his thinking processes, and he had known for years that if you need to come out of some complex situation, if you want good advice, you should let yourself have a good steam-bath or get Annlin to bathe your legs.

As Annlin bent over his legs the front of her dress fell open, and Goswin saw the woman's old breasts dangling. Now they were long, narrow and pendulous, although old Hainz – despite his age and dull wits – still touched them at night and took his wife as was proper and dutiful. Goswin could hear it clearly in his own bedroom; he had very good hearing. Hainz's understanding was feeble, but he still had bodily energy. Once he had been a porter at the harbour and the weighing-house, toiling with the bags, and from there Goswin had taken him on as a servant. And looking at Annlin's old breasts he thought again of those years when Annlin was younger – and she had been quite a beautiful woman – and he had felt a wild temptation to see them. He even remembered that day when he had taken Annlin and Hainz into service with him, and maybe even then he had secretly thought that the pretty servant girl might once in a while be disposed to favour her Master – of course, when the mistress wouldn't find out, but … but it had all gone quite differently. Arend Goswin had never touched Annlin's breasts or hips or any other part, and he had got over his temptations decades ago, although – may the saints be his witness – he had seen Annlin's breasts close up and naked several times when they were beautiful, large and full, but that was when everything had changed, everything became different. Suddenly everything had taken on a different meaning, although he still loved Annlin and her breasts. Still, and in his own way. Fidelity.
Yes, I have been a faithful husband, thought Goswin. In life and in death.

‘So what are they saying at the market and in town?' he asked.

‘Might sir be thinking about the killing that happened the night before last on Rataskaevu Street?'

‘That is just what sir is thinking of,' snapped Goswin impatiently. ‘What else do you suppose? Did you go to the Apothecary's?'

‘I did. And I brought that salve of juniper berries and cumin to smear on sir's feet.'

‘And what did the Apothecary know? Melchior arrived on the spot, and he's a sharp man. So what does he know?'

‘The Apothecary said that he had never seen that boy – that's what he said – ever before, and the town guards hadn't either. He said he must have been someone from outside town. At the market I heard that the guards took the corpse to St Barbara's Chapel, and if no one comes to bury it and blame someone for the killing, then it will probably be placed in a hole in St Barbara's Churchyard. And what else would people say about it – whoever is interested in the killing of some strange tramp? Any number of beggars and tramps are piling up in the town waiting to be buried – who would care about one of them?'

From the hallway Goswin heard some pattering and knocking then voices, then the grey shaggy mop of hair of Hainz, his servant, appeared in the doorway.

‘To say, my lord, the selfsame, that the servant of that Gentleman Knight is here. His Master has sent him to ask you, my lord, whether my lord has the time, the selfsame, to …' Hainz was somewhat dim-witted, and clearly talking had never been his strong suit. He may have been stupid, but he was loyal, and that was why Goswin had kept him for decades – and, of course, Annlin, too.

‘Speak more clearly,' demanded Goswin, and with Annlin's help Hainz was finally able to say that the neighbour from across Rataskaevu Street, the Knight Kordt von Greyssenhagen, had sent his henchman to ask if Master Goswin could spare a little time for him before the funeral.

This was peculiar. Of course, Goswin knew this liegeman of the Order, and he knew vaguely that somehow this Greyssenhagen was involved in the building of the new convent at Marienthal – and why would he not know, as the convent was very close to his Jackewolde lands? And had it not been at the wishes of the Order that Greyssenhagen had been recommended as one of the patrons of the new convent? At any rate the merchant was surprised at this visit, but he let the servant know that he would, naturally, be glad to receive the Knight and, if needs be, before the funeral.

Greyssenhagen had bought the fiefdom of Jackewolde, or Jägala, about ten years before, and it included several estates and one village quite close to Marienthal. He was from somewhere in the Order's southern lands. Greyssenhagen had acquired the house on Rataskaevu Street just five years before, however, since he was one of the few vassals from around Tallinn who had had no grand residence in the town – although Greyssenhagen's house could hardly be called grand, and it was also a little strange that while the richest and most important vassals' houses were on Toompea Hill the Lord of Jackewolde had bought his house in the Lower Town.

Greyssenhagen came as soon as his liegeman had brought the message back. It was evident that the Knight was in a hurry. Goswin recalled that he was seen very rarely in town – mainly when the commander had summoned the vassals together, whether attending the chapter or convening the court or discussing the vassals' service or estate matters, but if other vassals were seen more often in town, Greyssenhagen always came for the business. He was quite a bit younger than Goswin, a man of about forty perhaps, who had buried two wives and had recently been courting the widow of liegeman down Tartu way, had sold that man's estates to the Bishop of Tartu and earned a tidy sum from it. Three years ago the Council at Viborg had complained that the coastal dwellers near Jägala had taken over a ship with the liegeman's certain knowledge if not his actual encouragement. But Greyssenhagen had sworn on Toompea that
he
knew nothing of the affair, and
his
tenant farmers had not
plundered any ship, and that was how the matters remained, as there were no witnesses.

Greyssenhagen was a fine fellow, Goswin decided, as he got his clothes on with Hainz's help and hung a chain around his neck in order to show off his worth and wealth and look decent for the funeral. He could detect a cunning merchant from several hundred versts; Greyssenhagen got steadily richer and knew which way the wind blew.

He received the Knight in the
dörnse,
the living-room area at the back of the house, and got Hainz to bring a jug of the best beer and gingerbread with honey and pepper. When the Knight arrived they embraced and kissed cheeks and exchanged other common pleasantries. Greyssenhagen had a squint and walked with a slight limp in his left leg. He was wearing an austere black coat, but his hat was magnificent and striking. There was only one hatter in Tallinn, on Toompea, who made those. In truth, instead of a hat he could have worn a red kerchief wound around his head, with one end hanging down the right-hand side. That was said to be the fashion overseas now.

The Knight didn't waste any time – he drank a jug of beer but politely declined any bread and came straight to the point of his visit. ‘Master Goswin, as you perhaps know, I and several others of the Harju vassals have been asked by the Order to become patrons of the new Convent of St Bridget. Together and separately we have to fulfil the duty of defending the interests of the convent, promoting its cause, giving advice and representing the convent in Tallinn and elsewhere. Everything we say must be taken as if coming from the Abbess's own mouth.'

‘Yes, I know that,' murmured Goswin.

‘And that esteemed merchant Bruys was a citizen of Tallinn who was one of the few people from the Lower Town to also be a patron of the convent and defend it before the Tallinn Council and, when necessary, to promote and press issues which quite a few other respectable men in this town did not dare to do.'

‘That's how it was,' agreed Goswin.

‘And now he's dead,' continued the Knight, and Goswin had to agree to that, too, although, the saints be his witness, he wished it were not so.

‘It's necessary, it's absolutely essential, that someone takes the flag from the dead merchant's hands and carries it forward. We vassals from Harju have been thinking among ourselves that we want to make such a proposal to some respected, rich and honourable Tallinn merchant whose word will count before the Council and who would be prepared, body and soul, to support the St Bridget enterprise. Master Goswin, we wish to make that proposal to you.'

Master Arend Goswin was very surprised, but he promised to think over the proposal.

‘Why are you making the proposal just to me?' he asked. ‘Apart from the fact – as you said – that I'm rich and I don't have heirs.' Becoming a patron of the convent would mean handing over a large part of his assets to the convent. True, it was an exchange, but everything that the Convent of St Bridget could give back would only come to Goswin after his death.

‘I did tell you, didn't I, that you are respected and honoured?' asked Greyssenhagen, with what seemed to be the flicker of a smile.

‘It goes with wealth,' conceded Goswin, ‘but you must have had some other reason.'

‘Yes,' said the Knight, ‘we had. At the convent we know very well what is going on in the town, who has a grudge against whom and who is friends with whom. Master Bruys had many enemies just because of support for the Bridgettine Convent.'

‘If you know these things so well, then you've obviously heard that Bruys and I … that we …' he stumbled, looking for a word, ‘that we were hardly regarded as friends by many.'

‘I know,' nodded Greyssenhagen, ‘but I also know that you were reconciled, and I know that you are one of the few – perhaps even the only – merchant in Tallinn who has not come out strongly against St Bridget's Convent in the Council or the Great Guild.' He
leaned closer to the merchant. ‘I know people well, Master Goswin,' he added softly, ‘and I know that if anyone wanted to avenge Laurentz Bruys's death or promote his cause it would be you.'

Goswin was taken aback. ‘Avenge his death?' he asked, shocked. ‘Laurentz died … he simply died. He was old, he was ill, he died in his own prayer room and –'

‘And he had many enemies,' the Knight interrupted him. ‘He was hated because he wanted a new convent and the Council did not. I have seen a lot of this world. My family has not always had a coat of arms, and I know that always, when some rich person dies, hated by many, you have to ask
who did it?'

‘Merciful heavens,' cried Goswin, alarmed. ‘You don't mean to say that someone killed Laurentz?'

‘I didn't say that, but I have wondered. I don't know the answer, but if the question has an answer then I will make a bet on my own blessed soul that you would want to know that very much and would want to punish the man who killed him.'

Goswin was silent for a while, but then he conceded, through gritted teeth, ‘I'd strangle him with my own hands.'

‘So would I,' agreed the Knight, getting up. ‘So you'll think over my proposal?'

‘Certainly, but I don't believe for a moment that anyone would kill Laurentz – it wouldn't have been possible. He died in his own prayer room. The Abbess was there, everyone saw him die –'

‘Oh, let me tell you how it is possible. That man could neither walk nor talk, he was constantly in someone's care, and it would have been very simple to put some poison into his food or drink. Someone could buy off his servant or nurse. Someone only had to get to him for a moment to put a drop of poison in his cup, which might not kill immediately but certainly would kill, and no one would suspect a thing because the man was dying anyway. And at the convent they also gave him communion, and he was anointed, and some very cunning man could easily have slipped some poison in.'

‘But why, for Heaven's sake?' Goswin almost shouted. ‘Why kill a man who has one foot in the grave? Who could be so cruel?'

‘He had many enemies,' repeated Greyssenhagen as he departed, ‘and as long as he still breathed he could revise his will.'

When Greyssenhagen had left, Goswin realized that he had lied to the Knight. No, he would not strangle the man who might have killed Bruys with his own hands.

No, definitely not with his own hands.

G
OTTSCHALK
W
ITTE,
P
ASTOR
of the Church of the Holy Ghost, sat with a surly expression in his bed in the bedroom for which he had converted the loft of the old house. He had been living in Tallinn for over two years by this time and had adapted as best he could to this northerly country, putting up with countless discomforts and oddities.

It was raining, and it looked as if the long dry spell was over, and Witte should have been glad about the rain because it meant that this year he wouldn't have to fear crop failure and the stunted plants would be revived and bear fruit. And yet he could feel no special pleasure this morning. He was troubled by a dream. He had recently turned fifty, and he thought that a man of his age should not be troubled and oppressed by dreams. But this one did oppress him, so much so that Witte was not sure whether he would find peace and consolation, as he usually did, from serving at the altar, praying, preaching and undergoing profuse penitence. He was a man of God, spiritual, and he loved God and loved his work. When anyone in spiritual difficulty came to ask his advice he would always recommend prayer, confession and penitence because they ease the troubled soul and cleanse the person. From the Kingdom of God there is consolation for all manner of things.

This dream, which had started off so sweetly, had later turned into a nightmare, as if demons had come in the night to torment him and brought back painful memories of distant times, so
distant that they rarely came to mind during the day. But at night, yes, at night they were present, pressing on his soul. Old sins cast long shadows, Witte had sometimes heard people say, but had he not been repenting his sins for decades, mortifying himself, diligently fasting and even going on a pilgrimage to Compostela? So did this nightmare have any right to come back to torture him, reminding him of things of which – as far as is possible for any mortal – he had thought himself redeemed? And if anyone had the right to reproach him it was himself and no one else.