Apothecary Melchior and the Mystery of St Olaf's Church (32 page)

‘You are thinking about the fact that the Dominicans' habits are black and white,' Keterlyn stated with a smirk after she had read through Melchior's list again.

‘Yes. I cannot help the feeling that the Dominicans' colours are somehow the key to this entire mystery. White, which symbolizes purity of the soul and the Lord's grace, and black, which stands for the death that awaits us all and reminds us that it is every mortal's duty to be prepared for it. These are also the colours on a chessboard. But what is significant is that, although the Dominicans wear a black cloak, Prior Eckell was not wearing one when he died this evening. Because it was warm he was only in his white tunic. Lay brothers wear almost the same clothing, although they have a black scapular instead of a white one. Aside from that they also wear a white tunic and a black cloak.'

‘Everyone knows that, Melchior. It's hardly a secret.'

‘Exactly, although our Magistrate hasn't spotted the significance.'

Keterlyn shook her head again slowly. ‘Do you not have too many keys and too many riddles?'

‘I do indeed. It seems to me that this entire affair is much simpler if viewed from the right angle, although I lack that one correct clue which explains all of the rest.'

‘I
still
don't understand you.' Keterlyn gently ruffled her husband's hair and nipped at his ear. Melchior covered her hand with his and continued. Talking things through out loud helped him find the right path through the thicket of his thoughts, although the trail still seemed to lead nowhere.

‘Every sound from the northern nave of the Dominican church, where the Blackheads have their altar, is clearly audible in the dormitory. Is this not an interesting fact that our Magistrate has failed to pick up on? That it's obvious that all the various strands of this affair appear to converge on the monastery?'

Keterlyn gave a weak smile. ‘Well, then, it should all be quite obvious,' she replied. ‘In addition to those things that are already known – that Wunbaldus killed Clingenstain, and because everything from the northern nave is clearly audible in the dormitory then that Master Mason from St Olaf's had his head cut off (and all builders of St Olaf's come to a sticky end), and Prior Eckell died from a poison that he wore in an amulet around his neck – then it
is
all clear, just as you said. But now, my dear husband, your candle is as good as burned out, and …'

She reached over to snuff the candle, but Melchior caught her hand.

‘No, wait just a moment now. Hold on.' He pulled Keterlyn down on to his lap and kissed her on the cheek. When his wife turned her head to respond with her lips to his, however, Melchior had already continued speaking. ‘That poison … it isn't poison.'

‘That poison isn't poison,' Keterlyn echoed wearily.

‘Indeed. What should have been poison isn't. The amulet the Prior wore around his neck was supposed to have contained arsenic. Some hold that arsenic protects against the plague. The Prior believed this and wore the amulet because, through experience, he dreaded the plague terribly.'

‘But it isn't arsenic?'

‘No. I think it's just flour. I did think it was poison at first, and it
should have
been, but it isn't. I gave some to the old tomcat that hangs around out front, and he is still very much alive. I performed a few experiments
with the powder in the way that Magister de Ardoyn recommends in his book, because the properties of arsenic are well known. Albertus Magnus solved the puzzle of its nature and passed down a few tips to apothecaries, describing what happens when it is dissolved into a certain liquid and then heated. No, the powder that Prior Eckell wore around his neck was not arsenic. It was flour.'

‘Flour? Really? How could the man die from flour?'

‘There had been poison in it before. Someone substituted flour for arsenic, and I need to know exactly when that happened.'

Keterlyn thought for a moment then said, ‘Melchior, my darling, I
still
do not understand what troubles you so. If Wunbaldus took poison to free himself from the guilt weighing upon his soul after the killings, then it had to be
him
.'

‘I thought that, too, and it brings me right back to the fact that everything from the northern nave of the church is clearly audible in Wunbaldus's chamber. Wait, but you said something … something I …' Melchior looked at his wife with excitement in his eyes, taking her head between his hands with affection. He shook his head and squinted. Keterlyn recognized this expression – something was forming in his mind.

‘Hang on. What did you just say?' he asked softly. ‘Something about all builders of St Olaf's Church coming to sticky ends. Why did you say that?'

‘Did I?' Keterlyn sounded surprised, not grasping why Melchior was asking. She thought for a moment and then remembered. ‘Oh yes, I did say that. I mean the old myth about St Olaf's Church being cursed. You must know it, too. Not everyone believed it, but people used to say it was true. My father told me about it. Surely you've heard it.'

‘I can't remember now. Tell me. It sounds interesting. There's usually a grain of truth in a myth, but whether we can pick out what that might be is another matter.'

‘Come on. I will tell you about it in bed, not here.'

Melchior had to convince Keterlyn to stay, and she finally agreed, although her eyelids were heavy and her voice was weary. Her husband's embrace gave her strength, however, and she managed to rouse herself enough to tell him what her father – a Tallinn stonecutter of Estonian descent – had once told her.

‘This is the story of the master who built St Olaf's Church –' Keterlyn began, but her husband interrupted.

‘But no one knows who that was, do they?'

‘Exactly, and that is just what the legend tells us. And if you interrupt me one more time then I'm straight off to bed and taking you with me … by force, if I must.'

‘Then do speak, my wife, speak.'

And Keterlyn spoke. ‘It is said that once upon a time, when the town of Tallinn was still new and there were few churches within its walls, it was not well known abroad in the German lands, and merchants had difficulty finding the path to its gates because landmarks that showed the way were few and far between. The Town Council then came up with an idea to build a church with a tall spire that would be clearly visible from a great distance, one that would have the tallest steeple of any church anywhere in this land consecrated to the Virgin Mary or any surrounding lands. There were, of course, those who said that a church must be a house of God, that pride and hubris should not be the emotions that guide the building of a church but rather humility and reverence to the Lord. Yet those who said that it must become the tallest of them all prevailed, and then –'

She felt Melchior start. He reached across the table, scanned his notes and almost shouted, ‘Angels. Illumined angels.
Illumined angels will bring our town a protector, higher than us all …
In the name of St Victor, keep talking.'

Keterlyn spoke of how, once the councilmen had decided that this new church must be the very tallest of all, they needed to find a master mason to undertake the job. They looked everywhere, from the surrounding lands and across the sea, and various masters came to Tallinn and laid the foundations and built the walls. But whenever work was attempted on the spire the master mason in charge at that time would have an accident and die. Every single one of them fell to their deaths, one after the other, like apples from a tree. There were many in the town that claimed that this was punishment for arrogance and that a house of God should only be built with a meek soul and a pure heart.

Yet, when hope was beginning to fade that this work would ever be completed, a foreigner arrived in the town and promised to finish the job, but only if no one were ever to find his name out. He would not tell anyone, and it was to remain a secret for all eternity. As long as his name remained a mystery the church he built would stand. But if his name were to be revealed, then cataclysms, fires, plagues and misfortunes
would beset the town, the steeple would fall and Tallinn would never become the famous and wealthy town its people wished it to be.

Keterlyn enjoyed telling stories, tales that had been taught her by her parents and many of which dated back to the days when Estonian tribes still ruled the land and which spoke of things that she did not quite comprehend. Many of them would now be regarded as blasphemous. However, Keterlyn also knew the legends that the members of St Olaf's Guild – to which her father had belonged – told when drinking together, and this was one of those. Melchior listened attentively, his body erect and with a curious half-smile on his lips. Keterlyn could not remember any other old tale having had such an effect her husband before.

‘But', she continued, ‘what the master also said was that if anyone
were
, despite his warnings, to find his name out regardless then he would not take any money for his work. And so, along with his foreign journeymen, he began to build, and the church spire climbed higher and higher and soon became visible from a great distance; sailors could sight it from a long way out at sea. People often saw the master mason in the company of a stranger wearing an unusual cloak, however, a man as old as clay who spoke with a nasty grating voice, and rumours soon started to spread that since the church builder had the skill to erect a spire as high as that of St Olaf's – in a way that none other could – then he must be in league with the devil. There were also many who, in their greed, believed that the man's name should be revealed in order to avoid paying him his ten tünders of gold, and so a spy was sent to infiltrate the foreign builders' camp. But, even after hanging around the masons for several months, he hadn't managed to pick up a single clue. Finally, the spire was completed, and the only thing left for the master to do was place a weathercock on the top, as was customary. At this point the spy finally struck lucky. He overheard a conversation amongst the foreign journeymen, and –'

Melchior started and exclaimed suddenly, ‘Yes,
now
I remember. Yes, of course. I've heard a part of this story – in a somewhat different form. The spy overheard that the master mason's name was said to be Olaf, and –'

‘If you know that then I have not much more to tell. His name was indeed said to be Olaf, and when a crowd of townspeople started calling out his name while he was placing the weathercock then it was as if Satan himself had pulled the man down by his legs. He fell to his death, just as every master before him. They say a toad and a snake came from Olaf's
mouth and that his body turned to dust almost immediately. The journeymen gathered up what was left of him, buried his remains in secret and disappeared, after which the cloaked man was seen one final time, laughing. Nevertheless, St Olaf's is still standing. Anyway, that's the story, Melchior, and if you do not come to bed this instant …'

However, the Apothecary did not allow Keterlyn to blow out the candle. She knew her husband well enough to understand that she was not now going to get what she wanted because the signs of tiredness had disappeared from Melchior's eyes. He started writing again, even more feverishly than before, and there was nothing else Keterlyn could do than to kiss him on the forehead and go to bed alone.

Once Melchior was alone he picked a sheet of paper up from the table and read again what he had written:

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.

‘An ancient tale, for sure, although all of them have their roots in
something
,' he muttered excitedly. Melchior took up his quill and added:

illumined angels will bring our town a protector, higher than us all

He laid the quill down and sat staring ahead for a moment, astonished.

‘Lord have mercy. Saints Cosmas and Catherine, how did I not spot this straight away? The verse is one and the same; the mystery one and the same. I should have … Oh, heavenly mercy.'

There were only three more words to add; three words the first letters
of which had been obscured by Gallenreutter's blood. It now made sense. Melchior's hands shook as he filled in the gaps. He read over the riddle once more and poured himself a goblet of strong elixir.

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

Was it really so simple? Did he now know everything? Could he manage to grasp those causes that drive people to murder? Has not enough heavenly grace been given to the world to stop people from allowing madness to be done in their own names?

He drank the stiff drink down to the last drop and peered out of the window and into the street. It was dark, and the town watchmen were nowhere to be seen. He reached a decision. He blew out the candle and walked to the front door. Some matters still had to be arranged, some innocent souls were to be saved, and some just begged to be condemned to eternal damnation. He didn't have to do much – just arrange a single miracle. He just needed to creep over to the well, look for a golden collar that should be there beneath the loose stone at its base and then allow a miracle to take place in the town of Tallinn.