Apothecary Melchior and the Ghost of Rataskaevu Street (34 page)

Suddenly one of Blomendahl's assistants raised his head and said, ‘Mr Clerk, Mr Clerk, that is very like the name of the Knight Kordt von Greyssenhagen. Isn't that why that Knight came here asking about the house?'

‘What are you on about?' snapped Blomendahl testily.

‘Well, that time he came here to report that he'd bought his stables and asked, by the way, who bought that house and what was written down about it, and I said we couldn't tell him without Mr Clerk's permission. And then he got angry. But that's the house that's supposed to be haunted.'

‘Oh, I understand,' whispered Melchior.

‘You should keep your mouth shut,' grumbled the Clerk, and his assistant buried himself back in his book.

‘What else was there?' asked Melchior slyly.

‘It said that Jurgen Zeneberck died in 1364. The house was occupied by his brother and then the latter's son Hartwig Zeneberck. In his will he had made his nephew his heir. He was living in Germany and didn't send a single letter to Tallinn. Then two years ago Pastor Gottschalk Witte turned up with a contract to show that he had bought the house from Zeneberck's relatives.'

Melchior thanked the Clerk politely and left. He only had time
to drop home quickly to put on a formal coat and choose the most suitable hat for the evening – not a difficult choice as he had but two. During the day Master Goswin's housekeeper Annlin had visited the pharmacy bringing, on her Master's instructions, a bottle of malmsey. Melchior tasted it and found that ale was a drink more to his taste, but this wine, regarded as very delicious, could be used in mixing medicines – perhaps by boiling honey in it and adding wormwood juice. That would be a remedy for a number of diseases and was good to drink anyway.

Towards evening Melchior stepped over the threshold of the Guildhall of the Great Guild, which was located near Town Hall Square and had been completed only a year and a half before; in fact, it was so new that it still smelled of paint and varnish, and the master builders were still finishing off the banisters and walls. The tall building was prominently visible from the eastern side of the Town Hall, and some were already calling it the Little Town Hall because the edifice was meant to announce to the world the wealth and importance of the town's merchants. Like the Town Hall the Great Guild building was a symbol of the town's freedom.

This evening's event, however, was special in several ways. Usually only the Great Guild itself gathered in the Great Guildhall, and that meant the Council, too, because the Council was the Great Guild and the Great Guild was the Council. Today, however, members of the town's other guilds had been invited here, as had respected burghers of the town, the Bishop of Tallinn, vassals and canons … But not all of them came. Apart from the Commander of the Order, who had fallen ill, the people of Toompea had come, but there were not so many men from the Lower Town. A new convent near Tallinn – and, what was more, a convent run according to the rules of a Swedish saint – which was starting to take
money
away from the town of Tallinn, well, it did have its detractors, but surely people understood that Master Goswin's investiture was just the first step, and it would be followed by others. Then the real battle would begin to see that the convent, now so feared by the town, became the property of the town and add to its power, fame and
prestige. At some point, once it began to minister to the souls of the townspeople, Tallinn would have to start using the convent's facilities, and this would add to the importance of the town.

This evening, though, would commence with a banquet with musical accompaniment, all paid for by Master Goswin, and then there would be speeches by the canons and Greyssenhagen, speaking for the Knights of the Order. The Bishop of Tallinn would congratulate Master Goswin, who would kiss the image of St Bridget and sign the certificate, which would be witnessed by the aldermen, Greyssenhagen and the Bishop with their seals.

Melchior sat at the banqueting table between the merchant Kogge and Franck, an accountant, both of them a little glum but tucking into the food that was put before them – cod and perch, roast lamb with ginger and garlic, leg of goose, white bread and little peppered sausages. Melchior didn't feel particularly hungry, and it was not only his thoughts that were drawing him away from the food, but he felt he could sense the approach of the curse of the Wakenstedes, which it had not had enough at St Bridget's Churchyard and now demanded more. He was finding this quite a depressing occasion, and not even the Council's musicians could cheer him up with their playing. The concept of a new religious community was unfamiliar to the town, as was Master Goswin's accession to the place of his former enemy. Melchior noticed that Goswin ate little, too, hardly touching the dishes placed in front of him, his sad eyes roving over the Guildhall as if seeking forgiveness and understanding from the burghers. Dorn was there, and he was jolly enough because the meal was far from frugal, and Melchior even saw de Wrede at the Blackheads' table.

It happened later, after the banquet, when Greyssenhagen and Canon Albrecht had praised Master Goswin and the Bishop had congratulated him and called for prayers for him in the town's churches; it happened as Greyssenhagen was handing the clay image of St Bridget to Goswin for him to kiss. That moment lasted a long time. Greyssenhagen's hands were trembling, but Goswin's were firm as he took the figure. He kissed it, and a sigh of relief
issued from the Knight's mouth, one that he seemed to want to suppress. It was a solemn and spiritual moment, and just then Melchior felt his knees faltering and his eyes starting to swim. The curse must have been near by; it was announcing itself. Death and misery were close to Melchior, and at that moment he understood everything: evil and hatred, which are stronger than death. At that emotional moment, as Greyssenhagen handed Goswin the figure of St Bridget, yes, then he understood. Hatred can be stronger than death. It extends beyond the grave and poisons the souls of the living and annihilates the spirits of the dead.

Melchior had to clutch the edge of the table so as not to fall. No one noticed it. Everyone was looking at Goswin kissing the statue of St Bridget. He accepted the saint's call and promised to uphold her cause in his life. Greyssenhagen smiled broadly and candidly. He had won over a new ally in the town.

Afterwards ale and wine was brought to the tables. But Melchior stood by the wall. He was unable to sit, he was suffering, the pain had seized his body and a terrible realization had paralysed his consciousness. The guests took their tankards of ale, clinked them with Greyssenhagen and Goswin, bowed before the Bishop and kissed his hand. Among them he saw Pastor Witte. The Knight was drinking ale, his voice growing increasingly shrill; finally he sat down among the diners, as did Goswin silently after him.

‘Apothecary,' cried Greyssenhagen from afar and pushed his way through to Melchior. ‘You seem down this evening. Are you unhappy?'

‘My thoughts are confused,' replied Melchior. ‘I deeply respect St Bridget, but that's not why I've been invited here. Rather, because you asked, sir, how my hunt for the ghost was getting on.'

‘The holiest acts are over now,' said Greyssenhagen gleefully. ‘So, tell me now, because that really is why I invited you. For years I've been hearing that my neighbour's house is haunted, although as a Christian I can't take that sort of story seriously. But now they say that the Apothecary of Tallinn himself is chasing the Rataskaevu Street Ghost.'

‘I'm not
chasing
a ghost,' said Melchior quietly. ‘The ghost is just a shadow of the past. It can't be hunted. At some time a woman died in that house, a woman called Ermegunde, but according to the family her maiden name might be –'

‘I'm not interested in what the woman's name might have been,' interjected the Knight rapidly and rather sharply. ‘I was just asking you, as a bit of fun, whose spirit might be seen there.'

‘Oh, I don't think you asked just as a bit of fun, sir,' answered Melchior, but then he added loudly, so loudly that everybody near by could hear, ‘I've seen the ghost with my own eyes. The human mind is a strange thing. I saw something with my own eyes I thought had vanished from my memory. Only today did I understand from how deep in the memory a recollection can reappear before one. I have seen an apparition that I thought was dead, and now it really is dead, but when it should have been dead it wasn't dead at all. That is why my thoughts are confused, and I ought to go before the Council and tell them clearly but not today. Tomorrow, gentlemen, because it concerns Master Bruys's will. Tomorrow, because now I'm ill, the grave will have to be dug up. Yes.'

‘He's had too much to drink,' someone shouted.

‘The Apothecary can't get a clear word out of his mouth,' another voice joined in.

‘I'm ill. Forgive me,' Melchior forced himself to say. The Wakenstede curse seemed to be overcoming him, as it often did when he felt hellish hatred, evil and killing around him.

He bowed awkwardly towards the Bishop and to Greyssenhagen, who stared at him in astonishment, and then he staggered away, supporting himself with his hand on the wall and seeking out the Magistrate with his eyes. Dorn caught up with him at the street door where the Guild's attendant was standing.

‘In the name of St Victor, Melchior, what kind of a mad yarn have you been spinning?' demanded Dorn angrily. ‘What ghost? What will? What grave to be dug up? Have you gone out of your mind?'

Melchior reeled out of the attendant's earshot and through the front door, then supported himself against the wall of a house and answered, panting, ‘My head is clear and confused at the same time. I said what I had to say, and it's as true as it is false …'

‘Now you've gone completely off your rocker.'

‘Listen to me,' said Melchior, seizing Dorn by the cape. ‘You must come to my home as soon as the feast is over and the guests have gone. You must come quietly and without being seen. The door will be open – don't knock – but, most importantly, don't let anyone see you. No one.'

He said no more but stumbled and reeled back home.

F
ROM
K
ETERLYN'S
PERSPECTIVE
Melchior could see that his wife would have a number of bones to pick with him – the shop had been busy over the past few days, yet he had hardly been at home at all – but as soon as Melchior stepped inside his wife understood that now was not the time for a telling-off. Melchior's face was pale, he could hardly stand and there was madness flashing in his eyes. Judging by all the signs the Wakenstede curse had afflicted him again.

‘Darling,' called Melchior in a weakened voice. Keterlyn ran to him, and her husband embraced her. To Keterlyn Melchior seemed different from the other times that a wave of the curse had come over him. He wasn't usually like this, anxious, excited.

‘Darling,' Melchior whispered in his wife's ear, ‘don't ask any questions please. Take the children and go upstairs to sleep, to the attic, among the boxes of plants, and don't come down from there, Don't come on any account, no matter what happens or whatever you hear. When it's all over I'll come to you myself.' And he kissed her.

No woman in the world would agree to a request like that. No woman would simply go without question, and nor did Keterlyn – but Melchior closed her mouth with a kiss.

‘I'll manage,' he said. ‘I'll drink some medicine, and I'll manage. Don't worry. But I'm expecting something, expecting someone, and you and the children should keep away. Go now, in the name of the Blessed Virgin.'

When Keterlyn had gone Melchior quickly poured himself the drink, to which he had added several ingredients that he wouldn't usually – dried snake's meat, toad's scales, a little drop of lily-of-the-valley wine, opium-poppy seeds and rose oil. He hoped it would help; it
had
to help. It was the most disgusting drink Melchior had ever drunk, but it
must
help.

Dorn came as it was getting dark and the townspeople were preparing for bed. The town guards came on to the streets and checked that no one was wandering around armed. Through the window one could see a faint candlelight. The front door was ajar, and a pale strip of light seeped on to the steps. Dorn cautiously pushed the door open and saw Melchior resting at the table, his head in his hands; there was a bottle of wine beside him and in front of him some half-completed writing.

‘Hey, Melchior,' whispered Dorn. ‘I am here now. Are you asleep?'

The Apothecary was startled, and he lifted his head. As he raised his face the Magistrate saw that his friend was dripping with sweat, and the earlier pallor had been replaced by a flush.

‘Come in quickly,' whispered Melchior in reply. ‘Don't shut the door. Leave it ajar.'

‘Good heavens, you're sick, man,' responded Dorn, stepping softly inside. ‘Will you please tell me what's going on?'

‘You'll have to be patient. I can't tell you anything because I can't prove it. Be patient, and we'll get the evidence.'

‘Evidence of what?'

‘Quietly, Wentzel,' hissed Melchior. (Only very rarely did Melchior call the Magistrate by his first name. Dorn, however, as a Council official and a man older than Melchior, never called him by his surname.) ‘Quietly,' repeated Melchior. ‘We mustn't talk so we can be heard from the street. I made a space for you behind the curtain. Slip behind it and talk only in a whisper.'

Dorn mentally cursed his friend and looked at how the door leading to the back room had been pushed open and Melchior had hung a large cloth in front of it. There he found a chair and a candle stump, which barely flickered.

‘Whose will were you rambling on about at the Guildhall?' insisted Dorn when he had finally sat down. ‘Everybody thought you'd gone out of your mind. Who has died or hasn't died?'