Apothecary Melchior and the Ghost of Rataskaevu Street by Indrek Hargla Page A

such stone and finally found one, at the edge of the old wall. No matter how carefully he looked that seemed to be the only largish stone here on this stretch of ground – an oblong chunk about the size of a couple of clenched fists, the tip of which did indeed seem to be covered in blood. What bothered Melchior, though, was that Grote could not have fallen on it when he fell. And, what was more, how could a person strike his forehead if he landed on his back?
    He considered it a little and decided to try to climb up to the wall. From this side he couldn’t manage it because there was no access to the Nunnadetagune Tower from the town side, and the lower gate of the Louenschede Tower was locked, which was as itshould be. Melchior hummed to himself as he marched back and around all the convent buildings to the church door, but when he heard the sound of the nuns’ singing from within he changed his mind, went back through the gardens around from the direction of Lai Street and a short while later was stepping again into the courtyard from the main gate of the convent. He knew this route well because his beloved brewhouse tavern was right there, and that was where Melchior now aimed his steps.
    The tavern was kept by a lay sister, Gude, a plump middle-aged woman whose arms were like oak beams and her face as round as a pumpkin. Gude hailed from the Order’s lands somewhere to the east of Tallinn, where she and her husband had been servants on the vassal’s estate. When her husband died Gude sold all her worldly possessions and came, with the estate owner’s permission, into town to St Michael’s Convent. Here she cooked meals for the nuns and did some gardening, but mostly she sold beer in the tavern. It would be hard to find a more suitable woman for this job because, if required, Gude could lay several men flat with her bare hands and her voice was so powerful that when she screamed everyone started with fright. In the convent’s tavern there was regularly a need for this skill because the nuns sold beer for more hours in a day than the Council thought decent. Sometimes it might be that the men’s chatter at night became too loud, and there was no woman more capable than Gude to quieten them down. The convent got a good income from beer sales, however, and sometimes, when the Council found itself at odds with the nuns over something, Wentzel Dorn had to come to the convent to impose a fine for staying open for too long and disturbing the nocturnal peace of the town. Naturally, Dorn did this reluctantly because he also liked to sit in the brewhouse tavern on occasion, but he had to undertake the wishes of the Council. Certainly there was no one better than Gude to give Melchior the lowdown on all the gossip and rumours from the convent.
    So this afternoon Melchior was boldly stepping over the threshold of the tavern, calling out a loud greeting to Gude andasking for a stoup of the nuns’ best mint-flavoured ale. There were not many people here – a few weavers from Köismägi, a couple of apprentice cobblers and saddle-makers. At a table in the back Melchior noticed a foreign merchant, whom he must have met at some drinking session in the Blackheads’ Guildhall. If he remembered rightly, he was from Antwerp and his name was de Wrede.
    â€˜Good God, it’s Mr Apothecary,’ shouted Gude in shrill greeting. ‘Haven’t seen sir around here for a good week or so. Is your throat dry? I know just the medicine for that – one much better than a stoup of mint ale.’
    â€˜I don’t know … What could that be?’ asked Melchior.
    â€˜
Two
stoups of mint ale, brewed with the blessing of St Michael himself,’ replied Gude as she filled the cups from the keg and placed the foaming beer in front of the Apothecary.
    â€˜I can’t say no to that,’ laughed Melchior.
    Gude immediately asked him his news – how the children were growing,