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

how was Mistress Keterlyn’s health and what was going on around Rataskaevu way. When Melchior had told her everything and assured her that the twins were growing well and Keterlyn was in the best of spirits and good health, he, in turn, enquired about the nuns’ news and asked her what she knew about the tragic event of Master Tobias Grote falling to his death.
    â€˜I was weeping about that yesterday morning,’ replied the lay sister sadly. ‘Yes, he fell to his death, and a fine intelligent man he was. He wasn’t old, not one whose time had come, not at all. A terrible story – why should anyone die in such a senseless way?’
    â€˜That I can’t say,’ grunted Melchior. ‘But you know what I heard? The Magistrate himself told me – and maybe the sisters who found him saw it, too – that he had a horribly contorted face, as if he’d seen a ghost.’
    â€˜Oh, yes,’ Gude shrieked. ‘The nuns were horribly frightened when they saw him.’
    â€˜And, what’s more,’ said Melchior, ‘before he died Master Grote had mentioned to a few people that he’d seen the Rataskaevu Street Ghost. Tell me what I’m supposed to make of that. I’ve lived mostof my life on Rataskaevu Street and never seen a single ghost or spirit there.’
    â€˜Mr Apothecary must be thinking about the ghost of that filthy woman, eh? Oh, yes, I’ve heard of it, but I haven’t seen it – may the holy angels protect me.’
    â€˜The very same, I suppose,’ Melchior confirmed, although he didn’t remember exactly which ghost was supposed to be haunting the Unterrainer house, as he’d heard any number of conflicting stories about it.
    â€˜And nobody’s able to say what sort of death they’ll die,’ said Gude with a sigh.
    Melchior turned his head, and his gaze crossed that of the Flemish merchant’s. Melchior flinched. The Fleming, who had been concentrating on his jug of ale when the Apothecary stepped in, had now raised his head and was looking at Melchior. Or, rather, he was observing him furtively and with great interest, his body taut as a bowstring. He was tense like a person trying very hard to overhear what others are saying. But when Melchior turned towards him de Wrede quickly looked away, but not so quickly that Melchior didn’t spot it. De Wrede – Melchior now remembered that his name was Cornelis, Cornelis de Wrede – had been straining to eavesdrop on their conversation. Melchior bowed in his direction, but the Blackhead pretended not to notice. His attention seemed to be diverted to something outside the window. He drained his jug and left.
    â€˜Does that Blackhead come here often?’ Melchior asked Gude.
    â€˜Oh, that gentleman who speaks such beautiful German, as if he had doves nesting in his throat? No, I’d never seen him here before yesterday – then he just hung around. He sat here and tried chatting to a couple of people, but who’d want to talk to someone who can’t speak the language properly?’
    â€˜He was hanging around?’ asked Melchior with interest. ‘Why would he hang around here?’
    â€˜I don’t know. He just walked around the convent and then stepped into the tavern and asked whether we sold beer. What foolwould ask whether ale is sold in a tavern? I don’t know what we’re supposed to sell here – pork or what? The idiot. But all Flemings are like that, I guess. And then – yes, word of honour – he asked about the poor Tower-Master.’
    â€˜You don’t say. Did he and Grote know one another?’
    â€˜I don’t know. Grote had never mentioned him.’
    â€˜And what did he ask about Grote?’
    â€˜How he came to fall off that tower, and so on …’
    â€˜And how
did
he come to fall off that tower?’ asked Melchior. ‘I’d like to know that, too.’
    â€˜Good