Apothecary Melchior and the Mystery of St Olaf's Church by Indrek Hargla

would confess that he killed Clingenstain, the Pope and even the Holy Roman Emperor. What I wish to say is that we know not whether it might have been some vassal or Knight of the Order who wished to give the misleading impression that the murderer escaped to Lower Town. Anyone could have thrown a sword near Short Hill Gate – if indeed it was there in the first place – and it is likewise no difficult task to leave a false trail of blood. Nevertheless, I admit that the Commander’s version seems to carry the most weight. The murderer cast the sword aside when he reached land under the town’s jurisdiction, having no further need for the blade nor anywhere to take it.’
    Dorn’s temper dampened somewhat upon hearing this response, and he turned to leave. ‘We do not have the right to doubt what the esteemed Commander tells us,’ he said.
    â€˜Oh no, of course we don’t,’ Melchior mumbled, distracted in thought, ‘so we
must
look for the murderer within the town. We
must
look for some foreign vagabond, whose capture would not jeopardize relations between the Order and the town, all of which would be agreeable to theGrand Master. Or we – and you in particular, Magistrate – must protect the innocent foreign vagrants who have not killed Clingenstain yet who might apparently have done so with great zeal according to the preferences of some lofty overlord.’
    Melchior stood in front of the Town Hall, pondered a bit then decided that he would not visit a brewer – the business he would otherwise have had today, requiring, as he did, half a dozen tankards of beer – but would instead track Kilian down. Melchior held faith in the fact that he would find Kilian at the place where he usually idled at this hour – sitting in front of Tweffell’s residence on the edge of the well, strumming his lute and doing his best to attract the attention of the lady of the house. Melchior furrowed his brow at this thought then turned to head towards home.
    Artisans’ lunch hour had just ended, the town pulsed with a sea of faces, and Melchior recognized the majority of those bobbing along on the tide. Tallinn is growing, he thought. Tallinn is becoming bigger and more important, wealthier and more beautiful; but there are still not so many living here, and one of them, a face that I would likely recognize, one of them murdered a high-ranking Knight of the Teutonic Order yesterday. The market square and the grandiose new town hall that bordered it were the very heart of the town. All of Tallinn’s arterial streets came together in this spot, and it was the most protected area of Lower Town. If an enemy were to get past the moats and walls of Tallinn then the streets would be piled high with stones and Town Hall Square would be fortified – and no enemy could conquer Toompea. The square before the Town Hall was an important place. A market was run here during the day, tournaments were organized in the open space during holidays when merchants might, even for a fleeting moment, compare themselves with the nobility; Council declarations were made and festivities held here when the town was visited by some person of elevated status. Trials were sometimes held there, and a criminal might be executed or, more likely, chained to the pillory.
    Before Melchior moved off, however, he cast a glance across the square towards the north-west corner. Several small houses stood there behind the pillory with their rear walls facing the Church of the Holy Ghost. One of these was home to the town weighing-house, another belonged to the Church of the Holy Ghost and the third – a snug two-storey building of modest appearance – was currently without a tenant. A Danish merchantnamed Lovenkrands had ordered the house to be built nearly ten years before but had died before he could to undertake the journey to Tallinn. Lovenkrands’ descendants now wanted either to rent it or