Apothecary Melchior and the Ghost of Rataskaevu Street Read Free Page B

Tallinn, for over a dozen years. He was a serious man who rarely laughed and thus a worthy foil to his friend the Apothecary who, despite his age, could giggle like a child – and, what is more, did so often. Sometimes Melchior wondered whether it was the job that made Wentzel Dorn bad-tempered. Year after year of dealing with thieves, rapists, robbers and murderers, bringing them to court, having them tortured and put to death – isn’t that too much for one man’s spirit? For instance, the previous week Dorn had had a Swedish thief from a coastal village shackled to the pillory in Town Hall Square and horsewhipped, but after the beating the man had gone to meet his Maker. Melchior knew that his friend Dorn was very annoyed about this because, had he survived, as a punishment he had been going to have a couple of the man’s fingers chopped off. The court had not sentenced the thief to death, and such things could hardly make life easier for the court official.
    But now Dorn had again turned up at Melchior’s pharmacy – as usual when some matter was bothering him, for there is no better cure for melancholy than a few words with a friend and no better restorative than a stoup or two of Melchior’s sweet dram. Some things in this world, Melchior knew, never changed. So he was all the more surprised when Dorn motioned with his hand indifferently to his sly wink and greeting, and when Melchior, without asking further, reached for the bottle of spirits Dorn said, ‘No, thanks, my friend, I don’t think I will today.’
    â€˜Oh-ho,’ exclaimed Melchior. ‘No pains in any of your limbs today? Or have you found some other means of doctoring yourself in this town?’
    â€˜I’m just not in the mood,’ answered Dorn cautiously. And, as if by way of excuse, he added, ‘At my age I suppose a man should be used to death notices, but, you see, they still upset me. And that’s why I’m not in the mood.’
    â€˜Oh yes,’ replied Melchior, nodding. ‘I heard that news this morning, too. It does make you sad when such an upstanding and God-fearing citizen leaves our midst.’
    â€˜So it does,’ said Dorn, ‘and so suddenly and unexpectedly, too, that you don’t understand any more who or what directs a man’s life. Is it God and his saints, or … ?’ He sighed and sat down on a chair in the corner of the shop.
    â€˜Our pastor at St Nicholas’s can surely tell us more about it,’ said Melchior. ‘But, well, I wouldn’t call this death unexpected. Hasn’t there been a lot of talk about Master Bruys’s will at the Guildhall of the Great Guild and how some merchants have called it excessively magnanimous?’
    â€˜Hold on,’ interjected Dorn. ‘You said Master Bruys? You mean he’s dead?’
    Melchior stared at Dorn in astonishment. He blinked quickly and grew serious.
    â€˜Good heavens. So someone else then?’
    â€˜Grote, the Master of the Tower,’ said Dorn. ‘He fell from his tower last night and died right there between the walls.’
    â€˜Fell from the tower?’ exclaimed Melchior.
    â€˜Well, over the parapet, apparently from the defence walkway above those stone arches. He must have been drunk because the corpse stank of beer and in the tower chamber he had a fair-sized keg. He went out on the walkway while sloshed and stumbled, what else … ?’
    Melchior eyed his friend attentively. He knew he had something on his mind, but he didn’t push him.
    Dorn carried on. ‘The guards found him there this morning; atfirst they thought he might have been beaten to death or something, that there was something on the back of his head, but there were no signs of a beating on his body at all, only his forehead, which was bleeding and broken. He was lying there on his back staring at the sky, a few bones sticking out as you’d expect when somebody