The Secret of Saint Olaf's Church

Book 0: Pushkin Vertigo

by Indrek Hargla

Genres: General Fiction; Historical Fiction; Medieval; Mystery; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

A gripping and twisty historical murder mystery featuring a chemist turned-sleuth who battles ignorance and superstition—as well as killers—in 15th century Estonia

Perfect for fans of rich historical mysteries in the tradition of The Name of the Rose and C.J. Sansom’s Shardlake series.

The Apothecary Melchior series plunges the reader into 15th century Tallinn when Estonia stands at the edge of Christendom, the Church’s last foothold before the East: a town of foreign merchants and engineers, dominated by the mighty castle of Toompea and the construction of St Olaf's Church, soon to become the tallest building in the world...

Apothecary Melchior is a divisive figure in the city: respected for his arcane knowledge and scientific curiosity but also feared for his aura of mystical power. When a mysterious murder occurs in the castle, Melchior is called in to help find the killer and reveals a talent for solving crime. But a serial killer is loose in Tallinn, and Melchior is tested to the limit in a plot with as many twists and turns as the corridors of the castle itself. Melchior uncovers a mystery surrounding St Olaf's church and a secret society that has been controlling the town for years, revealing truths that may spell danger for any who dare to speak them aloud...

This 1st book in a series of historical mysteries sees the chemist-turned-sleuth Melchior battle ignorance and superstition—as well as a dangerous killer—in a richly atmospheric medieval setting.

Release date: April 28, 2026

Publisher: Pushkin Vertigo

Print pages: 368

Sample

Henning von Clingenstain, former Commander of the Teutonic Order in Gotland, was roaring drunk. Truth be told, he was roaring drunk for the fifth day in a row, and if the local commander had not fed him generously – food had been brought out from the kitchen of Toompea Small Castle from morning to evening – he would already have collapsed from a beer-induced stupor and blacked out long ago. Yet Tallinn appeared to be a prosperous and good-natured town, not like Visby. Here people enjoyed eating and drinking. It was customary in Tallinn to make merry just as the people in Clingenstain’s home town of Warendorf once had. And Spanheim, the local commander, seemed to be this town’s king of merrymaking. For five consecutive days and nights the table had been groaning under the weight of beer, wine and more of the town’s best and finest. It would have been a sin to turn it all down, just as it was actually a sin to quaff and gorge it all down – but Clingenstain had already taken care of that earlier in the day by having his confession heard by the Dominican Prior. Needless to say, forgiveness had been bestowed for his overeating and excessive drinking. Naturally.


Clingenstain now felt, however, that he might have had enough – his innards churned, his head buzzed and his thoughts were muddled. Only now did he begin to make sense of what was reality and what was just an intoxicated illusion, now that, after a few blunders, he finally found the side portal from the northern wing of the castle that passed above the moat, straight from one fortress to the other – from the Small Castle of the Order to the Great Castle, or Toompea, as it was also known. Some attendant opened the door for him, and the Knight staggered towards his lodgings. Curses, I am seeing devils, he thought. A soldier of Christ shouldn’t see devils.

He stepped out into the mild May night and filled his lungs with fresh air. The darkly glimmering walls of Toompea resembled shad- ows of a palace of darkness closing in around him. The jolly songs of the Commander’s musicians still sounded in his ears, and, truth be told, the festivities at the castle were probably still under way. The cobblestones, however, rose up from the ground and scuffed against his foot. He stumbled and fell. If he wished to reach his dwelling without incident he would require assistance.

‘Jochen, you son of a whore,’ he roared. Where was his squire now? He should be at his master’s side like a loyal dog, not doing the town in the company of wenches.

‘Jochen,’ he bellowed again, ‘I am blind drunk, and you have climbed up into an attic with some washerwoman. Jochen, you knave!’ The page did not appear. Commander Clingenstain stood in the middle of Toompea, alone except for some attendants of the Teutonic Order who were tending a fire near the stables on the other side of the moat. The walls of St Mary’s Cathedral, the Dome Church, loomed over the castle.

‘I’ll have you skinned tomorrow,’ vowed Clingenstain, and he lurched ahead. Pages be damned. He wasn’t so helpless at all; he could make it by himself. He definitely remembered where he was lodged; it was not far from here, a house that butted up against the stronghold wall. He could do it alone.

The Commander did not notice a solitary figure breaking away from the dark castle wall, trailing him stealthily as he stumbled towards his residence. He did not notice that the dark form followed him up to the door of the house, carefully keeping to the shadows. He did not even notice that the figure stood beside him when he, after several clumsy attempts, at last managed to unbolt the main door. The dark figure held the door open with his foot after Clingenstain had made his way inside. Clingenstain stood in the spacious entry hall and squinted against the light. Someone, probably Jochen, had lit the candles on the candelabra, and the bright light almost blinded him at first. He leaned against the mantelpiece and picked the candelabra up from the table. There should be a door here somewhere that led to the bedroom, if he remembered correctly, and in that room was a bed. He attempted to shrug off his coat but became entangled and almost fell. If only that slave were here to help him undress.

‘Jochen,’ he yelled again. ‘Aha, there you are, you lout.’

He glimpsed hazily from the corner of his eye that someone had entered through the front door. It had to be Jochen, of course – who else? – but his eyes were not yet accustomed to the light.

‘I’ll slice your ears off from your head next time. Where’ve you been, dog?’

The dark figure approached the Commander, who, squinting, had just managed to form the thought that Jochen should really be of shorter stature and did not usually wear such a coat. Yet this was all he had time to think before the stranger grabbed him suddenly by his shirt and shoved him with great force. Clingenstain fell, as if he had been struck by a bolt of lightning.
‘Thief, burglar,’ he sputtered. ‘How dare you, you dog. I am a Knight of the Teutonic Order.’
The stranger kicked him in the chest, and the Commander doubled over from the pain. The intruder pulled out a sword from beneath his coat.

Clingenstain felt that he was incapable of standing up and much less of fighting, but the abrupt sense of danger and pain sobered him up instantly. He could almost make out the features of the stranger’s face from beneath his hood.

‘Who … who are you?’ he demanded.

‘Someone who has prayed that he might take your filthy soul,’ the stranger replied.

‘Jochen! Help!’ Clingenstain tried to shout, but the cry came out weakly and could not be heard in the street through the thick stonewalls.

With his sword in one hand the stranger again grabbed the Commander by his shirt and heaved him on to the table. The Knight tried to struggle and fight, but he was no match for the intruder.
‘What do you want?’ Clingenstain finally managed to say. ‘Justice,’ came the reply. The unknown man forced him against the table with one hand and clenched his sword more steadily with the other. ‘This is precisely how it must unfold – with you writhing on the ground, terrified and crying for help. You will die without making peace with the Lord, and all your sins will go with you to the grave. It is the road straight to hell, Clingenstain.’

Death? Is this really my death? The thought flashed through the Commander’s mind. Such a death, and in Tallinn not on the bat- tlefield; not holding a sword in his hand but here in some burgher’s house in Tallinn, drunk, and by the blade of a thief. Virgin Mary, it was not supposed to happen this way. Not here and not now. I do not deserve this. His thoughts were sober but his body unresponsive.

‘Who are you?’ he enquired again.

Instead of replying the stranger raised something up before Clingenstain’s eyes. He could not make out what it was at first, but his eyes finally focused. He also saw the stranger push the hood back from his face. That face … that face … and that object in his hand, that was … It was impossible. He recognized that face. Yes, now he recognized it.


Yet Clingenstain’s time was up. He understood this unequivo- cally. He perceived it clearly through his weakness and his helpless- ness. For an instant he even saw in his mind’s eye the saints looking down at him from the heavens with pity and indifference. Yes, said the saints’ gaze, here and now, Henning von Clingenstain, right here and right now your end has come, and we cannot prevent it.

A strong hand seized Clingenstain by the jaw and forced his mouth open. One more powerful burst of pain shot through the Commander’s body as the stranger stuffed the item that had been held before his eyes into his mouth.

‘This is exactly how it will unfold,’ said the man. ‘Even begging for mercy will not do you any good. Until we meet in hell.’

He rammed the Knight’s head against the table, raised his sword with both hands and slashed downwards.

Henning von Clingenstain felt how the sword ground against his neck. He even felt how the strong blow sliced through his spine. It was painful, unbearably painful, but that pain was nothing compared with what awaited him.