“And what if I do? It’s no secret.”
“You see, the chapter wishes to acquire a batch of grain. A good bit of business for someone who knows how to handle it. With whom should I discuss the matter?”
“You’re from the chapter and you don’t know the answer to that? I don’t take kindly to liars,” he said, his hand moving to the handle of his knife.
“Relax,” the monk hastened to say. “I don’t know who is in charge because I’m new here. The wheat would go to the chapter, but it is a private matter. In truth I wish to replace some batches before the missi dominici inspect the grain stores. Nobody knows about it and that’s how I want it to stay.”
The redhead let go of the hilt of his dagger. He knew that the missi dominici were the judges Charlemagne periodically sent across his lands to resolve important legal matters. Their last visit had been in autumn, so it was possible that the friar was telling the truth. “And what’s this got to do with me? Speak to the owner and see what he says.”
“The owner of the mill?”
“The owner of the mill, of the stream, of this tavern, and of half the town. Ask for Kohl. You’ll find him at the grain stall at the market.”
“Hey, Rothaart, are you going to become a monk now?” interrupted the same man who’d brought him his coins. It was clear to Alcuin that Rothaart was the redhead’s name, for that is precisely what the word meant in the language of the Germanic peoples.
“You keep joking, Gus. One of these days I’ll smash in your skull and put a gourd in its place. Even your wife will appreciate the change,” Rothaart retorted to his friend. “And as for you,” he said to Alcuin, “if you’re not going to bring more wine, you can make room for one of the whores waiting for me.”
Alcuin thanked him for his time and gestured to Theresa. The two of them left the tavern and made for the market square.
“Where are we going now?” she asked.
“To speak to a man who owns a mill.”
“The abbey mill?” Theresa ran to keep up with Alcuin, who walked with increasing speed.
“No, no. There are three mills in Fulda: Two belong to the chapter, though only one is located at the abbey. The third is owned by a man called Kohl who, it appears, is the local rich man.”
“I thought you wanted to find some feathers.”
“That was before I met Rothaart.”
“But didn’t you know him already? I heard you address him and say that he worked at the mill. And why do you want to buy grain?”
Alcuin looked at her as if the question irritated him. “Who told you I want to buy anything? And I didn’t know the miller. I deduced that he worked at the mill from the flour that not only dusted his clothes but was also embedded deep under his fingernails.”
“And what’s so special about this mill?”
“If I knew that, we would not be visiting it,” he said, without slowing his pace. “All I can say is that I had never seen a miller who eats rye bread. By the way, what did you write on your tablets?”
Theresa stopped to search her bag. She was about to start reading, but seeing that Alcuin was not waiting, she ran after him as she read over her notes: “The stout man was wounded in the belly. The redhead waited for him to lose his balance before attacking him. The winner’s earnings totaled around twenty denarii. Ah! And I didn’t note this down, but the fat one’s injury could not have been serious, because he left the tavern on his own two feet,” she said with self-satisfaction, expecting some recognition.
“That’s what you wasted your time noting?” Alcuin looked at her for a moment, then continued walking. “Lass, I asked you to note what you saw, not the things that were so obvious any fool could have seem them. You must learn to pay attention to the minutiae, the more subtle events—the details that go almost unnoticed or that seem insubstantial or meaningless. They yield the most interesting information.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Did you see the detail of the flour? Or notice his shoes? Did you determine which hand he used to thrust the knife?”
“No,” Theresa admitted, feeling stupid.
“First, the redhead: When we arrived at the tavern, he seemed drunk but he was actually choosing his victim carefully, for when he made his bet, he counted every last denarius.”
“Aha.”
“He chose a strong man, but one without great skill. First, his accomplice Gus sized up the unsuspecting victim, indicating him with a clumsy hand signal. Indeed, Rothaart did not start fighting until Gus had gestured that the bets had been taken.”
“I thought there was something odd about that Gus, but I didn’t think it was important.”
“As for the money you noted—twenty denarii… it’s a lot.”
“Enough to buy a pig,” said Theresa, remembering her conversations with Helga.
“But not so much if you’re paying for a round of drinks and two prostitutes. However, his shoes were of fine leather, and slightly different for each foot, which means they were made especially for him. He also wore a gold chain and a ring set with stones. Too much wealth for a miller who risks his life gambling.”
“Perhaps he fights every day.”
“If that were the case, and he always won, his reputation would precede him and he wouldn’t find opponents prepared to die, nor gamblers willing to throw away their money. And if he didn’t always win, he would probably be dead by now. No. There must be another explanation for his expensive shoes. Perhaps the same explanation that accounts for his preference for rye bread rather than wheat.”
“So…”
“So we know he works as a miller, that he is left-handed, astute, skilled with a knife, and moneyed, too.”
“You saw which hand he used to attack the fat man?”
“I didn’t have to look. He held his tankard in his left hand, he counted his winnings with his left hand, and he used the same hand when he tried to threaten me.”
“And why is all this important?”
“It might not be. But it might also have something to do with the sickness that is plaguing the town.”
On the way to the market, Alcuin admitted that the deaths of his assistant and the apothecary did not seem accidental. Several people had died in terrible pain, and since he now had some free time, he wanted to put his mind to finding out what was happening.