“I see! But as I seem to recall, Lothar announced that it was very, very well hidden.”
“That’s right… s… sir. Ve… very well hiiid… en. It to… took all… all morn… ing to f… f… find it.”
“But in the end you discovered its whereabouts.”
“Yes… sir.” He smiled like a young boy who had caught a very slippery eel.
“And tell me, Martin, if the wheat was so well hidden, how was it possible that you found it, if you aren’t even able to find a fistful in my hands?”
Except for Lothar, everyone, including Martin, roared with laughter. However, the little man’s smile froze when he noticed Lothar’s cold stare. “He… he help… helped me,” he said, signaling the bishop.
“Well, I never! I hadn’t heard that part of the story before.” He turned to Lothar. “So the bishop told you where to search for the wheat?”
“What did you expect?” the bishop retorted. “Have you not seen that he is a half-wit? What matters is not whether I helped him, but the fact that it was found.”
“Of course, I don’t doubt it.” He paced up and down. “And tell me, my good Lothar, how did you know that the wheat was contaminated?”
The bishop hesitated for a moment, but then quickly answered: “Because of the grain that Theresa told me about.”
“This grain?” said Alcuin, putting his hand in his pocket and showing him another fistful of wheat with clearly visible tiny black balls intermixed.
Lothar looked at it without much interest, then his glassy eyes looked back up at Alcuin. “Exactly like that, yes,” he confirmed.
Alcuin arched his eyebrows. “How odd, because those black balls are peppercorns.” He closed his hand and put the wheat grain back in his pocket.
“Not so fast,” the bishop blurted out. “You have not yet explained your attempt to poison me and why, knowing what you knew, you decided to remain silent.”
“Do you truly want to know?” he said with a wry smile. “First, as everyone here should comprehend, it was never my intention to poison you. It’s true that I added this powder to your drink.” He opened his ring and showed them the powder. “But it is no poison, just a harmless purgative.” He tipped the remaining contents into his hand—and then, in full sight of the king, he swallowed it with evident disgust. “Lactuva virosa: unpleasant, but little more. If I had wanted to poison you, you can be sure I would have succeeded. No, dear Lothar, no. I drugged you, but it was to prevent another terrible murder. That of the poor wretch whose only crime was that he was born slow-witted.”
“Are you referring to The Swine? That degenerate who slit the throat of the miller’s daughter?”
“I am referring to The Swine. That man who you attempted to execute knowing that he was innocent. The simpleton you chose to blame for a murder committed by another: Rothaart, the redhead, an employee of Kohl and your accomplice.”
“By God! Have you lost your mind?” Lothar roared.
“It was him, in fact, who led me to you,” he said, even louder. Alcuin took a deep breath to calm himself. “The young woman was killed with a blade. I must confess that at first I too blamed the idiot with his grotesque face and the evasive look in his little pig’s eyes. But then I saw his deformed hands that have been that way since birth, and I realized that he could not have even held a spoon.”
“What do you know!”
“I know that Kohl’s daughter died from a knife to the throat. More specifically, it was on the left side and with an upward motion. A slash made by someone left-handed, without a shadow of a doubt. The maidservant who found the body described it in detail, and a small piece of the young woman’s ear was missing.”
“But how did that lead you to Rothaart?” Charlemagne inquired.
“Rothaart was hotheaded. He was left-handed, and he was skilled with the knife, which he brandished frequently in the tavern. He had money. Too much of it. The day I met him, he was bragging shamelessly to a friend about his wealth. I contacted that friend not long after Rothaart’s death, and his friend had no qualms admitting that, the day after the girl’s murder, Rothaart had scratch marks on his face.”
“That doesn’t prove it was he who killed her,” the monarch remarked.
“He knew the victim well. In fact, the night she was found dead, the redhead had spent the night at the mill. According to Kohl’s wife, that same night their daughter awoke in discomfort, left the house to empty her stomach, and never returned. I will say it again: left-handed and skilled with a knife. We know it could not have been The Swine because he is incapable of holding any kind of implement, and we know that Rothaart, the left-handed, was there on the premises with his knife.”
“But, what was his motive to kill her?” the king asked.
“His fear of Lothar, of course,” Alcuin said, unblinking.
“Explain yourself,” ordered Charlemagne.
“Rothaart drank frequently. He latched on to the barrel like a newborn to a teat. The night of her murder, he had to transport the contaminated wheat from the granary to the mill. When he arrived at the mill, he was drunk. As he was busy working to unload the poisoned grain, Kohl’s daughter happened upon him, probably surprised to see him there at that time of night. There were a thousand excuses Rothaart could have given her, but the aqua ardens clouded his senses and he reacted as he would’ve in the tavern: He pulled out his knife and with one stroke, killed her.”
“I didn’t know that you had the powers of a witch,” said the bishop sarcastically. “Or is it that you were there in person?”
Alcuin declined to answer, instead posing another question: “Tell me, Lothar, is it true that Rothaart regularly visited your chambers? To speak to you about the mill business, I suppose.”
“I see so many people that if I had to remember all of them, I would not have room for anything else in my head.” He cleared his throat.
“And yet your acolyte remembers. In fact, he told me that you would spend quite some time discussing matters of money.”
Lothar gave his acolyte a stern look, then turned back to Alcuin. “And what if I did talk to Rothaart a lot? The bishopric owns a mill, and Rothaart works as a miller at Kohl’s mill. Sometimes they would mill grain for us, and sometimes we did it for them.”
“But the sensible thing would be to discuss these matters with the owner of the mill, not a subordinate.”
“And from that you infer who the murderer is? Alcuin, stop talking nonsense and accept the truth: Whatever Rothaart did, it doesn’t matter. It was Kohl who was selling the wheat.”
“If you don’t mind, I will continue with my nonsense.” He glanced at his notes. “As I have already said, Rothaart the redhead had money: He wore sumptuous jerkins, boots of fine leather, and enough gold on his arms to buy an allodium—and all the farmhands needed to work it. This is inexplicable for a miller. It is clear that he had other means of income, which fits with what his friend Gus at the tavern told me he does on Sundays.”