The Scribe(68)
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.
The attendant working at the grain stall in the market, a haggard, one-eyed man, informed them that Hansser Kohl had already left. He said that if they hurried they would find him at the mill, for he was there taking a new shipment of barley. He gave them directions to the mill, which was located in a precipitous place that they would reach by exiting through the southern gates of the city and following the course of the river for a couple of miles toward the mountains.
Alcuin thanked the man for his explanation and set off at once. They crossed the city and left through the south gate just as directed before continuing along the riverbank, heading upstream at a good pace. If she had not been so out of breath, Theresa would have asked him how it was possible that he did not tire, but the monk didn’t give her the chance to rest even once. When they finally arrived in the vicinity of the mill, she felt ready to drop to her knees. They paused only briefly to observe the scenery.
The mill stood imposingly on the crag that the river torrent had carved out from the rock. A giant water wheel was positioned in the middle of the river and Theresa was surprised by its continuous, heavy creaking, only partially masked by the murmuring of the water itself. As they approached, she could see that the paddles were not driven by the river exactly, but by the current of a channel beside it, the flow of water regulated by a rudimentary sluice gate.
Alcuin admired the mill that was constructed like almost all buildings of its type on three levels. On the ground floor were the pulleys and cogs responsible for transferring the movement of the waterwheel to the great vertical axle that passed through the mill. The main level, the milling floor, housed two slotted-stone wheels threaded on the axle—one fixed and the other mobile that ground the grain by turning in opposite directions. And on the third floor were the grain store and its loading funnel. The cereals were poured down this chute, which ran through a hollow duct to the hole bored into the upper wheel, to finish grinding it between the millstones.
Alcuin observed that there was a small, fortified house adjoined to the mill. He could also see a stable and an enclosed storehouse where, he assumed, they kept the grain.