The Scribe (35 page)

“Are you not forgetting someone?” Theresa asked.

“Of course. But the abbot in charge of the abbey at the time of the Magdeburg Plague died a couple of years ago, so we are left with whoever corrected the polyptych, but all we know about him is that he must be versed in the trade of a scribe.”

“So, four in total.”

“There might be more, even if we do not know it yet. Now let us analyze who our fourth suspect might be.” He brought the candles closer to the desk. “Even if Kohl or Rothaart—or both of
them—are indeed involved, the fact remains that someone, in the episcopal palace or in the abbey, has tampered with the polyptych. My theory as to what most likely happened is this: Someone acquired the contaminated wheat cereal in Magdeburg under the premise of burning it, or making use of it despite its condition, and this is the person who is responsible for the recent deaths. The Swine knew about this dubious transaction, though obviously his idiocy meant he never appreciated its significance. However, in time, and for some reason that eludes us, those involved must have feared his tongue would loosen, which is why they cut it to pieces. What’s more, I would venture that perhaps these same individuals murdered the girl with the sole intention of incriminating The Swine.”

“In that case, we would have to rule out Kohl. He isn’t going to kill his own daughter.”

“Quite. But I said
perhaps
. It would’ve been easier, would it not, to eliminate that poor idiot, rather than attempt to incriminate him.”

“True.”

“Anyhow, we know that The Swine could not have been the perpetrator.”

“Then we’ll have to find a better suspect with another motive.”

“Indeed. Another reason why someone would want to do away with that girl.” He stood and began to pace the room.

“And the polyptych? It must have been one of the monks who can write, and who also has access to the episcopal scriptorium,” Theresa suggested.

“Well, not exactly. The polyptych is kept by the abbey administrator, who is also the prior. In the episcopal palace the task falls to the subdeacon. But the chapter would also have access to it, for it is they who finalize the accounts of the mill.”

“I have never understood the workings of a monastery.” She leant back in her chair with disinterest.

“Generally, a monastery or abbey is always in the charge of an abbot. In his absence, the prior takes charge. If a monastery does not have an abbot, then the prior performs his duties, and the abbey is called a priory. Then there are the deans of the order, who are responsible for ensuring that the monks attend the services and perform their duties. There is also the vicar of the choir, responsible for the library and the secretariat, and the sacristan, who looks after the church.”

“None of them would have been involved in provisioning?”

“Only the abbot and the priors. Any of them could have arranged the transaction without raising suspicion. Trade is handled by the treasurer, in charge of money and supplies, the cellarer, responsible for victualing, and the estate manager and guest master, who look after the land and the optimates’ residence. The chamberlains just have responsibility for the monks’ clothes, and as for the refectorian and the procurator, I don’t think either of them would have been involved.”

“And the infirmarian and apothecary?”

“You know already that the apothecary was poisoned to death. And as for the rest of the monks, well I would put my hand in fire for them.”

“We could list their names.”

“The truth is I only know the names of the abbey monks, the late Abbot Boethius, and the two priors, secretary Ludwig and Agrippinus. The rest of them I only know by their role.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“We have a couple of days before they organize another execution. And we have a number of names to consider. We have Kohl, Rothaart, Lothar, Ludwig, Agrippinus, and The Swine, who I have no doubt harbors the key to this labyrinthine puzzle.”

“If only we could speak to him.”

“After what has happened, it’s now impossible. But it wouldn’t be a bad idea to talk to Kohl’s wife about the circumstances of how she discovered her daughter’s body.”

They agreed that Alcuin should speak with Kohl’s wife that day, while Theresa would stay to reexamine the polyptychs. She was not enamored by the idea, but neither did she protest, for she did not feel like returning to Kohl’s mill, either. However, after a time leafing through the codices, she decided she would be more useful if she went to investigate The Swine.

Theresa arrived in the vicinity of the slaughterhouse with the sun spilling onto the maze of narrow streets. Around her townspeople were herding livestock toward the nearby pastures, while the women were out with their little ones, as white as snow. A neighbor greeted her, used to seeing her go past every day. The woman made a comment about the weather, and Theresa cheerfully paid her respects, feeling as if she were now a small part of Fulda, which was turning out to be a captivating town.

As she arrived at the slaughterhouse, she recognized the same guard who had stood in their way on the Saturday morning. He was sitting in the same spot by the door, a stick in one hand and a piece of pork belly in the other, which he gnawed on with his few remaining teeth. When she came close, she noticed that he still reeked of wine. The man, on the other hand, did not seem to recognize her, for he glanced at her and then continued to chew on the pork belly as if his life depended on it. After a moment’s hesitation, Theresa took out a slice of oat cake and offered it to the guard.

“I’ll give it to you if you let me see The Swine,” she proposed.

The guard looked greedily at the cake. Then he snatched it from her and bit into it eagerly. He kept munching as if the young woman was transparent, and when he had finished, he ordered her to leave. Theresa was infuriated.

“Go away or you’ll get the end of my stick,” the guard snapped.

Theresa understood that he would never let her in. She decided to wait in the area until someone came to relieve him, but while she walked she remembered the little window that Alcuin had opened on their last visit. If no one was on guard, perhaps she could enter through it.

She circled the slaughterhouse looking for the window. At the rear, a dozen tiny buildings were packed together as if they had been smashed together. They were the old huts that once belonged to the butchers, but most of them now were occupied by carpentry, cooperage, and cart-repair workshops. She went into a half-collapsed building that looked like it might lead into the slaughterhouse. Upon entering, she was greeted by a one-eyed man wearing a leather apron, who turned out to be the owner of the smithy. Theresa asked him to sharpen her scramasax and feigned an interest in the objects lying about in the inner courtyard. She asked for permission to take a look and went deeper into the smithy with her eyes fixed on the timber walls covered in mallets, wedges, hammers, and cold chisels hanging from hooks like sausages. There was a smell of hot metal, which she welcomed given the cold. To one side, a great door connected the storeroom to an enclosure, which Theresa assumed belonged to the slaughterhouse. Suddenly she felt an arm on her shoulder.

“What is it?” she asked, surprised by the blacksmith.

“That there?” he said looking at the enclosure. “The pen where they kept the animals before they cut their throats,” he said with a laugh. “Here, your scramasax.”

He did not charge her for sharpening the blade, but told her to bring money the next time. When Theresa exited the smithy, she jumped with joy. She had found the window into the slaughterhouse, and best of all she could see that it was still open. Now she just had to find a way to distract the blacksmith.

She was about to bite into her last piece of oat cake when a young lad with an old man’s face planted himself directly in front of her. Aside from his bangs, the youngster was all skin and bones.

“Do you want a piece?” she offered, a plan formulating in her mind.

Luckily the boy was both hungry and gullible. He eagerly took the cake and said he was delighted to come to the rescue of a great lady traveling in disguise. He ran into the smithy, reappearing with the one-eyed blacksmith, and together they headed for the place where Theresa had said her carriage and footmen had come to a halt. When they had left, Theresa dashed into the courtyard, but as she arrived at the window she froze, second-guessing whether it was a good idea to enter the slaughterhouse. She wasn’t sure she was doing the right thing. The Swine might be unchained and decide to attack her, and it was even possible that the monk was wrong about his innocence and he really was a murderer. Yet, something inside her drove her to continue. She wanted to be useful, to find out who was behind it all. She looked back, fearing that the blacksmith might return at any moment.

Scanning her surroundings, her eyes fell on the tools hanging from the wall. She noticed a heavy hammer, which she ruled out taking after realizing she could not even unhook it, so she appropriated a light poker, which she tied to her belt. Then she stacked several planks of wood under the window and climbed to the top so she could just reach the window ledge.

At that moment she heard someone returning, so she lifted herself up, making the pile of timber under her feet collapse. She clambered up the wall, managed to pull the rest of her body through the window, and then plunged into the terrifying darkness of the slaughterhouse.

When she stood, she felt a pain in her bones as if she had slept on a bed of stone all night. She must have hurt her left elbow, for she could hardly move it. At that moment she heard someone
handling the window she had just come through. When she looked up, she saw the blacksmith’s face appear, so she quickly curled up in the darkest corner and waited for fear he might see her. The man looked inside but couldn’t see anything in the pitch black. Raising his eyebrow, he suddenly left. Theresa supposed the one-eyed smith was returning to his workshop, but some banging told her he intended to seal the window. When the hammer blows stopped, there was a gloomy silence broken only by the thumping of her heart. She had never been anywhere so dark and imagined this was what it was like to be blind. Then she mentally kicked herself, thinking that not even the most brainless buffoon would have committed such a stupid act. She was alone, in the dark. Locked in a building with a half-wit who might be a murderer. How could she have been so foolish? She didn’t even have any tinder or a steel to light a torch.

She crouched there in silence, listening to her own heavy breathing that sounded labored, like an old woman with a scraping wheeze. She soon realized the blacksmith was long gone. She stood, sliding her hands along the wall in an attempt to feel something that would help orient herself. Again, she felt the greasiness of the walls and she suddenly retched. After several attempts she located the window, nailed shut with some boards.

She was a prisoner: trapped.

Gripping the poker, she brandished it in front of her as she walked on blindly, waving the implement in the air while the other arm felt for the shackles and chains that covered the walls of the corridor. As she advanced she was gradually able to make out the end of the corridor. First she saw just a shadow, then a squat figure in the half-light, huddled into a ball—and finally she could tell it was him. In the scant light filtering through the roof, The Swine lay curled up on the ground, hugging his deformed legs as if he were a great fetus.

He seemed to be sleeping, but Theresa could not see any chains restraining him. That filled her with fear. The thought occurred to her that she could still back out, call the guard, and explain everything. She would be scolded and might even receive a couple of blows from his stick, but at least she would escape with her life. The Swine gave a sudden jerk, and Theresa managed to stifle a scream.

She looked at him again more closely and saw that indeed he was sleeping, but when he moved a little, she saw a glint at his ankles, and thanked the heavens when she realized it was the reflection of chains.

She took a deep breath before continuing, then moved forward until she was within a step of his broken bowl that still contained some scraps of food in it. If she were any closer, The Swine might be able to reach her. She crouched down to observe him more closely. His tangled hair was covered in filth, his clothes were in tatters, and his skin was covered in dried blood. In his sleep, his eyelids remained half-open, revealing expressionless little eyes, like a pig whose life had been cut short. He was breathing with difficulty and from time to time he coughed, giving Theresa a fright.

Using the poker she probed one of The Swine’s feet, which shrank back as though it had been stung by a bee. Theresa gave a start, but she poked him again until he woke. He seemed dazed, as if he could not understand what was happening. But before long his eyes fell on her. He was surprised to see her and retreated as far as his chains would allow. Theresa was glad he feared her, but even so, she kept wielding the poker purposefully. If he tried to attack her, she would sink it into his head.

After observing her for a while, The Swine moved closer. He was hobbling like an old drunk, dragging a lifeless foot. Theresa saw that his eyes contained no malice.

They remained silently watching each other for a while. Finally, Theresa rummaged around in her pockets.

“It’s all I have,” she said, offering him the remains of the oat cake.

The Swine held out his trembling hands, but Theresa decided to leave the pieces on the bowl and step back a few paces. She watched the man try to pick them up without success before sinking his face into the dish and licking it like an animal. When he had finished, he uttered something unintelligible that Theresa interpreted as some kind of thanks.

“We will get you out of here,” she said, not knowing how she would fulfill such a promise. “But first I need your help. Do you understand?”

The man nodded, making a guttural sound. Theresa repeated question after question until she was convinced that the poor wretch was truly a half-wit. He responded with meaningless gestures, poked about in the bowl with his deformed hands or simply glanced from side to side. However, when he heard the name of the redhead, he started hitting himself on the head as if he had lost his senses. When Theresa repeated the name Rothaart, The Swine showed her the raw stump of his severed tongue.