Macabus narrowed his eyes. ‘Various substances are used whose efficacy is well known.’
‘Might I ask where you store such substances?’ My master held the apple core out, and I reached for it, but instead of giving it to me, he handed it to Brother Leonard who looked at the article with distaste and handed it to a lesser brother nearby. He, in turn, held it with just the tips of his fingers and passed it on to another, perhaps lower in rank than he, and this man left us holding it before him, for the cloister.
‘Along with gold, silver, lead and mercury used for the making of amalgams, locked away in a repository.’ Brother Macabus fumbled in the pocket of his habit and brought out a large bunch of keys. Singling one out from the rest, he directed us to a spot away from the carrels, or library stalls, near a great map of the north seas. Here, set inside the stone wall, behind a large tapestry, there was a heavy iron panel no bigger than two hands across and three high. He opened the lock with the key, looking about him. Inside, the aperture revealed vials, ampoules, and a large glass flask containing a powdery substance.
Andre peered in. ‘This powder does not appear to be labelled.’
‘I believe it is a salt, somehow strangely related to mercury. We have no use for it though we know little about it and so we keep it locked away. It has been in the repository a long time, in fact, since before I arrived here. I simply do not know its name.’
‘Thank you, brother. One more thing. Do you ever leave your keys in someone else’s charge?’
The man thought for a moment. ‘It is my duty to lock the scriptorium and the aperture to the cloisters each night, but I also hold the keys to the kitchen and the cellar. However, there is always some necessary work to be done in the kitchen after the supper and so the cook locks those rooms and brings me the keys after he is finished, usually before compline.’
‘And no one else?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘I am a curious man, brother.’
‘Are we not warned, preceptor, not to be curious in unnecessary matters?’
‘Yes, but as Syrus has said: necessity gives the law without itself acknowledging one. However, I would not quote the Apocrypha again, brother, not in earshot of the inquisitor. Now, as to my question . . .’
The librarian was visibly shaken – perhaps realising that peril awaited him at every turn – and answered promptly, ‘Sometimes the hospitaller needs to replenish the wine in the abbot’s rooms and I allow him the use of it.’
‘Does either the cook or the hospitaller have any idea that on that ring of keys resides the key that opens this stronghold?’
‘No, I don’t think so, but why is that important?’
‘You are quite right, it is of no importance at all, and I have been wasting your time. I humbly apologise. You see, you were right; the Devil of curiosity is a cunning one, for he leads us to contemplate marginalia. I thank you for your patience,’ my master said, bowing politely and after the brother had locked the repository once more, we bade him our leave.
‘That man is either very careless, or he is not very astute.’ my master mumbled as we headed in the direction of the chapter house.
I was too caught up in my own thoughts – feeling that I now knew the identity of the killer – to answer him. ‘The boy is the author of our note!’ I said resolutely and unequivocally. ‘He knows Greek!’
‘No, I do not believe so, Christian.’
‘But, master . . .’
‘If the young boy is the best translator of Greek this abbey has, why should he make the obvious mistake we found in the note? And even if he were the author, you are assuming that this connects him immediately to the crime. This is not necessarily the case. In any event, he is right-handed.’
‘But how do you know that, master?’
‘It is very simple . . . a left-handed copyist, is more likely to leave smudges on the left side of a page than a right-handed one, because his hand in its labour travels over freshly written words. A right-handed copyist’s hand travels ahead of the word. Moreover, left-handed copyists have a peculiar angle to their lettering.’
‘Always?’
‘No, not always, but mostly.’
‘So the boy is right-handed. What about the author of our note?’
‘It was written by a left-handed person.’
‘Oh,’ I said, suddenly excited, ‘and as there are not so many left-handed persons it should be easy to find our note writer.’
‘That is true,’ he conceded, ‘in fact there are not many left-handed people in the world. Perhaps because some believe it is an infernal trait. You will remember that Christian mythology tells us Lucifer sat at the left hand of God.’