Page 14 of Laird of Flint
Hew nodded. But he’d already ruled out Peter as a suspect. The lad was enterprising, but he didn’t seem like the sort to steal from a monastery.
He’d only polished off one of the warm, chewy oatcakes when patrons began wandering in. The Bell was surprisingly popular for this early in the day. But considering the quality ale and decent fare, it was probably a good way to prepare for a long, hard day of work.
He checked the prior’s list. When the alewife refilled his cup, he asked her about the man who visited the monastery once each season to deliver spices. “Do you know where I could find Absalom the spice merchant?”
“Absalom? When he’s in town, he comes most every day. He should be along any time.”
No sooner did she say the words than a dusky-skinned, black-haired man came through the door in a cloak thickly embroidered at the edges with bright thread.
“That’s him,” she murmured.
Absalom seemed rather richly dressed. Was that thanks to his talent as a spice merchant? Or his dexterity as a thief of religious artifacts? Hew wasn’t sure.
He stood and greeted the man. “Absalom?” he asked.
“Aye.”
“I’m told you deliver spices to the monastery not far from here?”
“That’s right. Kildunan. Four times a year.” He paused to call out to the alewife. “Ale and an oatcake.”
“On its way,” she called back.
“Can you tell me,” Hew asked, “who takes the order?”
“The kitchener comes to the gate.” Then he frowned, eyeing Hew’s axe. “Why? Is there a problem?”
“Nay. ’Tis only…” He drew closer, confiding, “I’m staying there, and the food…” He wrinkled his nose.
Absalom nodded. “All the spices in the world won’t help a bad cook.”
“I was afraid of that,” Hew said, saluting him with an oatcake.
Absalom gave him a nod of farewell, then called out to a man at another table before joining him. “Bernard.”
Bernard. Hew glanced at his list. There was a Bernard who sold parchment to the monastery. Could it be the same man?
He didn’t dare confront Bernard while he was sitting with Absalom. That would be too suspicious. No doubt the alewife was already wondering why this stranger with an axe was asking so many questions.
As he leaned back against the alehouse wall, he closed his eyes briefly, waiting for Bernard to leave. By the time he started awake, the man was gone.
“Did ye have a nice wee nap?” the alewife teased.
Shite. How had he drifted off? And how long had he been asleep?
“Can ye tell me where the parchment shop is?” he asked.
“At the far end o’ the village,” she said, adding pointedly, “downwind.”
He thanked her, snatched his plaid, and hurried out the door.
He understood what she meant when he reached the end of the lane and entered Bernard’s shop. The air was heavy with the stench of greasy sheepskin.
The proprietor furrowed his bushy brown brows at him. “Aren’t ye the fellow who was snorin’ at The Bell?”
Snoring? Hew didn’t snore. At least he didn’tthinkhe snored. It was hard to know, since he was asleep.
“I was at The Bell, aye.”
