"And crackin' jokes at me, while I warmed up th' oven," Higgle added.
"And then what did you?" Eloti bored on.
"W-went back t'see how it'd risen, and it had."
"And did you notice, then, anything strange about the dough? Did it look right? Smell right? What?"
"Nay, it looked right enough—risen right well, good and high. It smelled sour, but rye bread always does, far as I know."
"So what did you next?"
"I patted it in loaves."
"You didn't punch it down and leave it to rise again?" Tygg fumed. "Ye lazy lout, I should clout yer head!"
"Hush," Sulun restrained him. "Let's hear the rest, first."
"And what then?" Eloti insisted.
"I put the loaves in the oven, and bade Higgle watch 'em."
"That he did," Higgle volunteered. "Left me t'watch, and went off t'stuff his face on more sugar buns."
"And were you alone in the shop all this time?" Eloti asked.
"Oh nay, m'lady. Swarp and Dirrot and Buj and Master Tygg came in a bit after us, and they was workin'."
"Aye," Tygg muttered. "I should've seen him nippin' the leftover buns. . . ."
"But did anyone go to the storeroom before you?" Eloti insisted.
"Nay, we was first there, afore the others came in."
"That's true," Higgle agreed. "We come earliest."
"Then what became of the dough left in the big mixing pot?" Eloti asked.
Meep looked blank. "I don't know, m'lady," he blubbered.
"I cleaned that out." Higgle wrinkled her nose. "'Tis the job for whoever's tending the fire. I lost the toss, as we said."
"Where did you wash it?" Eloti asked, releasing Meep and turning to Higgle. "And what did you do with the washings?"
"I washed it in the backyard," said Higgle, righteously holding her ground. "I threw the washings in the slops bucket, for t'take t'Mistress Tygg's pig, after."
"Ay, gods!" Tygg slapped a hand to his forehead. "So that's what ailed the pig yester'en!"
"You didn't eat any of the dough yourself?" Eloti insisted.
"Nay, m'lady," said Higgle, wrinkling her nose again. "Why eat sour old dough, when I could have leftover cakes later?" Abruptly she blushed, and looked sidelong at Tygg, who rolled his eyes heavenward and muttered about greedy apprentices eating up his profits.
"So," said Eloti, turning back to Tygg. "Meep says he used one large measure of rye flour. If that's the measure, there must still be more flour left in the barrel. May we see it, please?"
Without a word, Tygg led them to the storeroom at the other end of the bakeshop. The room was stone, windowless, with only one other door that led—as Sulun confirmed with a swift look—out to the back alley where the wagons were unloaded. The doors were stout, tight, and well barred. There was no sign of rats, though a plump cat patrolled there, and the floor was quite acceptably clean.
Tygg pointed to a barrel in the near right corner, one marked with a simple half-moon cut into a splash of wax. "That be the one," he said, keeping his distance.
Sulun and Eloti approached the barrel cautiously, as if it might bite. Wotheng stayed back by the door, watching both of them and the baker. Eloti lifted off the barrel lid and peered in.
"Is it customary," she asked, "for your rye flour to be so grey in color?"
Tygg jumped as if stung, and ran to the barrel. "No, by all the gods," he said, staring into its half-filled depths. "'Tis supposed t'be faintest hint of brown, no more." He reached in, pulled up a pinch of the flour, spread it on his palm, and looked closely. "I'd be sure in better light," he whispered, "but I think I see fine flecks of black in this. He sniffed cautiously at the thin spread of flour. "It doesn't smell bad, though."
"Let us test further." Eloti scooped out a handful of the flour and walked back toward the shop room. "Please fetch me a small bowl and a bit of sweetening and milk."
Tygg practically fell over his feet, running to comply with her wishes.
It took but a moment to mix the ingredients in the right proportions. Tygg asked if she wanted oil, leavening, and eggs too, but Eloti assured him it wasn't necessary.
"If this is indeed the mould I think it is," she explained, pouring out the mixture on a small plate, "then water and food is all it needs. Now let us put this in a warm place for . . . how long does it usually take for rye bread to rise, Master Tygg? Half an hour? Good. Let us take our ease for so long."
Tygg obligingly brought bench seats, cups of his own beer, and a dish of his best sweet rolls, and did his best not to look at the suspect mixture in the bowl near the oven. His staff worked furiously at their business, not daring to look lest Tygg's eye and wrath fall on them.
Wotheng drank his beer in leisurely fashion, wiped off his moustache, and calmly asked. "Goodman, who was present in your shop between the time you first opened the barrel of flour and the time it was baked?"
Tygg paused, half-turned to watch his underbakers, his eyes unfocused with the effort of memory. "Hmm, ah, everyone here, of course—all my help. Also the wagoner who brought it. Many of the villa folk came in and out to buy . . . Ah, gods, I can't remember how many came and went!"
Eloti gave Wotheng a brief nod of respect, then asked. "How many of your customers came into this room, let alone the storeroom?"
"Ey, why, none." Tygg looked relieved for a moment, then sobered as he guessed the implications. "I swear, I'd never believe any of my lot would poison their own bread!"
"I find that hard to believe, also," said Sulun. "How many of them went into the storeroom that day?"
"Gods, I can't recall!" Tygg rubbed his sweating jowls in distress. "All of them, I don't doubt, for I had them all at work mixing and baking. I do try, m'lord, t' make 'em knowledgeable at all stages of baking."
"But then . . ." Wotheng sat up, moustache bristling. "None of them could be sure that another 'prentice wouldn't walk in on them while they were putting the mould in the four. Most risky work, that."
"Oh, aye!" Tygg grinned from ear to ear, seeing hope that his household was no longer suspect. "They were runnin' in and out all the day, save for lunchtime . . ." A beatific smile spread across his sweating face. "I recall, m'lord, the barrels came from the mill just afore lunch. I tapped and 'spected 'em, paid the wagoner, and then all o' we sat down to eat together. They were all there, m'lord; none left the table afore I did. Not one of 'em got to be long alone in the storeroom: not one, sir!"
The other three exchanged glances. "How long," Eloti inquired, "would it take to empty . . ." She thought a moment, trying to remember the ratio of dark flecks to pale flour in the barrel" . . . say, a pint of mould into the flour, and stir it well enough that it wouldn't be noticed when measured out?"
The baker stopped and thought about that. He closed his eyes, measured invisible volumes with his hands, made pouring and stirring motions, then sighed. "To pour, almost no time. To stir so well . . . a good minute or two. Not long, I grant. Still, at any moment others might have come in and see the miscreant at work." He gasped suddenly. "But wait! M'lord, m'lady think: how would he stir the flour well, save with his hands and by reaching well into the barrel? How should he do that without daubing his arms clean up to the shoulder with flour? I'd have noticed anyone floured so far up the arms! By the gods, m'lord, I would; y'know I pride myself upon having my bake shop so clean."
"Good wit, Tygg," Wotheng approved. "Just to be sure, I would like to ask each of your lot—separately and quietly, you -understand—if they noted anyone come out of the storeroom with flour up to the shoulders."
"Do so, m'lord." Tygg grinned. "Yet I think if any had seen such, they'd have told me. As ye've heard and seen, my 'prentices do rival with each other a bit—aye, and carry tales, too, hopin' for an inch more of favor."