A Mortal Bane Page 26

  The bishop put a hand on Bell’s arm and patted it. “No, not that.” He smiled thinly. “I knew he was venial and ambitious soon after he applied for a place in my Household and that I could not trust him enough to advance him and that he would likely resent that. I should have dismissed him, but he is clever and useful, so….” He shook his head. “But I am not a fool. I have known of his connection with Meulan for some time. However, the bond works both ways. To make himself more valuable, Guiscard has come to me from time to time with this and that tidbit. From the false hints and tales, I have learned much, and some tales he told were even true and still useful.”

  Winchester raised a brow as if daring a man of honor to find fault with his acceptance of Guiscard as he was and his use of the man. Bell laughed.

  “I am greatly relieved,” he said. “I had to tell you, of course, but I believe Lord William intends to release Sir Raoul on the understanding that he is to play Guiscard’s role in Waleran de Meulan’s Household. I suspect Lord William would not be pleased if Guiscard is dismissed.”

  The bishop shrugged. “I am sure Sir Raoul is not the first, nor will he be the last, that William of Ypres uses. And, to speak the truth, it is better for me if Guiscard is not exposed. I would hate to have to look for a new spy in the Household. Now, are you any closer to who murdered Baldassare?”

  “Possibly, but not to his pouch—unless the murderer did take it and we can squeeze its whereabouts out of him when I lay hands on him. It begins to look as if Richard de Beaumeis might have killed Baldassare.”

  “Beaumeis?” Conflicting emotions passed over the bishop’s face—anger, satisfaction, and then a reluctant doubt. “I would not think he had the courage.”

  “Panic can take the place of courage,” Bell said and then stated his belief that Baldassare had recognized Beaumeis and divined his purpose, further explaining that Beaumeis would have been ruined and the archbishop besmirched. He told Winchester of Beaumeis’s lie to Buchuinte about needing to leave for Canterbury, that William of Ypres’s men had found no sign of him along that road on Wednesday, the fact that Brother Godwine had seen him in the priory at Vespers and possibly later, and the man’s violent reaction to Baldassare’s burial.

  “Well, I cannot say I will be sorry if he is guilty,” Winchester said. “But if he got the pouch, he will have destroyed anything that would benefit me, so I suppose I will have to write to the pope and tell him—”

  “Not yet, my lord, if a few days will not matter. I have not yet been able to lay hands on Beaumeis, although I have been to St. Paul’s several times. He has not appeared there to take up his duties.”

  Winchester laughed shortly. “He has no duties. The bishop of the diocese must confirm his appointment—and as the acting administrator of the London diocese, I am not likely to do that. Perhaps when Theobald returns to England. Beaumeis can persuade him to confirm him.” He bit his lip. “Could that fool have believed I would use the legatine power to override the archbishop’s confirmation of his appointment and wanted to steal the bull to prevent that?” He laughed aloud, then sighed. “It would be a tragedy if Baldassare died because a stupid man believed me so small-minded.”

  “I hope not,” Bell said, “but I am glad you told me he is not yet a deacon of St. Paul’s. I will not waste my men’s time watching the cathedral. I will just set a watch on his lodging. Meanwhile, because Waleran and his brother seem to believe Baldassare’s pouch is in the Old Priory Guesthouse or that the women there know where it is, I will be lodging with them.”

  Winchester raised his brows again and smiled. “I see my warning has fallen on deaf ears.”

  Bell laughed. “No, you are quite right that she is tied most firmly to William of Ypres’s purposes, but in this case, I cannot see that his purpose is different from ours. And I am not, much as I would like it, lodging in Magdalene’s bed.”

  Winchester’s frown returned. “I would not wish openly to cross Waleran or Hugh. They seek for causes of irritation and insult to report to the king.”

  “I am sure they will know nothing about what happened to the man who came to Magdalene’s house. Ypres will take care of that.”

  “Very well.” Winchester shrugged. “If you think it necessary to lodge there, be sure to let Robert or Guiscard know where to find you.”

  Bell tensed to rise, but the bishop did not dismiss him, sitting quietly, his brow furrowed with thought. Finally he said, “Beaumeis…how I would like that…but it is known how little I love him. We will need to close all the doors through which he might try to escape.”

  “I am aware, my lord,” Bell said. “I have set inquiries and found assurances that all but one or two of Magdalene’s noble clients could not have been the killer. There are a few men of the city—Baldassare’s friend Buchuinte, for one—who are not yet cleared, but when I lay hands on Beaumeis, I will know better what his excuses will be and how to counter them.”

  Bell was back at Magdalene’s house in time for dinner, which he shared with the women. When the bell rang for the first client, he retired to his own chamber, leaving the door open so he could respond to any emergency. None occurred. When the men were all settled, he came out and spent a very pleasant afternoon idling in Magdalene’s company. He retreated again when the men started to leave and the second set of clients arrived, among whom was Buchuinte. He came in full of a double outrage. Tuesday morning his servant had complained of being questioned about what time Buchuinte had come home on Wednesday night, and later that day, when he was at a guild meeting, his house had been invaded and most thoroughly searched.

  Magdalene sympathized and soothed him, but when he and the others were safely ensconced with their bed partners, she came to Bell’s room and shut the door behind her.

  “Did you hear Buchuinte?” she asked.

  He nodded. “The questioner was my man. The servant was too loyal to answer. Perhaps Buchuinte did not go directly home when he left here. The searcher? Likely Beaumeis, looking for the pouch.”

  “I agree,” Magdalene said. “But why is he so desperate to have it?”

  “I think because he needs Theobald’s favor more than ever,” Bell said. “Winchester will not confirm him as deacon of St. Paul’s; he must convince Theobald to do it. I have men out searching for him and will ask when I have him.”

  Magdalene sighed. “Doubtless they will call you in the middle of the night. When the last man leaves, I will show you where the keys are kept.”

  The last to go was Buchuinte, who did not depart until very nearly full dark. He went out still grumbling about the invasion of his privacy and his property. Ella came from her room, also disgruntled, and pouted all through the evening meal because Poppe had kept talking about the questioning and the search of his house and had not been his usual energetic self.

  Aside from that, however, Bell and the women ate their evening meal in peace. Afterward, to appease Ella, who was not tired enough to want to go to bed, Magdalene allowed them to be drawn into a silly game. In fact, because they had one deaf, one blind, and one mute player, it became far more amusing than anyone had expected. Soon they were all whooping with laughter, completely absorbed. However, some time after the church bells had rung Compline, Magdalene’s head turned toward the window.

  Bell immediately raised his head alertly, also listening. “What?” he asked.

  “I thought I heard the bell at the gate.”

  Sabina uttered a soft groan, and Magdalene frowned. Even Ella looked disappointed over the interruption of their game. All listened intently, but the bell did not ring again. Giggles ran around the table as they picked up where they had left off, feeling both guilty and triumphant over ignoring a possible summons. Fortunately, the interruption did not spoil their fun and none were inclined to retire at their usual bedtime. In fact, the hour was nearer Matins than Compline before the last round was played. Magdalene, wiping away tears of laughter, had just forbidden the start of another round when a wild pounding on the back do
or began, accompanied by a man’s hoarse screaming.

  Bell leapt to his feet and ran to his chamber to get his sword. As he came out, bared weapon in hand, he found Magdalene, carrying a stout cudgel, coming up the corridor and Dulcie standing at the kitchen door, her long-handled pan in her hand.

  “Who is there?” he shouted.

  “Murderers! Murderers!” a hysterical voice shrieked. “Open the door! You cannot escape! Open the door! I will drag you to justice.”

  Magdalene and Bell exchanged wide-eyed glances. “The back door,” Magdalene breathed. “He must be from the priory.”

  Dulcie may or may not have heard the voice through the door or Magdalene’s remark, but she must have come to the same conclusion or decided no one would stick a weapon in the window, because she went back into the kitchen, opened the shutter, and peered out.

  “It’s that lunatic sacristan again,” she said, slamming the shutter closed in disgust and coming out into the corridor. “Be he goin’ t’ave mad fits ev’ry Wednesday night?” Even as she uttered the complaint, she turned to look for the key to the door. Then she remembered that Bell had it. “Ye’ve th’ key,” she reminded him. “Be y’goin’ t’let him in and deal wit’ him so the rest of us can get some sleep?”

  “My God,” Magdalene cried over the shouts and pounding. “Could Brother Paulinus have lost his mind? He was very disturbed when I last saw him in the prior’s house, but that was about the stolen pyx. Why is he crying ‘murder’ again?”

  The sacristan was still pounding on the door and screaming that he must drag the murderers forth. He did sound mad, but he had shown no sign of hysteria when Bell had questioned him about Baldassare’s death. Bell’s heart sank. He could not believe that all of a sudden, a week after the event, Brother Paulinus would be precipitated into madness without cause. Something must have set him off. He propped his sword against the wall, making sure it would not fall, took the key to the door out of his purse, and turned the bolt.

  As the door opened, the sacristan plunged through, fortunately right into Bell’s arms because his eyes were fixed on Magdalene, his hands in fists swinging wildly. The full impact of a double blow on Bell’s chest brought an oof from him, but did not stagger or shake him. In the next instant he had seized Brother Paulinus’s wrists and controlled the man’s madly flailing arms.

  “Murdered!” the sacristan shrieked. “The church desecrated! Blood all over. All over.”

  “That was last week,” Magdalene said, trying to keep her voice low and soothing. “Brother Sacristan, try to—“

  “Murderess! Whore! Is nothing too foul for you? For a silver candlestick, you killed a good and holy man right at the altar.” Brother Paulinus began to sob. “The altar, the very altar was desecrated with blood.”

  He began to struggle again and Bell folded him against his chest, holding him tight while his eyes met Magdalene’s. For a long moment neither spoke, then Magdalene said, “Surely he is mad?” Tears ran down her face. “It could not have happened again. It could not.”

  Oddly, Bell’s hard embrace seemed to have steadied the sacristan. He was weeping now, but not fighting Bell’s hold, and Bell asked softly, “Who was killed, Brother Paulinus?”

  “Brother Godwine,” the sacristan replied, sobbing. “Who would kill so gentle, so kind, so holy a man?” He jerked in Bell’s arms, so violently that he almost broke loose. “Only one inspired by the devil. Only a whore.” He strained to look around Bell at Magdalene and the other women, who had come to the end of the corridor and were standing there, clinging to one another. “Murderers!”

  “Not these whores,” Bell said, tightening his grip. “Magdalene and her women have been under my eye—or under some man’s body—since dinnertime. This must have happened after Compline, for the prior must have led services from the altar then. We were all sitting together from soon after Vespers, when I myself locked up the house, until we heard you at the door. None of these women can be guilty.”

  ‘They are! They are! You are lying to protect them because your lust has put you into the devil’s power.”

  “The devil may have inspired me to lust, but not to lunacy,” Bell snapped, patience all but exhausted. “The whores were in this house behind locked doors when the brother was killed. Forget them for a moment and tell me when Brother Godwine was discovered.”

  “Now, just now.”

  Bell’s eyes widened. “You mean you discovered the body and ran here without telling anyone? And how did you get to this back door? How did you come through the locked gate?”

  “The gate was not locked.”

  “But you locked it yourself, last Thursday,” Magdalene protested.

  “It is not locked now,” the sacristan shrieked.

  “Who has the key?” Bell asked, still gripping the sacristan but holding him away so he could look into his face. “It was locked this morning. I forgot and tried to use the back way, which is shortest, to go to the bishop’s house. Then I remembered I would have to ride to St. Paul’s and went for my horse—but I had tried the gate, and it was locked.”

  Magdalene shivered. “So sometime after Prime—you left between Prime and Tierce—someone unlocked the gate. But why?”

  Bell looked across the sacristan at Magdalene. “So someone could enter or leave the priory without passing the porter at the priory gate.” He transferred his gaze to the sacristan. “Did you find the porter’s keys?” he asked.

  “I did not look,” Brother Paulinus cried. “Brother Godwine was dead. Who should I ask for keys?”

  Bell opened his mouth, then closed it and shook his head impatiently. “Never mind that. Brother Godwine’s death must be reported to the prior and to the bishop. If I let you go. Brother Paulinus, will you go to the prior with this terrible news instead of trying to attack Magdalene, who is innocent of this?”

  The sacristan, who had been intermittently straining against Bell’s hold, again stood still. “Oh, no! I came here to bring the guilty to justice. You must come with me to stand before the prior and the bishop. You will repent your sin when you face your master, Sir Bellamy. You will tell the truth and let justice prevail over this harlot.”

  “I am very willing to come with you, and I will certainly tell the truth both to my master and the prior,” he agreed and released his grip on one of the sacristan’s arms. “Now” —he showed the sacristan the key he had thrust into his belt when he grabbed for his hands— “this is the key to the doors of this house. The front is already locked. You may go try it if you like. I will lock the back when we go out and keep the key. Thus the women will be confined within—

  “No!” Brother Paulinus cried. “She goes, too.” He pointed at Magdalene. “Let her face the dead. God will raise Brother Godwine to point his finger at her. His wounds will bleed anew. God will prove her guilty.”

  Bell drew breath to argue, but Magdalene put a hand on his arm. “If it will content him, I will come.”

  She went to get her cloak and veil, accepting with a somewhat tremulous smile the hugs and kisses of her women when she passed. As they went through the gate, not only unlocked but flung open so hard that the front post had caught on the rise in earth at the verge of the path and stuck wide open, they could see that either someone else had independently discovered the corpse or the sacristan had not, after all, been alone when he discovered it. Lights were blazing through the windows of the apse, and the chanting of prayers mingled with sobs floated out to them.

  The sacristan rushed through the north door, gripping Bell firmly with one hand and Magdalene with the other and crying out, “I have them! I have the guilty ones!”

  The singing stopped. All the monks turned to gape as Brother Paulinus dragged Bell and Magdalene forward, pushing them up onto the low dais on which the altar stood and then prodding them around behind it. Magdalene drew a sobbing breath and huddled in on herself, pulling her veil higher over her face and turning her head away. Bell also drew breath, but he stepped forward and bent a
little to look more closely.

  The altar cloth was raised on one side to show an open strongbox under the stone altar table. Lying athwart the box—as if he had deliberately fallen there so the box could not be closed—was the body of Brother Godwine. His head was a bloody ruin, flattened and misshapen, and blood, no longer bright red but not brown yet, had formed a jellied pool in a slight declivity. Some blood had run down onto the floor of the dais; the streaks still had a slight liquid sheen, but the spatters that splotched the altar cloth and the exposed part of the stone altar table were brown and almost dry. The droplets, Bell thought, had come from the foot of the candlestick—the murder weapon—which had been dropped atop the corpse. It was thickly covered with blood and other matter. He stared at the candlestick.

  “My God,” he breathed, “he was struck so hard and so often that the shaft was bent.” He went down on one knee to examine the weapon more closely and soon shook his head. “No, I see. No man’s head could make such a mark.”

  There was a dent in the shaft where the candlestick was bent, the bright silver deeply scratched and a duller substance showing below. Gingerly, Bell picked up the murder weapon to look closer, then turned his eyes to the altar. Not far from Brother Godwine’s head, the corner of the stone was chipped. Bell bent closer. A tiny sparkle of silver marked the edge of the chip.

  Brother Patric, sobbing bitterly, had helped Prior Benin to his feet. His hands and the front of his robe were smeared with blood as if he had taken Brother Godwine’s head on his lap. “Are you—” Bell began, but was interrupted by voices and looked across the church to see another weeping monk leading through the monks’ entrance the infirmarian and two burly lay brothers bearing a stretcher and blankets.

  “Brother Porter, rise up!” the sacristan cried out suddenly. “Show us the guilty one.” And when the body did not move, he raised his hands, also bloodstained, to heaven. “God! God!” he wailed. “Is it because we are not strict enough in keeping Your law that You will not vouchsafe us this miracle? Let the dead accuse his killer. There she stands!”