A Mortal Bane Read online

  Winchester sighed and shrugged. “Perhaps. The only other thing he might have been carrying is the answer to Stephen’s request that I be made papal legate, and I cannot see how that could be important to anyone but me.”

  “You think not, my lord? I am not sure the new archbishop would want a legate to overshadow him, nor that Waleran de Meulan would want you to hold the church in your hand while he tries to name his cousins to earldoms and bishoprics.”

  “Theobald of Bec is no murderer,” Winchester said shortly. “Perhaps Waleran would not stop at murder…. Oh, Lord be my help. That was what she meant when she said William of Ypres would be glad to see my enemies discomfited.”

  “She? Magdalene?” Bell asked. “Is she close enough to Ypres to know his mind?”

  “He has been her friend and protector for a long time. He was the one who urged me to rent her the Old Priory Guesthouse, and I know he uses her house more for political meetings and other purposes he holds private than he does for satisfaction of his lust. I know it seems an odd place to go to keep secrets, but William is no fool and I have never heard he was disappointed.”

  “Then she is presumably trustworthy.”

  “I am sure she is…to William of Ypres. Does that warranty that she would be equally trustworthy to us?”

  “No,” Bell said reluctantly. “His purposes are often not ours, although if it is Waleran de Meulan who ordered Baldassare killed, Ypres’s purpose and ours might be the same.”

  ‘True, but we cannot be sure that Ypres is involved in this. I only heard his name from Magdalene, who is a very clever woman and might want us to believe that while she pursued other purposes entirely. She may look like an angel, but a whore lives by selling—her body or anything else that will bring a profit. Not that I think special ill of Magdalene; she does her work and it is necessary, like that of collectors of dung. But you must remember that all whores are for sale—that is their trade.”

  “You know her to be dishonest and deceitful?” Bell asked, keeping his voice flat. It was awful to think that could be so, to find that such beauty hid utter corruption, like the rainbow sheen on a slice of long-rotted meat.

  “No,” Winchester said. “Oddly enough, my knowledge of her is just the opposite. In the time I have known Magdalene, I have found her honest and reliable. She has fulfilled every promise she made when she took the Old Priory Guesthouse; she pays her rent on time and in full; no one has made any complaint against her—not the men she serves nor her neighbors. But she is a whore. She lives outside the church, so oaths are meaningless to her. I warn you only so you will be cautious. The matter of the pope’s messages is too important to be overshadowed by a whore’s smile.”

  “I do not think her likely to smile at me,” Bell said, smiling himself. “She was not pleased to see my admiration.”

  “Perhaps. Nonetheless, have a care.”

  * * * *

  Bell found Magdalene fully veiled again, looking out into the hall. He picked up his cloak and swung it over his shoulders, feeling her watching from behind the veil. She did not speak, though, only nodded when he asked if she was ready to go, and walked by his side in silence until they were out on the road.

  Then she said in an utterly colorless voice, “I hope you remember that I have already told the bishop the whole tale. I doubt you will find any more in it than I have or discover anything new, but if you do, there is nothing I would want kept secret from his lordship.”

  “If you are telling me not to expect to be bribed, you can save your breath. The bishop pays me very well. I live at his expense. There is nothing you could offer me that would induce me to violate his trust.”

  “Nothing?” Magdalene asked, and then laughed. “Most men have a price, but be assured I am not seeking yours.”

  “I suppose I am not better than most other men, but my price, even on matters less dear to my heart, is not so low as a futtering or two. Baldassare was a friend, and neither gold nor kisses and caresses will turn me aside from seeking out the one who harmed him.”

  “I am glad of that,” Magdalene said, her voice suddenly warm and lively. “Until the murderer is exposed, my women and I will be suspect. That is not only dangerous but, in the end, would be very bad for business. I promise you that if you seek earnestly for Messer Baldassare’s murderer, you will have all the help that I and my women can give.”

  She went on then and told him the story she had told the bishop, the exact truth as far as she remembered it, except for finding the pouch and hiding it in the church. She ended with another assurance of her desire to help uncover the killer.

  “Good enough,” Bell said neutrally. “But I think the first step is for us to make certain that the dead man is Baldassare. Why do you think it is? You say you never saw the body.”

  “Because Sabina recognized him. I told you.”

  “That seems clear enough. If she recognized him, why should you have any doubts? Because it was night and dark?”

  ‘The darkness would not matter. I must have forgot to say: Sabina is blind. But she was frightened out of her wits—”

  “Sabina is blind? If she is blind, how could she recognize anyone?”

  “By feel, of course.”

  “You mean she opened the corpse’s braies and felt his—

  “Do not be disgusting!” Magdalene snapped. “She recognized the feel of his clothes. She found the knife in his neck when she was trying to touch his face to be sure. She was terrified. That was why I wondered if it might have worked the other way; that is, Sabina found a dead man and was so frightened that she became sure it was a man with whom she had lain and so she would be blamed.”

  “I suppose that is possible, but why should she think she would be blamed?”

  “Is there anything for which a whore is not blamed? And there she was, kneeling by the body, her hands covered in blood. Who would believe she had not struck the blow?” Remembered terror and bitterness made her voice shrill, and she took a breath and brought it back to its even tenor. “What would it matter that there was no reason for us to harm him? For want of a better reason, Brother Paulinus is convinced we murdered poor Messer Baldassare just to prevent him from ridding himself of sin by confession, and he did not even know that Sabina had been anywhere near the body.”

  Had she once been accused of murder, Bell wondered, having felt her bitterness. Had William of Ypres saved her? If so, it would be no wonder that she was grateful to him. And then a small frisson ran down his back. Had she committed the murder of which she was accused?

  “Be that as it may,” Bell said quickly, “I think we had better first make sure the dead man is Baldassare.”

  Since Magdalene could not reveal that they had found Baldassare’s pouch, and in it, letters of introduction and credit bearing his name, she simply agreed. She reminded Bell, however, that if she admitted that Baldassare had been in her house, Brother Paulinus would immediately have fuel for his fires of accusation, which would make trouble for the bishop. Thus, the monks probably would not let her into the chapel to look at the body. But Bell had the answer for that; when Brother Godwine, the porter, did object to Magdalene’s entering the priory grounds, Bell said he had been instructed by the bishop to bring her to view the dead man so she could say whether or not the man had been one of her clients.

  Since Henry of Winchester was serving as administrator of the London diocese until a new bishop could be elected, Brother Godwine could do no more than make a sour face, but he said to Bell while he led them to the chapel in which the body was laid out, “That man did not come through the gate into the priory, nor did his horse. Only three men on horseback came through the front gate. I know them all, and all three horses were in the stable when this man’s beast was found in the graveyard. I am not mistaken or derelict in my duty, and I shall so tell the prior when he returns.”

  Bell glanced at Magdalene, but she said nothing and her face was invisible behind the veil. Her mind had been working frantically, how
ever, since he had insisted she accompany him, trying to find a compromise between her need to admit she knew Baldassare and her need to protect herself from Brother Paulinus. Necessity lends agility to the mind; as soon as the face of the dead man became visible, the right words came to her lips.

  “Oh, my God!” Magdalene exclaimed. “No, he was not a regular client, but he has indeed been in my house. He came to my gate yesterday not long before Vespers and asked for the church of St. Mary Overy. I told him he must go around, but he protested that the church looked very near. I had come out without a cloak and I was cold, so I bade him step into the house, which he did while I explained that we were not part of the priory. But I did mention the back gate went to the church. I did not see where he went when he left the house.”

  “But you told the sacristan the man had never been with you,” Brother Godwine said severely.

  “I told the sacristan that all of our clients had left our house safe and sound and that neither I nor any other member of the household followed or harmed any client. I told the truth then, and I have told the truth now.”

  Bell looked at her sidelong. He knew both tales and suspected that every word she had said was true—and added up to a thumping lie. Clever. Yes, she was clever.

  “We will see,” Bell said, and then to Brother Godwine. “I know the man. His name was Baldassare de Firenze, and he often served as a papal messenger.”

  “Papal messenger!” the porter echoed, his eyes filled with horror. “How terrible! What can he have been carrying that he should ask for the church of St. Mary Overy? We have made no recent request of the pope.”

  Hardly listening to the horrified effusions, Bell bent over the neatly folded pile of clothes and other possessions that were on a small bench by the foot of the bier. The upper part of the shirt, tunic, and cloak were stained, despite washing; the braies were not. On the belt, laid atop the clothing, was a sheathed knife with a horn hilt inlaid with gold wire—a valuable knife, not taken. Beside that was a coiled leather strap about two or three fingers wide.

  “Look,” Bell said, pointing to a fresh-looking cut in the leather of the belt. “That is where the loop of the purse was cut.” Then he lifted the coiled strap. Midway along, it was stained with blood. “He was wearing that when he died, likely to support a pouch. Did you find a pouch?”

  “No,” Brother Godwine said firmly. “No purse either. You say the purse was stolen? Oh, heaven! What a calamity! Was the pouch stolen, too? Will we ever learn what the Holy Father wished to tell us?”

  Bell had examined the strap inch by inch. “No cuts and it would be hard to remove the pouch without marks.”

  “Perhaps he was not wearing it?” Magdalene was dying to say that the pouch could have been hidden, but she dared not.

  Sir Bellamy nodded to her remark, then patted Brother Godwine’s shoulder. “Yes, of course you will learn what the Holy Father wished to tell. The bishop will send a messenger to inform the pope that Baldassare was slain and the contents of his pouch lost.”

  “We will be blamed. The Holy Father will call us guilty of great neglect to allow his messenger to be murdered on our doorstep.”

  “Not if you help me find the killer and we can tell the pope his messenger is avenged.”

  “Gladly. We will all gladly help. But Messer Baldassare did not enter the priory by the front gate. I swear it! No one knew of his presence until the body was found.”

  “And when was that?”

  “At Prime. We—we heard crows cawing. All through the service the crows called. The sacristan bade the lay brother who assists him, Brother Knud, to see if some offal had been left in the graveyard. And Knud found…found…oh, it was terrible!”

  “I’m sure it was,” Bell said. “Can you show me just where the body was found?”

  The porter led the way out of the chapel and across the chancel to the north porch door, Magdalene following silently on Sir Bellamy’s heels. As annoyed as she had been with him for forcing her to make a statement about Baldassare, she was now grateful because she realized it was important for her to see where the crime had been committed. Sabina saw much with her fingers, but only what she had touched, and the shock and fear could easily have made her forget things.

  The porter opened the door but did not step out. Pointing, he said, “There. You can see where he was found. The lay brothers have not been able to wash away the stain of the blood.”

  “There was a great deal of blood?”

  Brother Godwine shuddered. “A pool of it, and that after his shirt and tunic and cloak were soaked.”

  “And the blood? Was it red and liquid, or brown and like a jelly or a crust?”

  The porter drew a shaky breath. “Oh, I do not know. I could not look.” He shuddered again. “And I certainly did not touch it.”

  Bell wished that the brothers had not been so quick to clean the victim’s clothes. He would have liked to see for himself just how hard the bloodstains were and how much blood had been absorbed. To those unaccustomed, blood always seemed a pool or a flood when it might have been only a smear. He stepped past Brother Godwine and knelt to examine the stain. No, the mark was not owing to insufficient washing; the stain had soaked into the rough places in the mortar and stone.

  “He was almost certainly killed here, on the porch, and I think some hours before Prime,” Bell said. “Let me go look at the body again.”

  He went in and recrossed the chancel briskly. Brother Godwine hung back, but Magdalene kept pace with him, intensely curious about why he wished to re-examine the body. This time, despite Brother Godwine’s anguished exclamation, he pulled down the shroud and turned the corpse so that the cut in the flesh was clear. The body turned like a block, except for one arm and leg that flopped limply. Curious as she was, Magdalene stepped back a bit, and when he bent almost close enough to kiss the wound and pulled and prodded at the flesh, she drew her breath in sharply.

  “Yes, as I thought, killed long before Prime. This stiffness takes some hours to form. He was rigid when you found him, was he not?”

  “I do not know,” the porter said, sounding stifled. “Brother Infirmarian took charge then. You may speak to him if you must.”

  Bell nodded, lifting his gaze from the wound for a moment to glance at Magdalene, who had come closer once more now that she knew what he was doing. He nodded and bent to study the cut even more closely. “I will, but later. I will want to know if he agrees with my thoughts. It seems to me that whoever stabbed Baldassare was standing close and that Baldassare made no resistance and did not move until the knife went in.”

  “How do you know that?” Magdalene asked, voice hushed.

  “The wound is not torn, and the way the knife went in makes me think the two were nearly of a height. I would guess they knew each other well, that they walked from somewhere together, perhaps arm in arm, the killer’s left arm in or near Baldassare’s right. Under cover of their talk, the killer drew his knife in his right hand, turned to face Baldassare—perhaps to make a point, but I do not think they were arguing—and suddenly brought up the knife and thrust it into Baldassare’s neck.”

  Magdalene drew back. ‘That is a horrible picture. But can it be real? If they knew each other and were not arguing, why should whoever it was kill poor Messer Baldassare?”

  “I have no idea,” Bell replied, staring sadly down at the man he had known and liked. “But I think I am near right about what happened. If they were close because they were in a nose-to-nose quarrel, Baldassare would never have allowed the other man to bring up his knife hand without raising an arm to protect himself, pushing the man away, pulling his own knife, or trying to dodge. He was well able to defend himself, for he had carried the pope’s messages for years and had fought outlaws and others. Perhaps he thought his killer was going to place a hand on his shoulder or make some similar gesture. In the dark, he might not have seen the knife. This could only have been done by someone he knew and had no reason to distrust.”

&nb
sp; He rearranged the body, pulled up the shroud, and turned toward Brother Godwine. “When he was found, was his knife in its sheath as it is now? Also, do you have the knife that killed him?”

  “A friend?” the porter whispered. “A friend did this?”

  Bell shrugged. “Someone he did not fear.”

  “One of the whores did it,” Brother Godwine said, his voice stronger. “He would not fear one of them.”

  “Not impossible,” Bell remarked, and then grinned and glanced at Magdalene. “But I generally treat such women with caution, and I suspect Baldassare did, too.”

  “The pope’s messenger?” Brother Godwine’s voice rose in horror. “What would he know of such creatures?”

  “Whatever any man knows. He was not in holy orders, and I am sure he did not stint himself in common comforts—fine clothes, food, wine. I doubt he stinted himself in women, either, but I also doubt a woman did this. Few are as tall as Magdalene here, and from the bruising, that knife went in with more force than most women could muster. Let me look at the knife, Brother Porter.”

  “If it is not there on the bench, I do not know where it is,” Brother Godwine replied and looked restlessly over his shoulder. “Knud might know. He found the body and helped move it. That is the lay brother who assists Brother Paulinus.”

  Bell glanced quickly at Magdalene. He really could not find an excuse to take her with him when he questioned the lay brother and the infirmarian, yet he was not willing to send her back to her house where she and her women might prepare answers to questions that would be the same for all. He saw another over-the-shoulder glance.

  “Is there somewhere you should be, Brother Porter?” he asked.

  Brother Godwine flushed slightly. “It is dinnertime,” he said. “I know I should not care for that, and I would not if Father Prior were here, but—”