A Mortal Bane (12 page)

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.”

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—”

Relieved, Bell smiled. “Never mind,” he said. “Go and have your dinner. Knud and the infirmarian would not be pleased if I should call them away from their meal. I have other questions to ask. I will return later.”

“Thank you,” Brother Godwine said and turned to lead them out of the church.

When they came to the priory gate, Bell said, “One more word, Brother Porter. You now know who is lying dead and can say proper prayers for his soul. Please do so. Also, please do not bury him until Monday. The body will hold that long, will it not? I need to talk to the bishop about what arrangements he wishes to make if no friend of Baldassare’s comes forward to arrange the burial.”

The porter nodded brusquely, closed the gate behind them with some finality, barred it, and hurried back to enter the monastery buildings. Bell grinned.

“What will you learn from the knife and the infirmarian?” Magdalene asked as they walked along beside the priory wall. She was developing a marked respect for Sir Bellamy of Itchen and a real hope was growing in her that with his help, the murderer might be exposed.

“From the knife…possibly whether it was newly honed, as if it were being made ready for this act. It is no proof. A man—or woman—may hone a knife for many purposes, and I might not be able to tell anyway. With the knife in the wound for so long, the blood might have eaten away at the brightness of new honing. And the infirmarian will know far more about what becomes of a body after death. I know some things from seeing men who died in battle. I know the body stiffens and if it is left long enough, softens again, but the infirmarian may know how long this takes better than I.”

“But I told you poor Messer Baldassare was dead soon after Compline. Sabina found him not long after the service was ended.”

“I know when
you
said he was dead. I need to be sure. And speaking of Sabina and what you told me about her experience, why are we walking all around the priory? Did you not say that there was a gate between the back of the church and your back garden?”

“Yes, but the sacristan locked it.”

“When did you discover that?”

“Yesterday afternoon when Dulcie—” Magdalene choked slightly as she almost told him they had discovered the locked gate when Dulcie had gone to hide the pouch “—went to clean in the church,” she finished, pretending to cough to clear her throat. “She goes most days.”

“So she went around the other way, as we have done?”

His voice was cool and he was smiling slightly.

Magdalene swallowed, grateful that he could not see her appalled expression behind her veil. But he knew, she thought. Even without seeing her face, he knew she was hiding something. And then she realized that Sir Bellamy was not first going to her house and then back to the priory so that Knud and the infirmarian could finish their meal, but so that she, whom he could not have kept by him when he questioned them, should not have the opportunity to go home and speak to her women in private before he did.

She glanced at him above the masking veil. Was he seeking signs of their guilt so she would have to yield her body to him? Behind the veil, her lips thinned. She would not do it—not because she cared about one futtering more or less, but because if he were that kind, he could use her yielding as another proof of her guilt.

II he asked, she thought, she would go to the bishop again—or tell William of Ypres. And then she wondered whether she was making too much of a single look and a quite justifiable desire for confirmation of her statements. Before complaint, she would do her best not to increase his suspicion, and she would explain, most carefully, why it would have been lunacy for her or any of the others to have killed Baldassare.

She swallowed again as she saw he was staring at her and then realized she had not answered him. “No,” she said, “Dulcie did not go to the church at all that day, nor today, either. She was furious and said she will not clean again until our gate is opened.”

“Was she angry on her own account or out of loyalty to you?”

“I think out of loyalty,” Magdalene said, but this time she spoke easily, smiling a little, guessing he would hear the smile in her voice. “And yes, all the women would lie for me if I asked. They are very grateful for an easy employment in comfortable circumstances, which none could expect if I had not taken them into my household. However, I hope you will understand that we have no purpose for lying. None of us harmed Baldassare and none had any cause to do so. Indeed, his death—any client’s death so near our establishment—does us the greatest harm.”

Bell shrugged. “On the surface, that is true.”

“And beneath the surface also. I did not know that Messer Baldassare was a papal messenger, but” —she sighed— “I guessed. His clothes, so rich and yet so sober, the way he spoke his French, which was like a client who came from Italy although he now lives in London, the pouch he carried—”

“You saw the pouch?”

“Yes, Sir Bellamy. Not clearly, he pushed it back under his cloak, and it is never my business to pry into what a client wishes to keep private. But I saw he had a pouch.”

“What happened to it?”

“I suppose he took it with him when he went out. He left nothing behind. Well, after the sacristan came and accused us of murder and I had been so stupid as to deny the man had been here, you can lay odds that we searched most carefully for anything that might tie us to him. There was nothing.”

“Too bad. Winchester wants that pouch.”

“I feared so. The fact that Baldassare was here, so close to the bishop, made me think he carried a message from the pope for Winchester. But then I wondered why he did not simply go to the bishop’s house.”

“That seems clear enough. Surely he knew his entertainment here would be more lively and…ah…gratifying.”

“But he did not know what kind of guesthouse it was. He stopped because of a joke one of our clients played on him. He told Baldassare that this was the Bishop of Winchester’s inn and that it was just behind the church of St. Mary Overy priory. Oh!”

“Oh?”

“Oh, I have been a fool. I was so angry because I thought the intention was to besmirch the bishop with a connection to my house that I did not realize Baldassare asked to stay only after I told him that we had a back gate that led into the churchyard. Earlier he told me he had a meeting in the neighborhood, but I never thought of it being in the church.”

“Is not that the most likely place? It is well known, prominent, easy to find, and always open.”

“Yes, but—” Magdalene shrugged. “I suppose because he was so much at ease with us, I did not think his next stop would be a church. I thought he might be in minor orders at least, and I suppose I felt he would not stop in a whorehouse just before he planned to enter a church. On the other hand, he did not act as if being with Sabina would weigh on his conscience, or that he would need to confess to ease it, so…ah, here we are.”