“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!”
“Brother Sacristan!” The prior’s voice was rough with pain. “We have been granted free will so that we can solve our own problems. This killing is Satan’s work, not God’s, and we must deal with the devil ourselves.” He turned his head. “Magdalene, why are you here?”
“The sacristan insisted I should come to confront the…the body.” Her voice broke and she uttered a sob. “I am so sorry, so sorry, but it is nothing to do with me.”
The infirmarian pushed past the group of monks standing around the altar and took his turn kneeling by the body. “He did not die when this was done,” he murmured. “And what—”
Bell held out the candlestick.
Brother Patric cried out, “He was not dead? You mean if I came sooner, you could have saved him?”
“No!” the sacristan exclaimed. “No! He was dead.”
“How do you know?” Brother Patric gasped. “How could you bring the whore here so soon after Brother Elwin found him and ran for the infirmarian? You must have found him first, and instead of trying to save him, you went to accuse the whore. He died because to you, the sins of the flesh are—”
“He died because some thief beat in his head with this candlestick,” the infirmarian said firmly, then sighed. “Be at peace, brothers. Even if I had come as soon as the blow fell, I could not have saved him. The skull was crushed. There is no mending that.”
Chapter Seventeen
27 April 1139
Prior’s House; Old Priory Guesthouse
After what seemed an endless time of confusion, during which Brother Godwine’s body was carried away to be laid out for burial and Bell had gone to give the bishop the news, Magdalene found herself seated on a stool in the prior’s private chambers. Not far from her, also seated on a stool, was the prior himself, while the Bishop of Winchester occupied the prior’s chair. Beside the bishop was Guiscard de Tournai with pens and ink and parchment, recording what each had said about the crime that would make it necessary to reconsecrate St. Mary Overy church. The other monks involved in finding Brother Godwine’s body were also in the room, as was Bell.
The bishop, having stated that the most important task facing the monks was the purification and reconsecration of their church, then winnowed out the facts surrounding Brother Godwine’s death with brutal efficiency. He listened with a stone countenance to the sacristan’s hysterical accusations and then to Magdalene’s soft-voiced defense and Bell’s firm confirmation of her statements. He then agreed with the sacristan that Magdalene’s profession was an evil—called it a necessary evil since men were imperfect creatures—and recommended that Brother Paulinus pray for Magdalene’s soul in the hope of correcting her, instead of accusing her of crimes she could not have committed.
He then determined in short order that the sacristan had gone into the church to make sure that Brother Godwine had indeed checked that the safe box was locked and had locked the door to the north porch. Instead, he had found what he insisted was the dead body of the porter and had run to catch the thief and murderer before she escaped. He assumed she had been hiding in the church and had attacked Brother Godwine to get the key to the strongbox.
Bell had started to speak, but the bishop shook his head and he subsided. Brother Patric was next. He and Brother Godwine had gone to the gate after the Compline service to let out those from the neighborhood who had attended. At about a half candlemark after Compline, Brother Godwine had gone to the church to check the safe box and lock the north door—as they had been doing since the loss of the pyx. Brother Godwine had said he would pray for a while because he was troubled over something he had seen. When Brother Elwin came to relieve Patric at the gate about a candlemark before Matins, he had gone to the church himself. He did not know why, he said, sobbing again. He had just been uneasy. He had found the body and run to fetch the prior.
When all the times and the succession of events were straight, the bishop looked down at the bent candlestick, which, now cleaned of gore, lay on the table before him. The cleaning had made more apparent the fact that the silver was only a plating over a lead base. Winchester sighed.
“It hardly seems worthwhile to kill a man for a lead candlestick.”
The prior, who had been looking at the floor and weeping softly, looked up. “It would not have been worthwhile if the candlestick was pure gold. But it is not lead. That is one of a pair of candlesticks that is solid silver.”
The bishop smiled cynically. “Alas, sometimes those who give cannot resist magnifying the worth of their gift to the Church. It is a handsome design, but—
“That pair of candlesticks was
my
gift,” the prior said. “And I cannot believe that Master Jacob the Alderman, who was the goldsmith that made them, cheated me.”
“I would not think so myself,” Winchester agreed, frowning. “He is a man of spotless reputation and a great artist, too. I have used him myself for a chalice for my chapel here. Nonetheless, this candlestick is lead, covered with a thin coating of silver. Come and look, Father Prior.”
The prior rose and approached the table, taking the candlestick in a hand that trembled with reluctance. Bell had followed him to the table. At first Father Benin seemed to be having difficulty even looking at what he held, his thumb running over the break that showed the base metal. But suddenly, as his thumb passed over the elaborate design, his eyes fixed and he began to examine the candlestick closely.
“No,” he said, beginning to shake his head. “This is not my candlestick. The carving is all blurred. No, no, this is not Master Jacob’s work. His was clean, every edge sharp and clear.” He turned it upside down to look under the base and nodded with satisfaction. “See, no master’s mark is here.”
The bishop and Bell both leaned forward to look. “There is not,” the bishop agreed.
Bell reached out for the candlestick, saying, “May I?” and took it from the prior’s hand, twisting it this way and that. A moment later he said, “There is a mark. See, very small, in that corner.”
Someone in the room drew a sharp breath, but Bell could not tell who, and a brief argument began about whether what Bell saw was a craftmark or some irregularity in the metal.
Bell turned his head, “Magdalene,” he said, “you are used to making out small patterns. Come and look.”
She rose with some reluctance, afraid she would not only see a mark, but recognize it. Then she thought of Brother Godwine’s battered head. Her lips firmed. There had been no need for that. A single blow would have rendered Brother Godwine unconscious; then the thief could have taken whatever he wanted and gone away. She would not protect the man who had battered in Brother Godwine’s head, client or no client. Besides, the man who made the candlestick was not necessarily connected with the murder. She lowered her gaze to the foot of the candlestick and shifted it to catch the light.
“That
is
a made mark,” she said, concealing a sigh of relief. Despite all her reasoning, she was glad she did not know the sign—except for one thing. “I do not know the mark,” she added, “but look here, just below it. Is that not an S? Could that mean Southwark?”
“It could mean anything,” the prior said. “Some craft-masters can read. It might be the initial of his name.”
“Hmmm, so it might,” the bishop said. “Bell, tomorrow you should go to the Goldsmiths’ Hall and speak to the guildmaster. He will surely know the names of
all
his members. It might be worthwhile to question those whose names begin with an S.” He took the candlestick from Bell’s hand and looked up at him. “So, Bell, what do we know? Is the man who wielded this the same who killed Baldassare?”
“If Baldassare was killed not for what he carried but for being in the church at the wrong time, it is possible. And the golden pyx did disappear from the safe box about the same time. But this seems far more an act of fear and rage. Baldassare seems to have stood talking to the man who killed him. Would he have allowed that man to come close if he had seen him stealing church plate?”
“You think this is a common thief, who hid in the church and when Brother Godwine knelt to check the safe box, struck him, took his keys—”
“Struck him with what?” Bell asked. “Brother Godwine was killed with the candlestick. Does that not mean that the safe box was open, the candlestick in the thief’s hand, when Brother Godwine entered, possibly rushed at the thief, shouting? No, if that had happened, either the thief would have fled or he would have run
at
Brother Godwine, in which case the porter would have been struck out in the church, not behind the altar.”
“Perhaps the thief was kneeling down behind the altar removing the candlestick,” Magdalene said. Then her breath caught and she raised a hand to her lips.
The words had just popped out before she thought, because she had remembered vividly how she and Dulcie had lost sight of the monk who was returning the candlestick…the same candlestick? She glanced swiftly from the bishop to the prior to Bell, but if any had noticed her guilty reaction, he most likely put it down to her anxiety at having spoken out in such august company without permission.
Guilt flooded her. She and Dulcie had seen a monk with a candlestick the night after Baldassare was killed. That had to mean something. She should tell someone about it, but she did not dare, did not dare admit she had been in the church that Thursday night. She glanced up nervously and saw that Bell and the bishop were looking at her with approval.
“You are very likely right,” Bell said. “Godwine may have walked right up to the thief before noticing him. And the thief might not have noticed Godwine coming if he were kneeling down looking into the safe box. Then Godwine exclaimed; the thief rose up with the candlestick in his hand—and struck.”
“But that would mean the thief already had the keys.”
Winchester’s eyes moved to look at the sacristan, who leapt to his feet.
“I did not. I did not,” he whispered, his eyes bulging.
The prior went and put an arm around his shoulders; Brother Paulinus was shaking so hard he would have fallen except for that support. “On my soul,” the prior said, “I will swear that Brother Paulinus would sooner…would sooner visit a whore than steal from the church.”
“If Brother Paulinus had visited the whore, he would have a much better case for accusing
her
of stealing,” the bishop said dryly. “She would have then had a chance to steal his keys and make a copy.”
“Make a copy,” Bell repeated. “I have a fear that not only the key was copied. Father Prior, I think you had better look most carefully at the church plate. You said that Master Jacob made your solid silver candlesticks, but you thought this one was yours until you examined it closely. So, then, this is a copy of the candlestick you gave to the church. How many other items in the safe box are copies?”
“Oh, my God,” the prior breathed.
He turned away as if to go back to the church, but the bishop said, “Never mind that now. Tomorrow will be soon enough to discover what has been stolen. More important now is to discover who had access to Brother Sacristan’s keys…or yours.”
“No one,” Brother Paulinus shouted. “I kept my keys with me at all times.”
“Now that cannot be so,” the prior said soothingly. “You had them all on one ring and I know you lent your keys to Brother Cellarer when one of his was damaged, and to Brother Porter when he needed to get more bedsteads from storage. And you must have given them to the lay brother who assists you to take the plate out for cleaning.”
“Knud,” Bell said with satisfaction. “I knew he was hiding something.” But even as he said it, his voice became uncertain. The bishop looked at him inquisitively and he shrugged. “Hiding something, yes,” he said in reply to Winchester’s expression, “but not something like stealing the church plate. Besides, it must cost something to have copies made and plated with silver. I do not think Knud—”
“If he sold a small item first,” the sacristan said, breaking his silence for the first time, “something no one missed, that would give him a sum to start with.”
“Shall I fetch Knud?” Bell asked.
The prior sighed. The bishop said, “I think you must.”
“He does not know where Knud sleeps. Let Brother Elwin go,” the prior suggested.
“Very well,” the bishop agreed. He turned toward Brother Elwin. “But you are not to give him any warning or to tell him why he is summoned, nor even who summons him. I do not wish him to have time to think up lies. A shock often makes a man more likely to speak the truth.”
In this case, the shock seemed more likely to make Knud incapable of speech. When he entered the prior’s chamber, he was uneasy—as any lay brother might have been when summoned to his prior in the middle of the night—but when he saw the Bishop of Winchester in the prior’s chair, he turned white and fell on his knees.