Normally, when a man smells of urine, and is not so ancient as to raise the question of incontinence, I am inclined to dub him a fuller. But I never knew a fuller who was not covered in fuller’s earth, and this man bore not a trace of the stuff. Though filthy, his clothes were stained with splashes of food and vomit, rather than with fuller’s earth. The smell of that vomit was almost as strong as the smell of urine; a faint underlying whiff of smoke told me that he must spend a lot of time indoors, and I did wonder if he might be employed at an inn.
No self-respecting innkeeper, however, would be so foolish as to allow his servants to walk around looking—and smelling—so repellent. Moreover, when I doubled back under the pretence of changing my route, and brushed past him, I detected the scent of comfrey and aniseed. So, unless I am mistaken, I have been followed by someone closely associated with a hospital.
My task now is to discover why.
XIII.
Monday of Holy Week
I wish now that I had followed the man in the dirty clothes. Had I made more of an effort, I may have caught up with him. As it is, I have been most of the day in fruitless speculation.
Who was he?
Perhaps I should visit all the hospitals, and find out. It would be an expensive exercise, since my excuse would have to be the general distribution of alms. Nevertheless, it could be worthwhile. And it would arouse no suspicion—not during Holy Week. I must give the matter some thought.
The fact that he knew enough to be waiting outside Na Berengaria’s house when I arrived indicates that he might be an acquaintance of hers. Can she be suspicious of me after all? Did she hire someone to follow me, and make sure that I did not head straight for the Archbishop’s palace to make a report?
If so, then I have been thoroughly fooled. I was quite convinced that the Beguins had accepted me. I was even starting to believe that Berengaria was innocent of Jacques Bonet’s death. Only consider what I discovered yesterday, at the meeting. I heard Berengaria mention Jacques Bonet, in a very particular context. She led a prayer for him. She described him as one of her fugitive brethren, and seemed well-disposed towards him. This does not suggest that she killed him, or arranged to have him murdered. This suggests that she believes him to be in hiding somewhere—perhaps that she had a hand in his escape.
If so, then there are two possibilities. Either Jacques Bonet used his Beguin friends to effect an escape without telling them his secret, or he did tell them about Jean de Beaune, and they helped him despite the danger. If the latter is true, then Berengaria would naturally be suspicious of me. And she would almost certainly employ a spy to make sure that all my claims are true.
Yet I sensed nothing of this at her house yesterday. Nothing! They deceived me utterly; I thought them guileless in the extreme. How could this have happened? Am I really so gullible?
Perhaps only one or two of them were suspicious. Perhaps Blaise and Guillaume were responsible for the spy, and the rest were kept ignorant. I cannot believe that Perrin, for example, is anything but a fool or an innocent; probably the latter. He spoke not a word that I can remember; his childlike gaze was as artless as that of a nun immured in a hermitage. Manifestly, he has been sheltered from the harsher realities all his life, and is living in a pious dream. I remember thinking to myself at the time: Stay clear of that one. For a holy innocent is the greatest of all threats, and should be avoided wherever possible. In the Garden of Eden such people might be harmless enough, but not in this sinful world, where they see no evil, and have no understanding of either subtleties or compromise. When led into heresy— on account of their own simple natures—they arouse such pity among the orthodox as to be the occasion of endless doubt and despair. Even Bernard Gui was affected by cases of this kind. I remember how, on one occasion, he was greatly troubled by the predicament of a man whose error was not rooted in self-conceit, but in a fatal lack of discrimination. This man was devoted to poverty and lived like a hermit, sometimes begging and sometimes labouring, but always in search of God. Though he followed no particular heretical creed, he seemed incapable of distinguishing between true priests and Cathar perfecti, or Waldensian brethren. When he encountered wandering preachers of any description, he would succour them in all humility, seeming to think them worthy of regard because they preached poverty, lived in a simple manner, and proclaimed their devotion to Christ.
‘You know the falsity of so many heretics,’ my master observed, at one of our rare meetings. ‘If by their wily astuteness they escape punishment, they glory in having eluded learned men through their sly cunning and tortuous ambiguities. With people of this kind, their pride has been their downfall.’ My master sighed. ‘It is so much harder to condemn a man for abject humility. This man of whom I speak is like a simpleton in his thinking, and a saint in his habits. Yet in many ways he is more dangerous than the most rabid Pseudo-Apostle. Because I look at him and I think: can such innocence be truly sinful?’
‘Can it?’ I asked, to which Bernard Gui replied: ‘It must be. How not? The Devil is as cunning as any of his minions.’ But all the same, my master looked melancholy, and touched on the troubling topic many times before we parted, quoting various authorities and referring to himself repeatedly as a physician of souls.
I would claim no such distinction for myself. Yet I understood his unhappiness, for I have shared it. Confronted by a youth like Perrin—or a girl like Allemande—I am always affected by a kind of dull and impotent dismay. It is frankly a punishment to condemn such people, and my master acknowledged this. ‘It is our cross,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it is God’s way of ensuring that we do not enjoy our work, which, though necessary, is contrary to every natural human inclination. Like a surgeon cutting into flesh, we must gird our loins, fix our thoughts on God, and think of the future good.’
Wise words from a learned man. I wish that I was able to follow his advice. But my own method is not so praiseworthy. Rather than think of the future good, I concentrate on small things that serve to occupy all my thoughts. Small things like the connection between Berengaria Donas and Imbert Rubei.
That was a useful discovery. Not only is she accustomed to doing business with him, but she respects him. She admires his ascetic habits. The question is: how often do they meet? Does he ever attend gatherings at her house? Certainly they must have spoken together at some point during the last six months, or she would not have known about Jacques Bonet, his one-time servant.
I am less and less inclined to believe that Jacques Bonet is dead. The Archbishop’s report on unidentified cadavers told me nothing to the contrary. It arrived today, buried among my rejected parchment, and could not have been more unexpected. My shop is never open during Holy Week; to conduct business at this time seems to me impious and improper, especially among clerics. No doubt I am naïve, but I was under the impression that every priest, monk, deacon and lay brother in Narbonne must be wholly occupied with preparations for Easter. I assumed that, when one is under the obligation of celebrating the Last Supper, our Lord’s Crucifixion and His Resurrection all within the space of a few days, one must set aside one’s usual activities in favour of the many rituals that transform Christendom for an entire week every year.
It seems that I was wrong, however. For the report was delivered to me this morning, practically at first light. I was still dressing when I heard a knock, and was forced to scurry downstairs bootless, my shirt all untied, my hair uncombed. When I unbarred the front door, and pulled it open, I found myself nose-to-nose with an ink-stained priest. I recognised him instantly, thanks to Martin’s careful description; it was the secular canon who came to my shop last week.
I recognised him instantly, if only on account of his ink-stains. As Martin had pointed out, his ears were large, and his close-cropped head was shaped rather like a knuckle-bone. When he saw me he started, his small eyes widening in shock. Beneath its ink stains, his face lost some of its colour.
‘Yes?’ I said, and he swallowed.
‘Uh�
�are you—am I speaking to Helié Seguier?’
‘Yes.’
He extended the wrapped parcel that he had been clasping to his chest.
‘This is not of suitable quality,’ he said, licking his dry lips. ‘I have been instructed to return it.’
‘By whom?’
‘By—by Germain d’Alanh. Of the Archbishop’s Chancellery.’
‘Ah.’ I received the parcel, but before I could add anything the priest turned, as if to leave. I had to call him back. ‘Father,’ I said, ‘if you return my parchment, I must return your money. Your depositum.’
He stopped. ‘Oh—ah—yes . . .’ he stammered.
‘Come in. Please.’
It was true that I had to retrieve a half-payment from my chest upstairs. But it was also true that his apprehensive behaviour intrigued me. I could not account for it. And I wanted to see whether he would accept my invitation.
He did, it transpired. He even answered a few of my questions about the parchment, which I put to him more in a spirit of mischief than in a spirit of honest inquiry. For it had occurred to me that his unease might lie in a full awareness of what lay hidden in the parcel. And if this were the case, then he must know, at the very least, that I was interested in corpses.
Hence his jittery demeanour.
‘In what way did my goods fail to satisfy?’ I asked, picking at the cord that bound them. ‘You did not order a quire of the very best split skins. If you had, you would have received what you undertook payment for.’
‘It was not my decision,’ the priest mumbled. ‘I am only the messenger.’
‘For Germain d’Alanh?’
‘Um . . . yes.’
‘Would he care to view a sample of my most expensive parchment?’
‘No. I don’t know. Not now. I need to get back.’
‘Very well.’ Having counted the folios, I saw that not one was missing. There was, in fact, an inclusion. As I had anticipated. ‘I shall fetch your money, if you would wait here an instant. Forgive me . . .’ I waved my hand. ‘But as you can see, my shop is not open for business during Holy Week. I did not expect to receive any patronage. Especially from the Archbishop’s Chancellery.’
The priest coloured beneath his ink stains. I left him blushing, and went to retrieve a few sols from my chest upstairs. If the floor of my workroom had not been so creaky, I would have attempted to surprise the priest with my sudden return—and by this means, perhaps, catch him pawing through the parcel that he had just surrendered to me. But I decided against this plan. I knew that my every footstep would be clearly audible above his head, announcing my approach like a herald’s trumpet. Wooden floors are always noisy.
Stone or earth floors, in contrast, give nothing away. That is why I was startled to hear the creak of a hinge while I was counting out money in my workroom; no footsteps had prepared me for the fact that someone downstairs was opening doors. This was most unexpected. It was also unwelcome. So I completed my task as hurriedly as I could, and descended the stairs at a brisk pace—only to find that Martin was in my shop. He had obviously come through from the kitchen (where he sleeps) to investigate the sound of voices.
I concluded that the squeaky door must have announced his arrival, and thought no more about it.
‘Your depositum,’ I announced, restoring the Archbishop’s money to his agent. ‘And now I should like you to sign a receipt, if you would do me the honour.’
‘A receipt?’ the priest echoed, in evident perplexity.
‘Forgive me, Father, but I must protect myself. What if you were to say that I did not return the money? Who would your masters believe?’
I have, on occasion, resorted to safeguards of this type— but in fact the request was simply a stratagem, which allowed me to discover the priest’s name. He conceded to my request in a dazed fashion, transcribing a short avowal on a scrap of torn parchment and affixing a signature to it.
He is called Sejan Alegre.
The name is familiar, though I cannot for the life of me remember why. I was racking my brain when Father Sejan departed; even now, the vague sense of past association is driving me mad. I have checked my register, but can find no record of a ‘Sejan Alegre’ in its pages. Perhaps I should read back through this journal.
As my apprentice barred the door behind Father Sejan, I quickly extracted Germain d’Alanh’s report from the pile of unused parchment. This single folio (of rather inferior goatskin) was concealed in the folds of my shirt long before Martin turned back to me, eager for instructions. I told him to tidy away the returned stock before he went home.
‘It is Holy Week,’ I said, ignoring the unspoken plea in his eyes. ‘You should be with your family.’
Then I went upstairs to read the report.
One glance informed me that it must have been transcribed— if not actually composed—by Father Sejan Alegre. The style of script used for my report was very similar to that employed on my receipt; close examination revealed, in each case, cramped and ungenerous proportions, an identical use of contractions, an inconsistency in the use of t and c, and a tendency to slip into Latin occasionally, though the texts were both written in the vernacular.
It is therefore probable that Father Sejan was aware of the true contents of the parcel he delivered.
The report itself told me almost nothing. It merely announced that of the five unclaimed corpses found in Narbonne and its vicinity during the past six months, none had been identified as fitting the description submitted to Germain d’Alanh. Two had been fished out of the Aude in such poor condition that little had been gleaned from the remains—excepting that one was female, and the other a child. A foreign pilgrim who had died unmourned in the hospital of St-Jacques had been neither tall, black-haired nor pockmarked; his eyes had been blue, not green, and his thumbnails intact. Another man, a possible beggar, found beaten to death in the fields outside the city, had been too old to fit the description. The baby abandoned on the doorstep of St-Felix one bitter night during Advent had been too young.
I observed that no names were mentioned and no conclusions drawn. There was not even a seal attached anywhere. All in all, I was disappointed.
Nevertheless, I decided to keep the report—along with the receipt. And I went downstairs to hide them beneath the barrel in my cellar. Having moved this vessel aside, I lifted the loose flagstone, and was about to deposit my latest incriminating documents into the cavity underneath when I noticed something.
My secret possessions seemed to be in slight disarray.
It is my habit to place each item in a very particular order. So when I saw that the two Beguin books were out of alignment, I felt a growing sense of unease. Had I been careless during my last consultation? Or had someone else been examining my hoard—someone like Sejan Alegre, for instance? Had the squeaky door that I’d heard from upstairs been the door to my cellar?
But Sejan Alegre could not have known where to look. Nor, indeed, could anyone else. I have always been so careful: how could my secret have been discovered? Not even the Hugues family has free access to my cellar. And they are certainly not permitted anywhere near it when I am lifting the flagstone, or moving the barrel.
Perhaps I am being overly vigilant. Perhaps I am jumping at shadows.
As a safeguard, however, I realigned the books, and positioned a single straw where any attempt to move them will surely disturb it. Then I carefully replaced the flagstone, moved the barrel back onto it, and went looking for Martin.
He was chopping wood in the courtyard, with such an absence of skill that I feared for his wellbeing. When I called, he came running, his face alight. But my expression must have alarmed him.
His pace slowed. He began to look anxious.
‘Have you been moving anything in the cellar?’ I asked. ‘Without my permission?’
He blinked.
‘No, Master,’ he said.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘Has any
of your family been in there?’
‘I—I think not.’ His tone was nervous—but then it always is, when he senses even the slightest hint of disapproval. Like a deer or a rabbit, he can sniff a threat in the air. ‘You always told us to stay away. Because of the bad smell.’
‘When you entered the shop, just now,’ I continued, ‘what was the priest doing? Was he emerging from the cellar?’
‘No, Master, he was just standing there.’
‘In the middle of the room?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘Have you let anyone else go into the cellar, during my absence? Within the last few days? Any customers or visitors?’
He shook his head, frowning. ‘Oh no, Master.’
‘Think. Think hard. Have you left anyone alone there for even a short time? Have you walked into the street and left the door open?’
By this time he seemed really scared. ‘Master, what’s happened?’ he exclaimed. ‘Is something missing?’
‘No, no.’ I was already regretting my decision to question him. By doing so, I was only alerting him to the cellar’s importance. ‘It is of no consequence. Thank you, Martin. You may go back to work now.’
And so the mystery remains unsolved. It seems logical to conclude that a moment’s absent-mindedness must account for the displaced books. For who besides myself has ever seen the exposed cavity in which they rest? I always close the cellar door when I lift the flagstone. I always make sure that the shop is empty, and that no one is listening from the room above. Therefore, if no other explanation is possible, I must blame my own carelessness.
Even so, I am no longer at ease.
I feel as if I have missed something.
XIV.
Tuesday of Holy Week
I hardly know where to begin. With my journal, perhaps. It has proven its worth beyond all doubt.
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