Master Octadenarius sighed. “At least your witness this time is more reliable than a whore. Very well, I will accept that you did not kill the man. Why should I believe that your journeyman Codi did not?”
Codi’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. He shivered, hugging himself as if he were suddenly cold.
“Codi?” Mainard echoed, and smiled again. “Codi blanches if he has to kill a louse. Pardon me, Master Octadenarius, but that is ridiculous. Why should Codi kill Borc?”
“To protect you?” Octadenarius asked sharply.
“From such a thing as Borc was?” Mainard asked, shaking his head. “Besides, how could he know Borc threatened me, not that he did. I do not believe Codi ever spoke to him.”
“No, Master,” Codi’s voice trembled, “but I did pull him away from Henry once.”
“When was this?” Mainard asked.
“Yesterday, just before he got into the workroom. I was outside, moving the saddle Henry had sold to that yeoman to replace it with another, when that—that thing slid past Henry on the other side. Henry reached out to stop him, but he pushed past through the door to the shop. I had to put down the saddle, but Henry followed him, and he turned in the doorway and struck at Henry’s hand with something—mayhap a broken knife. Henry cried out, and Master FitzRevery stepped out of his shop. I suppose he intended to help Henry, but I was closer, and he just gestured to me to follow Henry. I went in and grabbed Borc, but he twisted loose and ran into the workroom.”
“Why didn’t you follow him there?” the justiciar asked.
“Master Mainard is more than strong enough to deal with that creature, and the two boys were there to call me if Master Mainard should need help, so I bound up Henry’s hand, which was bleeding, and then went back to changing the saddles. A few moments later Borc came out and went away.”
“Did you ever see or meet the man before?” Octadenarius asked.
“Not that I remember,” Codi said, and then frowned. “Oh. I think I once saw him go into Master FitzRevery’s shop. It was late. Henry had gone home and I was taking down the counter. I remember because he was so…so unlike a customer or even a messenger likely to visit Master FitzRevery.”
“But you never mentioned this before?”
“Why should I?” Codi cried. “Did I know the man would die in our alley? And no one ever asked me about him before.”
“Please, sir,” Gisel put in, taking Codi’s hand. “He couldn’t have done it. We were all in the shop together and the…the body wasn’t there at dusk when I went to pull in the latch string on the back gate for the night. I looked out, and the alley was empty. And at night, Codi can’t get out. Ever since we…I found Mistress Bertrild, I have bad dreams, so Codi let me and Stoc put our pallets right against his. He’d have to step on us to get out. I know we sleep sound, Lord Justiciar, but not that sound.”
Bell cleared his throat. Master Octadenarius gave him a sour look. “You want to stand out in the rain to look at the body? Go ahead. And how do you come to be here anyway? You never answered that.”
“I had gone to the Old Priory Guesthouse this morning to….” Bell’s voice faltered as he remembered the miller’s blood running over his hands and why he needed to be with Magdalene on the previous morning; he cleared his throat again.
“To discover if her whores had learned anything more about the five men who could have taken Codi’s knife. She had just told me that Bertrild herself had been in the workshop that day and could have taken the knife herself—apparently she was in the habit of picking up this and that in the hope of causing trouble—when Stoc, the younger apprentice, came to find Master Mainard to tell him about the body in the alley. The boy was soaked and overworn from running all the way, and it so happened I had my horse, so I told him I would fetch Master Mainard. Magdalene said she would keep Stoc and get him dry and warm. He was terrified. He had found the body and said something about Borc’s face…?”
Octadenarius sighed again. “Likely Brother Samuel at St. Catherine’s will explain it. Go look if you like.”
Bell promptly went out the back door, across the yard, and out the gate, which was standing open. A miserable watchman huddled against the fence, holding a worn piece of leather over his head. “I have permission to look,” Bell said, and lifted the tattered, torn, and stained blanket that had been thrown over the body.
The face was indeed something that could frighten a boy unaccustomed to death. It even startled Bell because it was twisted in a terrible grimace, and the vomit that had dried around the mouth was full of dirt as was a broad bruise on the forehead. There might have been other bruising, but Borc’s face had been filthy to begin with and what might be dried blood was indistinguishable from old smears of grease and gravy that had run and mingled in the rain.
The tunic had been rucked up so the braies were exposed. As with most corpses, Bore had wet and soiled himself, but Bell stood staring at the stained garments, his brows knitted in a puzzled frown. Something was wrong, different. In another moment he knew what it was. Not only the upper part of the braies were soiled, the part around the anus and penis, but the legs, the hem of the garment, and the stockings beneath it, too, were marked with filth. That meant the body had been upright when urine and feces were released.
A man does not stand upright when death relaxes the body’s control. No, but for some fear can bring about the same result. Was Borc held upright as he was killed? after he was killed? Bell blinked. How was he killed? The head seemed round. There was no blood—well, maybe there was. Between the rain and old stains it was hard to tell. But the face? Was that grimace one of fear, or was it a twisting of the muscles as in a fit? Was the bruise deep enough…?
Nonsense! How could a body have a bruise on its forehead and dirt around its mouth and be lying on its back?
“Watchman,” Bell said, “did you turn the body over?”
“Didn’ touch it a’tall. Didn’ even see it, ‘till you took off the blanket.”
Bell guessed that Codi had put the blanket over the body and that Octadenarius had not bothered to examine it at all. It was not really an abandonment of his duty. He said he had made arrangements for the body to be carried to the brothers of St. Catherine’s Hospital; Brother Samuel would examine it and tell him the cause of death. But how had it come to fall on its face hard enough to make those bruises and now be lying on its back? And when had it been turned?
It had been raining for hours…. Bell nudged the body with one boot; the flesh gave a little, and the body was not so rigid that it would lift in one piece like a board of wood. As it was, he could not shift it far enough to see whether the ground underneath was wet or dry. He made a horrible face as he leaned closer—Borc stank even worse in death than he had in life—to pull the blanket back over the corpse.
The change in angle of vision showed him a pile of rubbish beyond the watchman’s feet and lying beside that…surely that was the neck of a flask. A flask and Borc connected immediately in Bell’s mind. He went over to look and found a handsome leather flask, its gold-decorated stopper still tied to the neck by a finely braided gold silk cord. When he shook it, a small amount of liquid sloshed within. The watchman was looking at him in amazement.
“‘eard somethin’ fall when I backed up against the wall, but I didn’ see nothing,” he said. “Too bad. I coulda done wit a spot t’warm me.”
Bell looked from the flask to the corpse. “You do not know how lucky you are that you didn’t take a ‘spot’ out of this flask.” He twitched his head at the body and slid the flask under his cloak. “I think he did.”
“Excuse me,” he said to Octadenarius when he was back inside the workshop, “but I must ask Codi a question.”
“By all means,” the justiciar replied sourly. “The answers I am getting are doing me no good.”
“Codi, did you touch the body at all after Stoc told you it was there?”
“No, Sir Bellamy.” The man shuddered. “I only went as far as the ga
te. When I saw him…it…I told Stoc to run to the Old Priory Guesthouse to fetch back Master Mainard, and I sent Gisel for Master Octadenarius. Then I took one of the old blankets out of the shed and sort of threw it over the body. I didn’t touch it. I didn’t even go near it.”
“And it was lying as it is now, face up?”
Codi shuddered again. “Yes.”
“Do you know when it started raining?”
“I happen to know that,” Octadenarius said. “I left my bed just before dawn for the usual reason and looked, as I often do, out of the window. The path was dark with wet but not under the trees where they overhang it, so it could not have been raining hard or long. Say the rain began in earnest at dawn. But why does it matter?”
“Because Borc fell forward, onto his face—there are bruises to show that—but he was lying on his back when Stoc found him. The child said something about his face, which he would not have been able to see if Borc was lying face down.”
“So someone turned him over.” Octadenarius shrugged. “Any passerby might have done so to see if he could help.”
“I am not so sure of that,” Bell said, his lips twisting with distaste. “I am not sure I would have touched anyone who smelled like that, but if the ground is dry under the body, the turning would have been done before dawn…when it is not very likely that a casual passerby would have been abroad.”
“True enough,” the justiciar said. He cast an irritated glance at Mainard, Codi, and Gisel, all standing close together in a defensive half circle, and another at Bell.
“One more question,” Bell said, withdrawing the flask from under his cloak. “Does anyone know this flask?”
His glance was fixed on Gisel who examined what Bell held with innocent interest before he shook his head. Codi took a little longer, coming closer to look carefully at one of the designs.
“Mercer,” he said. “That’s the guild symbol. “I’ve seen it on some things Master FitzRevery has—a leather cup, I think. But I’ve never seen a flask like that.” Codi glanced at his master, who had stiffened up. “It’s not Master FitzRevery’s own seal,” he added hastily. “It’s the guild seal. Any mercer could have a cup or a flask like that.”
“Mainard?” Bell urged.
Mainard shook his head. “I’ve never seen such a flask in Perekin’s shop or home.”
“Where was it?” Octadenarius asked.
“Beside a heap of rubbish where the watchman was standing. Oh, don’t blame him. Likely it was covered with dirt when you told him to watch the body, and the rain washed some of it away so that I noticed.”
“You would notice,” the justiciar said. “Bell, you think too much. You see too much.”
“My chamber is very neat, too,” Bell said, grinning. “I do not like anything to be out of place or unexplained. A flask like this in a rubbish heap needs explaining—and maybe the answer is within. There is still some liquid left.”
“Poison?”
“That, Brother Samuel or one of his fellows will have to tell us. I am not so desperate for an explanation that I will drink any myself.” Bell grinned again.
Octadenarius grimaced. “For the trouble you have given me in this matter, I should demand it of you. If Borc died of poison, he might have drunk it anytime during the day.”
“That, too, Brother Samuel maybe able to tell us—quick or slow acting—according to how long it takes for his animal to die.”
“When did he die, do you think?”
Bell shook his head. “I would say either he died in Herlyoud’s shop soon after he went in or soon after he left it, or he has not been dead long. Possibly he died just before dawn. He is stiff, but not rigid. If he died yesterday afternoon, the stiffening would have had a chance to form and then start to wear away because it was warm yesterday. If he died at dawn, the stiffening would likely take longer because today it is cool and damp. Also very interesting is that he is befouled from his waist to his feet—
“Fouling is common in sudden, violent death.”
“Not fouling that runs down from hips to feet. He was standing when he was frightened enough to void or held upright after he was dead.”
“Somehow,” the justiciar sounded tired, “I cannot see anyone in this lot—” his glance flicked over Mainard, Codi, and Gisel “—holding a corpse upright after it was dead, or, for that matter, dropping it just outside this gate.” He sighed. “It is time now to question Herlyoud. Do you want to come also?”
They learned very little. Herlyoud admitted freely that he had not been in the shop from early morning until past Vespers. He knew nothing of Borc and had not seen him at all the previous day. Confronted by the evidence of Octadenarius’s man, the journeymen then admitted that Borc had passed through the shop. Both denied they had ever seen him before or that he had asked for money. All he had wanted was to go out through the back door because men he owed money, who wished to beat him for nonpayment, were outside. As for why they had lied about letting him pass through, that was easy. Both feared they would be punished for allowing a criminal—or a debtor—to escape.
The apprentices, who had been in the storeroom in the back, agreed that Borc had passed through the shop and out the back door. He had not stopped to eat or drink. One boy said even his swift passing through threatened to stink up the goods; they would never have permitted him even to pause to draw breath.
Bell asked about the flask, which he had carried with him, and the shock mirrored on all faces made his muscles tense and his hand drop to his sword hilt. After a moment, Herlyoud said it did look like his, but his was still in his counting chamber. With Octadenarius on his heels, he went into a small room divided from the workroom and came out with an almost-identical flask.
The senior journeyman denied vociferously that he would have given a companion flask to Borc. They were expensive, he pointed out. His master had paid three shillings for his when the guild was raising funds for a charitable purpose. And when asked who else had bought similar flasks, he said most of the men in the guild had done so, or bought a cup or sometimes bought a cup and a flask. He then went into his master’s office and brought out a matching cup. Bell took it in hand, but it was dry and dusty, clearly kept as an ornament as was the flask.
“Too bad there are two journeymen,” Octadenarius said as they left the shop. “I cannot accuse one without having the other witness in his defense and the two apprentices, too. That is a tight-knit, happy family.”
“I think we will have to wait now until we know that there was poison in the flask and how quickly it acted. As soon as I know, I will make a reason to visit each of the five who might be suspect and see whether any has such a flask or remembers who had one. Meanwhile, I must return to Mainard’s house to retrieve my horse.”
Bell smiled to himself when Octadenarius bid him farewell without the slightest sign of reluctance, plainly relieved to be rid of him. But the justiciar was an honest man, even if he was not pleased to have complicated problems added to his load of work. He took with him the carefully capped flask to be delivered with Borc’s body to the monks of St. Catherine’s Hospital.
The rain was no more than a drizzle by the time Bell reached the Lime Street house, which was just as well because the place was locked tight. Pounding brought Jean who called a frightened question through the door. He opened it when Bell identified himself and sent Hamo to resaddle the palfrey and bring it around. Sir Druerie, Jean told Bell when he asked, had gone up to the solar, which was now back in order, to warm his aching bones in bed. There was nothing specific Bell wanted to ask the older man, so he left him in peace, mounted, and rode toward the West Chepe where he intended to ask Master Newelyne if he remembered to whom he had spoken about Bertrild’s tally sticks.
When he passed Fish Street, Bell looked over his shoulder toward the bridge, but he was not really much tempted to ride south to the Old Priory Guesthouse. Saturday was a busy day, often with extra clients to be fitted in, and he would not be welcome in the common
room. Sunday was better. He knew that Magdalene and her women spent a leisurely morning over a more-than-usually hearty breakfast. If he went to early Mass, he could be with them for the meal. Magdalene would be eager to hear how Borc had died and what Sir Druerie said; the women would all pet him and praise him…. Bell smiled.
* * * *
27 MAY
LIME STREET HOUSE
Stoc returned to Mainard’s shop not long after the rain abated, calmed and well fed. Codi and Gisel seemed somewhat recovered, so Mainard decided to get over with the distasteful task Bell had demanded of him. He told Codi and the boys to get back to their work, and he went next door to tell Perekin FitzRevery about the money he had collected from Johannes Gerlund and wished to return.
“It was my farm,” FitzRevery said, with tears in his eyes, virtually acknowledging that Genlis’s notes were true. “My father did not swear it away to the Church. The priest—
Mainard looked at the bitter lines around FitzRevery’s mouth; those lines were new. He put a hand on his friend’s arm. “Perekin, you need not explain to me. I know you. I only want to return what Bertrild wrung out of you, and I would like you to meet her uncle, Sir Druerie. He is a very good man. It is as if all the bad was concentrated in Gervase and his daughter and all the good in Sir Druerie. You will like him, and he will like you.”
FitzRevery looked at the hand on his arm and licked his lips. “Wednesday, you said? After the guild dinner. Very well.” He drew a deep breath and then, as if to cover over what had gone before, said briskly, “And what was going on in the alley all morning? Do not tell me your people found another body!”
“Yes, they did,” Mainard said and was relieved at the look of horror that crossed FitzRevery’s face.
He explained as much as he knew about Borc’s death and left FitzRevery shaking his head. By the time he returned to his own shop, he found all the good Magdalene and her women had done Stoc was undone. He kept casting harried glances toward the back door, and Codi and Gisel were little better. Gisel hit his finger with a hammer; Stoc dropped a newly completed saddle frame; and Codi put aside the saddle seat he had planned to cut because his hands were shaking too much to produce a clean line. Mainard himself stared at the cantle he was supposed to be decorating and could not imagine how to continue the design he had started.
Roberta Gellis Page 28