The Witch in the Well: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Newman, Sharan

  Catherine took the knife gingerly. “You’re right,” she said. “This isn’t a ceremonial knife. No jewels or silver inlay. It looks like the sort you’d find in a kitchen.”

  “Wonderful,” Margaret said. “That means anyone in the household could have taken it.”

  “Yes, probably.” Catherine was still studying the carving. “I can’t make out the letters after the M, the next part is DEDIT.”

  “It’s in Latin?” Margaret asked in surprise. “ ‘Dedit’ means ‘Gave.’ So it reads KA something, OLUS M, something DEDIT.”

  She and Catherine looked at each other and spoke at the same time.

  “Karolus mei dedit!”

  “Charles gave me!”

  “That’s not grammatical,” Catherine commented. “But maybe there wasn’t any more room on the handle.”

  “Charles is not that common a name anymore,” Margaret said carefully. “Of course, this does look very old. You don’t think it was a gift from the Emperor Charles, do you?”

  “I don’t know.” Catherine turned it over. “You’d think there would be an IMP after Karolus. And it is very plain. It could be that the maker just learned the letters and did the carving to pass the time.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s a Charles living here at Boisvert,” Margaret said.

  “I don’t think so,” Catherine said. “But, if it belonged to one of the people living here, you’d think someone would have recognized the knife.”

  “Yes,” Margaret nodded. “And the same if it belonged to the kitchens. It seems odd that no one has recognized it.”

  “Perhaps it was brought in,” Catherine said. “Brought especially to kill Raimbaut with.”

  Margaret didn’t like that line of inquiry. “You mean by one of us? Or your mother?”

  “Of course not!” Catherine was shocked. “But anyone living here could have bought it from a peddler or at a stand in Chartres or Blois.”

  She held the handle and examined the blade.

  “It’s newly sharpened,” she said, wincing as a line of blood appeared on her thumb.

  Margaret shrank back from the glistening metal.

  “To make it sharp enough to kill?” she asked, her voice shaking.

  Catherine sighed. “Probably.”

  She studied the blade further, now at the hilt, where the iron had been inserted into the wood.

  “You know,” she said slowly, “I don’t think all of this stain is blood.” She scraped a bit with her finger. “This seems like rust.”

  She thought a moment. “Margaret,” she said. “I have a suspicion. We need to find what happened to that treasure chest. I want to check something.”

  The hall was in chaos. Edgar found his brother-in-law in the middle of a shouting match among five or six of the men-at-arms, Seguin, and, oddly, the priest, Ysore.

  “If Aymon’s gone to ground, we’ll never find him!” Guillaume growled. “No one knows where all the tunnels lead.”

  “But he may be hurt!” Seguin’s face was taut with shock and grief.

  “Or he may be hiding.” Ysore’s words cut into the noise.

  Seguin whipped around to challenge him. “My son had nothing to do with his brother’s death! He loved Raimbaut.”

  Guillaume stepped between the two men before Seguin lost his temper enough to strike a member of the clergy.

  “If he’s hiding, it may not be from justice, but from the murderer,” he suggested.

  Seguin liked that idea even less.

  “Are you saying my son is a coward?” He whirled about to face Guillaume.

  Edgar moved into the circle. “Guillaume is only saying that we don’t know,” he told Seguin. “But we won’t unless we find Aymon. Could he have left the keep without anyone noticing?”

  Seguin shook his head. “His horse is still here and his dog. He wouldn’t go without them.”

  “Then we’ll have to try the tunnels,” Edgar concluded. “I have never seen them, but I’ll help in the search if you need me. I like Aymon. I don’t want to think of him lying in the dark, hurt and unable to reach us.”

  “Very well then,” Seguin said. “Who will come with us?”

  “Who knows the tunnels?” Ysore asked.

  Seguin scanned the faces around him. “Guillaume, you spent enough time down there. Ysore, don’t tell me you didn’t. Anyone else?”

  One or two of the men raised their hands.

  “Where’s Brehier?” Ysore asked. “He and Raimbaut were always leading me down there and then running off until I got lost and cried for help. He should be one of the guides.”

  Seguin pointed at two of the younger men.

  “Go. Find him and bring him back with you now.”

  Edgar took advantage of the lull to draw Guillaume aside.

  “How do you feel about this?” he asked quietly. “Especially with your wife and children here.”

  “I’ve been meaning to bring Gervase here for a long time,” Guillaume answered. “He should know that my family isn’t only lowborn traders. It wouldn’t hurt the others to learn about the place, as well.”

  “But there’s a murderer loose,” Edgar reminded him.

  “That should be nothing new for you,” Guillaume retorted. “I’ve put a guard on Marie and the children. Yours, too. I’m not a fool.”

  “Of course not,” Edgar said quickly. “Far from it. But all this about fairies and river nymphs, I don’t know how to take it.”

  “Andonenn is the guardian of the spring,” Guillaume said. “And of our family. I don’t worry about what else to call her.”

  “No,” Edgar thought. “I suppose you don’t. It must make life much easier for you.”

  The men soon came back with Brehier, who was fastening his belt as he followed them down the stairs. Guillaume snorted.

  “You haven’t changed,” he said.

  Brehier glared at him. “I was in the privy,” he explained. “So you think that Aymon is below the castle?”

  “Yes, can you think of any place he’d make for?” Seguin asked. Brehier twisted his mouth in an effort to think. “There are a couple of corners that he always chose when we were playing hide-and-find. And didn’t he have some sort of cave where he kept his secret treasures so his parents wouldn’t find them?”

  “Yes,” Guillaume said. “I’d forgotten that. I don’t know if I could find it again, could you?”

  “I think so,” Brehier answered. “At least I remember the general direction. Do you want me to go now?”

  “Yes,” Seguin said. “Take Edgar here and someone else to run back if you get into trouble. Guillaume, you take a couple of men and search in another section. Aymon may have found a new place to hide since you were children.”

  He stopped and scratched at his beard. “I always wondered how he disappeared so thoroughly when there was work to be done.”

  Seguin continued giving orders, some of them twice. Edgar recognized the signs of a man who was doing anything to avoid having to think about what was happening. He went over and introduced himself to Brehier.

  “I imagine Seguin doesn’t think I’m of much use.” He held up his arm. “But my apprentice, Martin, has proved himself both agile and intelligent. Martin!”

  He waved the boy over.

  Martin came at once, his face alight with excitement.

  “Lord Brehier and I have been asked to seek out Aymon in the passages below the castle,” Edgar explained. “I need you to come with us and mark the way. If we have any trouble you’ll need to come back for help.”

  “Yes, Master,” Martin bobbed his head. “Should I bring a cudgel? Will there be monsters?”

  Edgar laughed. “You sound like James. I hope we’ll not come across any monsters, but a strong cudgel isn’t a bad idea. Run get one. We’ll start out as soon as you get back.”

  Brehier watched him go. “A well-set-up lad,” he commented. “Where did you find him?”

  “He grew up in my household,” Edgar explained
. “He’s the son of our housekeeper.”

  Brehier gave a start.

  “What’s his age, do you know?” he asked casually.

  “Seventeen or so, I think,” Edgar said.

  Martin returned a moment later bearing a stout stick.

  “That should frighten the monsters,” Edgar assured him.

  Martin grinned. “It might even bring James into line,” he suggested.

  Edgar sighed. “Not for long, I’m afraid.”

  “Are we ready?” Brehier asked, staring at Martin. “The doorway next to the hearth is the closest.”

  When the hall had finally cleared, Margaret and Catherine ran quickly down the stairs from the upper floor.

  “Why are we sneaking, Catherine?” Margaret asked. “We aren’t doing anything wrong, are we?”

  “Of course not,” Catherine answered. “Did you want to explain to all those men that we want to examine the family relic? Now, where did you say it was?”

  “Against the wall over by the linen chests.” Margaret led the way. “I’d forgotten. I saw the servants push it there last night.”

  She went along the row, lifting saltcellars and throw rugs to see each wooden box. Catherine followed.

  “Here!” Margaret said in triumph. “Now let’s see if they left the little box inside.”

  The brass chest had been covered with a stained tablecloth. Catherine pushed it aside and lifted the lid.

  Inside lay the pieces of the box that Jurvale’s grandson, Richard, had left to protect his descendants. Catherine assembled them carefully.

  “I don’t think that the person who stole the treasure did more than rip this apart to get at it,” she said. “At least I hope there was no more damage.”

  Margaret brought over a lamp to shine on the dark wood.

  “Oh, thank you,” Catherine said. “Yes, I thought there was a padding of some sort. I wonder what the material is? Ancient silk, maybe?”

  Margaret looked at the brown crumbling material. “I have no idea. Is there still an impression in it?”

  “I think so.” Catherine held the box carefully, trying not to unsettle the contents.

  Margaret took the knife from her sleeve and held it lightly over the faint hollow.

  “You were right,” she said in amazement. “It fits exactly. This was the treasure? A kitchen knife is supposed to save you?”

  “It seems so,” Catherine said. “But I don’t understand it. Why would an old, plain knife be so important?”

  “Maybe it’s magic,” Margaret suggested.

  “If so, then we haven’t found the secret of using it.” Catherine dismissed the idea.

  Margaret laid the knife carefully back in the box, just to be safe.

  “Edgar is going to hate this, you know,” she said.

  Catherine nodded. “Richard’s heir killed with Richard’s knife. It’s almost mythic. I wish I could get rid of the feeling that we’ve wandered into some epic poem.”

  “It is chilling.” Margaret shivered to prove it. “I don’t feel up to behaving like a heroine.”

  Catherine set down the box and hugged her tightly.

  “You’ve already been a heroine,” she said. “You never have to do it again.”

  Margaret shook herself out of the hold and laughed. “My sister-in-law, the prophetess?”

  Catherine feigned insult. “In this family, a spot of prophecy shouldn’t surprise anyone.”

  She sat down, serious again.

  “I could use the Sight to work this out,” she said. “Did someone in the household know that this knife was in the box? How could they, if it hadn’t been opened since the time of Louis the Pious?”

  Margaret plopped herself on the floor. She brushed the straw aside and began writing in the dust.

  “We need to lay this out like a problem in logic,” she told Catherine. “First, what do we know for certain?”

  “There’s a box. There’s a knife. There’s a body,” Catherine answered.

  Margaret drew a square, a long line, and a stick figure.

  “Lovely,” Catherine said. “Soon Mother Heloise will be asking you to draw the capitals in manuscripts.”

  Margaret made a face at her. Catherine grinned back, glad that Margaret had shed her fear.

  “First the box,” Margaret said. “We know someone opened it before the ceremony last night.”

  “Yes,” Catherine said. “But we don’t know who or why or if they knew they would find a knife. And if they knew, did they intend to use it to murder Raimbaut?”

  “Catherine, you were taught better than that,” Margaret chided. “No speculating. Now the knife.”

  “We know it appears old,” Catherine considered. It had been some time since she’d had to think in logical steps. It was a useless skill when dealing with the minds of children.

  “We also know that it was recently sharpened,” Margaret added. “That would mean it was taken at least a few days ago, but maybe months or even years.”

  “Very good!” Catherine said. “I hadn’t got that far.”

  “And there is carving on it, in what we are fairly certain is Latin,” Margaret continued. “Along with letters in a language we can’t read. Anything else?”

  “When it was found, Mother was holding it and it was covered in blood.” Catherine spoke evenly. “We only assume that it was used to kill Raimbaut.”

  “Good,” Margaret said. “Not proven, but I would say it’s a valid assumption.”

  “And the body?” Catherine asked.

  Margaret absently rubbed the figure until it was no more than a smudge on the floor.

  “That’s the real puzzle,” she said. “Although perhaps if we knew more about the other two, everything would be clear. All we can say is that he was the elder son of Seguin and that he’s dead, stabbed through the heart with a knife.”

  “From the front,” Catherine added. “It doesn’t make sense. Why was he in the chapel instead of the hall with the rest of us? Why didn’t he try to defend himself?”

  “The last point is what worries me,” Margaret said. “People are saying that he wouldn’t have feared your mother, so she could get close to him without his sensing danger.”

  “But if she came at him with a knife, he could have disarmed her easily,” Catherine said. “Whatever people say, I don’t believe she did it. Logically.”

  “I agree,” Margaret said. “Logically.”

  They both sighed.

  “Now what?” Catherine asked.

  “I don’t know,” Margaret said. Her glance strayed to the corner where the jongleurs had left the chest with their instruments. She gazed at it for so long that Catherine waved a hand in front of her face.

  “Margaret?” she asked. “Are you having a vision?”

  “No.” Margaret stood up suddenly. “But I may have just had a revelation. Where do the players keep themselves in the daytime?”

  Martin was enthralled by the dank tunnels.

  “I was only jesting about the monsters,” he told Edgar, “but now I’m not so sure.”

  “Want to turn back?” Edgar teased.

  “Of course not.” Martin jangled the leather bag around his neck. “With all the charms and bits of martyrs’ bones my mother gave me, the Devil himself would turn and run.”

  Brehier was in the lead, but turned around every few moments to watch the other two.

  “Your mother,” he started. “Is she the woman I’ve seen with Lady Catherine?”

  “More likely the one you’ve seen chasing my children,” Edgar answered. “They lead Samonie a hard life.”

  Martin smiled. “You know she loves it. Especially since my sister died. She told me they soothe the hurt in her heart.”

  “Really?” Edger was genuinely surprised. “Irritating and disobedient as they are, I feel the same. It’s good to know they don’t torment her too much.”

  They walked in silence for a few moments; then Edgar and Martin began discussing the recent journe
y and making plans for what they should offer for sale at the Lendit fair that fall. Brehier listened with interest.

  “It’s a bit further yet,” he interrupted them. “Aymon loved the remote caves. You were just in Italy?”

  “Lombardy,” Edgar answered. “We met some Genoans there and traded for African spices and stones, among other things.”

  “And Martin is learning this trade?” Brehier asked. “Not just tending animals and running your errands?”

  “Well,” Edgar laughed. “That is a large part of apprenticeship, but he’s been present at the negotiations. I hope he’s kept his ears open.”

  “Of course, Master,” Martin assured him. “Watching you and Master Solomon at work is as good as a troop of jugglers, acrobats, and dancing bears!”

  Edgar cuffed him lightly. “Show more respect, young man, or we’ll send you in to explain to Abbot Suger why his incense is twice the cost of last year’s.”

  Brehier listened to them in wistful amazement, all the while keeping his back to them as he led the way through the underground passages.

  “Not far now,” he told the other two. “It appears that you’re doing well, Martin. Your father must be proud of you.”

  “I don’t think so,” Martin said. “I doubt he knows my name. I certainly don’t know his.”

  “Oh, I beg your pardon,” Brehier said.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Martin said. “But you needn’t worry. It used to bother me, when the children in Troyes would mock me for it. But now it doesn’t matter. I’ve made my own life.”

  “Yes,” Brehier whispered. “So you have.”

  They had finally reached the part of the labyrinth where Brehier thought they might find Aymon.

  “It was somewhere down this way.” He indicated a moss-lined passage. “There are only a few other branches to this tunnel. I know that at the end of one of them there’s a cave. It even had a sort of basin where water collected. Aymon loved it. He brought down skins to sleep on and baskets of sausage and cheese.”

  “And a friend from time to time?” Edgar suggested.

  “Probably,” Brehier said. “For such a big place, there’s remarkably little privacy in the keep.”