The Wandering Arm: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Sharan Newman

  “Yes, I know but …” The door was shut in his face.

  He raised his hand to knock again, explain further, but he couldn’t do it. He wasn’t a beggar. Godes micht! He’d been a fool to come here in the first place. It was bad enough asking strangers, artisans and craftsmen, for work. It was too humiliating to come before a master, with those who used to be his fellow students standing around, and admit he needed charity. That was taking the game too far.

  Edgar pulled his woolen cloak more tightly around his throat. The day had turned raw, with a damp wind that cut through everything but the fur-lined cloaks and pellices of the rich.

  He felt for the bag around his neck. It was lighter than he could ever remember. Of course, a poor scholar without a prebend couldn’t have a heavy purse. He felt inside. Four deniers, enough for some wine. In another bag at his belt, he had the examples of his work that no one had wanted. Perhaps he could trade a wooden comb for a mug or two and save the coins.

  He was even thinking like a poor man.

  The tavern was one he had often gone to before he and Catherine had married. It was no more than a smoky hole scooped between two stone walls and roofed over. Edgar remembered to step down upon entering. Strangers usually were thrown flat, to the general entertainment of the room.

  The only light was a lamp at the table, where the owner sat and checked the color of the coins. Edgar went over to her.

  “I haven’t any money today, Laudine,” he said. “Will you give me a henap full in trade for this?”

  He showed her the comb. It was of yew wood and still had the soft scent of the tree. The end was carved with swirls and bird’s eyes. He was rather proud of it, but no one else had been impressed.

  Laudine turned it over in her hand. “What’s the matter, Edgar?” she asked. “Your girl throw it back at you?”

  “No, I made it,” he told her. “I have some spoons, as well, and a pepper box. Would you like to see them?”

  She laughed. “What happened to you, boy, that you’ve turned peddler? I thought your father sent you plenty.”

  Edgar shrugged. He had told the story so many times now that he had no trouble sounding sincere.

  “We’ve had a falling out,” he explained. “I’ve taken a wife here in France and he’s not pleased about it.”

  “A wife!” Laudine’s laugh became a snort. “You foreigners are such innocents! What happened? Her brothers catch you with her in the fields? Insisted you salvage her ‘honor’? Edgar, that’s the oldest trick in Paris!”

  “I’m not so green as that,” Edgar said. “She comes from a good family and has given up her own inheritance for me.”

  Laudine gaped at him. “By the rough hands of Saint Radegunde!” she said. “You’re not green; you’re mad! The two of you will starve within the year! You’re lucky her dowry was all you lost!”

  “So I’ve been told,” Edgar said.

  He started to put away his handiwork but Laudine stopped him. “Avoi! Gaudry!” she called to a shape sitting across the room. “Come look at this.” She patted Edgar’s hand. “I’ve always been too kind to lunatics.”

  The shape moved into the light and became a man of medium height, shorter than Edgar but broader in the shoulder. Laudine showed him the comb and pepper box.

  “What do you think?” she asked him. “Weren’t you saying the other day that you needed someone to do some woodwork for you, but you didn’t want to pay the guild prices?”

  “Keep your voice down, you old bordelere,” Gaudry muttered and added loudly, “That was just talk. Where can you find a workman to trust unless you get him through the guilds?” He threw the things back on the table. “Anyway,” he said, “I don’t need pretty work; I need some forms made, plain but exact. Not this sort of thing.”

  “I can do that, too, sir,” Edgar said softly. “I’ve had some training in making molds. I worked for a silversmith for a time.”

  Keeping his back to the room, Edgar took out the spoon he’d made. The bowl fitted well into the handle, which was ornately decorated. He also showed him the pepper box. It was plainly carved but even, a perfect cube. Gaudry looked from it to him.

  “Idiot got married,” Laudine explained. “The pair of them were thrown onto the streets. Got no more idea of how to survive than new-hatched chicks.”

  Gaudry considered. “I don’t work by the bells,” he said. “No leaving at Vespers. If you’re willing, I’ll give you a try. But if you’re some scholar who thinks he can mold silver because he read about it in Boethius or some such, you’ll be sorry you wasted my time.”

  Edgar held up his newly scarred hands. “I know how to make a mold,” he said. “What will you pay?”

  “Two sous for every properly made piece,” the man answered. “I don’t care how long it takes you; that’s the price.”

  “Very well,” Edgar said. “Where is your workshop?”

  “It’s on the Île,” Gaudry answered. “You won’t find it on your own. Be waiting tomorrow at the court of Saint-Étienne. I’ll meet you and take you to it.”

  So he could tell no one where to find him. Edgar hesitated, then nodded.

  “Good. Be there at first light.” Gaudry tossed a denier in the air.

  Edgar caught it. “You have my word.”

  He bought a cup of wine with the coin so as not to seem ungrateful to Laudine. He could hardly wait to tell Catherine. Finally, he was earning his own way.

  Catherine kept her hand against the wall as she went down the steps to the storage cellar. Even in summer it was cool down here. In the winter it was bone-cuttingly cold. The house had been built above it, but the cellar was just a dead end in an ancient maze of tunnels that wandered under the Juiverie and beyond. They had saved her life once.

  She reached the bottom and set the lamp on an earthenware tun where Uncle Eliazar stored his wine. Then she took the basket and began to fill it with beans, dry and crackling in the shells.

  There was a wind in the door. Catherine heard the creak and felt the sudden draft just before the lamp went out.

  “Aunt Johannah?” she squeaked.

  There was something down there with her. An animal, like a bear, lumbered toward her. Catherine tried to make her voice obey.

  “Aunt … Jo … han … nah,” she squeaked again.

  The thing was snuffling, gurgling, coming closer. it smelled like a cross between the mouth of hell and a soapmaker’s. Catherine backed away. It was between her and the stairs. The monster made a mad plunge at her. This time she managed to scream.

  The thing roared horrible hellish syllables as it fell upon her. “Whadavudonwitit! Whadavudonwitit!”

  There was a horrible rattle and Catherine found herself pinned to the floor by a weight that was twitching convulsively. It must be a bear. It was covered with fur.

  All at once it was still. Catherine put her hands up to push it away. Then she felt and smelled something else.

  “Oh, no!” she shrieked. “Holy Mother, Dear Savior, God in Heaven! Somebody! Get this thing off me!”

  This time her screams reached the floor above.

  Six

  The main hall of Eliazar’s house, an hour later

  asarah devarim qashim nivre’u ba’olam. har qasheh barzel mechattekho; barzel qasheh ’ur mefa’pe’o; ’ur qasheh mayim mekhabbin ’oto; mayim qashim’avim sovelim ’otan; ’avim qashim ruach mefazzartan; ruach qasheh guf sovelo; guf qasheh pachad shovero; pachad kasheh yayin mefigo; yayin kasheh shenah mefakkachto; umitah kashah mikkulam.

  Ten strong things were created in the world. A mountain is

  strong, but iron can cleave it; iron is strong, but fire can melt

  it; fire is strong, but water can extinguish it; water is strong,

  but clouds can carry it; clouds are strong, but the wind can

  scatter them; wind is strong, but the body can carry it; the

  body is strong, but fear can break it; fear is strong, but wine

  dispels it; wine is strong,
but sleep lessens its effect; but

  death is stronger than them all.

  —Babylonian Talmud, Baba Batra 10a

  “Natan ben Judah. Of course. Who else would be so inconsiderate as to die under our roof without even being invited in?” Johannah had no sympathy for the deceased. “As well as what he did to you while he was dying. Are you feeling better, enfançonette?”

  Catherine sat by the fire, wrapped in a swath of coverlets over a clean chainse. Her hands shook and the pewter cup she held rattled against her teeth. She was recovering from the shock but she wished the bathhouses weren’t all closed for the night. A shallow tub in the kitchen wasn’t enough to make her feel cleansed. Johannah sat next to her. Eliazar and a neighbor had gone down to see to the body.

  The bell at the front gate jangled. Johannah got up to open it.

  Catherine tried to compose herself. If that was Edgar, she didn’t want him to see her so disquieted. Death happened every day, after all.

  At least in your case, it seems to.

  Catherine sighed and took another gulp of the mulled cider. Then her lips trembled, thinking of their baby. This man, this Natan, had lived, at any rate. And from what Aunt Johannah said, he hadn’t spent his life in a state of grace.

  Now you feel you must find out what he was doing in the cellar, besides soiling your best woolen bliaut as well as the chainse and the pellice underneath.

  Well, of course I must, Catherine thought back. Clearly this is what was intended when the man fell on me. Fate wishes me to take an interest in the matter.

  She was accustomed to debating her life with these voices in her mind, although they had been less intrusive since she had had Edgar to debate with.

  Before they could respond, Johannah returned, Edgar following close behind.

  “You see,” Johannah finished a conversation that had started at the gate, “Catherine is unharmed, only frightened. Anyone would be if a strange man fell on them in the dark and then died.”

  Edgar knelt beside her and pulled at a dark curl that had gotten stuck at the corner of her mouth. His look was concerned, but underneath that was exasperated amusement.

  “Oh, Catherine,” he said. “Not again!”

  Catherine decided not to remind him that the first time she had become involved with murder was only minutes after they had met, when she had nearly been crushed by a body thrown from the tower at Saint-Denis. She still said prayers for poor Garnulf.

  “At least this time it wasn’t anyone we knew,” Catherine retorted.

  “Good. Then it’s no business of ours,” he said firmly, but there was a question in his eyes. “How are you?”

  “Much better, now that you’re here,” Catherine answered, leaning against him. “I feel a little shaky. It was so dark; I had no idea what was coming at me. I thought it might be a demon or a monster.”

  Edgar could feel her trembling still. Her hands were icy, her lips pale. Why did these things always happen to her? Before he met Catherine, the only corpses he saw were created by quite usual means: battle, sickness and accident. Since then, it had begun to seem to him that people died unnaturally just to confound her. She didn’t look for bodies. They simply sprouted up wherever she went.

  Edgar sighed. “Let me take you home,” he said.

  Johannah gave him a cup of the cider. “I’m sorry there are no cakes,” she said. “But can you wait a few more minutes? If Catherine can manage it, I think Eliazar would like to ask her about what happened.”

  “I think that my mind is stronger than my legs at the moment,” Catherine said. “We can stay here as long as you need me.”

  “Are you sure, Catherine?” Edgar asked, but only for form’s sake. He knew how curious she was. To himself he admitted that he wanted to know more, as well.

  They soon heard the sound of splashing as Eliazar and the neighbor, Joseph, washed off the contagion of death. Eliazar came in alone.

  “Joseph has gone for Natan’s nephew, Menahem,” he said. “As the nearest relative, he’ll have to arrange for the burial.”

  He looked at Johannah, who was slightly built and barely came to his shoulder in height, and shook his head in wonder.

  “How did you ever manage to move the body?” he asked.

  “Catherine helped,” Johannah answered. “I couldn’t leave her there trapped under that thing, could I?”

  “Of course not,” Eliazar said. “You should have called me.”

  “I didn’t think of it,” Johannah snapped. “Next time, I will.”

  Eliazar wiped his forehead. “I’m sorry,” he told her. “The two of you should never have had to endure such an experience. “I’m angry with myself, not you.”

  “Did you send Natan to our cellar?” Johannah demanded. “Did you know he would be there when Catherine went down? Did you throw him against her?”

  “I should have known,” Eliazar said, pulling at his beard.

  Edgar started to ask why, then decided to wait. He had learned enough from Hubert and Baruch to realize that Catherine’s uncle was hiding something from them. If so, he was unlikely to reveal it before his wife and niece.

  “Uncle, what killed him?” Catherine asked. “And how did he get there?”

  “The door to the tunnels was open,” Eliazar said. “It should have been barred and hidden behind boxes. Did you open it, Catherine?”

  “No, of course not,” said Catherine. “I only went through that door once before and don’t even remember where it is. The room was still when I went down. I didn’t notice the door at all. I think the draft from its opening was what blew out the lamp.”

  She shuddered again and Edgar put his arm around her.

  “It’s only that I couldn’t see,” she repeated. “I didn’t know what it was.”

  “Do you know how he died?” Edgar asked.

  Eliazar shook his head. “Poison, we think, or perhaps some sort of fit,” he said. “The elders will have to be told. Someone must investigate this.”

  Catherine started to raise her hand. Edgar tightened his grip on her arm.

  “But Eliazar,” Johannah said, her voice rising in worry, “why did he come to our house?”

  They all looked at him. Eliazar hesitated, then shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “He had no reason to be here. I wish I knew who had left the tunnel door unbarred.”

  There was a lot more that Catherine wished she knew. Where had Natan come from? What was he looking for? Why had he smelled like that, even before he died? Most of all, who was he that his death should be a cause for annoyance rather than grief?

  “Poison?” Edgar said. He was wondering, too, why Eliazar had named the unnatural cause of death first.

  “His limbs were twisted and his face in a rictus,” Eliazar told them with distaste. “His skin was an odd blue color. At least it looked so in the lamplight.” He broke off his description and sat down abruptly next to the hearth. “How long does it take a man to run up the street and tell another to come get a body?” he grumbled.

  “Who would have wanted to poison this man?” Edgar asked.

  “Almost anyone who knew him,” Eliazar said. “Although I’d have preferred to wring his neck.”

  “Husband!” Johannah said. She turned to Catherine and Edgar. “He doesn’t mean it. We are all very upset. Natan was unpleasant, but I’m sure no one would poison him.”

  “Of course,” Edgar assured her. “Of course, it may have been a fit, or an accident.”

  “Or even demons come for their own,” Johannah decided. “I would believe that easily.”

  “There was a strange odor about him,” Catherine said slowly. “It was smothered in oils and perfume but there was something of it that reminded me of a blacksmith’s. That’s why I thought I had come to the mouth of Hell. And something else, a metallic emanation from his breath.”

  Edgar suddenly sat up straighter. He loosened his hold on Catherine. “Eliazar, where do those tunnels lead?” he asked.

  Eli
azar threw up his hands. “Who knows them all? Some connect the houses of the community to the synagogue. There’s one that goes to the storeroom under Saint-Christophe.”

  Edgar nodded. “I remember.”

  “We filled it with provisions during the time after the Christians collected their armies to invade the Holy Land,” Eliazar said. “After we saw what happened to our brethren in Mainz and Speyer. Fortunately, we haven’t needed it as a refuge.”

  “Are those the only ones you know?” Edgar asked.

  “I explored a little, when I was a boy,” Eliazar admitted. “My family lived in Rouen, but I was sent here to study and live with my teacher. We boys used to dare each other to go around one more corner in the darkness. But there always seemed to be another one.”

  “So this Natan could have come from anywhere on the Île?” Edgar said.

  “Yes, of course.” Eliazar grasped at this thought eagerly. “Anywhere. He may have simply stumbled against the door and it opened. He might not even have known where he was.”

  But then why was the door left unbarred? Catherine wondered again. Eliazar seemed to have dropped that question entirely. She didn’t say it aloud, though. She wanted to think this over a while, preferably in her own bed. All of a sudden, she was exhausted.

  The bell rang and Johannah went to let in Natan’s nephew, Menahem, the draper. Eliazar got up to greet him in the hall.

  Edgar and Catherine heard the murmur of their voices, but caught no words until Haquin’s voice rose querulously.

  “Christian!” he shouted. “What was a Christian girl doing in your cellar?”

  “That’s silly,” Catherine whispered to Edgar. “The Christian servant is down there all the time.”

  “He’s upset, Catherine,” Edgar said. “He’s afraid you’ll make trouble for them.”

  Johannah came back in. Menahem is going down to see to his uncle,” she told them. “It would be better if you left now, if you feel up to it, Catherine.”