The Wandering Arm: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Sharan Newman

  “You misunderstand.” Menahem held up his hands in supplication. “I have no intentions toward your daughters. I hoped you would be there, that is all. I only wanted to know more about my uncle’s death. I meant no disrespect, sir. I will walk round the city to reach the other side of the street if that is the only way to avoid them in future. I swear it!”

  Hubert watched the man cringing before him, terror making him shake. What was the matter with him?

  It came to Hubert in a thunderclap. Menahem assumed he was Christian. Hubert had gone to great pains that he should. The draper’s terror was not just for his own life as a man who had been threatened with dishonoring another’s daughter. He feared for the whole community. If Hubert should decide to punish one Jew for his effrontery, then the others would suffer. It was always so.

  The thought made the bile rise in Hubert’s throat. It shamed him to be thought just like the great lords, who would burn a whole town to revenge themselves on an enemy. But it also shamed him to know that this servile thing before him was what his people had to become in order to survive.

  “Stand up, man!” he ordered. He took a deep breath. “I apologize for my anger. But it would still not be wise for you to come to my home. It was not my daughter, Agnes, who was there when your uncle died.”

  Menaham cautiously lowered his arms. “So I guessed from her answers,” he said. “Although I feared she might be lying to get me out of the house.”

  “Agnes wouldn’t lie; she would simply refuse to answer you,” Hubert said with a sigh. “It was my daughter, Catherine, who was visiting Johannah. I don’t want you questioning her, either. If you wish information, come to me. What is it you are looking for now?”

  Menahem bent to open a wooden chest and began taking out lengths of cloth, which he laid on a table.

  “I’m expecting a customer from the king’s court today,” he explained nervously. “He wants rough wool to send to a monastery he has endowed. Says he doesn’t trust the prior to spend the money as directed. Everything needs to be ready to show him.”

  Hubert wasn’t interested. “Agnes told me you wanted to know what Natan said before he died. Why?”

  “A man’s last words are always important,” Menahem answered, fiddling with the cloth. “He might have had a final request or received a vision. It would be my duty to act upon such information.”

  Hubert’s eyebrows raised at the image of Natan receiving a divine vision. “I have heard that Natan left nothing for his burial,” he said. “And yet, it’s rumored that he was a wealthy man.”

  The draper’s fingers became more agitated as he smoothed out invisible wrinkles and plucked at unseen bits of fluff in the wool. “Ah, well,” he said at last. “My uncle was a trader, not in as grand a manner as you are, of course. But I’m sure you know that it’s an insecure profession. One lost shipment and all can be lost. That must have been what happened. The coffer he kept with me held only a few small coins. Perhaps he had been ruined by shipwreck or bandits. Possibly his mind was so affected by the loss that he took the poison himself, may he be forgiven.”

  Hubert watched Menahem closely. The man was keeping something back, of course, but what? The idea that Natan had been driven to suicide was preposterous. He was the sort who drove others. But the part about not finding any treasure, that sounded honest. Why else would Menahem have dared come to his home, alone, so insistent to speak to the one person to whom Natan might have told his hiding place?

  “Had he said anything to you about losing a shipment?” Hubert asked.

  “He never discussed his business with me,” Menahem answered too quickly.

  Hubert didn’t press any further. He knew that Menahem would never tell an outsider about such things, even under torture. He respected him for that. It was a marvel how cowardice and courage were so mingled in a man.

  “Very well,” he said. “I’ll ask my daughter and tell you if your uncle said anything to her regarding a cache of goods. But if you bother any member of my family again, I will go to your elders and have them place the herem on you. See how long you stay in business if no one will associate with you.”

  “You know nothing about it,” Menahem replied. “They wouldn’t cut me off from the community on your word.”

  “They might if they thought your behavior endangered their families, as well,” Hubert answered. “Do you want to take the risk?”

  “I have already told you I’ll not go near your daughters,” Menahem grumbled. “May I be planted like an onion, head first in the earth, if I break my word.”

  “I’ll dig the hole myself,” Hubert assured him.

  Having discharged that duty, Hubert considered what to do next. A visit to Eliazar would be useless, he decided. Their conversation the night before had been full of evasions. Even though they had been raised apart, Hubert could sense when his older brother was keeping something from him. Eliazar had insisted that he had no idea how Natan had found his way to the cellar, had repeated that he had done some business with him last year and regretted it and that they had not had any dealings since then. It hurt Hubert more than he could say that his own brother didn’t trust him with the truth. He had said as much.

  “It hurts me also,” Eliazar had answered, “that my own brother has no faith in my honesty.”

  They had parted with a kiss of friendship, but Hubert had left with a feeling of lonely grief that was almost more than he could bear. And then he had come home to Agnes. He was almost afraid to go see Catherine. If she rejected him, he might be tempted to take poison himself.

  Poison.

  Menahem had been quite sure that poison was the cause of Natan’s death, not a fit or some other natural cause. Why? Had the body been examined by a physician? If so, what had been found? Perhaps Menahem had just decided that, knowing Natan, the unnatural cause was the more likely.

  Now, whom could he ask to help him find out?

  Hubert smiled and made his way out of the Juiverie to a tavern he knew of. The room above was the school, the room in back, a brothel. The woman who owned the building made a good living from both. As an extra, her tavern sold the best beer in Paris. At this time of day the odds were quite good he would find Solomon there.

  Hubert spotted his nephew as soon as he entered, seated at a corner of the long table in intense conversation with a woman who had her back to him. After his recent encounter with Menahem, Hubert hoped Solomon had more sense than to negotiate with a Christian prostitute. Or, if he did, to be sure the light was out before he dropped his braies.

  Solomon nodded to him and the woman turned around to see who was there.

  “Catherine!” Hubert roared. “Are you insane? What are you doing in a place like this?”

  “Hello, Father.” Catherine rose and gave him a kiss and a smile. “I’m waiting with Solomon for John to finish teaching so that we can all go hear Master Gilbert speak.”

  “You could find no better place to take her than this?” Hubert accused Solomon.

  “She’s been very entertaining,” Solomon told him. “Bietrix has already gone out for another bundle of rushes after Catherine commented that they were a bit thin on the floor and greasy. They then had a long conversation about some form of cosmetic, I believe, after which a student came in and made a proposal to Catherine in Latin—why, I don’t know. Her response was brief, I’m glad to say, but the boy left at once, blessing himself repeatedly. She won’t tell me what she said.”

  “I merely suggested that he not use the subjunctive mode until he had mastered it completely,” Catherine said.

  Hubert could tell she’d been having a wonderful morning. He sat down next to Catherine on the bench and sniffed at the liquid in her cup.

  “Pear cider, Father,” she told him. “All the way from Normandy, the woman said.” Then she leaned closer to him and whispered, “Vinegar, water and honey. I can tell. You taught me the difference.”

  “Thank you, my dear,” he said and felt the muscles in his neck re
lax. She put an arm through his and leaned against him. At least he had one child left.

  “You should wait, also,” Solomon told him. “Have a cup of beer. John wanted to speak with you. From what he told us last night, I think he may know something about the other end of the journey for that object I found.”

  They looked around. They saw no one else in the room. The tavern keeper, Bietrix, had gone into the back. But walls were thin and no one could be sure what lay on the other side of them.

  “What does he think I can do?” Hubert asked.

  “Apparently it was only one of several objects,” Solomon said. “He hopes you might help him find the others.”

  Catherine leaned closer and whispered in his ear, “We’re going to rescue an abducted Saxon saint.” She kissed his cheek. “Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

  At that moment the tavern keeper returned and saw Catherine nestled against Hubert.

  “And I believed you were a lady!” she said. “None of your trade in here, jael. We have our own guild, you know.”

  Catherine and Solomon tried to hide their laughter but Hubert had had enough for one day. He got up and faced the woman.

  “I have a trade, too,” he said heavily. “I am of the marchands de l’eau. Would you care to have no wine or grain sold to you for the next year or would you prefer to apologize to my daughter?”

  He was most proficient at playing the powerful lord. Hubert had become more a part of his world than he realized.

  “Your daughter, is she?” Bietrix said. “Then you should watch her more closely. I have a daughter, too, but she isn’t allowed to linger in taverns, even this one.”

  “I have more confidence in my daughter’s good sense,” Hubert said. “Now, bring us a ewer of beer.”

  As he sat down, Catherine was tempted to ask if he had meant what he said about her good sense, but she was afraid the answer would be no.

  Hubert had used his altercation with the tavern keeper to take the time to consider what Catherine and Solomon had just told him. He wondered if this was what Prior Hervé had meant when he had warned that the abbey might require him to “help” the saints in their peregrinations. He hadn’t liked the sound of it then and it was just as discordant to him now.

  Did the prior already know where Solomon’s chalice had come from? Did it have something to do with the pearls Natan had tried to sell? If so, was his brother, pious Eliazar, somehow involved with this dangerous trade? Why, and how, had Natan died? Was he sending Edgar into the same peril?

  There were only two things he was certain of. The first was that he didn’t want Catherine becoming entangled in this web.

  The second was that there was no way she would let him keep her out of it.

  Nine

  At the corner of the rue de Juiverie and the rue des Marmousets, just in front of the synagogue, Friday, February 28, 1141 / 18, Adar, 4901

  Adeo, praeter illud quod de illo Beda in Gesti Anglorum tangit, semper infra meritum jacuit, semper desidia civium agente, inhonorus latuit.

  Outside of what Bede wrote about him in the Deeds of the

  English, he [Aldhelm] has always received less attention than

  he deserved, through the apathy of the public, he has always

  been neglected.

  —William of Malmesbury

  Gesta Pontificum Anglorum

  Book V, Vita Aldhelmi

  Spring was coming to Paris. That meant it was wet and muddy. Eliazar had left the house late for morning prayers, his hood pulled down over his face, and didn’t see Menahem standing in the porch of the synagogue until the draper stepped in his path, blocking the doorway. He was also hooded but Eliazar recognized the cloak, a particularly intricate weave of yellow and green.

  “Shalom, Menahem,” Eliazar said.

  Menahem didn’t move.

  “May the Almighty One bless you.” Eliazar smiled, taking off his hood now that he was under cover.

  Menahem still didn’t move.

  “Menahem? What is it?” Eliazar was becoming annoyed. “The others have all gone in already. Have you been struck dumb?”

  Menahem reached up and took off his hood. Eliazar gasped in pity and horror. The man’s face had been battered as if kicked by a mule. Both eyes were black, the right one swollen shut. His lip was split, his nose crumpled. There was a cut along his chin and a bruise in the center of it that plainly showed the pattern of a heavy ring.

  “Oh, Menahem!” Eliazar said. “How horrible! You shouldn’t be out, but home in bed. What happened? What servant of the devil has done this to you, my poor friend?”

  “The servants were of your old friend and partner, Hubert, my friend. He has done this to me,” Menahem croaked. “I wanted you to see, before you went in to pray.”

  “You must be mistaken, Menahem,” Eliazar said. “Hubert would never do such a thing. You’re feverish and confused by your pain. Come, let me help you home.”

  Menahem swallowed as if fighting nausea. “I am not mistaken,” he said fiercely. “He threatened me and then he sent his ribaux to beat me. He told me he knew nothing about Natan, but he lied, as you lied. Natan left me no treasure, not a denier. But someone believes he had one and they think I know about it. This is what comes of his sort of business, and yours.”

  “Menahem, please.” Eliazar tried to calm the man. “There must be some mistake.”

  “Only the one I made the day I let my mother’s only brother stay under my roof,” Menahem answered. “You know more about this than you’ve said, Eliazar ben Meir. If you wish to tell me the truth, come see me when you’ve finished your pious duty. No! I don’t need your arm. My wife and my son will help me home.”

  Eliazar watched him go, leaning heavily on the shoulders of his wife and his eldest son, a child of ten. He decided not to try to help. They needed only to cross the street and go a few more steps. Menahem’s shop was the third one down on the street of the drapers.

  But still he stood in the doorway, his heart and mind no longer prepared to worship in the proper spirit. Should he go home? Find Hubert and demand to know what was going on?

  Inside he heard the voices rise and fall. The morning benedictions were almost over. The Shema would be recited next.

  For all of his life, Eliazar had prayed, every morning, every evening. Even in the wilderness on long journeys when there had been no synogogue and only a few brethren with him, he had never once forgotten.

  His mind was full of consternation and his spirit in great turmoil. He feared that it was through his actions, not Hubert’s, that Menahem had been subjected to such abuse. It horrified him that something he had considered an act of courage, a deed that would find favor with the Almighty, seemed to be bringing such disaster on others of the community, after all he had done to protect them. How could he have been so wrong in his judgment? Eliazar felt lost and alone.

  Wasn’t this the time, above all, when he needed to obey the Commandment and trust in the Lord? “Hear, O Israel …” The voices rose.

  Eliazar took off his cloak and went in to join the affirmation.

  Edgar arrived at the workshop just after dawn, as ordered, soaked through and shivering. He soon warmed. Gaudry set him to work almost before he had removed his cloak.

  “I need to cast silver today, enough to make a large drinking vessel,” he said. “Use the block you refined yesterday. The wax and molds are on the shelf there.”

  “Where is the salt box?” Edgar asked.

  “Next to the tongs, man,” Gaudry snapped. “Do I have to show you anew each day?”

  Edgar prepared for a long day and a fresh set of aches in his arms and back. The silver would have to be melted and cast, perhaps more than once. Then it would need to be dipped in a solution of clear lye and salt, reheated and dipped again. He wondered if Gaudry would let him shape the cup.

  “Will the work be plain,” he asked, “or ornamented?”

  “That’s not your concern,” Gaudry told him. “Just do as you
’re told. I’ll complete the piece. Do you think I’d trust the delicate work to some slack-jawed foreigner, trained God knows where?”

  Edgar reminded himself that he was here to locate stolen objects, to find a lost saint, not to increase his artisan’s skills. But he would have liked to try etching a pattern in the silver or setting in a pattern of precious stones and gold wire, as Gaudry had implied that he might. With a sigh, he began to assemble the materials. He looked around. Something was missing.

  “Where’s Odo?” he asked casually.

  “Sent him on an errand,” Gaudry answered. “Stop babbling. This isn’t one of your classes in grammar. Hold your tongue and do your job, if you want another day’s wages.”

  Edgar held his tongue and got on with the work. He reflected sadly that he was unlikely to get any information from Gaudry as a result of friendly conversation between master and apprentice. It wasn’t the same as being Master Abelard’s student. The master had never been too proud to share a mug with his followers. He was ruthless in disputation, of course, and could draw blood with his sarcasm. But when he had cut you to ribbons, he could often be persuaded to pay for the drinks.

  It didn’t seem that Gaudry would even give him time to eat the hunk of cheese Catherine had packed. The man was in a state about something. He moved from one job to another with no pattern, leaving tasks undone, neglecting to put tools away. Everything Edgar did was wrong. He was made to cast the silver twice and even then Gaudry wasn’t satisfied.

  “Too brittle,” he insisted. “It’s sure to crack before it bends.”

  “Let me hammer it out and see, Master,” Edgar asked as humbly as he could manage.

  Gaudry’s reply was the back of his hand to the side of Edgar’s head.

  Edgar picked himself up. With a superhuman effort, he swallowed his anger and his pride and returned to cast the silver once again.