The Wandering Arm: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Sharan Newman

  Toward midday Odo finally appeared. He brought nothing with him, so Edgar assumed that the errand had been for information. He hunched over the crucible, trying to appear oblivious to anything else in the room.

  Odo was obviously bursting to tell something. Gaudry made an attempt to muzzle him until he could be pushed back into the passageway.

  “This isn’t just street talk, Master,” Odo said as he moved backward through the doorway. “I spoke with a man who’d seen the body. He’s dead, for sure.”

  Gaudry shut the door behind them. Edgar set the crucible on the edge of the oven and crossed the room. He put his ear against the wood but heard nothing more than muffled sounds, Gaudry low and worried, Odo high and excited.

  Edgar went back to the kiln. He resalted the metal and set the crucible on the coals once more. The door creaked and opened a crack. Gaudry’s voice came through more clearly. Edgar held the pot steady with the tongs and held his breath.

  “There must be more to it,” Gaudry said. “Go back and ask again. No one would be stupid enough to kill him without knowing what he’d done with it. Someone’s lying. Find out who.”

  He came back in, barely glancing at Edgar as he removed the crucible one more time.

  “Pour it,” he ordered. “And don’t lose a grain. Then you can see that all my etching tools are prepared. After that, scrub and sand the worktable. After that, I’ll think of something.”

  Edgar stifled a sigh. He wondered what Catherine would say about the new holes in his leather braies.

  Catherine was at that moment wedged into a corner of the Bishop’s Hall. The large room was full of people, come to hear Master Gilbert de la Porée give his views on Boethius’ views of the trinity. Most of the listeners were male, clerics of all sorts and all ages, but there were a few other women, discreetly veiled. Catherine wondered if one of them were Queen Eleanor. While the queen’s taste seemed to run to epics and the poetry of the south, she occasionally came to more serious lectures and debates.

  Catherine had seen Eleanor many times as she rode with her retainers out to hunt or on one of her incessant journeys. The bright colors and sparkling jewelry, the laughter as they passed, were from another world. There were those who derided her opulent apparel and openly condemned her love of pleasure, but to Catherine it was like catching a glimpse of something magical. Even though Hubert trafficked in the jewels and ointments that Eleanor loved, they were simply parcels to Catherine. The queen transmuted them to the realm of legend.

  None of the ladies were sparkling today. They were all quietly dressed and attentive. Catherine turned her own attention back to Master Gilbert.

  At first she was somewhat annoyed, as his discourse was aimed at refuting Peter Abelard’s assignment of attributes to the different persons of the Trinity. On the other hand, Master Gilbert seemed also to be refuting Saint Augustine’s theories. That took courage, not to mention intellectual confidence to the point of hubris. She forgot her resentment and settled in to follow the argument. It took all her concentration. Master Gilbert’s distinctions were subtle, indeed.

  When the lecture had concluded, Catherine waited for John, who had offered to escort her back home. When he found her, he had another man with him. He was about Edgar’s age and wearing a patched and threadbare robe. His brown hair was carefully tonsured and his eyes were an indeterminate light brown. His cheekbones jutted over hollow cheeks. Clearly the man did not get enough to eat. Catherine wondered if the reason were asceticism or poverty.

  John answered the question for her. He took her aside and whispered, “Are you and Edgar too poor now to give alms?”

  “Of course not,” Catherine answered at once. “I hope we never will be.”

  “Then may I bring Maurice with me tomorrow?” John nodded at the young cleric. “He’s just come up from the Orleanais. From what I can tell, his prebend allows him to eat three days out of seven. He won’t beg, but I fear he may starve. He’s fallen in love with Paris, I believe, and would rather die here than leave. When his stomach is not gnawing at him, he’s good company.”

  “You could bring him if he were mute and stupid as a rabbit,” Catherine assured him. “He’ll no doubt fast today, anyway, as it’s Friday, and I only have bread and flaked fish for the evening meal, but tomorrow there will be pease porridge with a bit of cabbage and, perhaps, a little meat. I’ll set the peas to soak tonight and put in an extra spoonful.”

  John thanked her and then went over and spoke to Maurice, who glanced at Catherine and nodded thanks, giving her a shy smile before he wandered off into the crowd.

  When John and Catherine were outside and on their way back to the Right Bank, John confessed that his desire to have Maurice dine with them was not only charitable.

  “He has a bed with one of the canons of Notre Dame at the moment,” John explained. “That means he can come and go within the cloister as he wishes. From what Edgar said, this metal shop may be near, or even within the bishop’s walls.”

  “Will he help us?” Catherine asked. “If the workshop is in there, how could the bishop be unaware of it? Maurice would be in danger of losing the little he has if anyone caught him spying on them or if he brought scandal to the house that sheltered him.”

  “I would never ask him to spy,” John told her. “Edgar and I will simply question him gently about anything unusual he may have seen—”

  “Or smelled,” Catherine interrupted.

  “Or smelled,” John went on. “In the vicinity of the cloister.”

  “That seems harmless enough,” Catherine agreed, her conscience assuaged. “Until tomorrow, then,” she added. “God ceapeth thu.”

  ‘God protect you, as well,” he laughed.

  The door at the top of the stairs was standing open. Catherine stopped. The weaver had said nothing about a visitor. She should go back down and ask him.

  Instead she stood at the threshold and peered into the semidark room. There was someone sitting on the bench. She turned to run back down, but the man saw her.

  “Catherine,” he called.

  She spun around. How could she have not recognized him, even in the gloom?

  “Father!” she cried as she hugged him. “We thought you would come yesterday. Where were you? Is anything wrong?”

  “Eliazar and I talked far into the night,” he explained. “And then he came to see me again this morning. He’s both worried and frightened and won’t tell me why.”

  Hubert shook his head in sorrow. Eliazar was treating him like one of the Edomites. There had never been a wall between them before. It grieved him as much as Agnes’s rejections. And the story Eliazar had brought about Menahem upset him even more. What if the men who had attacked the draper believed Catherine knew where to find Natan’s hoard?

  “But Eliazar did have a question that he wanted me to ask you,” he continued. “He wants you to try to remember exactly what happened, just before Natan died.”

  “I’m not likely to forget it,” Catherine said.

  “You might,” Hubert said. “Truly horrible events tend to blur in our minds. Perhaps it’s heaven’s way of protecting us from living them over and over. Now, tell me, what happened first?”

  Catherine thought. “There was a sudden gust of wind,” she said slowly. “The lamp went out. I heard a noise, a shuffling and snuffling. I thought it was a bear or worse. It came closer. I tried to scream and I couldn’t.” She paused. “He must have seen me before the light was blown out. He came directly toward me.”

  “You’re sure?” Hubert asked.

  “I think so.” Catherine frowned. “Yes, I’m sure. You know how crowded it is down there. I didn’t hear him bump into anything and nothing but the lentil barrel behind me was spilled.”

  “Very well,” he said. “Then what happened?”

  She didn’t want to remember. She shut her eyes tightly and willed herself back into the darkness.

  “He growled at me,” she said finally. “Then he grabbed me and fell,
pinning me to the ground. He made horrible noises. I was sure it was a monster.”

  Hubert put his arm around her. “I know, ma douce,” he soothed. “But it was only a man. Remember that. It was a man. Now, those sounds he made, were they nothing but growls, or were there words mixed up in them?”

  Catherine considered. Until Aunt Johannah came down with a light, she had been certain she had been attacked by a demon. Now, if she began with the premise that the thing had been human, then would the sounds she had interpreted as those of a beast acquire rational signification? She concentrated.

  “Growl, rumble … rah … hwat … avu … donwit …” she murmured.

  “What are you doing?” Hubert asked.

  “That’s what I think I heard,” she told him. “Does it make any sense? Perhaps, if he was speaking, it was in Hebrew.”

  “I hope not,” Hubert said. “Try again, more slowly.”

  Catherine repeated the growls.

  “Wait!” Hubert stopped her. “Repeat the last part.”

  “Hwat … avu … donwit … hwer … isit,” she obliged.

  “Where is it!” he said.

  “What?” she asked.

  “That’s it!” he told her. “‘What have you done with it? Where is it?’ That’s what he said.”

  Catherine couldn’t share in his delight. “I’m sure you’re right, Father,” she said. “But I don’t see how that helps us. What have I done with what? Natan apparently didn’t know where it was and didn’t tell me what. Do you know the answer to either?”

  “No,” he admitted.

  He wouldn’t tell her how relieved he was that Natan had given her no information. After what Eliazar had told him of the attack on Menahem he feared for the safety of anyone who knew much about Natan. He would go back and tell the draper that his daughter was ignorant of all Natan’s doings and that Menahem would have to look elsewhere for the knowledge his assailants had demanded. That is, if he could convince Menahem that he himself had had no part in the attack.

  “Is that all you came for, Father?” Catherine asked. “I think we have some ale left, although the honey has congealed. I can warm it.”

  “Yes, a cup of ale would be good,” he sighed.

  Catherine put the pitcher in a bowl of water over the brazier. “How is Agnes?” she asked too casually.

  “She’s well,” Hubert answered in the same tone. “She says your mother seems very happy with the nuns. They’re letting her observe the anniversary of your ascension. Everyone is very kind to her.”

  “Except me,” Catherine said. “I let her think I had gone to heaven when I had really run away to Paris. There didn’t seem much choice at the time, but Agnes won’t forgive me.”

  “She hasn’t forgiven you as yet,” Hubert admitted. “Or me for deceiving her. But someday.”

  “Someday.” Catherine couldn’t imagine it. “Has Jehan asked you about a marriage?”

  “Jehan?” Hubert seemed confused by the abrupt change of subject. “Why should he ask me about anything? He’s Count Thibault’s man.”

  “Oh, well, I may be mistaken,” Catherine said. “But I think he wants to marry Agnes.”

  “WHAT!” Hubert’s bellow nearly upset the pitcher. “That’s nonsense! The man is a younger son of a younger son. He owns no more than his horse and armor, if that. He has no right even to think of her.”

  “She may be doing most of the thinking,” Catherine warned.

  Hubert stared at her. “You learned all this in one visit?”

  “I looked at her. I looked at him,” Catherine explained. “I looked at her looking at him. There is a possibility that my conclusions were incorrect.”

  “I certainly hope so,” Hubert said.

  The ale had begun to steam. Catherine poured a cup for Hubert. The rest she saved for Edgar.

  “Is anything more known about Natan’s death?” She asked. “What do they think killed him?”

  “The physician isn’t certain,” Hubert told her. “He was very annoyed that Johannah had washed or burnt all your clothing. Even more when he found that Menahem had done the same to the things Natan was wearing. He wanted to test the excrement for poison.”

  Catherine grimaced. “We didn’t think of such things at the time,” she admitted. “All either of us wanted was to remove the filth as quickly and thoroughly as possible. I’m afraid I wasn’t following the rules of logic. Was there any other sign to indicate what happened?”

  “The general feeling is that it was certainly poison,” Hubert told her. “The physician believes Natan may have eaten something from one of the solenum plants. What, we don’t know, or how he came by it. With Natan, one does tend to think that someone else killed him, if only because so many had good reason to wish him dead. But he may have simply eaten a bad piece of meat.”

  “I never heard of rotten meat doing that to a person,” Catherine said. “Unless it had a very unusual sauce.”

  Sauce. There was something else she nearly remembered. Something to do with food.

  “There was another smell, Father,” she said. “It was mixed in with his unguents and the metallic scent. Or it might have been along with it. It was something bitter, like one of those horrible emetics Sister Melisande used to give us. I wish I could place it.”

  Hubert patted her hand. “You’ve done splendidly, daughter. Don’t worry about it. A man like Natan was bound to make a bad ending. The community will decide if it needs to be investigated further.”

  “What if they think it doesn’t?” Catherine asked. “Will we never know what happened? That’s not right. There must be a way to discover more. Was there anything in the storeroom? He could have dropped something in the dark. Has it been searched?”

  “I don’t know,” Hubert admitted. “Johannah had the rituals of purification done but I don’t think she’s had time to empty and scrub out the room. Her servant won’t help her. The girl refuses to go down there at all.”

  “I can understand that,” Catherine said. “But I prefer to face my fears. I think I’ll go see if I can help. Will you walk me to the bridge?”

  Johannah admitted to Catherine that she had yet to completely scour the storeroom.

  “There’s been too much happening since then,” she told Catherine. “People coming and going, both above and below. And still Lucia and I have to prepare for Shabbat.”

  Catherine could smell the preparations and wished she could stay to sample the food, but she wanted to be home to share the Lenten dried fish and bread with Edgar.

  “I don’t want to be in the way,” she began. “But I’d like to go down for a few minutes. I keep having nightmares about the room. I’m sure I could dispel them if I just saw it again in a good, strong light.”

  “Not much chance of that, my dear,” Johannah told her. “There are always shadows in the storeroom. But I’ll let you have a few candles, if you’re careful, and you can poke in all the corners if you think it will help. Lucia, get out the two pronged candlesticks.”

  Lucia fetched the candles as well and set them in the brass holders. She shook her head as she did so. Catherine noticed.

  “You don’t think I should go back to the storeroom?” she asked the servant.

  “It’s nothing to me,” Lucia said. “I suppose a lady like you, who reads Latin and studies with the men, knows better than I do.”

  Catherine was surprised. “How did you know I studied?”

  “You’re Master Hubert’s daughter, aren’t you?” Lucia said. “Your father is always telling Master Eliazar about you. How quick you are and good at your books. To listen to him, you only lack one thing to be pope.”

  “Saint Catherine’s scrolls!” Catherine said. “He says that?”

  Lucia nodded. “So I’m sure you know what you’re doing, going back into that hole where poor Natan met his fate.”

  “Perhaps not,” Catherine told her. “It may be pointless. But I’m going to do it all the same. Can you open the trapdoor for me and han
d me the other candles when I’m down the stairs?”

  Lucia moved the box in the pantry and pulled the door open. A musty smell rose from the darkness and Catherine nearly reconsidered her decision. But she held one candlestick firmly in her right hand, put out her left to steady herself and started down. At the bottom she set the candle on one of the wine barrels and reached up for the other one.

  Lucia hadn’t waited for her, but had left the second candlestick balanced on the top step. Catherine took it and moved it down to the middle step. No light came down from the room above. Lucia must have closed the pantry door. Catherine shrugged and set about examining the storeroom.

  It had been cleaned cursorily, the hard earth in the center of the room scraped and the soiled layer removed. The lentils had been thrown out with the dirt.

  Perhaps it was only the memory of what had happened there, but there was something disquieting about the room. The walls were raw boards put up mainly to keep the earth from falling in. White roots slipped between the cracks like sepulchral fingers. The air was damp and laced with odors of mold and sour wine. She was glad to note that the door to the tunnel was shut and barred and that a stack of boxes now blocked it. Nothing human could enter today.

  Catherine started in the farthest corner, under the steps. Natan hadn’t come anywhere near it in his stumblings but she intended to search thoroughly. She lifted the candle holder to peer behind a pile of boxes.

  A rat ran over her foot.

  Catherine gave a startled squeak. Her hand shook and hot wax spilled onto her fingers. With a cry of pain, she dropped the brass holder. One candle went out at once. The other, perversely, stayed lit even as it rolled toward a packing box padded with straw. Catherine grabbed at it, missed and sprawled across the floor. She was up on her knees at once and this time got the candle before it reached the tinder.

  She sat in the center of the floor, licking the wax from the bums and cursing herself for being so clumsy.

  There was something on the floor, sticking out from between the boxes, that was catching the light. It gave a shimmer of metal. A brass hinge, perhaps? Catherine pulled on it, but it was wedged in tightly.