“My God,” Guiscard breathed, eyes wide. “Could he have been carrying the bull making our bishop legate?”
“It could be,” Bell said. “I think Winchester has that suspicion also and is greatly concerned that one of his enemies might have attacked Baldassare.”
Guiscard nodded. “The bishop is much overset by Baldassare’s death, and in such a way. I hope the pouch was not stolen and the bull destroyed.” He sighed. “He asked to see you as soon as you came in, but he is eating now.”
The word “eating” made Bell’s mouth water. He suddenly remembered that he had had no dinner and that the bishop was not above inviting him to join him in a meal if he had no other guests.
“Good,” he said. “I am starving. I will go in right now.” He suited the action to the words before Guiscard could rise or protest.
“My lord?”
Henry of Winchester lifted his head. “Bell. Do you have news for me?”
“Nothing definite about the pouch, my lord, except I can assure you that it is not in the Old Priory Guesthouse or the stable, and I have some hope that Baldassare was not wearing it when he was killed.”
“Then where is it?”
“That is what I do not know…yet.”
He should have said that he had a strong suspicion that Magdalene had found it and hidden it again elsewhere, perhaps in the church, but he could not get the words out. Because he dared not meet his master’s eyes, he looked fixedly at the tureen of stew standing before the bishop. Then the smell hit him, and he swallowed.
“Are you hungry? Would Magdalene not even feed you?” Winchester asked, laughing. “I thought she would do that.”
“She did offer me dinner, but I wished to search the house and stable while she and her women were fixed in one place.”
“Then sit down and eat, man. You must be starved.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Bell fetched a stool from against the wall and set it near the bishop’s chair. Henry pushed a loaf of bread and several dishes toward him. Bell pulled his knife from his belt and carved some slices off a roast haunch, which he laid on one piece of bread, then tore off another piece to scoop chunks of fish and vegetables from the bowl of stew.
The bishop frowned. “But if Baldassare died Wednesday night, Magdalene and her women had all day Thursday and all Friday morning to be rid of the pouch. Why did you search?”
Bell swallowed hastily but did not speak at once, trying to separate his angry jealousy from the information he had gained from questioning Magdalene’s women. “I think they are hiding something,” he said slowly, “but I do not believe it is knowledge of Baldassare’s death. For the other question…I searched because they kept telling me over and over that they would not be such fools as to leave anything of Baldassare’s in the house—”
“Ah, I see.” The bishop laughed again. “A wise move.”
“But I found nothing. And that brought to mind another important question. Why did Magdalene have nearly two days to search her own house and grounds before the news of Baldassare’s death came to you? The fault was not Magdalene’s. She did not find the body. Why is it that the monks did not send you word of a dead man on the porch of their church?”
Winchester watched Bell bend a slice of meat in half with his knife, push the point through it, and raise it to his mouth. “That is strange,” he said slowly. “I think you will have to ask Prior Benin—no, he is away at the mother house of his order and will not be back until tomorrow, so he cannot be faulted for this. It is Brother Paulinus, the sacristan, who is in charge.” Winchester smiled thinly. “Yes. Ask Brother Paulinus why I needed to hear this news a day late from a whore. And what else?”
Bell smiled also. Then, between chewing and swallowing, he told Winchester everything he had seen and learned, including the position and shape of the wound, which implied Baldassare had known and trusted his killer, and the fact that with the guesthouse gate locked at dark and the porter on duty at the priory gate, it must be one of those within the walls who was guilty.
“Or someone who came in before the gates were locked,” Winchester said. “But let us deal first with those known to us. You have questioned the women and do not believe them guilty?”
Bell shrugged. “No, not of murder.” Except Magdalene, he thought. She knows too much of murder. But he went on smoothly. “The mute is too small. Baldassare slept with the blind woman, Sabina, but I cannot see how she could have placed the knife so cleanly. And the idiot…no. One must experience Ella to believe her, but murder with a knife is not possible.”
“Mute? Blind? Idiot?” Winchester said, shaking his head doubtfully.
Bell laughed. “I had forgotten you have never been there and know none except Magdalene. She says she chose her women on the ‘hear no evil, speak no evil, see no evil’ principle and that her wealthy and powerful clients are more comfortable with women they believe cannot identify them.”
“Very well. I never thought Magdalene or anyone she controlled guilty. She is too clever to get caught with a dead body so near her as the church porch or to permit so bloody a death. If she were guilty, her victim would be clean and neat and no one would ever know how, when, or where he had died. So, the monks and their guests?”
“I will have no trouble questioning the monks. I have already told Brother Godwine, the porter, that the way to escape the pope’s blame for allowing his messenger to be slaughtered on their doorstep is to find the killer and see that Baldassare is avenged.”
“Very good. Very good indeed.” Winchester hesitated, surprised by Bell’s expression, and then asked, “Why do you look so black?”
“Guests,” Bell snarled through set teeth. “Those women so befuddled me that I forgot to ask the names of the men who were with them the night Baldassare died.”
“Ah, well,” Winchester said indulgently, “that is not something that a few hours will change. Nor will the men disappear. Mostly the same men come there, and all her clients are recommended by others.”
“But she took Baldassare—”
“No, he had a recommendation of sorts,” Winchester said, his voice cold and his lips stiff. “Richard de Beaumeis told Baldassare to go to the Old Priory Guesthouse—only, he called it the Bishop of Winchester’s inn.”
Bell was surprised by the bishop’s controlled rage when he mentioned Beaumeis, for the name meant nothing to him, but the last phrase explained it. “I think that pup needs a lessoning,” he remarked, his hand dropping to his sword hilt.
“Not from you,” Winchester said quickly. “He knows you as my man. It will only give him another cause to complain of my persecution to his new master ” —the bishop’s mouth pursed and twisted as if he had swallowed a bitter draught— “the Archbishop of Canterbury.”
Chapter Eight
21 April 1139
St. Mary Overy Priory
Meal finished, Bell set off for the priory again. He had wanted to go directly to the Old Priory Guesthouse, but had curbed that impulse because he knew it was bred more of his desire to see Magdalene once more than of any immediate need to learn the names of her clients. Having suppressed personal desire, he considered those he needed to speak to in the priory. Of the two who had dealt with the body—the sacristan’s assistant, Knud, and the infirmarian—he decided to deal with Knud first so he could confirm the lay brother’s observations of the body with those made by the infirmarian.
That intention, he thought as he rang the bell at the priory gate, might be more readily sought than accomplished. He had had some experience with Brother Paulinus and suspected he would not be allowed to question any of the monks without the sacristan’s interference. Bell grimaced, then hurriedly straightened his face as he heard the bar of the gate lifted. Anyone questioned in Paulinus’s presence was unlikely to say more than “yes” or “no.” But how to rid himself…of course! So beatific a smile bloomed on Bell’s face that Brother Godwine, who had opened the gate, was startled.
“Yes?” he asked, stepping back.
Bell promptly walked in. Still smiling, he said, “I must speak to Brother Paulinus.”
The porter blinked; few smiled so happily at the prospect of speaking to Brother Paulinus. That tempted Bell to grin more broadly, but he controlled himself. He was not, after all, certain of the outcome, but the questions he had to ask Paulinus could be highly embarrassing, and he hoped that the sacristan would not be inclined for more of his company after answering them. Thus Bell might be able to speak to Knud and the infirmarian alone.
After a longer wait than he thought necessary, he was ushered into a small visitor’s cell adjoining the lay brothers’ building. He had thought those cells had fallen out of use when the nuns gave up St. Mary Overy, but then he realized that a cell would be kept in case one of the novices or postulants had a female visitor. Shaking his head, he sat down on the stone ledge provided, undecided as to whether to laugh or be annoyed. He was amusing himself by wondering what sort of contamination Brother Paulinus thought he carried, when the monk entered through the opposite door and sat down behind the grille that separated the cell into two parts.
Bell immediately lost all sense of amusement; he would be able to hear well enough through the stone fretwork, but not be able to make out the sacristan’s expressions. To save an aspiring brother from the unhealthy excitement that might be engendered by seeing a woman’s face, the pierced stone was perfect. For examining the expression of someone answering questions about a murder, it was highly inappropriate. Bell stood up.
“I have been sent by the Bishop of Winchester to ask some questions about the death of the papal messenger, Baldassare de Firenze,” he said. “It is necessary that I speak to you face-to-face, Brother Sacristan.”
“Since I know nothing whatever about the death of Messer Baldassare, and I prefer not to come into contact with men of such worldly—
“Worldly? But you thought nothing of visiting a whorehouse on Thursday morning,” Bell snapped.
“Whorehouse!” Paulinus gasped, jumping up. “Never! I have never in my life visited a whorehouse.”
“I did not say you sought carnal satisfaction there, but I offer less threat of corruption by speaking to you in your own monastery than you suffered from your visit to a whorehouse on the morning after Baldassare was killed. You seemed then to be very certain how he came to die, so you must have some knowledge of his death. Now will you tell me where to meet you so I can see to whom I am speaking—or do I need to tell the bishop that you refused to answer questions about the death of the pope’s messenger?”
There was a long moment of utter silence. Then Paulinus said, “You are godless and damned and without proper respect for your betters, but you are the bishop’s messenger. Whom God loveth, He chastiseth. Very well, I will accede to your demand. Go around the end of the lay brothers’ building. Between that and the kitchen, you will find an entrance to the cloister. I will speak with you there.”
Bell was not overjoyed at the choice because the cloister, at the very center of the monastic buildings, was well traveled, which might lead to interruptions; however, he thought he knew how to obtain greater privacy if he needed it, so he simply did as he was told. He was the first to arrive, but before he began to grow impatient, he saw the tall, cadaverous form of the sacristan coming toward him.
“I have only the knowledge of Messer Baldassare’s death granted by God to a pure heart,” Brother Paulinus said before Bell could open his mouth. “It came to me as soon as I heard of the murder that we in this monastery are pure and holy; we do not kill. In the pesthole beyond our wall are foul, corrupt creatures who engage in every vile practice. Clearly then, they must be guilty of murder. That is what I know.”
“In other words, you had no reason—beyond your dislike of them and what they do—to accuse the women of the Old Priory Guesthouse?”
“The man did not come through the front gate. Brother Porter will swear to that. Thus, he came from the whores. No one else could have known he was coming to the church. They must have killed him.”
Bell was tempted to ask “Why?” but he already knew the answer he would get. He was sure the sacristan would have told him had he had any better evidence against Magdalene or her women, and he decided not to waste time going through arguments that proved nothing.
“I do not think so,” he said instead. “Had they wished to kill Baldassare, he would have died by poison or strangulation and his body would have been disposed of in the nearby river. No one would have known of his death. Such women might be willing to kill, but not in any way as to endanger themselves.”
“You are as corrupt as they. How can you be a servant of a bishop and defend them? Clearly, they spilled blood to desecrate the church, to bring shame on this holy place. You are only trying to protect your paramours.”
Bell laughed. “I cannot afford such women. I assure you, I have never lain with any of them. And if the intention was to desecrate the church, why kill the man on the porch outside?”
“Because they knew no better, of course. They are blinded, deafened, and made mute by sin. God protected His church. It is through His will I learned of their guilt.”
“And also by His will that you did not inform the bishop that the pope’s messenger had been slain?”
The sacristan blinked as if Bell had slapped him. “Did not inform the bishop? Why should I inform the bishop? I told Knud, the lay brother who assists me, to send a messenger to the abbot of our order.”
“You sent a messenger to the abbot of your order twenty miles away but not to the bishop’s house across the road? But Lord Winchester is the administrator of the diocese of London as well as bishop of the see of Winchester. How could you withhold the news of Baldassare’s death from him?”
Paulinus drew himself up, but a faint color stained his grayish cheeks. “Our order is autonomous,” he said stubbornly. “We need no direction from a worldly bishop. Our holy abbot will tell us what to do.”
“But the man was a papal messenger,” Bell protested.
“Perhaps carrying a bull to make Winchester legate,” Paulinus said, his eyes fixed on a decorative crucifix carved into a pillar. “Too worldly. Too worldly. God works in His own mysterious ways to keep the Church pure.”
“A murder cannot be pleasing to God, no matter what the cause,” Bell said, wondering if the sacristan was mad.
“That is true,” Brother Paulinus said. “Yes, quite true.” He shuddered suddenly and his eyes came away from the crucifix and fixed on the ground. “It was horrible. Horrible to find a dead man covered with blood on the church porch. I had sent Knud to discover why the crows were making so much noise. He found the body and cried for the infirmarian, who looked at it and told us the man was dead. The infirmarian called his assistants to take the body away.”
“Did you know who the man was?” Bell asked, frowning.
“No, I did not. I had never seen him before in my life. But I knew at once who had stabbed him, and I knew even the bishop could not shield those whores from punishment for such a crime. Maybe a papal legate…. No, not even a legate. So I went to demand a confession from the whores.” His eyes narrowed and he shook his head. “Foul beasts, they are further lost in sin than even I believed, and they resisted me. They would not acknowledge my God-granted knowledge of their evil and abase themselves; they even threatened me when I tried to chastise the idiot for mocking me.”
Bell’s teeth set hard at the thought of Paulinus hurting Ella for mocking him—as if Ella would know how—but that was not important. Could Paulinus have killed Baldassare to steal the pouch and destroy the bull that would make a man he considered unworthy a legate?
It was too soon, Bell thought, to come to such a conclusion. Sabina had heard the sacristan’s voice just before she found the body, so he was in the church when Baldassare was killed. But it seemed impossible that Baldassare had come to meet Brother Paulinus or that Paulinus could have known he was a papal messenger.
Bell watched the sacristan’s face. The insistence on Magdalene’s guilt might be a result of Paulinus’s prejudice against carnal sin, but it could also be an effort to protect himself. If the whores were adjudged guilty, no one would look further for a murderer.
“It would be best,” Bell said, “to leave the whores to me. Since they are already excommunicate, there is little with which you can threaten them.” The implication that he could and would use other threats would save a lot of argument. Bell thought. “Now,” he continued, “I need to speak to Knud to learn exactly what he saw when he found the body.”
“Is that really necessary?” Paulinus asked. ‘The man was greatly disturbed. He did not touch Messer Baldassare—”
“Did you see that?”
The sacristan frowned. “No, but why should he—”
“I wish to speak to him. I need to know if the blood was red or brown, dry all through or jellylike, how the knife stood, whether erect or fallen out. Such things Knud would not speak of in the first excitement, but he is likely to remember under careful questioning.”
“You will give him nightmares.”
“I am sorry for it if I do, but it is more important that the killer be caught than that one man sleep easily. He can pray for peaceful slumbers.”
“I do not see how the horrible details you will bring back to his mind can help find a murderer,” Brother Paulinus protested.
Bell did not think they would help much, either, because he was convinced that Baldassare had been killed only moments before Sabina found him, just after Compline. However, he could scarcely admit to Paulinus that he wished to ask Knud whether he was with the sacristan when Sabina had heard his voice calling, “Who is there?”
“Your labor is interceding with God,” Bell replied. “Mine, by the bishop’s order, is dealing with the evil men do. I will leave you to your labor. Do leave me to mine. Fetch Knud to me now.”
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