“It was, but his back was to me and I could not see his face or why he was stooping. But Baldassare must have seen him, because he came forward and said, ‘So it is you. Well, I suppose you know what you are doing. Wait here. I will go and—’ Then the monk jerked upright, hushed him, and hurried toward him. He said, ‘I can explain it all.’ And Baldassare said, ‘You do not need to explain. I understand very well.’ The monk then put his hand on Baldassare’s shoulder and urged him toward the north door. He was holding the light out and it guttered, and Baldassare was in the way. I still could not see his face.”
“How unfortunate.” The bishop’s voice was cold.
“It is the truth. I would tell you if I could.” Beaumeis burst into tears again. “God’s curse on him for killing Baldassare and laying that burden on my soul. I meant no ill, only to help Archbishop Theobald, who is a good man.” His voice checked; he glanced at the bishop’s face and shivered, and his eyes moved around the room like those of a hunted animal. Then suddenly he burst out, “It was the sacristan. I was afraid to speak before. I was sure you would not believe me.”
There was a dead silence. Every head in the room turned toward Brother Paulinus. Father Benin rose from his seat, but the bishop put a hand on his arm and he stood still.
“I was in the church that night,” Brother Paulinus said. He spoke calmly, without the frantic excitement that had marked both of his visits to Magdalene’s house and his accusation of her in the prior’s chamber. “I had been walking in the cloister after Compline service, and when I entered the slype, I thought I heard voices in the church. Naturally, I looked in the door, and I thought I saw a gleam of light moving, so I lit a candle and went in. I think I called out, ‘Who is there?’ but I cannot swear to that. No one answered, but a breeze almost blew out my candle and I realized the north door was open. I went and closed it.”
“You did not look out?” the bishop asked.
“No.” A touch of color stained the sacristan’s pallid cheeks. “I thought it was a pair of sinners seeking a dark and quiet place. I thought I heard running as I came close and believed they were gone, so I only caught the edge of the door and swung it shut.” Then every bit of color faded from his face until it was whiter than bleached parchment. “Are you telling me that when I went to the door, the papal messenger was bleeding his life away on the north porch? Have I killed two men by my carelessness and mistaken zeal?”
“No, Brother Paulinus,” the infirmarian said firmly. “Both had taken fatal wounds at the hands of their murderers. Nothing you could have done would have saved either one.”
“Perhaps,” the sacristan said and took a few steps forward to confront Beaumeis more closely. “I was not the man who spoke to Messer Baldassare or the man who went out with him and stabbed him on the north porch. I will swear it on a cross heated red. Will you swear on a burning cross that I was the man you saw, Richard de Beaumeis?”
Beaumeis had shrunk away and would not meet the sacristan’s eyes. Between the two, Magdalene knew she would choose the sacristan, much as she disliked him, as the truth-teller. She suspected that everyone else in the room felt the same, and it was clear from the way Beaumeis was almost panting for breath that he knew he had damaged his own cause by accusing Brother Paulinus.
The bishop, however, had little patience with religious fanaticism; his voice was cool when he said, “We have not yet come to such an impasse as to need a trial by ordeal. Can you offer any support at all for this tale of yours, Beaumeis?”
“What can I offer?” Beaumeis cried. “You are condemning me because you hate me.”
That was true enough to make everyone uncomfortable. The bishop glared. The priest and the Archdeacon of St. Paul’s looked at the floor or their toes. The monks drew closer together and whispered among themselves.
Emboldened, Beaumeis continued. “I was trying not to be seen. I—” He started to shake his head and then drew in his breath. “Oh, wait. Brother Godwine saw me going out the gate. He said, ‘I thought you left at Vespers.’ I had said I was leaving after Vespers. I did not answer, but he will be able to tell you—”
“Brother Godwine is dead,” the bishop interrupted. “He was murdered on Wednesday night.”
“No!” Beaumeis wailed, growing even paler. “I was not even here Wednesday night,” he gasped, his eyes nearly starting from his head and his body shaking so hard that he almost toppled over. “I was with my uncle, the Abbot of St. Albans. No! You are only trying to frighten me into confessing what I have not done, because you think I did you a despite.” He was sobbing hopelessly, and then he did fall, folding in on himself and collapsing to the floor.
The bishop turned to Bell, his face hard and angry, clearly about to order the knight to bring Beaumeis to his senses by any necessary means, but the prior spoke first.
“If what he says about being in St. Albans is true, he could not have killed Brother Godwine.”
“That is still no proof that he did not cut Baldassare’s throat.” Winchester’s voice was calm, but the rigidity of his expression betrayed his fury.
Father Benin bent and put a hand on his arm. “My lord,” he said softly, “you need real proof, hard proof. He is such a nothing that no one here really believes he could have murdered Baldassare. Even if you bring him to confess….”
The prior shook his head and went around the table, clearly intending to see to Beaumeis. There was an instant of breath-held tension and then the bishop turned his head and looked at Bell. Bell in turn beckoned to the men-at-arms and told them to take Beaumeis back to the chamber in which they had kept him and keep him there.
“He was once in my keeping,” the prior said; his voice held apology for crossing the bishop’s will, but also the determination of a martyr, and he went to his monks, where he told the infirmarian to follow and do what he could for Beaumeis.
Bell drew a breath, waiting for the thunder of Winchester’s rage to explode, but the bishop sat like a graven image and Bell finally came around the table, bent close and said, “My lord, I have sent a trusty man to St. Albans and he will discover the truth of this, but I am afraid it is true. I must tell you that my men have been through all the clothing Beaumeis had in his lodgings. None were stained with what could be blood, and the woman who rents to him and does his laundry says she has found no worse than mud and vomit on his garments and nothing missing since he returned from Rome.”
Without speaking, the bishop rose, possibly to leave the room, but when he turned, he saw Magdalene. To her surprise, he said, “You know Beaumeis best, I think, despite the fact that he lived with the monks in the priory. To them, he always tried to pretend virtue; he did not think enough of you or your women to pretend. Do you believe what he told us?”
Magdalene sighed. “My lord, I hate to admit it, but I do. Perhaps he is even a better actor than Guiscard said, but that tale was very convincing. I would swear he really did not know the pouch had been found in the church or that Brother Godwine had been murdered. And what he did when Baldassare was killed is just like his actions last night. He made a plan, but the moment a little thing went wrong, he ran away. Still, he is a dreadful man. I shudder to think what he will do if he is confirmed in office as a deacon.”
The rigidity of the bishop’s face eased. “Oh, I do not think that will happen. Even if he can prove himself innocent of murder, his attempt to steal a papal bull is no light fault. I think even his uncle will not object if I arrange for him to retire for many years to some monastery, perhaps as a lay brother.”
“That might be worse for him than being hanged.”
Magdalene could not help smiling as she offered that sop to the spirit of vengeance, but she had really lost interest in Beaumeis. The murderer was still not marked and she and her women were still at risk—and Winchester might be less interested in identifying the murderer now that the pouch was found and he had his bull.
“If Beaumeis is not guilty,” she went on before the bishop could move away, “and if what he said
is true, it is clear that Baldassare knew the man who stopped beside the altar. My lord, do you remember that the safe box was under the altar?”
The bishop looked confused. “The safe box? But what has that to do with the pouch and Baldassare’s murder?”
“Perhaps everything,” Bell said, leaning down again and keeping his voice low. “What if Baldassare was not murdered for the pouch but for chancing upon someone he knew was stealing, or about to steal, the church plate?”
“I see,” the bishop said, sitting down again. “I see.”
“But then—” Magdalene’s voice was loud with excitement as what Beaumeis said finally made sense. Hearing it, she put a hand over her lips and looked hastily around the room.
She expected to see every churchman staring angrily at the whore who was shouting at a bishop, but she was mistaken about that. The monks were far more concerned about whether the Abbot of St. Albans would blame them for what had happened and were indifferent to her. All except the sacristan were clustered around Father Benin, and even the sacristan was not paying attention to her; he was standing a little apart, staring down at the floor. The Archdeacon of St. Paul’s was beside Guiscard, reading over his notes of the interrogation, and the priest was holding Buchuinte—who Magdalene thought was looking longingly at the door—by the sleeve and talking earnestly.
The bishop, who was twisting his neck to look at her, asked kindly, “But then what, Magdalene?”
“Now I understand that conversation Beaumeis related,” she said, stepping to the other side to be out of Bell’s way and coming closer. “If it was the thief who killed Baldassare, those two were talking to each other but about entirely different things. When the monk said he could explain, he meant he could explain what looked like a robbery. And when Baldassare said he understood, he must have meant he knew you did not want the bull delivered in a public way that would incite your enemies, but the thief thought he had seen him stealing. So when Baldassare said, ‘Wait here,’ meaning he would fetch the pouch from where he had hidden it, the monk panicked, drew him out of the church, where sound, if Baldassare cried out, might carry…and killed him.”
“Except for one thing,” Bell put in, his eyes bright with revelation. He drew a deep breath and said, “My lord, if Baldassare was killed for recognizing the thief, the thief could not have been a monk. How would Baldassare know a simple monk? Bishops he knew, and some of the important abbots, for it was to them he carried the pope’s messages, but a common monk?”
Magdalene’s eyes widened. “And I know more certainly it could not have been a monk of St. Mary Overy priory because Baldassare had never previously visited either the church or the priory. He told me so, and had to ask me before he could be sure the church he saw from my gate was St. Mary Overy.”
“Not a monk.” The bishop looked up from one to the other. “Must we seek throughout England for the murderer?”
“No, indeed,” Bell replied, now smiling grimly. “If the thief is the murderer, I will have his name very soon, or if he gave a false name, a good description of him. Remember, my lord, I reported to you yesterday that I had found the goldsmith who made the copies of the stolen plate. I would know now who had brought him the originals and ordered the copies, except that yesterday I could not ask him any questions. He had been attacked that very morning—”
Magdalene gasped, and both men looked at her. “The morning after the craftmark had been discovered. Could that attack have been a coincidence?”
“I did not think so,” Bell said, looking a bit smug. “I left four men to keep a guard on the goldsmith, so he should be quite safe.”
“Yes, but…but….”
Magdalene’s glance flew around the room, and she drew a deep and calmer breath when she saw that no one was paying any attention to their little group or trying to listen to them. The sacristan was still deep in his own thoughts, and not pleasant ones judging by his expression; the prior and the other monks were listening to Brother Elwin urging something on Brother Patric; and the priest and archdeacon were now arguing with Guiscard about the way he had phrased something in his report. Reassured, she turned to Bell, who was frowning.
“Well? But?” He was a little annoyed, thinking she was about to raise an objection.
She waved a hand at him to indicate he should lower his voice. ‘There is no need to tell everyone about the goldsmith. Do you not remember there were only a few of us who knew a craftmark had been discovered? Do you not see that it must have been one of the people in the prior’s chamber when we talked of that who tried to silence the goldsmith? And we are all here again—except for the priest and the archdeachon.” She looked up at Bell. “How badly was the man hurt? Is he awake yet? Could he be carried here on a litter?”
“I do not know, except to say he was not hurt to the death. I asked and was told he would recover. But I can find the answers to the other questions quickly enough. I will send a man to my guards and they will bring him, if it is at all possible.”
Now Magdalene turned eagerly to Winchester. “My lord, is there any way you could keep all of us here until the goldsmith arrives? If he has before him most of those who were near when Brother Godwine died and he can pick out one as the person who ordered the copies made—”
The bishop nodded curtly.
Chapter Twenty
28 April 1139
The Bishop’s House, Southwark
Before Bell could look for a messenger to send to the goldsmith’s house, the man he had sent to St. Albans to ask about Beaumeis accosted him and reported that Beaumeis had been with his uncle from Tuesday evening until midmorning of the previous day. The man-at-arms seemed a bit disappointed when Bell merely nodded over what he had thought was startling information, but he had come across another tidbit. He thought it less important, but it got the reaction his first news had failed to produce. Bell’s lips parted and his eyes widened.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Yes, indeed,” the man-at-arms said, and recited what he had done.
“So.” Bell pulled a coin from his purse to reward the man for not being afraid to go further than his strict instructions, but he did not explain why he was so pleased, then dismissed his man.
He stood for a moment digesting what he had heard, now certain they would find the plate stolen from St. Mary Overy church in St. Albans. He had started to turn back to tell Winchester when another man-at-arms, one of the guards he had left to watch over the goldsmith, spoke his name. His heart sank heavily because the fact he had learned was not proof of guilt—they needed the goldsmith’s testimony—but the man relieved his fears by telling him that Master Domenic was right there in the bishop’s house.
“When ‘e slept off th’ potion th’ ‘pothecary gave ‘im ‘nd woke up this mornin’, ‘e wanted t’ know what we was doin’ in ‘is ‘ouse ‘nd who we was. Then when Michael told ‘im we was the bishop’s guards sent t’ be sure ‘e weren’t attacked again ‘nd give ‘im yer message ‘bout the craftmark, ‘e got all excited like and insisted on comin’ ‘ere.”
“Well, no harm’s done.” Bell smiled. “I was just about to send a man to you to ask if he was well enough to be carried here. I gather that wasn’t necessary.”
“No, sir.” The guard grinned back. “Fact is, we ‘ad a time keepin’ up with ‘im. Real eager to get ‘ere, ‘e were.”
That information was rendered superfluous while the guard was speaking. A short, tubby man with a large bruise on his temple, a very red nose, and marks of its dripping on his sleeves, had got to his feet as he saw the guard approach Bell and now came forward.
He sniffed richly and then said in a rather thick, hoarse voice, “So the bishop saw my copies and found my craftmark. I am very pleased, indeed I am. Master William, the clerk who ordered them, did not want me to put a craftmark on because they were copies of Master Jacob the Alderman’s work, and I agreed that it would be wrong to put my mark where he put his, as if the work were mine, but they were good
copies, well done, and I thought it could do no harm to put my small mark off in a corner.”
“No harm at all, Master Domenic,” Bell said, suppressing a grin. In fact the mark had done much good. And then, masking what was important to him in politeness, he said, “I hope you did not lose anything to the man who attacked you. Did you recognize him?”
The goldsmith began to laugh, then bent his head quickly to sneeze into his sleeve. “One does not recognize thieves,” he said, wiping his nose; he sniffed again, then looked thoughtful. “No, I lost nothing, although not through my own wariness. I did not suspect him. He did not look around to see what was most valuable, as a thief might, but came right up to the table where I was working and struck me. At least so says my apprentice, who ran out to see why I had fallen.”
“But you did not see or remember his face? Did your apprentice see him?”
“No, he wore a scarf over most of his face under his hood. I suppose I should have suspected then, but I had such a dreadful cold that I guess I just thought he had a bad cold, too. Luckily, my carelessness did not cost me. He did not even seize the pieces in the window, which he could have done as he ran. And of course I thought nothing of a man wearing a monk’s robe. With the archbishop’s palace right behind my shop, as it were, we have monks and nuns aplenty passing by, and even stopping in. Of course it has been very quiet since Archbishop William of blessed memory died, and the new archbishop may not…who knows if he will use Lambeth Palace as much as Archbishop William did? So when I heard that the Bishop of Winchester was interested in my work, I hurried right over.”
Bell was disappointed that the goldsmith was unable to recognize or describe his attacker, but he had plenty of time to recover from the disappointment as the man rambled on and on. The fact that the attacker had taken nothing indicated that he was more interested in harming the goldsmith than in stealing, which made him no common thief—unless he was a particularly inept and timid one. Bell wondered whether the attacker knew he had not hit the goldsmith hard enough to keep him stunned and so fled without stealing.
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