A Mortal Bane (39 page)

“But that was before,” Beaumeis protested. “I came in through the front gate before it was locked and searched the stable. I saw the horse there. That was how I knew Baldassare
did
stay in Magdalene’s house.”

Father Benin looked startled. All the monks moved restlessly, and Brother Paulinus uttered a squawk of protest, but Brother Infirmarian hushed him. The bishop did not acknowledge their reactions and they subsided, realizing that Magdalene must have told him the truth; he only gestured to Beaumeis to continue.

“I thought Baldassare would have hidden the pouch in the stable, not wanting to bring it into a whorehouse. I thought I could get it and get away without ever meeting him in the church, without ever taking the chance that he would recognize me.”

“But he did recognize you when you came to ask for the pouch, so you had a double reason to silence him.”

“No, I did not. I did not. I never came near him,” Beaumeis cried, beginning to sob again. “I never had a chance to ask for the pouch. I told you. I was in the back of the nave and I saw he did not have the pouch, but I could not approach him. He had stayed near the north door, waiting for the monks and those who came to the service to leave. I had to wait, too, of course, and I was thinking, how to disguise my voice and who I should say I was. And it was dark, because when the monks left, they took their torches and tapers with them, so I was feeling my way forward when I saw a light coming from the monks’ entrance.”

Everyone tensed with interest. Father Benin and several others in the room drew breath sharply. Another witness, even another suspect, would be welcome. All knew of the grudge Winchester held against Beaumeis. All were sure they had been summoned to listen to Beaumeis so they could testify that he was guilty and that the bishop had not punished him to satisfy his own spite; and all feared everyone would say they bowed to Winchester’s will only because they feared him.

Perfectly aware of his audience’s emotions, Winchester asked eagerly, “Who was it? Did he see Baldassare?”

“I do not know who it was.” Beaumeis sounded exhausted now, almost indifferent. “One of the monks. He wore a robe with the hood pulled well forward. And he did not see Baldassare at first. He just walked across the chancel to the apse, went behind the altar, and started to stoop down.”

Although he was disappointed that Beaumeis could not identify the man, Winchester was not completely dissatisfied. Once a miscreant reached exhaustion, he was very likely to tell everything he knew, being more eager to escape the questioning and rest than to save himself.

“Your eyes must have been accustomed to the dark by then.” Winchester made his voice sharp and accusatory. “The light from the altar lamp and his taper should have been bright enough for you to see him clearly.”

“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—”