A Mortal Bane (22 page)

Feeling somewhat guilty for gaining Father Benin’s good opinion on completely false premises, Magdalene bowed, kissed the hand he held out to her, and left the room. Her purpose in suggesting the pyx had been mislaid with good intentions had been to get the church searched and Baldassare’s pouch found, not to protect Brother Paulinus, of course. Unfortunately, Father Benin had not taken the notion seriously. She could not decide whether she was more annoyed with him for being so good-hearted himself that he saw her suggestion in that light, or pleased at being called “daughter” just as if she were not an excommunicated whore.

She went down the inner stair into the chamber below and almost ran into Brother Fareman, who was staring up at her with a troubled expression. He said he was sorry her interview with the prior had been interrupted and exclaimed over the sacristan’s behavior in thrusting him aside and intruding on the prior without leave or announcement. Magdalene promptly told him about the lost pyx.

Brother Fareman was shocked, but now he understood why the sacristan had been so distraught. He
tched
and clucked, wondering how anyone could have broken open the safe box, it being so strong and bound in iron. But when he took out the huge ring of keys he was carrying to open the gate for her, Magdalene suddenly remembered her own question to the prior.

“But the box was not broken,” she said. “It must have been unlocked.”

“Nonsense!” the secretary said. “I do not like Brother Paulinus—I cannot deny it; he makes Father Prior very unhappy from time to time—but steal from the church? Nonsense.”

Magdalene laughed. “Well, the prior said something about money for the leaking belfry, but the first question that came to my mind was, who had another key?”

“Who? I. Father Prior has duplicates of all the keys to the church and the monastery, and those keys are in my charge. Are you suggesting—”

“Of course not. That is even more ridiculous. It is barely possible that Brother Paulinus could blind himself to the impropriety of taking the pyx for some purpose like repairing the belfry and call what he did God’s will; he is not a reasonable or clear-sighted person. You could never be so self-deluded. But you and Father Benin were away last week. Is it not possible that someone found your keys—”

“I took them with me.” Brother Fareman grimaced and then sighed. “I did not intend to take the keys to the church and the monastery, just those to Father Prior’s house and personal chests, but I was in a hurry and instead of taking the time to separate them, I took them all.”

“That does seem to fix the blame more surely on Brother Paulinus.” But her doubt still sounded in her voice.

“Who could imagine that such things would happen? A murder on our very doorstep! And now a theft. We have never had anything stolen. Oh, a little food now and again when the novices find themselves still hungry on a fast day, and once—yes, I remember, it was soon after the Bishop of Winchester was appointed to administer the London diocese—a monk’s robe was stolen. Brother Almoner was annoyed. He does not like carelessness. But nothing came of his seeking and questioning. Likely it was taken by some poor soul in need of a warm cloak.” He sighed and pulled open the gate for her. “Poor Father Benin. He will blame himself for all of this.”

Magdalene stepped through, but put out her hand to stop the secretary from closing the gate for a moment. “The murder at least is nothing to do with Father Benin, Brother Fareman. Send for Sir Bellamy of Itchen, the bishop’s knight. He will explain what happened to Messer Baldassare, and Father Benin will understand at once that there would have been nothing he could have done even if he had been here.”

“Sir Bellamy?” The secretary looked relieved. “Then the bishop is seeking the killer?”

“Yes, and not in my house, thank God.”

She let go of the gate, and the secretary closed and locked it. Magdalene sighed and then thought perhaps it was just as well. If more mayhem took place in the priory, she and her women would be safer with the gate locked. She thought Father Benin had been joking about stealing the pyx to obtain money to repair the leaking belfry, but a chill went down her back. Was Brother Paulinus insisting that she was guilty to cover his own crime?

She did not voice that doubt to her women, who rushed to greet her and discover what the prior had wanted. She did tell them about the missing pyx and Paulinus’s accusation, which drew gasps of alarm until she pointed out that the fact the safe box was kept locked had absolved her completely. Reassured, Ella and Letice picked up their embroidery and Sabina began to practice a new song. Magdalene went to her chamber and pored over a copy of the list she had given Bell, putting a check here and there.

“Magdalene?” It was Sabina at the door. “The bell at the gate is ringing.”

Chapter Eleven

22 April 1139

Old Priory Guesthouse

“Master Hugo Basyngs,” Magdalene said as she opened the gate to a familiar but not frequent visitor. “You are very early, but do come in.”

Basyngs smiled and apologized for his untimely arrival. He said he knew that Saturday was a busy day for the women of the Old Priory Guesthouse and that he wanted to catch them when they still had time for him. Magdalene led him in, offered Sabina’s company, which he accepted and paid for graciously, but it soon became apparent that he was in no hurry to go off with her. What he wanted was to talk about the murder, particularly to ask if a letter of credit had been found and to bewail the fact that he had not offered Baldassare lodging for the night.

“He was with me that very afternoon,” Basyngs said, shaking his head slowly. “He came from Messer Buchuinte’s house after dinner to change Italian money for English and to draw some silver against his letter of credit. I should have bade him lodge with us, but I was promised to spend the night at my son’s house in Walthamstow, his wife having delivered a third son the day before. I only came back on Friday.”

Walthamstow was north of London, and Basyngs’s son would be easy to find. Another to cross off her list, except…. “How did you hear of Messer Baldassare’s death?” she asked.

“From Buchuinte.”

She should have guessed that, she thought. Likely Basyngs was Buchuinte’s banker, and Buchuinte might even have recommended him to Baldassare. She told him then what she had told almost everyone, but Basyngs had no new information. Baldassare had not mentioned any meeting to him. And, since Sabina had been standing beside him and tickling his ear, he rose and went off with her a few moments later.

He was not the only one who came to ask about Baldassare’s death. About half a candlemark later, a cordwainer, Bennet Seynturer, arrived. He pushed roughly past Magdalene as soon as she opened the gate. Slamming it closed behind him, he hurried her back to the house, where he also slammed the door. He told her, in a voice choked with fury, that he had heard of the murder from the sacristan, whom he had come to see on business. Was it true, he asked, that Messer Baldassare had come from her house?

Seynturer, married to a frigid, fanatically religious wife who had taken all too seriously the Church pronouncement that one should eschew any sexual congress except for the purpose of procreation, was one of those regular clients who came through the priory gate to conceal his visits. Having been told, with significantly raised brows, that the gate between the Old Priory Guesthouse and the priory was now locked, he had leapt to the conclusion Brother Paulinus desired and assumed the whores were guilty.

Desperate to assure himself his secret would be kept, Seynturer had come to the front gate, hooded to hide his face. He was livid with fury, excoriating Magdalene for “her crime”—less, it seemed to her, because he minded the murder than because it might lead to his exposure—and demanding that she keep his use of her establishment a secret. Although she felt like bursting into tears and shrieking curses at the sacristan, Magdalene dared not make a counteraccusation. She made herself laugh lightly.

“If you can prove to me that
you
are innocent of murder,” she said, “you need not fear that any of my women will spread the news that you are our client. Silence is part of our service.”

He gobbled at her, incoherent with anger for a moment, then gasped, “You are mad!”

“Why? After all, it is as likely that you are guilty as that we are. More likely, perhaps. For all I know, you and Messer Baldassare were deadly enemies. As for us, it is in our interest to protect any who come to our house from harm. Your own reaction should be proof that I speak the truth. If one client is hurt, the others abandon us.”

He stared at her, hesitating because he recognized the good sense in what she said, yet he still protested, “But—but you are whores! And you were here, where the murder was committed.
I
was at a guild dinner on Wednesday. Many guilds have their dinners on Wednesdays.”

That was an interesting piece of information, Magdalene thought—and true, too, she believed. She realized, now that the fact had been brought clearly to her mind, that few craftsmasters visited the Old Priory Guesthouse on Wednesdays. She nodded slowly.

“We were here, but all of us were together, all of us behind locked doors. I cannot make you take my word, but I will take yours that you are innocent, and I will protect you to the best of my ability.”

That was not a lie. She had already given Bell his name, but she would certainly urge Bell to be discreet. Nonetheless, it would do no harm to lay a base to push blame elsewhere.

Before he could speak again, she went on. “But you must know that if you gave yourself away to the sacristan, there is no way I can silence him. It is he who is mad, driven not by any evidence against us, but by his own hatred of carnal weakness. If he guessed— She shrugged.

She explained yet again how ridiculous it was that she or her women should choose so stupid a way to kill—making a great mess and scandal by stabbing Baldassare on the church porch instead of protecting themselves by quietly poisoning him or strangling him in bed and dumping the body in the river. By the time she was finished, Seynturer looked rather shamefaced, his conviction that he had leapt to the wrong conclusion strongly reinforced by the knowledge that if those of the Old Priory Guesthouse were innocent, his relationship with them would be less likely to be uncovered. Magdalene then assured him that the killing was being dealt with by the bishop’s knight. Sir Bellamy of Itchen. That seemed to be a clinching argument, and their innocence was assumed since the bishop’s man had not delivered them to the sheriff.

He told her that though he believed her, he could not come again until the gate was reopened. But then Sabina entered, having taken Basyngs out the back and washed and tidied herself, and Seynturer laughed uneasily and said, since he was already in the house, he might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb, paid his three pence, and followed the smiling Sabina to her chamber.

Not another half-candlemark had passed before the bell was ringing again and the whole scene was repeated with another goldsmith, who also had had business with the sacristan. Fortunately, Ella was quite ready to receive the second man. He said that since anyone who had noticed him at the front gate would say there was no smoke without fire, he might as well enjoy the fire instead of being blamed and missing the warmth.

Both clients were ill at ease, however, and because they did not linger, Ella and Sabina were able to join Magdalene and Letice for dinner. They were aware of being late and ate quickly, but Dulcie had hardly cleared the wine cups from the table when the bell was pealing again. Ella jumped to her feet; the other three women sighed and then found smiles. Saturday, before the confessions and Masses of Sunday, was always very busy.

On that day, Magdalene worked no less hard than her women. Although she never left the common room, she was responsible for keeping those guests who came ahead of their time—or those who followed clients who were slow to find arousal and release—busy, amused, and just titillated enough to be unwilling to leave but not excited enough to demand immediate service. Everyone, even Ella, was exhausted by dusk, and when Magdalene went out to lock the gate, she was actually looking at the bell rope and thinking of pulling it in when a man strode up.

“I am very sorry,” she began, then stopped and laughed. “Bell! Come in. I thought you were another client and was about to turn you away. For once, I and my women need rest more than custom.”

He seemed to stiffen and hesitate, but she gestured him in and added as she closed and locked the gate, “Between those who came to blame us for murder—and stayed to enjoy what they fear they must deny themselves in the future—and those who knew nothing of the crime, I have had my fill of pacifying impatient men. And my women are tired. Still, I am glad to see you. I have learned where a round dozen of my clients were on Wednesday night.”

“And you believe what they told you?”

“Mostly yes, and if what I learned is true, you will find it very easy to prove, most discreetly, the whereabouts of more than half those on my list. Did you know that many guilds have their meetings on Wednesday?”

“Yes, I knew—oh! Your clients are mostly craftmasters. I understand.”

“So, if the craftmasters were at their guild meetings, they are innocent. No one need question them directly, and my reputation for keeping their secrets will remain intact.”

He laughed as he walked into the torch- and taper-lit house with her, and accepted gladly when she asked whether he wished to share their evening meal. As they ate, he told her that all the guests who had stayed at the priory guesthouse the night Baldassare was killed had been cleared also.

Three were still at the priory and would be there for at least another week. Those were the men who had been on horseback. They were stoneworkers, employed for many years by the abbot of the mother house of the priory, and they had readily answered his questions. None knew Baldassare, none had any interest in whether the king held the throne or the empress took it, none cared who was archbishop or whether or not a legate was appointed. They had all attended Compline service together, left the church with several monks who knew them, and gone to bed, sharing blankets and a pallet, so none could have left without waking the others.