Again over the memory of freezing fear came a faint wash of satisfaction. Terrified as she was, she had not yielded. She had cleaned the knife on her gown and then torn it off and flung it on the floor not far from her husband’s body. She had taken the key of the strongbox from around his neck, wiped her bloody hand on the already bloodied gown, taken the money, every broken farthing, and then begun to pack.
How fortunate his roaring rage had sent the servants running from the house. There had been time for her to escape. She knew the servants would not return until the next morning, usually to find her beaten bloody and unconscious. This time, staggering drunk, her husband had threatened worse than a beating. She was too beautiful, he said. Too many men praised her. He would cut off her nose and her lips. He had drawn his knife, laughing at her pleas…
“Magdalene?” Bell asked uncertainly into the silence.
“I am not afraid of the dead,” she said, making sure her voice was steady, “you know that. I am afraid of what the sheriff would say if he found me here alone. Would he not ask what I had stolen? What I had changed or rearranged so that my guilt would be hidden?”
“Why should you stay at all?” But as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Bell laughed. “That was a stupid remark.”
“It certainly was. You think Tayte would not name me at the first question? Or her young man, if he were pressed? Oh no. Either we can send Tom for the sheriff and both remain here or Tom can stay with me outside the door and swear to that when the sheriff comes.”
Bell was still grinning. “It is true that your presence here could not be hidden, but I was not thinking of that. I was thinking that your curiosity would kill you if you went away before we discovered who was dead and why and how.”
* * * *
In fact it was her curiosity that kept her there—and perhaps the need to bury her memories under the whys and wherefores of this body. Magdalene knew she had no need to fear the sheriff of Southwark. Perhaps if she had been found standing over a corpse with a knife or poison in her hand, he would have asked her some pointed questions…perhaps. His instructions from William of Ypres were clear and to the point. Magdalene was William’s. She, her women, and the Old Priory Guesthouse were to be protected against anything.
Thus the sheriff on being told by Tom that Sir Bellamy and Mistress Magdalene had found a dead body, actually came himself with his two assistants to investigate. He was deeply relieved that Bell, whom he knew from other investigations, would stand witness that he and Magdalene had come to the house together and had not been apart since that time.
The stench of the corpse having been somewhat diminished by the exchange of air through the open door, the sheriff walked in, reaching to open the shutter too. Bell stopped him, breathing shallowly, but holding up the candle to examine the bar that held the ill-fitted boards in place. Then he lifted the bar, pulled the shutter from the window, and leaned out to look at the window sill and the outer wall of the house.
“What the devil are you doing?” the sheriff asked.
“Magdalene and I unlocked the door. I am making sure that no one left through the window. The young woman who told Magdalene about the noise in the empty rooms said she heard someone come in, but did not hear anyone leave.”
“Why should she tell Magdalene about the noise?”
“The woman who lived here, Nelda Roundheels, she was called, was killed last Thursday. Her body, as you no doubt heard, was carried to the bishop of Winchester’s house and left there for him to find. Since we did not know who the woman was and she was dressed as a whore, the bishop asked Magdalene to discover what she could.”
The sheriff grimaced. “I knew about Nelda. Can’t say I was sorry. I’ve had complaints about her.”
Bell nodded acceptance. “We heard that she stole and used drugs to make sure her clients slept well. As part of her attempt to find out what Winchester wanted to know, Magdalene questioned the girl who lives in the room next door. And she told the girl that if she saw or heard anything strange in Nelda’s rooms, she should bring that information.”
“Ah,” the sheriff said and then, still standing by the window where the stench was not so fierce, gestured at the body on the floor. “So who is that?”
Bell turned from examining the window sill, the wall, and the unpromising packed earth below. In the light coming from the window, he saw the dead man’s features clearly.
“Shit!” he muttered, and then added more loudly, “That is Gehard fitzRobert. He is, or rather was. Lord Geoffrey de Mandeville’s man.”
“FitzRobert?” The sheriff took a deep breath to hold, then went closer, looked down at the corpse, and snorted. He retreated to the window again. “So it is. He’s not much loss either. Came roaring into my office a couple of times complaining about being thrown out by a brothel keeper for being too rough. Too rough? I can’t think what he was doing if one of those stew-keepers thought it was too rough.” He paused, looking at the body, which showed no sign of a wound, and asked, “Why do you care if he died?”
Now Bell had approached the corpse. He stared down at it, noting that the lips looked blistered and the chin and front of the tunic were marked with vomit. He then knelt, seized the body by an arm, and turned it over. It flopped limply—all the stiffness that came after death gone; Bell had to use both hands to turn it onto its belly. The limpness confirmed to his mind that Gehard had died a day and a half earlier, when Tayte had heard the noise.
There was no more sign of a wound on the back than on the front and not a speck of blood, but the man’s braies and tunic were stained with once-liquid feces. Bell backed away, swallowing nausea, and stuck his head out of the window to breathe the less-tainted air. He straightened to find the sheriff staring at him.
“Well? So a man has a fit and dies. That happens to big men like Gehard, doesn’t it? Why do you care?”
“Because he didn’t just die of a fit. Look at his mouth. It is burnt. He vomited and he voided. The man was poisoned.”
The sheriff breathed an exasperated sigh. “Damn you, Bellamy, you always have to find the hardest way to do anything! He was all alone. If he was poisoned, he must have taken the poison himself. So he killed himself. That means an unhallowed grave and damnation.”
So the sheriff had seen the signs of poison and decided to be deliberately blind to get Gehard the mercy of a grave in hallowed ground. Bell shook his head and uttered a mirthless crack of laughter. He had had too much of a Church background to think you could fool God and be saved from damnation by being buried in hallowed ground.
“Oh, I am sure Gehard will be buried in hallowed ground,” he said, “but you will like the reason even less than my noticing the poison. This is no self-killing. No one who knew Gehard would believe that. He was murdered by poison. I am quite sure of it.”
“He was alone.”
“Yes.” Bell frowned. “So either he was given the poison before he came to the house and it only took him when he was here, or someone gave him something to take with him and he ate or drank it here.”
“Bellamy, you are a pain in the arse! Do you think I have nothing better to do than to search out every man who spoke to Gehard the day before yesterday?”
“Well, not every man—and woman too, of course. A woman could have poisoned him as easily as a man. No, there is no need to question very many. From what I have heard about Gehard and myself observed, his temper was not such as to provide him with many acquaintances. Beside that, the fact that he is here in these rooms implies to me that his death may be connected to that of the whore.”
“Just because he is here? In these rooms? Nelda died a week ago. Why could he not be here to rent these rooms?”
Bell shook his head. “Gehard lodges in the Tower. He was leader of one of the troops Mandeville left as guards. He knew Nelda well and told me when I first met him that Nelda was a thieving bitch and deserved what befell her.” He heaved an exasperated sigh. “Until I found him here, dead, I thought he w
as the one who had killed her. Now…I must begin all over again.”
For a long moment the sheriff stared at Bell, then shook his head. “Who cares who pushed the whore down the stair? Likely that was not deliberate murder but an accident.”
“Yes, but taking her body and setting it in the bishop’s bedchamber was not an accident. I had strong suspicion, but no proof, that Gehard hired men to attack Winchester on his way to meet with the archbishop at Lambeth on Saturday last. Thus it seemed to me that it was possible that he had moved Nelda’s body too.”
“Why then do you care who killed him? Dead, he is no danger to Winchester.”
“Because I cannot believe that Gehard would, all on his own, hire a troop to attack the bishop. I doubt he had sufficient coin. However, if he were bidden to do that and paid for it, might he not think that dropping Nelda’s corpse in Winchester’s house would be pleasing to the one who paid him to hire the troop? Might he not think he would be rewarded for that?”
“Hmmm. I suppose that is possible.”
“I said I had strong suspicion that Gehard had hired those men, but that was not from the men—”
“No,” the sheriff interrupted drily. “All of those are dead in unpleasant ways. I am surprised you could not extract more information from them. They were not the kind to hold out against torture for loyalty.”
Bell sighed. “I had killed the leader of the troop in the battle. He was the only one who knew who hired them.”
The sheriff burst out laughing. “That will teach you to be so efficient.”
Bell sighed again. “Well, I doubt it. In the heat of battle, one does not think too far in advance of the next blow. But the thing is that I came upon Gehard drunk and his tongue slipped. He said the men were instructed not to harm the bishop…which says to me that he gave, or knew who gave, that instruction. So, why is Gehard dead? Because the one who hired him to send that troop against the bishop heard of his drunken slip of the tongue and decided Gehard had become dangerous to him?”
“I see.” The sheriff was no longer laughing. “But Gehard was Mandeville’s man. Mandeville is with the king.”
Bell shrugged. “No way do I think I can bring this to roost on Mandeville…but I want to know so that the bishop will know.”
Now it was the sheriff who sighed. “I will go along with you so far as to send my men out to question the apothecaries in Southwark to discover if any sold…hmmm…do you know which poison it is?”
“No, but likely if you send the body to the hospital of St. Catherine, they will be able to make a guess at least.”
The sheriff nodded and stepped out onto the stair landing to instruct his men. Bell mentioned that there was a bed in the next chamber with a blanket that they could use to wrap the corpse. When they had carried the body away, the sheriff glanced around the room, said to Bell that the disorder all seemed likely to have been caused by Gehard’s death throes, and then took his leave.
Bell watched him go rather blankly and then, feeling quite sure he was forgetting something important, looked around also, jerking slightly as Magdalene seemed to appear from nowhere.
“Good God,” he said. “I had forgot that you came with me. Where have you been all this time?”
Magdalene laughed. “Mostly standing by the bedroom door where the stink was less and listening to you.” She sobered and frowned. “I don’t think there was time enough after you spoke to Gehard for Mandeville to have ordered his death.”
“No, neither do I, but the idea induced the sheriff to be of some help. He, too, would want to know if Mandeville was involved. Do you by any chance have a guess as to what the poison might have been?”
Magdalene shuddered. “I know nothing about poisons—” she hesitated, thinking that she knew too much about knives, and then went on hastily “—except…”
“Except?” Bell’s brows went up.
“That man—oh, yes, Bore was his name—did you not tell me that when he was poisoned by lily of the valley he also voided and vomited?”
“Yes.” Bell frowned. “But no. I do not think it was lily of the valley this time. Gehard’s mouth was blistered, as if he had swallowed some corrosive. Nothing as strong, though, as lye. I hope the infirmarian at St. Catherine’s will know.”
“At least I know that it must be a quick acting poison.”
“I thought you said you knew nothing about poisons.”
“And so I do not, but I know how he took the poison.”
Bell looked at her blankly. “How? How do you know that?”
Magdalene pointed. “Because that flagon was not here on the day we came to gather up Nelda’s possessions.”
Bell followed the line of her finger and, sure enough, lying on its side against the partition that separated the bedroom from the main room was a hard leather flagon. He looked from the flagon to the overturned table and saw that it was likely enough that the flagon had been thrown to the floor when Gehard’s death convulsions knocked the table over.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Of course I am sure. Diot and I looked in every vessel that could hold anything. Women often keep unimportant trinkets or something they are willing to give away in a cup or a pitcher not often used. That flagon was not here. In fact, there was a pitcher—yes, there it is on the shelf—but there was no flagon of any kind.”
Bell was staring at the pitcher standing on the shelf. Then he looked back at the flagon. “Then whoever bought the flagon of wine—it is wine, is it not?”
He went over to it. The curve of the lip had kept it from emptying itself completely and he took it carefully and set it upright, bending his head a little to look inside.
“Be careful,” Magdalene cried. “Do not smell it. There are smells that can kill.”
Bell smiled, pleased by her fear for him. “I remember. But there is enough in here I think to make it worthwhile to bring this to St. Catherine’s infirmarian. Then we will be sure if it was what was in this flagon that killed Gehard. But if it was, whoever bought the wine and poison did not come from these rooms. He would have taken the pitcher.”
“Oh. Yes.” Now Magdalene frowned and pointed again. “Look, there is a cup also.” She went and picked it up. “It is empty but there had been wine in it.”
Bell came and took the cup from her. “There may not be enough remaining, but I will take it to the infirmarian too. It is possible it will tell him something.” He looked around. “Is there anything else we need to look at here?”
“Not in these rooms, but I must ask Tayte whether Gehard brought the flagon with him. I do not remember that she mentioned it, but she might not have thought that important.”
Bell shook his head. “If he did not bring it, how did it get here? You said the girl swore he came alone and that no one else came.”
“While she was watching,” Magdalene said slowly. Her mind chasing another thought, she added somewhat absently, “You remember after her man came, they were…busy.”
“I remember,” Bell snapped angrily. “But that was after she heard the noise in Nelda’s apartment.”
Magdalene looked up, startled by Bell’s tone. Then the word ‘busy’ connected in her mind with what Tatye was busy doing, and she barely suppressed a grin. Pretending she had not noticed his anger or understood it, she said, “Yes, of course, but there has been something tickling in my head and it just came clear. Whoever killed Gehard must be the one who knocked Nelda down the stair because only that person would have Nelda’s keys. Either he took the key from her body or, if she had not locked the apartment, found it inside.”
“Or Gehard himself killed her and took the key. But then, who brought the poisoned wine? Could it have been meant for Nelda by someone who did not know she was dead? Or meant for Linley, who owns the place?”
“No,” Magdalene said, “because after you took Linley’s key, we did lock the apartment when we left. No one who did not have the key could have got in without breaking the lock or the door.”
/>
Bell nodded. “True, thank God and all his saints. I did not need to suspect the whole of London and Southwark. Well, I will take myself to St. Catherine’s and give the infirmarian this flagon and cup and then go on to the Tower to try to speak to Gehard’s men.”
Magdalene giggled. “I hope a new captain is on duty.”
Bell sighed. “I hope so too.”
“I’ll speak to Tayte and then go back to the Old Priory Guesthouse. If the infirmarian can tell what poison was used, come and tell me. I know the Guildmaster of the Apothecary Guild. He might be able to tell us who regularly sells poisons.”
Chapter 14
Bell wondered, as he made his way to the riverside and found a boatman to take him downriver and across the Thames to St. Catherine’s Hospital, what tack he should take with the captain in the Tower. Perhaps he should try to find Gehard’s men off duty and question them without the captain’s order and permission? It was briefly a tempting notion, but second thoughts made it less appealing. Without an order, the men might not be willing to talk to him and finding them a few at a time in an ale house was too chancy. Besides, with any luck, there might be a new captain on duty.
That future problem was dismissed from his mind when he was directed to the hospital mortuary and found Gehard’s body already unclothed and under scrutiny. The infirmarian looked up at him and shook his head.
“Sir Bellamy. Again. And again with a problem.”
“Yes, brother. I need to know from what poison this man died. I have here a cup, but it is empty, and a flagon holding, I think, the remains of the wine he drank just before he died.”
The monk’s face sobered and he took the cup from Bell’s hand first. He smelled it, rubbed his finger over the stain of wine near the bottom, sniffed the finger and then touched his tongue to it. After a moment he shook his head.
“Perhaps there was not enough dried on the cup, but it seems to be only wine.” Putting the cup down on the table beside the corpse, he reached for the flagon. Very carefully he sniffed it, and quickly pulled his head away. He looked at the cup and shook his head. Then he tilted the flagon so that a single drop ran onto his middle finger. He then stared down at the finger, after a moment closed his eyes, and finally touched the liquid on his finger with the tip of his tongue.
Chains of Folly Page 21
