She turned away before Bell could find an answer. Both her assumption that he would come that evening and that he would expose to her—a whore—possibly incriminating information about a relatively important Church official deserved a rebuke. Bell shrugged. Considering that the bishop had sent him to her for help, she had a right to assume. And despite what his head “knew” and propriety ordered, there was no comparison in pleasure and good conversation between taking his evening meal with the whores—yes, whores, not ladies although he often named them so in his own mind—of the Old Priory Guesthouse and the men of his troop.
Bell arrived at the bishop’s house just as one of the servants was carrying up a well-laden tray. “Ask m’lord if he will speak to me while he eats,” Bell said. And when the servant came down he told Bell to go up. To his pleasure, there were two places set at the table, and Winchester waved him toward the stool placed at right angles to his chair.
“So. You have more news for me, I suppose.”
“Yes, my lord. We know who sold the monkshood and we have a description—such as it is, medium everything—of the man who bought it.”
Winchester smiled as he speared some slices of pork on his eating knife. “Medium everything?” he repeated.
Bell smiled too and also set both pork and lamb (nearly mutton, he thought) on his trencher. “The apothecary who sold the poison, a flask of pure tincture of monkshood rather than a liniment, said the man was of medium height with hair neither light nor dark and blue or gray eyes.”
The bishop sighed. “A description that will fit about two thirds of all the men in the city.”
“Not quite,” Bell replied around a bite. “The man wore fine clothes and a sword. Thieves and hired men may wear a sword, but seldom clothing fine enough to be noted by a successful merchant.”
“A knight. But is the description really of any help? You cannot even say the tincture was purchased to do murder.”
“That I can, my lord, because the purchaser gave the apothecary the name Gehard fitzRobert.”
The bishop laid down the spoon he was about to dip into the pottage. “He gave the name of his victim? Why?”
“I cannot know, of course, but I think because it was on his mind. Thus that name was the first thing that came to his tongue when he did not want to sound as if he were hiding his true name by giving one too common, like John Smith.”
Winchester raised an eyebrow, but then looked down to finish his aborted gesture and dip his spoon. “From your cheerfulness, you have someone in mind.”
“Two someones,” Bell said, looking less cheerful when he considered exactly what he was going to say, “but I have evidence that one of them was elsewhere when Nelda died and the other should not have even been in London—or just arriving now—when Gehard was poisoned.”
The bishop looked exasperated and Bell explained more fully, mentioning that he believed Sir John was the man from whom Nelda had stolen the letter. That distracted Winchester from the murders to what was, basically, more important to him.
They discussed the mysterious silence about the letter. No one had mentioned it. Even Linley, who had tried to get back from Magdalene the tokens and money Nelda had hidden, had not asked about any letter. It was also curious that if the purpose of leaving Nelda’s body in Winchester’s bedchamber was scandal, that too had failed. Bell asked if it was safe for him to mention that Winchester already had the letter; the bishop thought and said yes, that he had informed the king.
The talk did not trouble either of their appetites, and they worked their way through more of the roasts, a pottage, stew, and a boiled carp. Then the subject shifted back to Nelda’s and Gehard’s deaths. Bell reported that he and Magdalene would try to make sure of the time that Linley left Master Rhyton’s house and when he arrived at the Cask of Wine alehouse. Perhaps they had jumped to conclusions. Perhaps there had been time between those two events for him to have gone to Nelda’s house and killed her, and taken her key.
Also, Bell said, he would ask more specific questions at Baynard’s Castle about the elusive Sir John. Had he actually ridden to Oxford or Devizes, or had he discovered that the letter had been stolen and rushed back to Nelda’s place where they quarreled and he killed her? If so, Sir John could have taken her key and searched her room. Perhaps he had been lying hidden in London in the hope of retrieving the letter. Winchester said he understood Bell might want to mention the letter to Lord Hugh and began to rise.
“My lord,” Bell said reluctantly, without readying himself to rise also, “there is one other who could have had a key. Magdalene—no great respecter of persons—pointed out that the one person Nelda might have trusted enough to give a key, so that he would not need to knock or to call out to her and be noticed would be—
Winchester’s lips thinned. “Father Holdyn. But why should he kill Gehard? How could he even know him?”
Bell shrugged. “They both knew Nelda. As to why Father Holdyn should kill Gehard…you understand, I cannot believe this, but there are reasons presented by logic. Could Holdyn have been involved in Gehard’s arranging an attack on you? He would have known where and when you would be going to see the archbishop.”
“No.” The word burst out and then Winchester said, “Why? What possible profit could Father Holdyn win by my hurt or death?”
“By your hurt or death he might have gained a less careful and honest overseer of the London diocese.”
“That is ridiculous. I have been overseeing Holdyn’s work as episcopal vicar since London’s death and have not found so much as a whisper of corruption. As to wringing money from the Church, it is the other way. He gives much of his income back to the Church.”
“It is even more ridiculous when you consider that your death or hurt were not intended. I do believe what Gehard told me. He was particularly angry that I had interfered in the attack because, he felt, it was unnecessary. You would have been safe and free within hours.”
“So there is no reason to suspect Father Holdyn.”
Bell shrugged. “There may be reasons that logic has not presented to me, but there is another that would spring to any man’s mind. If Father Holdyn was obsessed by Nelda and learned that Gehard killed her, he could have desired revenge for her death.” Bell sighed. “I do not believe it, but when I said that Father Holdyn could not have been the man who bought the poison, he being a very large and strong man and not likely to wear a sword, Magdalene also pointed out that he could walk into any hospital or infirmary and take what he wanted without question.”
“Magdalene,” Winchester said coldly, “is sometimes far too imaginative.”
“I agree,” Bell said dryly, “but every time I try to dismiss the idea as utterly out of the question, I remember that Nelda stole from Father Holdyn more than once and he never told his servants to hold her or punish her. And I remember, too, that he arranged for her swift burial in as near to consecrated ground as possible and got rid of her clothes. And when you asked if he knew her…it was a long, long moment before he answered that he did not.”
“Why should he hesitate over a lie if he had already committed murder?” Winchester snapped.
“I do not believe that Father Holdyn committed murder.” Bell was silent a moment and then grimaced. “I do not like Father Holdyn, my lord, but that is because he is so truly a good man that he shows me my black spots and blemishes. Only my head keeps telling my heart that I must know why he lied about Nelda. I will not raise the question again, my lord, if you forbid me, but it nags at me.”
There was a long silence while Winchester stared at nothing. “If he is guilty, I will have lost my right hand in administering London,” he snarled at Bell, and then, “It will nag at me, too, and poison every moment that he and I must work together. Go and get him, Bell, and bring him back here. I will ask and make sure that he answers.”
Chapter 16
When Bell arrived at the bishop of London’s palace, he had ample opportunity to understand why Winchester sai
d he would lose his right hand if Father Holdyn was guilty of any crime. He waited patiently for the spate of clerks and petitioners to abate, standing aside and listening to the dispositions the priest made. Bell had to acknowledge that every decision was fair, perhaps a little harsher in penance than the bishop’s judgment, Bell thought, but just.
Bell noted with some dismay, however, that Father Holdyn did not look well. His face was drawn and dark bruises showed under his eyes. At last, as those demanding his attention were satisfied, the priest looked around and noticed Bell. His face became more haggard, but he rose from his seat.
“I am summoned by the bishop?”
“Yes, father.”
“Very well, I am ready.” Holdyn turned to his chief clerk. “I am not sure when I will return. Either I or the bishop will send you word.”
Bell’s heart sank. Holdyn sounded as if he expected to be stripped of his rank and duties. Winchester would be fit to be tied and his own duties would be increased. He found, too, that his spirit was sorely oppressed. If a man like Father Holdyn could commit murder it seemed to Bell there was very little hope for anyone.
Not knowing whether Father Holdyn had a mount. Bell had walked. The return, south from the bishop of London’s palace to Thames Street and then east to the bridge, was conducted in silence. Twice Bell saw Father Holdyn’s hand rise to his chest as if he were seeking his crucifix for comfort and then drop away.
It was a relief to fight the crowd on the bridge; it made the silence between them less palpable. Once free of the bridge, Bell did not need to moderate his stride to suit his companion, who was as tall as he. They almost galloped past the Old Priory Guesthouse and along the wall of the priory until they came to the gate of Winchester’s house.
Phillipe waved Bell and Father Holdyn past him as soon as they approached. Winchester was waiting in the area partitioned off from the main hall rather than in the more intimate chamber above. He had a number of documents open on the table in front of him, but the clerk farther down the table was sitting idle, his hands loosely clasped as if he had been idle for some time. He gathered up his quills and ink without surprise at Winchester’s gesture and left, as he passed raising a brow at Bell, who had stopped near the door. When the clerk was gone, Bell closed the door and then moved along the wall until he could see Holdyn’s face. There he stopped and leaned against the wall.
Winchester wasted no time. Pointing at a stool across from him he said, “Sit, Holdyn, and explain to me why you lied to your bishop about the woman Nelda.”
“I did not lie.”
Holdyn’s voice, which could fill a church, was barely audible. Bell was quite certain of what he said, although he heard it as a faint murmur, not really distinguishable as words. He knew from the expression on the bishop’s face as he leaned forward to hear better.
“And that is a lie,” Winchester snapped, his own voice slightly raised. “You said you did not know her, yet she was the one who stole the gilt cup you replaced, she was the one who regularly took money that you, likely deliberately, left out for her. She was the one who stole your crucifix—if it was stolen. You said you did not lie with her, but…”
An expression of horror twisted Holdyn’s face. “No. Oh, no! I never would. Never.” Tears filled his eyes and spilled over. He hid his face in his hands. “And yet it is all my fault, my sin.”
“What was your fault? Your sin?”
“I brought her here, you see.” The priest had lifted his head, but his eyes were staring…blind.
“You brought her here?” Astonishment raised the bishop’s voice. “Why? You say you did not lie with her. Then for what did you bring her?”
“Of course I did not lie with her!” Anger and disgust momentarily brought life to Father Holdyn’s pale and tired face. “I brought her to keep my house. To lift my spirit when it was weighed down by labor and hopelessness. To be my light and laughter, as she had always been.”
For a moment Winchester was silent, shocked. Then he said, distastefully, “You sound as if you loved her.”
“Of course I loved her,” Holdyn sighed. “She was my sister. She had always kept my house and made me happy.” He put his face into his hands again and his shoulders shook with weeping. “That was my sin. I knew I should have found a husband for her. But she was such a precious comfort—a good housekeeper and always merry. Yet if I had found her a husband, she would have been alive today, surrounded by her children.”
Or she would have been dead of childbearing, Bell thought; he had two living sisters, but there had been three. He did not move or speak and he kept his face expressionless.
Holdyn lifted his face again, looking pleadingly at Winchester. “But she said she did not wish to marry,” he explained. “She said that she was happy keeping my household. And when London came and elevated me to overseeing the parishes in his diocese, she was thrilled. She greatly desired to come with me.” He closed his eyes momentarily and swallowed hard. Then, as if he could not bring himself to say more about Nelda, he went on, “London said there was much looseness and corruption, the city being what it was and that he was getting too old to oversee matters as he should. But that kept me very busy. I was much away—”
“She was your sister,” Winchester interrupted, voice tight and hard. “Yet when I asked if you knew her, you said you did not! Why did you lie?”
“I did not lie,” Holdyn whispered. “You did not ask if I loved her. You asked if I knew her…and, alas, I had just discovered that I did not know Nelda at all.”
“What do you mean you did not know her?”
“I knew she was light of heart and mind but I thought her clean…as clean as any woman can be…and loved her. When she left me a message that she had found a man she truly desired, I was saddened but not surprised that she had gone…outside of the bond of marriage. She came back to ask for money. I tried to reason with her, to plead with her, to offer a dowry and find a man who would marry her, even soiled as she was. She laughed at me. She said she would never marry a dull common clod. Her man was a knight, and she was as good as married being with him alone, although no priest would fasten the binding.”
“You were jealous. Did you kill her for that?”
Bell frowned at Winchester’s question. Nelda had been living in Linley’s house for several years. If Holdyn was going to kill her out of jealousy, he would have done so much sooner, which Holdyn’s indignant answer confirmed.
“Kill her? Of course not! I would never harm Nelda. And I was not jealous. I was troubled for her soul but I hoped her passion for the man would diminish and she would have time to repent. Meanwhile I saw that she was happy. She visited now and again and she looked well. She said her man was always kind to her, but that he did not have much money. I gave her a little, but the needs of the Church came first.” He hesitated and looked up at Winchester, new tears running down his cheeks. “My fault. My sin. I should have seen sooner that she would find another way to get money.”
“When you learned there was more than one man, you quarreled with her? She fell down the stairs by accident?” Now Winchester sounded sympathetic, inviting confidences.
“I never quarreled with her.” Holdyn’s voice was husky with weariness and grief. “I had not seen her since the Monday when she took my crucifix. I was annoyed, but I knew she would keep the crucifix safe until I was ready to redeem it. There was no great hurry for that. I was very busy. I knew you were coming on Friday and I was making all ready.”
If Holdyn had not seen Nelda since Monday, Bell thought, Holdyn could not have known that Gehard beat her on Tuesday. Likely he did not know of Gehard’s connection with Nelda at all and would not have suspected him of killing her. Thus, he would have no reason to murder Gehard. Holdyn now looked as if he were ready to collapse, as drained and white as any tortured man. And it had been torture for him. Bell thought. There was no point in pursuing him further, except for a direct question about where he was and what he was doing on Thursday night. Be
ll moved restlessly. The bishop turned his head and glanced at him. Then he sighed.
“Yes, all was ready for me. Holdyn, in the name of God, tell me, without all these delicate prevarications between knowing and loving, where were you and what were you doing on Thursday night?”
“Thursday night?” Holdyn sounded dazed and exhausted, but his voice had become firmer. “Oh, the night before you came? I was at home, working on the accounts and the reports of my oversight of the parishes. My chief clerk will tell you. He was with me working until after Matins, and he slept in my bedchamber on a pallet until we began work again soon after Prime.” He uttered a tired sob. “I did not kill her or cause her to have an accident by which she died. I could not have hurt her, even had I known what she had become. Would I be such a monster as to kill her with all her sins upon her when if she lived I could hope still to redeem her?”
To both Bell and Winchester it was a convincing argument. They had known Holdyn for years and his piety and honesty, the strength of his faith, were long proven. That any man could sin and become entangled and struggle to free himself, was possible. That Holdyn would murder his sister—whose identity could be easily established—because she had become a whore and stolen his crucifix was not. The bishop breathed a huge sigh of relief. Bell nodded. Winchester would not lose his right hand.
Then turning his head, the bishop said, “Are you convinced, Bell? Do you have any further questions for Father Holdyn?”
“I will confirm that Nelda was Father Holdyn’s sister,” Bell said, “but the only other question I have is to ask if he knew the man Gehard fitzRobert.”
“Gehard fitzRobert,” Holdyn repeated. “I know the name, but I do not know why.” He closed his eyes. “Perhaps my clerk will know. I—I find it hard to think.”
“Can you ride, Father Holdyn?” Bell asked. “I will lend you my palfrey. You cannot walk back to the palace.”
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