The Wandering Arm: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Sharan Newman

  Edgar wasn’t aware of the passage of time, or of the winter day outside. He was dripping with sweat and had tied his hair back with a strip of cloth to keep it from falling into his eyes. His leather braies were spotted with cinder burns and specks of metal. There was a knot between his shoulder blades that he knew would ache all night. As he hunched over the table, he wondered how long it would take before he became as stooped as Odo.

  Gaudry had been setting him tests all day. Edgar doubted that anything he had done would survive the afternoon. He wondered if the artisan distrusted him or just wanted to be sure he had some skill before giving him a real piece of work. This test was the most difficult so far. Baruch had explained to him how the organarium worked, but there had been no time to even practice with it.

  It was a device for turning a long strip of silver or gold into beads. Two hinged iron pieces, the bottom one fixed to a block of wood for stability, were set up so that the metal could be placed in a groove between the iron. When it was positioned properly, Edgar gave the top piece a sharp blow with the broad end of his hammer, then carefully turned the silver and hit again. He opened the mold and took out a bead the size of a pea. He set it in a wooden bowl next to him. Then he moved the metal another space and repeated the process.

  “There.” He showed them to Gaudry. “Ten silver beads, not a crack in them.”

  Gaudry looked at the collection with no sign of interest. “Took you long enough,” he said. “A bit lopsided, as well. Still”—he forestalled Edgar’s denial—“they’ll do. Can you twist wire in the English fashion, say to rim a chalice with?”

  Edgar nodded. “I know the patterns. But I have never fixed them to other metal.”

  “I’ll do that part, if you can twist the wire without breaking it.” Gaudry looked around the small workroom, as if hunting another task to test him with.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Ah, about time,” Gaudry muttered. He turned to Edgar. “Clean up your bench. Scrape all the bits of silver into the bowl and then wash the ash off them. I know the weight of my goods, young man, so don’t try carrying anything off with you. I’ll take you on by the day, tell you each night if I’ll need you again. Two sous a day, instead of by the piece, one for the work and the other to keep your mouth shut.”

  His openness startled Edgar.

  “I’ll say nothing,” he assured Gaudry. “I want no trouble from the guilds.”

  The pounding at the door grew more insistent. Edgar bent again over the table, swiftly putting the handful of deniers Gaudry had given him into the bag at his neck. Gaudry opened the door.

  “Where have you been … ?” he began. “Oh, it’s you. What are you doing here? Where’s that blasted peddler?”

  Edgar couldn’t hear the response. Gaudry had gone out into the passage with his visitor and shut the door behind him. There was silence for a moment; then the door was flung open and Gaudry shouted at Odo’s retreating back.

  “By the burning furnace and roasted pig’s feet of Saint Blaise, I don’t care what happened!” he roared. “You find it at once or we’ll all be ruined.”

  Edgar bent to his work and tried to appear deaf to anything else. As he scraped up the silver bits he wondered what was lost and who the missing peddler might be. Could it have anything to do with the chalice Solomon had found? Had Gaudry been hired to make a replacement for it without knowing why? Or was he even more deeply involved in the trade in church regalia? On the other hand, none of this might have anything to do with his mission. The peddler could be one who traded in jewels and precious stones. His failure to deliver his goods could mean a commission not finished in time. That would be enough to anger Gaudry. Still, this was the only lead Edgar had discovered so far and, he reflected, it was the only job he had been offered.

  He would be back tomorrow, whether Gaudry needed him or not.

  Johannah’s greeting to Solomon and Catherine was subdued.

  “We had intended to celebrate the holiday with our neighbors,” she said. “But it seemed inappropriate considering what has happened, so we are alone today. I’m glad you came. It’s good to have family with us in times of trouble.”

  They followed her into the main hall. Eliazar sat by the fire, staring into the flames. He looked up when they entered and gave a sad smile.

  “A poor feast it would be,” he said, “if there were no one to share it with us. Purim should be a joyous time, when we remember how one young woman saved her people. I’m sorry you came instead to a house afflicted by such a death.”

  “We came to help,” Catherine said, kissing him.

  “And to eat,” Solomon added.

  “Of course,” Eliazar said, adding, “I’m not sure that a man who hardly ever shows his face at the synagogue should be allowed to share the feast.”

  Solomon wasn’t concerned. “I was taking care of Catherine,” he said. “And saving you from a visit from Canon Andrew.”

  “Oh, no! That would have been all I needed.” Eliazar wiped his forehead in relief. “That man torments me with his questions. Very well, you have done a good day’s work on both counts. You’ve earned your keep.”

  Just as they were sitting down to eat, there was a commotion in the kitchen and Lucia burst through the door.

  “What is this about a man being murdered in your cellar last night?” she demanded.

  Johannah rose to calm her. “We don’t know that he was murdered, dear. A man did die there, but we’ve done all the purification we can and the body has been removed, of course. He came in through the tunnel door, which had been left unbarred. You didn’t happen to leave it that way, did you?”

  Lucia looked bewildered. “Tunnel door?” she repeated. “Do you mean there’s some underground passage down there? And you let me make up a bed in the storeroom without telling me? Saint Cecelia’s angelic lover! I could have been raped!”

  “The door is normally barred, Lucia,” Johannah said. “Nothing could have harmed you. We still don’t know how Natan got in.”

  “Natan?” Lucia went pale and grabbed at the nearest object, which happened to be Catherine’s shoulder. “Natan,” she whispered.

  Her fingers dug through Catherine’s wool bliaut, causing her to wince at the pain. Lucia felt the movement and released her at once.

  “Do you mean the man who visited here last year?” she asked, her voice still shaking. “I thought he had finished his business with you.”

  “He had,” Eliazar said. “His death has nothing to do with us.”

  “Then why was he in your cellar?” Lucia asked.

  They all looked at Eliazar.

  “I tell you, I don’t know,” he answered. “I mean to find out, however.”

  “How did he die?” Lucia asked.

  There was a pause. Johannah finally answered. “We don’t know for certain. He may have had some sort of attack, something he ate, perhaps.”

  “Poison,” Lucia said. She crossed herself hurriedly.

  “We’re not sure of that,” Eliazar said firmly. “But even if it were, he didn’t eat it here. Now, Lucia, will you serve the meal?”

  “I will not,” she answered. “I don’t want to work in a place where people die without warning. And I especially don’t like it that I had to hear this from the milk peddler, instead of from you.”

  “Lucia, I apologize,” Johannah told her. “We are all very upset by this, as you can imagine. We hoped to spare you. Now, please, bring in the dinner. If you like, you may go home afterwards. Catherine and I will do the cleaning.”

  Lucia considered a moment. “Very well,” she said. “But I can’t promise to be here tomorrow. I need to ask my mother about this.”

  Johannah managed a smile. “That’s a good, dutiful girl. I’m sure she’ll understand that Natan’s death was an unfortunate accident and that you wouldn’t want to give up a good place too rashly.”

  “I don’t know what she’ll understand,” Lucia warned. “I’m already berated enough
for working for Jews.” She turned and went back to the kitchen.

  Catherine leaned over to Johannah and whispered, “Do you think she’ll really leave?”

  Johannah shook her head, although she seemed worried. “I pay her three times what she would get in a Christian establishment; I don’t think her mother will let her give that up. I hope not. It’s not easy to get anyone to serve in a Jewish home.”

  Lucia brought the meal in silence and it was eaten without appetite. Even Solomon couldn’t summon any enthusiasm, even for honey cakes.

  As she cleared away the last platter, Lucia faced Johannah. “I’ve thought it over,” she said. “If Mother will allow it, I’ll stay. But I’m not going into that cellar and if I hear or see anything strange, any howls or cold fingers on my neck, I’m leaving.”

  “If that happens, Lucia, I may leave, too,” Johannah assured her. “Thank you.”

  After the servant had left, Catherine and Johannah found themselves with the greasy pots and platters.

  “You don’t have to help,” Johannah insisted feebly.

  “I don’t mind at all,” Catherine said. “I’ll go draw some water.”

  The light in the courtyard slanted toward sunset, but Catherine judged that it would be a while yet until sundown. Better to keep busy here than wait and worry for Edgar alone in their room.

  She had just reentered the kitchen, carrying the full bucket, when there came a thumping from the cellar.

  “Mother of God, protect me!” Catherine cried and dropped the bucket.

  “Let me in!” a voice called.

  Johannah and Catherine looked at each other, Johannah’s hand moving quickly in the sign to ward off evil. The water splashed across the wood floor unheeded. Finally, Johannah found her voice.

  “I think this time we should call your uncle,” she said. “Go fetch him.”

  By a supreme force of will, Catherine made her legs move her into the hall.

  “Solomon, Uncle!” she gulped as they looked, puzzled, at her wet skirts. “Something, down there!”

  They were past her and down the stairs at once.

  Johannah and Catherine followed, each armed with a candle and a crockery pitcher.

  “Eliazar, open the door!” the voice called again.

  This time Catherine recognized it. “Father!” she called.

  Solomon unbarred the door to Hubert. He stood in the passageway, holding a torch.

  “I wasn’t sure this was the right door,” he said. “I don’t see how Natan could have found it last night, ill and without light.”

  “Hubert, how did you learn of this?” Eliazar asked.

  “Edgar,” Hubert said. “He found me down at the quai and told me what happened. I took the passage that comes out under the Grand Pont. I made more than one wrong turn before I found markings I thought I knew. Did you show Natan the way here?”

  “No,” Eliazar said decidedly. “I always made him come through the gate when he visited. Of course, he may have found his own way. He grew up here, too.”

  “When did you see Edgar?” Catherine asked.

  “A little after Nones,” Hubert said absently. He shook his head. “I don’t understand why, if Natan were ill, he would try to come here. Why not his nephew’s home?”

  “Why take the tunnels at all?” Eliazar said. “Natan was a man who always refused to take the straightest way. He had as many twists as the Seine. It’s like him to confound us even by his death. We may never know the truth of it.”

  The torchlight distorted Hubert’s face but Catherine thought she saw fear in it. That chilled her more than the thought of ghosts and demons.

  “I think we should try to find out,” Hubert said. “The labyrinth down here is nothing, I fear, to the one we’ve become tangled in out in the world. I’ve had a number of visitors in the past few days, from Saint-Denis and beyond. May I come in?”

  As they moved to let him by, Hubert noticed something.

  “Why is there water dripping down the staircase?” he asked.

  Edgar hadn’t intended on seeing Catherine’s father. When Gaudry had released him, he had hurried home to her, with thoughts of various warming activities speeding his path. The disappointment he felt at finding the room empty amazed him. She hadn’t even left the pasties warming over the coals. Where could she have gone?

  Edgar sighed and put his gloves back on. Unknowingly, he echoed Catherine’s thought that any activity was better than waiting.

  He had found Hubert supervising the unloading of wine casks from a raft tied up at the Grève. At first his father-in-law had answered distractedly, but when Edgar mentioned Natan’s death, Hubert immediately gave him his full attention.

  “Is Catherine all right?” Hubert gave a short, humorless laugh. “I seem to ask you that every time we meet.”

  “With good reason,” Edgar sighed. “Yes, she was when I left her this morning.”

  “Good. Now tell me again about Natan,” Hubert said.

  Edgar repeated the story, keeping only to what he knew and leaving out any speculations. When he finished, Hubert called to one of his men to take over the work.

  “I don’t like this,” he said. “I don’t like it at all. I have to talk with my brother. Will you and Catherine be in tonight?”

  “I suppose so,” Edgar said. “We generally go to bed soon after dark.”

  “As do we all,” Hubert said. “I want to speak with both of you. I’ll come as early as I can. Oh yes, and I also would like to speak with that friend of yours, the man from Salisbury who studied with Abelard. I see him now and again, over by Sainte-Genéviève, sometimes with Master Gilbert or Master Robert.”

  “You mean John?” Edgar asked.

  “Yes, John, that’s right.” Hubert seemed annoyed at forgetting the name. Edgar had not been aware that he knew John at all. “Can you ask him to meet me at your room?”

  “If I can find him, I will,” Edgar said.

  So now he was combing the streets, looking for his friend John as well as keeping an eye out for his wife. He hoped he’d find one of them soon. It was growing dark and he was cold and hungry. While he felt obliged to fulfill Hubert’s commission, Edgar rather hoped it would be Catherine he found first.

  Although he disliked admitting it, especially to himself, Edgar had always been a little in awe of John. It didn’t seem logical; Edgar’s family had pretensions of royal blood and John’s were only country people, servants of the Salisbury canons. But Edgar had always known that while he was just a student, John was a scholar. Also, unlike most of Edgar’s friends, John took his clerical status seriously and kept his vow of chastity. It was only John’s sense of humor and their shared attachment to their English roots that allowed them to be friends.

  It was on his second crossing of the Petit Pont that Edgar noticed John, bundled to the nose, his wax tablet on his lap, sitting in a corner out of the wind to listen to Adam of the Bridge expound on Aristotle. When there was a pause in the lecture for debate, Edgar slid in next to his friend.

  “Just as I thought,” he said. “The tablet is just for effect. Any notes you made today would crack the wax to slivers.”

  John’s eyes crinkled with amusement. He pulled his scarf from over his mouth.

  “You’ve found me out,” he laughed. “I don’t think Master Adam realizes it, though. He’ll wonder all night how I plan to refute him tomorrow. How are you?”

  “Well enough,” Edgar told him. “Are you teaching your noble ninnies this afternoon or can you come home with me? Catherine has promised cabbage pie and mulled ale.”

  “I did my teaching this morning,” John said. “Mulled ale sounds like heaven. I believe I’ve lost all feeling in my toes.” He stood and shook his feet, stamping them until the warmth returned. “Actually,” he said as they headed across the Île, “I wanted to discuss something with you. Did you know that the empress captured King Stephen at Lincoln last month on the Feast of the Purification?”

  “No, th
e news hadn’t reached me,” Edgar admitted. “It’s a Norman war; I don’t pay much attention. Has the king been ransomed yet?”

  “Not that I’ve heard,” John replied. “And I do follow the events at home. But I have learned something else that touches on what we were speaking of at my last visit.”

  “What was that?”

  “About the time Stephen was in control of Salisbury,” John said. “You were right, his candidate for the bishopric took a few souvenirs away with him. And now I understand that some of these things have made their way to France. The canons of Salisbury want them back. One thing in particular. But there is a problem. Philippe is reported to have lost it. Will you help us recover this object for Salisbury?”

  “Of course,” Edgar answered. “What is it that’s missing?”

  John refused to say. “When we are inside,” he warned. “I may have already said too much.”

  He looked over his shoulder. Edgar did as well. A beggar held out his bowl to them.

  “A crust for God’s mercy?” he pleaded.

  John stopped and threw him a coin. They continued on.

  A moment later something made Edgar turn around and look again.

  The beggar was gone.

  Eight

  The room above the weaver’s, the same day, just past Vespers

  Collecto itaque copioso decentissimae militiae cuneo, … pulchram illam et delectabilem circa Salesbiriam omniumque bonorum refertissimam provinciam exterminare aggreditur; captis quoque et direptis quaecumque eis occurrerant, in domibus et in templis iniecerunt … .

  So with a collection of many well-armed knights, … [King

  Stephen] attacks and destroys the lovely and fine area around

  Salisbury, full of all good things; they fell upon and

  plundered everything they found, set fire to homes and

  churches …

  —Gesta Stephani

  Catherine had forgotten about the ale and cabbage pies. It had been that sort of day.