The Wandering Arm: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Sharan Newman

  As she was debating this, Hubert arrived and demanded that he be told everything, as a representative of the abbey Saint-Denis, if nothing else. The men were soon huddled over their bowls of beer and a large hunk of cheese that they cut pieces from and ate as they talked.

  Lucia’s face appeared at the door to the brewery. Catherine got up, murmuring an excuse. If she didn’t go, the relic might never be found. None of the men seemed to notice that she took her cloak with her. Bietrix nodded as she walked by.

  “I went past Saint-Étienne on my way home,” Lucia whispered. “It’s almost deserted. Take this lantern. We’ll be back before they know you’re gone.”

  In the courtyard Samson was carrying the casks of new beer down to the cellar. He stopped when he saw them.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he challenged. “Does Mother know you’re out here?”

  “I have an errand to do,” Lucia answered. “We won’t be long.”

  “Better not,” he grunted, lifting the cask again.

  It was a short distance to the church. As Lucia had promised, no one was inside. Even the children were in line to receive their share of the alms. The two women went down the ambulatory and stopped at the door of the crypt.

  It was hanging by one hinge, stuck halfway open. Catherine knew well that there was no one buried down there now. The bishops and saints had all been moved to Saint-Denis or Notre Dame. But the sense of ruin alone made her skin crawl.

  Lucia wasn’t bothered by atmosphere. She stepped over the fallen timbers and started down the steps. Catherine followed, holding the lantern close to the stone to avoid tripping on the debris. The wooden ceiling had collapsed in places and what was left was propped up by crumbling pillars of plaster and wood.

  “Hurry,” Lucia said. “We don’t have much time.”

  They reached the bottom of the steps. To the right were several slabs on which the sarcophagi of great and holy men had once rested. A few were broken, though, the pieces leaning against the pillars. Lucia led Catherine to a far corner, where one burial niche had been built into the wall. She climbed up onto it.

  “We usually brought a blanket,” she commented. “You can hang the lantern on that hook. I’ll need your help.”

  Catherine did as she was told. As she did, she heard a scraping noise from behind her. She gave a small yip.

  “Rats,” Lucia said.

  Catherine waited. The scrape was not repeated. She got into the niche next to Lucia, who was pulling at a stone set into the wall at one end.

  “We found this by accident,” she told Catherine. “I needed something to hang on to and there was an iron ring in here and so I pulled, and, you see?”

  The stone slid out as if greased. Unexpectedly, it was no more than a handbreadth thick. Their heads were in the way of the light so Catherine couldn’t see what was behind, but she had already guessed.

  Lucia took the box from the cavity in the wall. It was no longer nailed shut. The rope was wound around it loosely. Lucia set it on her lap.

  “I should have known at once that he would hide it here,” she said.

  “Shouldn’t we go now?” Catherine said.

  Lucia lifted the box and offered it to Catherine. “I want to see what Natan died for. You open it for me,” she said. “You know what to say.”

  “Lucia, we need a bishop or an abbot at least, for the translation of a relic,” Catherine pleaded. “I think we should take this to Notre Dame and let them take care of it.”

  “No,” Lucia said. “This is my legacy. I want to see it now. Then we’ll give it to whoever you want.”

  “Very well.” Catherine took the box and laid it in her lap. She tried to think of something suitable to say to Aldhelm, if he were in there. Perhaps it would be better to speak to God directly.

  “O Domine,” she chanted softly. “Ego serva tua et filia ancillae tuae.”

  “What did you say?” Lucia asked.

  “‘I am your servant, Lord, and the daughter of your handmaid,’” Catherine said as she opened the box. “You repeat that.”

  Catherine dropped the lid on the floor. It clattered like the coming of the four horsemen.

  “Misericors Dominus et justus et Deus noster miseretur,” Catherine said. “‘God is merciful and just; our God is filled with pity.’ Say it quickly, Lucia.”

  She did, staring in awe. “Do you think that’s your Aldhelm?”

  “Yes.”

  It was nothing more than a crudely carved box, in the form of an arm. There were scratches on it where the gold had been sawn off. At the wrist there was a hole that had once been covered with glass. Inside they could make out a bone.

  Lucia put out her hand, then drew it back. “All the power of the saints should be there, but it looks so helpless now,” she said in wonder.

  “There is power, but not like human strength.” Catherine tried to explain although she wasn’t sure she understood completely herself. “This is more of a promise, a symbol of the person this once was. He’s in heaven now; he doesn’t need this body. We need it, to help us comprehend things that are beyond human experience.”

  “But can’t relics work miracles?” Lucia asked.

  “Of course,” Catherine said. “Edgar told me that a man was cured of dumbness when the fingers of Saint Aldhelm were put in his mouth, and a woman was cured of a shaking in her limbs when she prayed before his tomb. But it’s not the relic that effects the cure, Lucia; it’s God who works a miracle because the saint sees our respect and devotion and asks him to.”

  “Do you think, then, that we could get a miracle for returning Saint Aldhelm?” Lucia said hopefully.

  Hope blazed up in Catherine, too, as the one miracle she wanted leaped into her mind. She put away the thought. “I don’t know.” She shook her head sadly. “But I think we have to return him anyway and try not to look for a reward.”

  Lucia picked up the lid and wrapped the rope around the box again. They started to climb out of the niche.

  “You bitch!”

  Catherine slipped and scraped her hand on the stone. Lucia jerked at the sound of the voice, nearly losing her hold on the box containing the reliquary.

  “You whore, jael, jezebel, gordine, slut!” the voice went on in the dark. “Did you think you could hide your disgusting acts? Did you think such filth wouldn’t be found out?”

  Lucia peered across the crypt. He was out of range of the lantern light but she knew the voice well.

  “Samson,” she said. “What are you saying? Have you gone mad? Why did you follow us here?”

  “I knew that if I watched you long enough, you’d lead me to where he hid it,” her brother answered. “How could you disgrace yourself so as to lie with that infidel?”

  “What disgrace?” Lucia said. “Our mother keeps a brothel, Samson. At least I give myself for love.”

  “That’s even worse,” Samson said. “That just means you’re an idiot as well as a heretic.”

  “Samson.” Catherine hated to interrupt a family discussion but she felt the situation warranted it. “How did you know what Natan hid?”

  “Because it was mine!” Samson said. “I had made the arrangements. All Natan was supposed to do was bring the goods down from Normandy. But that stiff-necked bastard wouldn’t carry anything unless he knew what it was. And then he wanted a bigger share, because of the risk, he said.”

  “And so you killed him,” Catherine said. “You poisoned him because he wanted more money.”

  “No,” Samson said. “I killed him because of her. That oily sneering Jew polluted my sister with his filth. And you let him! You encouraged him, you … you … heretic!”

  Lucia stared at him with loathing. “You couldn’t even fight him like a man,” she said. “You had to poison his beer and send him out into the night to die alone!”

  “I didn’t want him to go that easily,” Samson told her. “It should have taken weeks. I had a special keg just for him. He thought I’d gotten it fro
m Abraham. That stuff wasn’t supposed to kill so quickly. I must have put in too much.” He seemed more angry about that than anything else.

  “I’ll see you hang for this, Samson,” Lucia said. “I’ll let them leave you on the gibbet by the road until the crows have feasted to bursting on you.”

  “No, you won’t, Lucia.” Samson started toward her. “You’ll be swimming in the molten lakes of Hell with your lover long before then.”

  He moved toward Lucia, his hands stretched out to clench around her neck. Catherine tried to move around him but one arm shot out to stop her. She realized that he was strong enough to hold her down with one hand and strangle Lucia with the other.

  Lucia screamed and dropped the box as Samson reached for her.

  “Samson!”

  Catherine sighed in relief. It had been so long since she had heard the noise from the corner that she wasn’t certain he really had followed them. Samson swung around to face his new attacker, brushing against one of the pillars as he did so. He pulled his knife out of his belt.

  “Is this your new lover?” he asked Lucia. “I should have guessed. I saw the way he looked at you. Even better, then. They’ll find your bodies here in the morning and he’ll be the one who’s accused.”

  “You aren’t going to touch them,” Solomon said, stepping between Samson and Catherine.

  “And how will you stop me?” Samson laughed. “With your fists?”

  “No,” Solomon said. “With this.”

  The knife gleamed in the lamplight. Samson stared at it in disbelief.

  “Jews aren’t allowed to carry weapons,” he said.

  “Yes, I know,” Solomon answered easily. “I’m under the protection of the king. But I decided I would forgo the honor and learn to defend myself. Now, would you like me to show you what I’ve learned, or shall the four of us go back outside and send for the watch? I’d pick the latter, Samson. You can’t kill the three of us at once.”

  “Oh, can’t I?” he said.

  He took a step back and shoved with all his might against the pillar behind him. It seemed to Catherine that it took forever to fall and yet she was incapable of moving while it did.

  The pillar crashed down, bringing the floor above with it. Lucia screamed. Solomon leaped to one side to avoid being crushed and landed in front of Samson. Behind him the space where Catherine and Lucia had been standing was covered in debris. Dust rose in the light of the lamp Catherine had left hanging on the wall.

  Samson stood staring in awe at the damage he had wrought. Solomon never found out what he was thinking at that moment. He didn’t give Samson a chance to tell him. With one long sweep of his arm, Solomon drove the knife into Samson’s gut, just as he had been taught, below the rib cage and up to the heart.

  Samson looked down at the knife, puzzled. Then he toppled over, falling with solid finality. Solomon moved back to avoid being crushed. For a moment all he could do was wonder how in the world he would get the knife back. Then his brain cleared and he turned his attention to the pile of rubble behind him.

  “Catherine!” he screamed.

  There was no answer.

  Twenty

  The crypt of the church of Saint-Étienne, a moment later

  Absistamus … poenarum exhaustim satis est, via facta per hostis.

  Let us depart … The punishment is complete; a way is

  created through the enemy.

  —Virgil, Aeneid Book IX

  Solomon. began to pull at the pieces of wood and concrete that had fallen, calling all the while.

  A voice came down from above. “Anybody hurt?”

  Solomon looked up. A pale face peered over the edge of the hole.

  “There are two women trapped under here!” he shouted. “Get help.”

  “Probably no use.” The man did not seem inclined to move. “Kin of yours?”

  “My cousin,” Solomon said. “Now either you go get help or I’ll climb up there and break your neck.”

  “No need to get in a state,” the man said. The face vanished.

  Solomon had no idea if the man had gone for help or simply vanished. He had no time to consider. His hands were scraped and full of slivers. Each board he moved shook the ones underneath and he feared that he might send the rubble down to crush Catherine and Lucia, if it hadn’t already.

  “Catherine!” he called again, his voice hoarse with dust and emotion. “Catherine! Answer me!”

  How long had it been? Why was no one coming to help?

  “Catherine, listen to me!” he shouted. “I’m sorry I teased you. I’m sorry I laughed when you fell in the mud last week. I’m sorry I pushed you out of the tree when you were five! I promise I’ll never make fun of you again! Just let me know you’re alive!”

  Nothing.

  He went on moving the pieces. In the lantern light he didn’t notice the foot, grey with dust. He grabbed it and recoiled when his fingers met soft flesh instead of rock.

  The foot wiggled.

  “Catherine? Lucia?” Solomon worked his way up the leg, removing the debris more carefully. The boards and cement slabs lay at odd angles, leaning against each other instead of on top of the body. As he reached the knee, Solomon noticed the material of a second bliaut draped over it. The women had fallen together, huddled to fend off the world crashing down on them.

  “Catherine! Lucia!” Solomon called again. “Can you hear me?”

  He felt their skin. They were alive, at least, but unconscious. Carefully, he lifted off the tented fragments covering their heads.

  Lucia and Catherine were curled face to face under the pillar Samson had pushed over. Between them, standing upright, was the box holding the arm of St. Aldhelm. The box itself had split and the reliquary had cracked. One piece of bone, a fingertip, pressed against the pillar, keeping it from crushing the women beneath.

  “That’s impossible,” Solomon said.

  Gently he pulled Lucia and Catherine out of the rubble. He left the arm where it was.

  As he lifted her, Catherine stirred and began to cough. “Edgar?”

  “He’ll be here soon,” Solomon told her. “Are you all right? Can you move your limbs?”

  “I don’t know.” Catherine tried to get up. “Dizzy. Let me sit here. Where’s Lucia?”

  “She’s here next to you, still unconscious,” Solomon said. “I can’t find any injuries, though.”

  “What happened?” Catherine rubbed her forehead. “Lucia and I, we found the arm. I wanted to take it to Edgar, then something … someone …” The memory returned. She looked around in panic. “Samson! Where is he?”

  “Dead,” Solomon said. “Don’t worry about him anymore.”

  Finally, there came the sound of footsteps clattering above, then leaping down the steps.

  “Catherine!”

  She reached out her arms to him.

  “Damn you, Catherine.” Edgar sniffed as he gathered her up. “Don’t you ever do this to me again.” He turned to Solomon. “I thought Catherine was taking a long time in the privy,” he said. “And went to see if she’d fallen in. I ran into some idiot in the court who said there were two women trapped in the crypt. Who else could it be?”

  He rubbed his cheek against the head lying on his shoulder. Catherine looked up and smiled.

  “We found your saint for you,” she said. “He saved our lives. Strange that one never receives the miracle one expects.”

  Edgar felt her forehead. “Is she delirious?” he asked.

  Solomon only pointed to the arm balanced between the floor and the pillar.

  Slowly Edgar lowered Catherine to the ground and stayed there on his knees.

  “Halig Aldhelm, giefe thane for mines wifes lif.”

  Solomon was still trying to wake Lucia. “Is anyone else coming?” he asked Edgar.

  “I told the man to go to the tavern and tell everyone to come help,” Edgar answered, without taking his eyes from the arm. “They should be here soon. Funny. I thought it would glo
w or something.”

  “I don’t know why Lucia won’t come round,” Solomon worried. “She doesn’t seem to have been hit on the head. I can’t find any injuries at all. Her breathing is regular. It’s as if she’s asleep.”

  “Kiss her,” Catherine said.

  “What?”

  “It works in the old tales,” she told him. “If there are miracles, why not magic?”

  It was clear that she was still dazed by her experience. Nevertheless, Solomon bent over and gave Lucia a kiss.

  Her eyelids fluttered open. “Natan?”

  So much for magic.

  Solomon helped her to sit. She looked around, confused as Catherine had been. She saw the body.

  “Samson,” she said. “What happened to him? Is he dead?”

  “Yes,” Solomon answered.

  There was a clatter above and the rumble of voices. Edgar pulled himself away from Saint Aldhelm and turned his attention to the body.

  “Samson killed Natan?” he asked Solomon.

  “Yes, he confessed to it,” Solomon answered.

  “What about Gaudry and Odo?” Edgar asked. “Did he murder them, too?”

  “I don’t know. I suspect so, but on orders from someone. We’ll probably never know for certain.”

  Edgar saw the pool of blood seeping out from under Samson’s body. “How did he die?” he asked.

  “Knife,” Solomon answered.

  “He was going to kill us,” Catherine added. “Solomon stopped him.”

  “Thank you,” Edgar said.

  “It was no trouble,” Solomon said. “Can you help me turn him? I’m fond of that knife.”

  They managed to roll the body over and retrieve the knife.

  “You’re not supposed to have this,” Edgar said.

  “So Samson told me,” Solomon said.

  Catherine understood. “So you couldn’t have killed him,” she told her cousin.

  “That’s right,” Edgar said, taking the knife. “I did it. He attacked my wife and I had to stop him.”

  Solomon’s lips tightened. He understood, too. “Of course,” he said. “It doesn’t matter what Samson was or what he did. He could be the devil himself, but people would only see a Christian body and a Jew with a knife.”