An Excellent Mystery (22 page)

Nicholas
Harnage, with the list of Julian Cruce’s valuables in his pouch, went doggedly
about the city of Winchester, enquiring wherever such articles might have
surfaced, whether stolen, sold or given in reverence. And he had begun with the
highest, the Holy Father’s representative in England, the Prince-Bishop of
Winchester, Henry of Blois, just shaking together his violated dignity and
emerging with formidable resolution into the field of discussion, as if he had
never changed and rechanged his coat, nor been shut up fast in his own castle
in his own city, in peril of his life. It took a deal of persistence to get
admission to his lordship’s presence, but Nicholas, in his present cause, had
persistence enough to force his way through even these prickly defences.

“Do
you trouble me with such trifles?” Bishop Henry had demanded, after perusing,
with a blackly frowning countenance, the list Nicholas presented to him. “I
know nothing of any such tawdry trinkets. None of these have I ever seen, none
belongs to any house of worship known here to me. What is there here to concern
me?”

“My
lord, there is a lady’s life,” said Nicholas, stung. “She intended what she
never achieved, a life of dedication in the abbey of Wherwell. Before ever
reaching there she was lost, and what I intend is to find her, if she lives,
and avenge her, if she is dead. And only by these, as you say, tawdry trinkets
can I hope to trace her.”

“In
that,” said the bishop shortly, “I cannot help you. I tell you certainly, none
of these things ever came into the possession of the Old Minster, nor of any
church or convent under my supervision. But you may enquire where you will
among other houses in this city, and say that I have sanctioned your search.
That is all I can do.”

And
with that Nicholas had had to be content, and indeed it did give him a
considerable authority, should he be questioned as to what right he had in the
matter. However eclipsed for a time, Henry of Blois would rise again like the
phoenix, as formidable as ever, and the fire that had all but consumed him
could be relied upon to scorch whoever dared his enmity afterwards.

From
church to church and priest to priest Nicholas carried his list, and found
nothing but shaken heads and helplessly knitted brows everywhere, even where
there was manifest goodwill towards him. No house of religion surviving in
Winchester knew anything of the twin candlesticks, the stone-studded cross or
the silver pyx that had been a part of Julian Grace’s dowry. There was no
reason to doubt their word, they had no reason to lie, none even to
prevaricate.

There
remained the streets, the shops of goldsmiths, silversmiths, even the casual
market-traders who would buy and sell whatever came to hand. Nicholas began the
systematic examination of them all, and in so rich a city, with so wealthy a
clientele of lofty churchmen and rich foundations, they were many.

Thus
he came, on the morning of this same day when Brother Humilis entreated passage
to the place of his birth, into a small, scarred shop in the High Street, close
under the shadow of Saint Maurice’s church. The frontage had suffered in the
fires, and the silversmith had rigged a shuttered opening like a fairground
booth, and drawn his workbench close to it, to have the full daylight on his
work. The raised shutter overhead protected his face from glare, but let in the
morning shine to the brooch he was handling, and the fine stones he was setting
in it. A man in his prime, probably well-fleshed when times were good, but now
somewhat shrunken after the privations of the long siege, for his skin hung on
him flaccid and greyish, like a too-large coat on a fasting man. He looked up
alertly through a forelock of greying hair, and asked if he could serve the
gentleman.

“I
begin to think it a thin enough chance,” admitted Nicholas ruefully, “but at
least let’s make the assay. I am hunting for word, any word, of certain pieces
of church plate and ornaments that went astray in these parts three years ago.
Do you handle such things?”

“I
handle anything of gold or silver. I have made church plate in my time. But
three years is a long while. What is so notable about them? Stolen, you think?
I deal in no suspect goods. If there’s anything dubious about what’s offered, I
never touch it.”

“There
need not have been anything here to deter you. True enough they might have been
stolen, but there need be nothing to tell you so. They belonged to no southern
church or convent, they were brought from Shropshire, and most likely made in
that region, and to a man like you they’d be recognisable as northern work. The
crosses might well be old, and Saxon.”

“And
what are these items? Read me your list. My memory is not infallible, but I may
recall, even after three years.”

Nicholas
went through the list slowly, watching for a gleam of recognition. “A pair of
silver candlesticks with tall sconces entwined with vines, with snuffers
attached by silver chains, these also decorated with vine-leaves. Two crosses
made to match in silver, the larger a standing cross a man’s hand in height, on
a three-stepped silver pedestal, the other a small replica on a neck-chain for
a priest’s wear, both ornamented with semi-precious stones, yellow pebble,
agate and amethyst…”

“No,”
said the silversmith, shaking his head decidedly, “those I should not have
forgotten. Nor the candlesticks, either.”

“…
a small silver pyx engraved with ferns…”

“No.
Sir, I recall none of these. If I had still my books I could look back for you.
The clerk who kept them for me was always exact, he could find you every item
even after years. But they’re gone, every record, in the fire. It was all we
could do to rescue the best of my stock, the books are all ash.”

The
common fate in Winchester this summer, Nicholas thought resignedly. The most
meticulous of book-keepers would abandon his records when his life was at risk,
and if he had time to take anything but his life with him, he would certainly
snatch up the most precious of his goods, and let the parchments go. It seemed
hardly worth listing the small personal things which had belonged to Julian,
for they would be less memorable. He was hesitating whether to persist when a
narrow door opened and let in light from a yard behind the shop, and a woman
came in.

When
the outer door was closed behind her she vanished again briefly into the
dimness of the interior, but once more emerged into light as she approached her
husband’s bench and the bright sunlight of the street, and leaned forward to
set a beaker of ale ready at the silversmith’s right hand. She looked up, as
she did so, at Nicholas, with candid and composed interest, a good-looking
woman some years younger than her husband. Her face was still shadowed by the
awning that protected her husband’s eyes, but her hand emerged fully into the
sun as she laid the cup down, a pale, shapely hand cut off startlingly at the
wrist by the black sleeve.

Nicholas
stood staring in fascination at that hand, so fixedly that she remained still
in wonder, and did not withdraw it from the light. On the little finger, too
small, perhaps, to go over the knuckle of any other, was a ring, wider than was
common, its edge showing silver, but its surface so closely patterned with
coloured enamels that the metal was hidden. The design was of tiny flowers with
four spread petals, the florets alternately yellow and blue, spiked between
with small green leaves. Nicholas gazed at it in disbelief, as at a miraculous
apparition, but it remained clear and unmistakable. There could not be two
such. Its value might not be great, but the workmanship and imagination that
had created it set it apart from all others.

“I
pray your pardon, madam!” he said, stammering as he drew his wits together.
“But that ring… May I know where it came from?”

Both
husband and wife were looking at him intently now, surprised but not troubled.

“It
was come by honestly,” she said, and smiled in mild amusement at his gravity.
“It was brought in for sale some years back, and since I liked it, my husband
gave it to me.”

“When
was this? Believe me, I have good reasons for asking.”

“It
was three years back,” said the silversmith readily. “In the summer, but the
date… that I can’t be sure of now.”

“But
I can,” said his wife, and laughed. “And shame on you for forgetting, for it
was my birthday, and that was how I wooed the ring out of you. And my birthday,
sir, is the twentieth day of August. Three years I’ve had this pretty thing.
The bailiffs wife wanted my husband to copy it for her once, but I wouldn’t
have it. This must still be the only one of its kind. Primrose and periwinkle…
such soft colours!” She turned her hand in the sun to admire the glow of the
enamels. “The other pieces that came with it were sold, long ago. But they were
not so fine as this.”

“There
were other pieces that came with it?” demanded Nicholas.

“A
necklace of polished pebbles,” said the smith, “I remember it now. And a silver
bracelet chased with tendrils of pease — or it might have been vetch.”

The
ring alone would have been enough; these three together were certainty. The
three small items of personal jewellery belonging to Julian Cruce had been
brought into this shop for sale on the twentieth of August, three years ago.
The first clear echo, and its note was wholly sinister.

“Master
silversmith,” said Nicholas, “I had not completed the tale of all I sought.
These three things came south, to my certain knowledge, in the keeping of a
lady who was bound for Wherwell, but never reached her destination.”

“Do
you tell me so?” The smith had paled, and was gazing warily and doubtfully at
his visitor. “I bought the things honestly, I’ve done nothing amiss, and know
nothing, beyond that some fellow, decent enough to all appearance, brought them
in here openly for sale…”

“Oh,
no, don’t mistake me! I don’t doubt your good faith, but see, you are the first
I have found that even may help me to discover what is become of the lady.
Think back, tell me, who was this man who came? What like was he? What age,
what style of man? He was not known to you?”

“Never
seen before nor since,” said the silversmith, cautiously relieved, but not sure
that telling too much might not somehow implicate him in dangerous business. “A
man much of my years, fifty he might be. Ordinary enough, plain in his dress, I
took him for what he claimed, a servant sent on an errand.”

The
woman did better. She was much interested by this time, and saw no reason to
fear involvement, and some sympathetic cause to help, insofar as she could. She
had a sharper eye for a man than had her husband, and was disposed to approve
of Nicholas and desire his goodwill.

“A
solid, square-made man he was,” she said, “brown as his leather coat. That was
not a hot summer like this, his brown was the everlasting kind that would only
yellow a little in winter, the kind that comes with living out of doors
year-round — forester or huntsman, perhaps. Brown-bearded, brown-haired but for
his crown, he was balding. He had a bold, oaken face on him, and a quick eye. I
should never have remembered him so well, but that he was the one who brought
my ring. But I tell you what, I fancy he remembered me for a good while. He
gave me long enough looks before he left the shop.”

She
was used to that, being well aware that she was handsome, and it was one more
reason why she had recalled the man so well. Good reason, also, for paying
close attention to all she had to say of him.

Nicholas
swallowed burning bitterness. It was not the fifty years, nor the beard, nor
the bald crown, nor even the weathered hide that identified the man, for
Nicholas had never seen Adam Heriet. It was the whole circumstance, possession
of the jewellery, the evidence of the date, the fact that the other three had
been left in Andover, and in any case Nicholas had seen them for himself, and
none of them resembled this description. The fourth man, the devoted servant,
the fifty-year-old huntsman and forester, a stout man of his hands, a man
Waleran of Meulan would think himself lucky to get… yes, every word Nicholas
had heard said of Adam Heriet fitted with what this woman had to say of the man
who had sold Julian’s jewels.

“I
did question possession,” said the silversmith, still uneasy, “seeing they were
clearly a lady’s property. I asked how he came by them, and why he was offering
them for sale. He said he was simply a servant sent on an errand, his business
to do as he was told, and he had too much sense to quibble over it, seeing
whoever questioned the orders that man gave might find himself short of his
ears, or with a back striped like a tabby cat. I could well believe it, there
are many such masters. He was quite easy about it, why should I be less so?”

“Why,
indeed!” said Nicholas heavily. “So you bought, and he departed. Did he argue
over the price?”

“No,
he said his orders were to sell, he was no valuer and was not expected to be.
He took what I gave. It was a fair price.”

With
room for a fair profit, no doubt, but why not? Silversmiths were not in the
business to dole out charity to chance vendors.

“And
was that all? He left you so?”

“He
was going, when I did call after him, and asked him what was become of the lady
who had worn these things, and had she no further use for them, and he turned
back in the doorway and looked at me, and said no, for such she had no further
use at all, for that this lady who had owned them was dead.”