Roberta Gellis (11 page)

“She was standing when she was stabbed,” Bell said, frowning.

The blow that broke her collarbone should surely have knocked her down. And would she not have screamed her head off from the pain? Unless—was not the bruising fainter than it should be for such a blow? Could Bertrild’s collarbone have been broken
after
she was stabbed? If Sabina thrust at her at the same moment that Mainard used a knife…. Yes, that was possible: Bertrild rushed toward Sabina to attack her; Sabina thrust at her with her staff; and Mainard struck out with his belt knife. And Brother Samuel’s next remark did nothing to cause him to dismiss his thought.

“Yes, she was standing or possibly even coming toward her attacker. The front of her overtunic is also stained.”

Brother Samuel laid aside the cloak and shook out the overtunic. The front was also bloodied, but not as much as Bell would have expected. However, that was not nearly as surprising as the tears where the knife with the curved tip had gone in. Those tears were hardly bloodstained at all; maybe a slight smear right along the edge but even that was hard to see. Bell fingered two of the cuts.

“Did her shift and undertunic soak up the blood?” But even as he said the words, Bell shook his head.

The flesh had been torn by the curved tip of the knife. Had Bertrild been alive when those wounds were made, they would have bled freely, especially as the knife had been ripped from the flesh and used a second and a third time. And who would stand close and allow a second and third wound to be inflicted?

“Those wounds were made after she was dead,” the monk said, and sighed.

“But why?” Bell protested, “That is quite mad.”

Brother Samuel slowly shook his head. “Hatred,” he said again. “Hatred can amount to possession by the devil.”

There could be no doubt that Sabina had hated Bertrild, but Bell found it very difficult to believe that her hatred could be so strong she would stab a corpse. And what he had been imagining would have required the complicity of Codi and the two boys. Well, Codi had been terribly distraught and the elder apprentice, Gisel, had been sick and shaken, but the younger one seemed to be only frightened
by the distress of his companions. Bell could not really believe that those three had been witness to a violent murder. Unless they had been sent out into the shop to be away from Bertrild’s and Mainard’s quarrel and were not witness to it…Mainard was surely strong enough to carry his wife’s body out into the yard.

Could he have missed bloodstains on the floor of the workroom? Bell wondered. He might have done, thinking them stains of dye or oil. Or had the floor been covered with rushes? Had the rushes been fresh? Bell’s lips tightened against an obscenity. He had been so busy looking at the yard, at the place where Gisel found the body, that he had hardly taken in the workroom at all, except to notice that there was no disorder. Could that have been the reason that the body was carried out to the yard? To delude a careful examiner that Bertrild had
not
been killed there?

Fresh rushes or not, there would be no scrubbing blood-stains out of a wooden floor, Bell told himself grimly. The marks would be there when he returned.

While he was thinking, he had examined the remainder of Bertrild’s clothing, determined not to be careless again, but he had only assured himself that the monk had not misread any signs. He then asked Brother Samuel when he thought Bertrild had been killed.

“She was hard as a rock when she was brought here,” Brother Samuel said, turning back toward the corpse. “That was closer to Tierce than to Prime. I would guess she must have died before Vespers.”

“Before Vespers?” If Bertrild had been killed before Vespers, Mainard and Sabina were out of it. At that time they had been at Pers Newelyne’s house in the West Chepe. “Not nearer to Matins?” he asked anxiously.

“Well, sometimes the hardening comes faster, sometimes slower, but when the weather is mild or warm it is more likely to be slower than faster. It is barely possible that she died near Matins, but see?” He touched Bertrild’s index finger, and the flesh dented ever so slightly; also the tip flattened. “Of course, it is never possible to be sure, but I think the stiffness is beginning to pass off, so I would say it is more likely that she was killed well before Vespers, maybe even near Nones rather than near Matins.”

“If that is so, Brother, I will be well pleased,” Bell said cheerfully. “Her husband, whom my friend wants to be innocent, was in the West Chepe at the christening feast of a friend’s child between noon and Compline and could not be responsible for his wife’s death before Vespers.”

“But someone was,” the monk sighed. “Someone, or perhaps two, contrived to wrest this woman’s life from her.”

She well deserved it, Bell thought, but did not voice his judgment. Instead he thanked Brother Samuel for his help and assured him that he would consider it a duty to seek out the murderer. Bertrild was doubtless an unpleasant woman who would be no loss, he thought as he collected his horse and rode back through the gate and then north to Fenchurch Street. Nonetheless, one could not have a person who killed, even for good reason, running about loose. The next killing might be for a less-good reason.

The road Bell had chosen was longer than the straight route he had taken to get to St. Catherine’s, but it was much more peaceful. On Sunday the shops along Kenchurch were closed to avoid the strictures of the Church. Trading in the licensed markets having grudging permission, those merchants who felt the need for extra sales rented stalls or found partners with shops along the Chepe.

Bell tried as he rode along to make sense of what he had learned. If Brother Samuel was right, Mainard was innocent, but who else had a good enough
reason to kill Bertrild? Being a public nuisance does not really invite murder. What he needed was information about who besides Mainard would profit from her death.

He turned right on Lime Street where the second house in from the corner belonged to Mainard. It was a handsome place, clearly a gentleman’s residence in the past because it was set well back from the street with no provision for a sales counter at the front. A well-gravelled path led from the street to the front door and then divided right and left to go around the house, which was well separated from its neighbors. Along the right-hand path were well-made wrought-iron hitches; Bell dismounted and tied his horse to the first, stepped up onto the thick flagstone slab, and pulled the bell rope.

The door opened even while the bell was still sounding, but the thin servant looked shocked when he saw Bell. He said accusingly that Bell was not the coffinmaker and that the master of the house was not receiving guests because his wife had died.

“I am not exactly a guest,” Bell replied. “Tell your master that Sir Bellamy of Itchen, knight of the bishop of Winchester and friend of Magdalene of the Old Priory Guesthouse” (Bell never minded identifying the whorehouse by that name because it sounded eminently respectable to anyone who did not actually know) “has come to ask him some questions.”

To Bell’s surprise, fear and rage flicked across the servant’s face, and he slammed the door in Bell’s face. The reaction was so unexpected and inexplicable—although it was clear evidence that the man knew there was something strange about his mistress’s death—that Bell just stood staring. However, in moments the door opened again and Mainard himself stood in the doorway.

“Come in. Come in,” he said. “I remember meeting you once at Magdalene’s. You were at the evening meal. Do forgive Jean. What has happened has completely overset Bertrild’s servants. But how did you know Bertrild had been murdered?”

As he spoke, Mainard led Bell into a sizeable chamber that had a window and a hearth on the left-hand wall and a wide wardrobe with handsome dishes on the right. The back wall was plastered and hung with painted cloths and in the far corner, surprisingly, a pallet covered with a worn quilt. The floor had a carpet of clean rushes in good condition for the time of year, and a wooden frame holding three oil lamps was suspended from the ceiling. To either side of the hearth were benches. Mainard moved toward one, gesturing Bell toward the other.

“As to how I knew of your wife’s death,” Bell said as he sat down,
“
Sabina
came to ask Magdalene’s help.” He saw the look of pain on Mainard’s face and hastened to add, “Because she had been a whore, she feared the justiciar would not believe her assurances that you were with her. Since she knew you to be innocent—” unless you and she are in it neck deep together, Bell thought “—and she remembered how Magdalene had sought out the murderer of Messer Baldassare last month, she hoped Magdalene could find the real killer to absolve you beyond doubt. Magdalene felt she might need a strong arm to help and sent for me.”

“You are both very good to trouble yourselves,” Mainard said, his voice not quite steady. “I was not afraid at first, but when the coffinmaker and the priest and the others I had to speak to about Bertrild’s burial left, I began to wonder who else in the whole world would wish to kill her? God knows, she was not a kind or considerate person, but one does not kill because of a harsh word or rudeness. I had good reason to want her dead, but I cannot think of anyone else who had.”

“I am afraid you will have to think about that again, and more seriously, Master Mainard. You must not let your good nature interfere with the truth. If what Brother Samuel of St. Catherine’s Hospital says is true, and he has a wide experience and no reason at all to tell lies, Mistress Bertrild was killed before Vespers. And if my own careful examination is not at fault, then she was not killed in the yard of your shop.”

“Not killed in the yard?” Mainard repeated. “But that would mean that someone…someone
brought
her to my yard and left her there apurpose.”

“Yes.”

The saddler’s misshapen lips trembled. “Who hates me so?” he whispered. His beautiful eyes were full of tears. “Have I unknowingly hurt someone so much? I have striven to be a good man—to belie this horror.” he passed his hand over his face. “Oh, heaven, do not tell me that Bertrild’s death is my fault, that someone killed her just to gain some revenge on me.”

“No, I do not believe you need to fear that. Whoever struck at your wife struck with a terrible rage. She was killed by someone who hated her.”

“That I can believe,” Mainard said softly. “But—but then why move her from wherever she died to my shop?” His expression of distress hardened to anger. “Never mind that blame was cast on me. If Bertrild had done so much harm, the blame for it might spread to me. I was her husband and should have controlled her and did not. But who could be so heartless, so careless, as to wish to cast such a shadow on my poor apprentices and journeyman?” His eyes mirrored
rage. “Who used Codi’s knife to kill her?”

“Codi’s knife did not kill her.”

“But it was beside the body, all bloody—” His hand came up to cover his mouth. “Oh, God, I did not mean that. I—”

Bell almost laughed. The man was certainly not a natural liar or accustomed to lying. “Do not bother to try to shield Codi. I cannot say he is innocent, because someone did kill your wife, but it was not done with Codi’s knife.”

Mainard now stared at Bell, utterly speechless, and Bell recounted his visit to St. Catherine’s and what he had learned there.

“I see,” Mainard said at last. “Bertrild was killed with an ordinary belt knife. That and the force with which the blow was delivered make it unlikely she was killed by a woman. But then she could have been killed anywhere, if she angered someone enough to pull a knife and stab her. And she—God forgive me for speaking ill of the dead—she had a vicious tongue and took some pleasure in tormenting others.”

It was interesting, Bell thought, that Mainard ignored totally the mention of the blow that had broken Bertrild’s collarbone. Clearly, Mainard did fear that Sabina had killed his wife, if he had not, would he have made such a point of the belt knife and the force of the blow, which could incriminate him? But if Sabina had done it, she would have had to meet Bertrild before noon, when she was ready to go with Mainard to Master Newelyne’s son’s christening.

That was not impossible from what Brother Samuel had said. Sabina could have set Haesel a task and caught Bertrild in the Chepe after she had threatened Codi. Would the woman have gone with her to the yard behind Mainard’s shop? And if Sabina had struck her down and then stabbed her, why had Bertrild not screamed? And where could Sabina have hidden the body? When could she have dragged it from concealment to the place beside the table without Codi and the boys knowing? No, the whole thing was too unlikely.

Thought is swifter than speech, but Mainard had stirred restlessly before Bell said, “You are right. Your wife could have been killed anywhere by someone who was driven to desperation. She was wearing a cloak and must have been outside the house, just leaving, or newly returned. But then that person somehow got the body into your yard after dark, got into your workroom and stole Codi’s knife, went back to the yard and stabbed the corpse several times.”

As soon as Bell got to ‘into your workroom,’ Mainard began to shake his head. “That is not possible,” he said. “Whoever it was could have got into the yard. I have no lock on my back gate and it is possible to open it, even when the latchcord is in, but the tools are all locked away in boxes, and the back door to the workroom is also locked and Codi keeps the key. There is often money in the box I keep in the workroom and the boys—well, Gisel, at least—are of an age when roaming the city at night seems an adventure.”

Codi kept the key to the door. Codi’s knife was locked in his box so only he could get it. Bertrild might well have come to Mainard’s house to meet Codi or obtain something from him. But could Codi have killed Bertrild without the boys knowing? Reluctantly, Bell came to the conclusion he could have done so. Apprentices work hard and sleep hard. It would not have been impossible for Codi to go out after the boys were asleep. But then, why stab the woman with your own knife and leave it beside her when you had already killed her with a knife no one could identify?