“I suppose that is possible, but why should she think she would be blamed?”
“Is there anything for which a whore is not blamed? And there she was, kneeling by the body, her hands covered in blood. Who would believe she had not struck the blow?” Remembered terror and bitterness made her voice shrill, and she took a breath and brought it back to its even tenor. “What would it matter that there was no reason for us to harm him? For want of a better reason, Brother Paulinus is convinced we murdered poor Messer Baldassare just to prevent him from ridding himself of sin by confession, and he did not even know that Sabina had been anywhere near the body.”
Had she once been accused of murder, Bell wondered, having felt her bitterness. Had William of Ypres saved her? If so, it would be no wonder that she was grateful to him. And then a small frisson ran down his back. Had she committed the murder of which she was accused?
“Be that as it may,” Bell said quickly, “I think we had better first make sure the dead man is Baldassare.”
Since Magdalene could not reveal that they had found Baldassare’s pouch, and in it, letters of introduction and credit bearing his name, she simply agreed. She reminded Bell, however, that if she admitted that Baldassare had been in her house, Brother Paulinus would immediately have fuel for his fires of accusation, which would make trouble for the bishop. Thus, the monks probably would not let her into the chapel to look at the body. But Bell had the answer for that; when Brother Godwine, the porter, did object to Magdalene’s entering the priory grounds, Bell said he had been instructed by the bishop to bring her to view the dead man so she could say whether or not the man had been one of her clients.
Since Henry of Winchester was serving as administrator of the London diocese until a new bishop could be elected, Brother Godwine could do no more than make a sour face, but he said to Bell while he led them to the chapel in which the body was laid out, “That man did not come through the gate into the priory, nor did his horse. Only three men on horseback came through the front gate. I know them all, and all three horses were in the stable when this man’s beast was found in the graveyard. I am not mistaken or derelict in my duty, and I shall so tell the prior when he returns.”
Bell glanced at Magdalene, but she said nothing and her face was invisible behind the veil. Her mind had been working frantically, however, since he had insisted she accompany him, trying to find a compromise between her need to admit she knew Baldassare and her need to protect herself from Brother Paulinus. Necessity lends agility to the mind; as soon as the face of the dead man became visible, the right words came to her lips.
“Oh, my God!” Magdalene exclaimed. “No, he was not a regular client, but he has indeed been in my house. He came to my gate yesterday not long before Vespers and asked for the church of St. Mary Overy. I told him he must go around, but he protested that the church looked very near. I had come out without a cloak and I was cold, so I bade him step into the house, which he did while I explained that we were not part of the priory. But I did mention the back gate went to the church. I did not see where he went when he left the house.”
“But you told the sacristan the man had never been with you,” Brother Godwine said severely.
“I told the sacristan that all of our clients had left our house safe and sound and that neither I nor any other member of the household followed or harmed any client. I told the truth then, and I have told the truth now.”
Bell looked at her sidelong. He knew both tales and suspected that every word she had said was true—and added up to a thumping lie. Clever. Yes, she was clever.
“We will see,” Bell said, and then to Brother Godwine. “I know the man. His name was Baldassare de Firenze, and he often served as a papal messenger.”
“Papal messenger!” the porter echoed, his eyes filled with horror. “How terrible! What can he have been carrying that he should ask for the church of St. Mary Overy? We have made no recent request of the pope.”
Hardly listening to the horrified effusions, Bell bent over the neatly folded pile of clothes and other possessions that were on a small bench by the foot of the bier. The upper part of the shirt, tunic, and cloak were stained, despite washing; the braies were not. On the belt, laid atop the clothing, was a sheathed knife with a horn hilt inlaid with gold wire—a valuable knife, not taken. Beside that was a coiled leather strap about two or three fingers wide.
“Look,” Bell said, pointing to a fresh-looking cut in the leather of the belt. “That is where the loop of the purse was cut.” Then he lifted the coiled strap. Midway along, it was stained with blood. “He was wearing that when he died, likely to support a pouch. Did you find a pouch?”