“Pouch!” Guiscard exclaimed, paling. “What pouch?”
“A papal messenger carries a pouch—and it was not with the body.”
“My God,” Guiscard breathed, eyes wide. “Could he have been carrying the bull making our bishop legate?”
“It could be,” Bell said. “I think Winchester has that suspicion also and is greatly concerned that one of his enemies might have attacked Baldassare.”
Guiscard nodded. “The bishop is much overset by Baldassare’s death, and in such a way. I hope the pouch was not stolen and the bull destroyed.” He sighed. “He asked to see you as soon as you came in, but he is eating now.”
The word “eating” made Bell’s mouth water. He suddenly remembered that he had had no dinner and that the bishop was not above inviting him to join him in a meal if he had no other guests.
“Good,” he said. “I am starving. I will go in right now.” He suited the action to the words before Guiscard could rise or protest.
“My lord?”
Henry of Winchester lifted his head. “Bell. Do you have news for me?”
“Nothing definite about the pouch, my lord, except I can assure you that it is not in the Old Priory Guesthouse or the stable, and I have some hope that Baldassare was not wearing it when he was killed.”
“Then where is it?”
“That is what I do not know…yet.”
He should have said that he had a strong suspicion that Magdalene had found it and hidden it again elsewhere, perhaps in the church, but he could not get the words out. Because he dared not meet his master’s eyes, he looked fixedly at the tureen of stew standing before the bishop. Then the smell hit him, and he swallowed.
“Are you hungry? Would Magdalene not even feed you?” Winchester asked, laughing. “I thought she would do that.”
“She did offer me dinner, but I wished to search the house and stable while she and her women were fixed in one place.”
“Then sit down and eat, man. You must be starved.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Bell fetched a stool from against the wall and set it near the bishop’s chair. Henry pushed a loaf of bread and several dishes toward him. Bell pulled his knife from his belt and carved some slices off a roast haunch, which he laid on one piece of bread, then tore off another piece to scoop chunks of fish and vegetables from the bowl of stew.
The bishop frowned. “But if Baldassare died Wednesday night, Magdalene and her women had all day Thursday and all Friday morning to be rid of the pouch. Why did you search?”
Bell swallowed hastily but did not speak at once, trying to separate his angry jealousy from the information he had gained from questioning Magdalene’s women. “I think they are hiding something,” he said slowly, “but I do not believe it is knowledge of Baldassare’s death. For the other question…I searched because they kept telling me over and over that they would not be such fools as to leave anything of Baldassare’s in the house—”
“Ah, I see.” The bishop laughed again. “A wise move.”
“But I found nothing. And that brought to mind another important question. Why did Magdalene have nearly two days to search her own house and grounds before the news of Baldassare’s death came to you? The fault was not Magdalene’s. She did not find the body. Why is it that the monks did not send you word of a dead man on the porch of their church?”
Winchester watched Bell bend a slice of meat in half with his knife, push the point through it, and raise it to his mouth. “That is strange,” he said slowly. “I think you will have to ask Prior Benin—no, he is away at the mother house of his order and will not be back until tomorrow, so he cannot be faulted for this. It is Brother Paulinus, the sacristan, who is in charge.” Winchester smiled thinly. “Yes. Ask Brother Paulinus why I needed to hear this news a day late from a whore. And what else?”
Bell smiled also. Then, between chewing and swallowing, he told Winchester everything he had seen and learned, including the position and shape of the wound, which implied Baldassare had known and trusted his killer, and the fact that with the guesthouse gate locked at dark and the porter on duty at the priory gate, it must be one of those within the walls who was guilty.
“Or someone who came in before the gates were locked,” Winchester said. “But let us deal first with those known to us. You have questioned the women and do not believe them guilty?”
Bell shrugged. “No, not of murder.” Except Magdalene, he thought. She knows too much of murder. But he went on smoothly. “The mute is too small. Baldassare slept with the blind woman, Sabina, but I cannot see how she could have placed the knife so cleanly. And the idiot…no. One must experience Ella to believe her, but murder with a knife is not possible.”