Bell frowned. “Your wall and gate look formidable. How many would know the gate is not locked until dark?”
“I am not sure.” Magdalene looked down thoughtfully. “Someone goes to open the gate whenever the bell is rung, so anyone might assume the gate was locked or barred, but some would surely notice there was no sound of a lock being opened or bars withdrawn. I imagine all my clients know.” She shrugged and sighed. “I can see you will need a list of their names. I have written it out for you, but for most of them, it is ridiculous. It could not matter a pin to them if the bishop was made legate. And it does not change the fact that neither of the two you mentioned who could profit by preventing the bull from being delivered are close enough. Those who elected Theobald are in Canterbury, and Waleran de Meulan is with the king at Nottingham.”
“Hugh le Poer, Waleran’s youngest brother, is no farther away than the Tower of Montfichet. He came from Bedford soon after Easter.”
“Do you know why?”
Bell shook his head. “I only know by accident that he is here. I went to speak to the Archdeacon of St. Paul’s and was nearly swallowed up into Hugh’s party as it was coming out the gate of Montfichet. The archdeacon told me when he arrived. I asked because Hugh le Poer is no friend to Winchester. He does not like or trust the bishop, even though it was Winchester who finally persuaded Miles de Beauchamp to yield Bedford Castle so Stephen could bestow it on Hugh. Hugh believes that before he arranged the truce, Winchester made Stephen swear that if Miles yielded, he would not give the barony or the greater part of the estate to Hugh.”
“The king must have known a messenger from the pope was on his way, and if he knew, Waleran de Meulan knew. Do you think Hugh came to watch for the pope’s messenger?”
“It is possible,” Bell said, “but why? I cannot believe Waleran can feel any strong desire to strengthen Theobald, and if Waleran does not, neither would Hugh. In fact, I am sure they would prefer a weak archbishop. Theobald’s election was surely more because he was not Henry of Winchester than because he was Theobald of Bec.”
“That was how it seemed to William,” Magdalene agreed. She saw a flare of Bell’s nostrils, a tightening of his lips. Something had made him angry. Possibly just the reminder that his master had been passed over; well, he had mentioned it, not she, and he would not be angry with her over that. “And I can understand,” she continued, “that Waleran and his party would not want Winchester to be made legate, but surely delaying delivery of the bull for a few months could not be reason enough to kill a papal messenger.”
“We always come back to that sticking point,” Bell said. “Why kill Baldassare? I suppose what you said this morning—that he was killed because he knew his murderer—must be the answer, but—”
He stopped speaking abruptly as a door opened and a man’s shout of laughter mingled with a high female giggle. Then the door shut again and footsteps went down the corridor toward the kitchen.
“That will be Ella getting an evening meal for herself and Somer. He is spending the night and will ride back to Rochester tomorrow to bring news of Messer Baldassare’s death to William.” She hesitated, then went on. “I will tell William everything I know, but I hope you will agree that I should also tell him what we have been talking about.”
She went on, explaining why she thought it important for William of Ypres to know everything, but Bell did not hear her. He was consumed with a rage of jealousy. Whore! She had acted while they talked as if he were the only man in the world, the only man of importance to her, and all the while she was collecting information for another. Ella’s footsteps came back; her door opened and closed. His hand went to his purse.
“How much?” he asked.
Having been intent on what she was explaining—even more intent as the frown on Bell’s face darkened, because she felt she had to convince him that William of Ypres would be a valuable ally in discovering who killed Baldassare—Magdalene hadn’t the faintest idea what his question meant.
“How much what?” she asked, bewildered.
“How much to spend a night in your bed?”
Magdalene’s mouth fell open inelegantly. She was stunned. After her first suspicions that Bell would demand use of her as a bribe were put to rest, she had dismissed from her mind the problem of her trade when talking to him and concentrated on Baldassare’s death.
“That is impossible,” she said. “You cannot seek the solution to a murder of which I have been accused at the same time that you are playing games in my bed. Everyone would laugh at any solution you presented and say you were merely accusing another to cover my guilt.”