There was enough sincerity in the last sentence to carry conviction to his listeners. William shrugged.
“Well, it should be easy enough to discover when you started, and in the meantime, you will have to remain a few days as my guest.”
Sir Raoul paled visibly. William smiled.
“But, of course, if you make pleasant conversation—and do not in the future make trouble for Magdalene, her house, or any of her women—there is no reason for Lord Waleran to know what kept you. Searching for the messenger’s pouch according to suggestions made by your ‘friend’ and the women of the whorehouse could take some time. It might be dangerous—or it might be profitable.” He smiled again and turned his head to look at Somer de Loo. “You can cut his feet free and put him in my bedchamber. Find him something to eat and a pallet to sleep on—and put a chain around his neck. I will speak to him when I have time.”
When the door was closed behind Somer and his prisoner, Magdalene said, “Be careful, William. That man has no more sense of honor than a snake.”
He laughed heartily. “I am always careful, which is why I am still alive.” Then the laughter was gone. “I made one real mistake in my life—and I am still paying for it—but I have been very careful since then.” He suddenly shook himself, as a dog does to shed water, smiled, and looked at Bell. “So you are Winchester’s ferret.”
“And his bullyboy, too,” Bell said, his nostrils pinching a trifle.
“I think—” Magdalene put in desperately.
William raised a hand. “No offense, Sir Bellamy. The bishop is a good man and your work is necessary, but that last word—bullyboy—puts me in mind that Magdalene should have one of those for the next few weeks, until the pouch is found or word can be sent to the pope and the instructions Baldassare carried be replaced.”
“My clients—” Magdalene began again, but Bell’s voice overrode hers.
“As of tonight, she has one.”
William opened his mouth and then shut it and nodded. “Good enough. Your duty to the bishop falls in well with keeping an eye on Magdalene’s house, and you will be more discreet than any of my men.”
Magdalene detected a faint air of amusement under William’s civil remark, but she hoped it was only because she knew him so well and that Bell would not notice. William, God bless him, was never jealous of her body. He accepted that she was a whore, and he could not care less who slept in her bed when he was not there. He could be amused by Bell’s words and manner, by the knight’s faint air of staking a claim; William had no doubts about her loyalty and fondness for him.
Nonetheless, to distract the men from each other, she asked, “Did I not prove today that my women and I can take care of ourselves?”
“So far, chick, so far, but we now have a murderer about. And speaking of that, my men can find no trace of that little rat Beaumeis on the road to Canterbury on Wednesday, at least as far as Rochester. I had a messenger from there not long before you came.”
“Hmm,” Bell said. “According to Brother Godwine, the porter at the abbey, Beaumeis was there on Wednesday. Brother Godwine believes he left before Vespers, although he thought he might have seen him later. However, Beaumeis did not go to his lodgings near St. Paul’s.”
“Could he have started for Canterbury at night?” Magdalene asked. “He said to me he spent Wednesday night on the road.”
“Is he the kind to lie out under a bush?” William asked doubtfully.
“Not at all,” Magdalene replied. “He is a most selfish and self-indulgent young man.”
“Still,” Bell said, “I think that is just what he did, although I will admit I cannot imagine why. I was at St. Paul’s this afternoon and no one there has seen him since he left for Rome. He came back at top speed, too, because he was in his lodging Monday night. The woman who keeps it said he was sick when he came in and had fits of weeping.”
“That was after he learned on Monday afternoon that Baldassare was dead.” Magdalene frowned. “I told him when he came in, pleased with himself for having sent an unsuspecting foreigner to me. And I could swear he was truly shocked…although if he is as good an actor as Guiscard says….”
“Perhaps he is.” Bell shrugged. “He was at Baldassare’s burial on Tuesday morning and carried on as if he were the man’s brother…or wife. I tried to catch him to speak to him, but Buchuinte stopped me to ask if I had learned anything new about the murder or recovered the pouch—Buchuinte thinks he could use Baldassare’s letter of credit to pay for the burial and Masses—and Beaumeis escaped me.”