Roberta Gellis (29 page)

“Was she here that Friday?” Henry repeated slowly, also in English, obviously thinking hard, but after a moment he shook his head. “I don’t know. I know she was here on Saturday because she had a big fight with Codi. She wanted him to make her a belt of the blue leather that Lord Baltom brought on Friday for his wife’s new saddle.”

“Oh,” Magdalene said. “Then she probably was here on Friday. How else would she have known about the blue leather Lord Baltom brought? Very good. Thank you, Henry. Is Master Mainard within?”

“Yes, he is.” Henry made an odd sound. “He’s a strange one, that Mainard. Glum as a cold winter’s day. You’d think he’d be ready to float with that burden lifted from him, but he’s sad, and as short tempered as I’ve ever seen him. You’d think that he lost something precious in that accursed wife. I wish you had some good news to cheer him up.”

“I wish I did, too,” she sighed as she edged around the end of the counter and went into the shop, dropping her veil.

Codi straightened
from tapping something with an odd-shaped hammer
when Magdalene came into his line of sight and came to the door. “Oh, Mistress Magdalene,” he said with a broad grin. “Will you come into the workroom, or shall I send Master Mainard out?”

“I think it would be quieter if he came out here,” Magdalene replied, “but before you ask him, will you try to think back to the Friday that you lost your knife? Was Mistress Bertrild here that day? You remember, that was the day Lord Baltom and his lady came.”

Codi blinked and frowned. “She did not come every day,” he said. “Why did you think she had been here that Friday?”

“Because she knew about Lord Baltom’s blue leather. She asked you to make a belt from it for her the next day, the day that she was killed.”

Codi blinked again. “So she did, and she asked for the belt while she was still in the shop. Yes, I remember. She never went into the workroom at all that Saturday. I gave her the money from the box that Master Mainard had left for her, and she demanded more. I said there was no more and showed her the open box, which was empty. Master Mainard always left exactly the right amount and no more. Then she demanded the belt from the blue leather. I told her the leather was not ours. We argued about the belt. Mistress Sabina heard us. When I kept refusing, Mistress Bertrild said I would be sorry and stormed out of the shop. But
I
don’t remember seeing her in the workroom on Friday.”

“Thank you. Would you ask the boys if they remember her being there?”

“Yes, I will. And I’ll send Master Mainard out to you.”

But it was Stoc, the younger of the apprentices that came out. “Master Mainard
is putting away his tools,” he said. “He will be here anon. But I saw Mistress Bertrild. She
was
there on Friday, but I don’t remember whether it was morning or afternoon. It was after Lord and Lady Baltom came. I know that because I had to stop working to be out of their way, and I was just standing and looking around.”

“You’re sure?” Magdalene asked.

Stoc nodded. “I always watched her when she came in. Once she came up behind me, real quiet, and pushed me when I was using a
knife. I got cut.” He held up a hand, showing a long scar. “Usually she came in like a bad storm and tramped over to Master Mainard’s
table to yell at him, and she’d knock things off the worktables. But if Master Mainard wasn’t in the shop, sometimes she kind of sneaked in, soft and quiet like, looking for something to take. Once she took a buckle off Codi’s table. Codi’s a little bewildered sometimes. He would of thought he lost it and then paid for it, but I told Master Mainard who took it.”

“Go back to work, Stoc,” Mainard said from the doorway. “What can I do for you, Mistress Magdalene?”

The last sentence was in French, and Magdalene thought it was to make understanding more difficult for Codi and the boys. They all spoke some French; it was necessary to deal with the nobility, who were the largest customers for saddles and for whom it was a first language, but they had to think about anything said in French. English was their native language.

“You can give me some help in trying to discover who murdered your wife,” Magdalene said, her tone tart. “You may think you are safe from accusation—and that maybe true as far as the law goes—but your neighbors will always wonder unless someone is proven guilty. So far, Bell and I have done all we could. Now it is your turn to help catch the killer.”

He looked aside, by habit turning the birthmark away from her, and passed a hand over his face. “I do not know what to do,” he said. “She tortured them.”

“That does not excuse taking Codi’s
knife to implicate
him and bringing the body here to implicate you,” Magdalene snapped. “Jean said she called the man Saeger. I assumed Bell told you that she sent the servants away, and no one else entered the house until the servants returned. That means that this Saeger killed her.”

“But Saeger was a messenger from her uncle.”

“He
said
he was a messenger from her uncle, but we know Saeger came from the area and could easily have known Sir Druerie as well as Gervase, so he could use that excuse to get to see Bertrild even if it was not true. And the man who killed Bertrild did have Codi’s knife. Either he took it himself or—if he was a messenger from Druerie—he was given the knife by one of the men who was here on Friday and told to use it.” Magdalene was not going to mention her idea about Bertrild taking the knife and perhaps furnish Mainard with a path to escape helping identify the murderer. “You have been in business here in London for more than twenty years. Who, among those five men, could have lived near Moorgreen from 1131 to 1136?”

Mainard gestured Magdalene toward one of the tall stools in front of the counter, waited until she seated herself, and also sat down. “Perekin cannot be Saeger,” he said. “It is true that he lived at Hamble most of the time until 1136, but he could not have been a wool merchant at Hamble and a farmer near Moorgreen at the same time. And he was here in London most winters.”

“But he could have known Saeger, could he not?”

“I do not know,” Mainard said. He had put his elbow on the counter and was resting his head on his hand, his voice redolent with misery. “If Saeger had sheep, it is possible. If he was a farmer, it is less likely.”

Magdalene could not help but feel sorry for him—he was truly a good-hearted man—but she also felt impatient. He should be a little less tender hearted to his male friends and be more aware of the misery he was causing his loving and patient whore.

“How about Ulfmaer FitzIsabelle?”

“No. Aside from a few weeks now and again, Ulfmaer has never been much out of London. He inherited the business from his mother, Mistress Isabelle in 1131. I do not see how he could have known Saeger either.”

“Herlyoud will be fine combed by Master Octadenarius so you can forget about him. What of Lintun Mercer?”

“He came to London in 1136 from near Lincoln where he was born. He was a mercer there also, but his partner had several sons and bought Lintun out so the boys could share the business.”

“How did he meet Dockett?”

“I have no idea. William did not say. At one time he had offered to combine his business with Perekin’s, that was after William’s daughter married the goldsmith and his son was already a journeyman
apothecary, but by then Perekin was thinking of being rid of the mercery and dealing only with wool and fleeces. Anyway, William came to tell Perekin that Lintun Mercer was interested in buying a half share of his business and to ask if Perekin had changed his mind. I happened to be there, which is how I was included in the discussion and came to stand witness for the son and daughter. I suppose William felt he owed it to Perekin to give him a final chance. It was a good business.”

“Could Master Dockett have been uneasy about Mercer? We learned from the packet you gave me that the agreement Mercer presented giving him the whole business after Dockett died
was
false—and Gervase de Genlis believed that Mercer had destroyed Dockett’s will, too.”

Mainard shook his head. “I do not know. William and I mostly talked about business when we met—whether he had suitable cloth for padding saddles or for decorative bits…. He never complained about his partner.”

“And do you like Mercer?”

“Well enough,” Mainard said, looking up. “He has been late on delivery a time or two, but nothing I could really fault him for, and a handsome apology if I had to remind him, which was only once.”

“Jokel de Josne. He used false sales receipts.”

Mainard sighed heavily, but his lips firmed, and he looked severe. “Josne never said from where he came—he does not speak much of his past—but he knows Norwich. He arrived in London in 1136 and made a big splash. He came with a large stock of French goods, some of it very good, some…I am sorry to say it…shoddy. I do not deal with him. I am not sure how he became a member of our Bridge Guild, I suppose through Ulfmaer, who is his good friend.”

There was a little silence while Magdalene tried to think of something else to ask. Then Mainard said, “Magdalene, cannot those records of my late father-by-marriage be destroyed?”

“Good God,” Magdalene breathed, “I had forgotten that Gervase de Genlis was your father-by-marriage. I can see why you want to let the whole mess sink in silence, but the chances are no public disclosure of the information
will be made. And what of those who were defrauded, like William Dockett’s son and daughter and the kin of the dead man Ulfmaer robbed? I can promise you that if Perekin FitzRevery and John Herlyoud are not guilty of murder—but to my mind if either one gave Saeger the knife and the order to kill, then he is guilty—we will certainly forget about the sins of their youth.”

“Whichever way one turns, there is evil.”

“So there is,” Magdalene said briskly, stepping down from her stool, “and many say I and my women are purveyors thereof. Nonetheless, we are human and have our hopes and dreams, and we hurt when those are damaged. Why have you not come to see Sabina? She misses you.”

Suddenly there were tears in Mainard’s beautiful eyes, and he turned his head fully away. “I cannot bear it,” he whispered. “I have always told her that if she needed relief from me and took other men, I would look aside, but now I do not think I could look at her sweet face, and know….” His voice broke on a heavy sob.

“What a fool you are,” Magdalene said. “If you do not understand what Sabina is, you should not have taken her as your woman. Sabina has not touched another man, has not even spoken to any of her old clients. She retreats to the chamber for which you paid whenever clients come. She is waiting for
you
to take her ‘home,’ which is what she calls her rooms above your shop.”

He was staring at her now, the natural skin pallid, even the purple birthmark paler than usual. “Can I believe you?” he whispered.

“Me?” Magdalene said. “No. I do not ask you to believe me. What you need to believe is what you know Sabina is. Do not load on her your feeling of ugliness and lack of worth. Remember that to her blind eyes, you are beautiful.
You are kind and generous to her. You are a good lover. Why should she seek another man? You must decide whether you believe that because she became a whore to save herself from starving, she is a whore at heart and will spread her legs for any man for no reason at all, or that at heart she is a decent woman who will cleave only to the one man to whom she has sworn herself.”

He swallowed hard. “Sabina is a good woman, but how can she not know….” He paused to take a deep breath. “She thinks me beautiful?” The words were less than a whisper. “I…I will come…soon.”

Magdalene shrugged, lifted her veil to cover her face, and went out. She could not fight Mainard’s battle for him. He was not jealous in the ordinary sense, only so uncertain of himself that he might destroy Sabina out of fear. But telling him that she loved him could only do so much; he needed to be with her, when her constant reassurance could have an effect.

Because she could do no more on that score, Magdalene dismissed Sabina’s fate from her mind and turned toward Gracechurch Street to walk south to the bridge. Her eyes unseeing as she considered what Mainard had said, she passed the counter set before the next shop only to be stopped by hearing her name called aloud.

“That is my name,” she said, turning toward the voice, “but I am sorry I do not know who calls me.”

As she spoke, she looked blankly at Perekin FitzRevery, who was standing behind a counter laden with small bolts of cloth and richly dyed hanks of yarn, as if she had never seen him before in her life. That was how she and her women treated every client. The men paid not only for the services of clean, sweet-smelling, and willing companions but also for security; thus, no client was ever recognized outside of the walls of the Old Priory Guesthouse.

“Come within,” Perekin said, gesturing to her. “I have some beautiful ribbons to show you. I think they are almost worthy of your embroidery.”

“Thank you,” Magdalene said, walking around the counter. “It is kind of you to have thought of me.”

Inside the shop, Perekin sent his journeyman out to watch the counter and then laughed. “You are thoughtful also, more careful of my reputation than I am myself—but then, there is no one who can be hurt by my sins but myself. My wife, bless her, is dead these five years, and I still remember her too fondly to take another woman into my home in her place. My daughter is well married and away in her own home, and if my son does not understand what I do, he is not the man I believe him to be.”

Magdalene smiled and lowered her veil. “All very well,” she said, although she thought cynically that he had quickly enough taken up the chance of an excuse she had given him by talking of her embroidery, “but it must be the client’s choice to acknowledge us. Our business at the Old Priory Guesthouse is not to impinge on our clients’ lives in any way outside of their visits to us. Now, how may I serve you?”

“By making a place for me today. I find myself in a mood for celebration and now have a few extra pence to indulge myself.”

Magdalene raised her eyes to the ceiling and bit her lips as if she were thinking over her women’s appointments, but she was trying to be sure that FitzRevery could not make out her expression. Celebrate what? Surely Bertrild’s death. And the extra pence were no doubt what he would have had to pay her.