The Lark's Lament: A Fools' Guild Mystery (25 page)

“Who did Rocco go to work for after the Landrieux family?” asked Theo.

“The Conque clan,” said Grelho.

“Would he be in the actual house?”

“Not likely,” said Grelho. “Rocco isn’t a servant. He’s a guard, more muscle than brains. But the Conques don’t keep him at the house—he’s too new to their service. They’ve been using him at their warehouse.”

“We passed a group of warehouses when we crossed the river Lez,” I said. “Was the Conque warehouse one of them?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Let’s go,” said Theo.

The warehouses were downstream from the bridge we had crossed on our journey to Montpellier, about a mile east of town. When we reached them, we saw a group of men loading crates onto a barge to be sent down the Lez for transfer to a ship at Lattes. Grelho scanned the group quickly.

“He’s not here,” he said. He cupped his hands and called out, “Hey, Gombal!”

A man turned and waved to us, then came up, wiping his brow with his sleeve. “Grelho, what on earth are you doing this far from a tavern?” he asked, slapping the fool’s shoulder. “Come to see real men do real work?”

“Every now and then I need reminding why I chose a jester’s life, so I come watch you,” laughed Grelho. “But I am actually looking for Rocco. He loaned me some money last week, and I want to pay him back before I forget and spend it on wine. Know where he is?”

“He didn’t come to work today, damn him,” said Gombal.

I felt a pang of apprehension.

“All this walking for nothing,” grumbled Grelho. “Where’s he staying nowadays? I know he’s not at the Landrieux place anymore because nobody’s at the Landrieux place anymore.”

“Oc, sad that,” said Gombal. “He’s at the house of the widow Gervaise.”

“Off Rue de la Potterie? The place with the green shutters?”

“That’s the one,” said Gombal. “And someday you must tell me the story of how you managed to get that miser to pry open his purse.”

“Sorry, it’s a trade secret,” said Grelho. “Thanks, Gombal.”

We trooped on back to town.

“I don’t like the idea of him missing work,” said Grelho.

“Today of all days,” agreed Theo. “Let us hope that he’s only deathly ill.”

But when we got there, Rocco was not deathly ill. Nor was he dead. He just wasn’t there.

“He’s not at the warehouse?” was the widow Gervaise’s response when I asked.

“No, Domna,” I said. “They figured he had taken sick.”

“Him, sick!” she said indignantly. “He’s never been sick a day since I’ve known him. Strong as an ox.”

“And about as smart,” muttered Grelho.

“Could he be with any family members?” asked Theo. “Or some sweetheart, perhaps?”

She turned beet red and slammed the door in our faces, screaming.

“Let me guess,” said Theo wearily. “She is the sweetheart.”

“Well, if he isn’t dead yet, you may have sealed his fate,” said Grelho cheerfully. “Maybe you could volunteer to taste his food when he returns.”

“If he returns,” I said. “He’s not here; he’s not there. All that leaves is everywhere else. Where do you suppose he is?”

“Did you notice that his route would have taken him by the street where Berenguer lived?” asked Theo. “Maybe he saw the commotion, found out that someone did for his former colleague, and went to ground.”

“I hope that’s the case,” said Grelho. “My money’s on him joining the ranks of the recently punctured.”

“Until we know that for sure, we keep looking for him,” said Theo. “No one has told us that anyone else sought him out first, so we may have a little bit of a lead this time. Grelho, this is your town. You have to know a way to find him.”

“I am trying to think,” said Grelho. “I know some other former servants of the Landrieux household. One of them might be able to help us.”

“That’s a start,” said Theo. “Anyone else have any suggestions?”

“I have one,” I said. “Grelho, do you happen to know any grave-robbers?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” said Grelho.

*   *   *

It was no surprise that Grelho was acquainted with someone from one of the seedier criminal professions. Those of us on Guild business can find ourselves performing all manner of unpleasant tasks, and although I personally have never yet resorted to digging up a grave, that’s only because the bodies I’ve had to poke through and crawl around didn’t have the benefit of burial at the time. When we lived and worked in Constantinople, Theo and I had more than once relied upon an uneasy alliance with the dominant criminal organization there, and grave-robbing was certainly one of their sidelines.

The surprise was that when Grelho named his grave-robbing acquaintance, we realized that we had already met him.

“Do you really think this line of inquiry is necessary?” asked Theo in a tone indicating that he did not.

“It may very well lead to nothing,” I said. “But it gnaws at my curiosity. Anyhow, there isn’t much point in all of us following Grelho around while he searches for Rocco. If I’m going to be lugging Portia about town, I might as well be doing something productive.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” he asked. “I could have Helga go with Grelho.”

“No, this is a task that calls for a woman’s touch,” I said. “I’ll bring her with me. It shouldn’t take me more than an hour or so. Where shall we meet?”

“At the Orgerie,” said Grelho. “One hour, then.”

*   *   *

Helga carried Portia. As the senior fool, I wanted to keep my hands free just in case. I would have liked to have my sword handy, but jesters don’t normally carry swords, nor do women, so the two daggers I had concealed in my sleeves had to suffice.

The man we were seeking lived and worked close to the gate that we had passed through on our arrival in Montpellier. It was a good location, close to the via Francigena. A blacksmith gets most of his work from horses, and horses on long journeys are more likely to need shoeing. The smithy was far enough from the crowded streets and buildings to keep from being a fire hazard, and close enough to the nearby forests to receive its regular diet of wood.

Reynaud was hard at work, making iron nails, which he threw into a crude metal box by the wall. With all the clanging, he didn’t hear us come up, and Portia’s excited squeal when she saw the fire nearly made him hit his finger with the hammer.

“What the blazes?” he started, then he saw us and smiled. “Oh, it’s you. Having a profitable while in Montpellier?”

“We are, Sieur, and thank you kindly,” I said. “We had some free time, so I thought I would take the children to see what a blacksmith does. Portia, that’s the baby here, loves horses.”

“Ah, pity I’m not shoeing any today,” said Reynaud. “Whenever I have free time, I make nails, so I’m never wanting ’em when I need ’em.”

“Most prudent of you, Sieur,” I said. “That is one of the differences between a blacksmith and a fool. We never think about the future.”

“Well, prudence is something I’ve only come by over time,” he said. “It didn’t come natural, and that’s the truth of it.”

“Indeed, if half the stories I’ve heard are true, you had quite a misspent youth,” I said, winking at him.

“Oh, you shouldn’t believe even half of the half,” he said, laughing. “But a man who didn’t have a misspent youth squandered it, if you ask me. I know many a stolid successful fellow in his forties who regrets not having his wild days when he had enough strength and energy to be wild. Remember that, young lady.”

“I will, Sieur,” said Helga solemnly.

“Now, I heard one story about you just today,” I said. “I must say I found it shocking.”

“Which one was that?” he asked.

I leaned forward so that I could shield us from outside ears. “That you were a grave-robber,” I whispered.

“Ridiculous,” he snorted. “An old wives’ tale.”

“Which is why I know it,” I said. “A good fool, of course, is as much a collector of old tales as an old wife. We take them, melt them down, and hammer them into new shapes and forms. By the time a talesmith like me is done, I could tell you your life history in such a way that you would never recognize yourself.”

“I am beginning to wonder about the purpose of your visit,” he said, resuming his hammering. “The past is long gone. What happened then is tales now, and then the tales stop getting told, and that’s the way it should be, if you ask me.”

“Sometimes that past rears up again,” I said. “Sometimes the tales need to be retold. And those who tell them may profit by the lessons in them.”

“Profit, you say,” he said slowly, tossing another nail into the box.

“As I said, I am a collector. I give value for value. And, in truth, I only want a small part of a larger tale, most of which I already know.”

“A small part?”

“The tail of the tale, if you will.”

“What does the rest of the dog look like?” he asked.

“Old and shaggy,” I said. “But its teeth are still sharp. Would you like to hear it?”

“If you tell it, must I pay you?” he asked.

“I am not working right now,” I said. “I would not charge you for an incomplete story, any more than you would charge me for half a nail.”

“Go on, then,” he said. “I’ll see if it’s a story I know.”

“There was a lady of this town many years ago,” I began. “Possessed of a rich husband, a small son, and a beautiful voice. Her name was Mathilde, wife of Antoine Landrieux.”

“I remember her,” said Reynaud. “I remember her voice even now.”

“Then her voice was stopped. She died, victim of an accident, in 1187. She was buried in the cemetery of Saint-Barthélemy, south of the city.”

“A brief tale, quickly over,” said Reynaud. “Scarcely worth the telling.”

“But there was a coda,” I said. “Two days after being laid to rest, the grave was dug up, and her body was carried off. No one knows whatever happened to it.”

“And you think I had something to do with that,” said Reynaud.

“I am merely searching for the missing piece of the story,” I said.

“It’s not just a piece that’s missing,” he said, starting to grin. “It’s the whole body.”

“So it seems.”

He started to chuckle, then to laugh loudly. It was infectious, even though we didn’t know why he was laughing. “You like a good joke, don’t you?” he said, trying to catch his breath.

“A good joke is one of the principal tools of my trade,” I said.

“This story of yours,” he said. “It’s a joke, and you don’t know the punch line. It’s one I’ve known for nigh on eighteen years, and I’ve never been able to tell it to anyone. Sometimes I’ve been like to burst holding it, for it’s a funny one, though not to all ears.”

“Funny is my life’s work,” I said. “Tell your joke, and I will render you my professional opinion.”

“But you never heard it from me,” he said. “That must be your oath.”

“Easily taken,” I said. “A jester is loath to give credit to others anyway. I swear by my baby’s smile, which I hold dear above all things, that your part in this will be anonymous.”

“Then here it is,” he said. “Let’s say that there once was a young fellow in desperate need of money. Someone in the middle of an apprenticeship to an honorable trade, but with a sickly widowed mother and three younger sisters to support.”

“A good beginning and a sympathetic fellow,” I said. “One’s heart reaches out to him immediately.”

“Now, thinks this fellow, there’s all these people who have gone on to their just rewards. Their souls are in Heaven, their bodies await Judgment Day, yet their pernicious relatives laid them to rest with jewelry, gold and silver and gems that good men broke their backs wresting from deep within the earth, only to see them buried again. Where’s the sense in that?”

“A reasonable argument made by this sympathetic fellow,” I said. “There is only one possible conclusion.”

“Concludes this desperate fellow, ‘The dead have no need of adornment, and no jewelry is worn in Heaven. Why not put these buried trinkets to use for the benefit of the living?’”

“It would, in fact, be a blessing to do so,” I agreed.

“So, he embarks on this second profession to his profit. One day, he hears of a rich young lady who has met a tragic fate. He decides to pay his respects but, alas, is unable to attend the funeral.”

“Schedules can be so difficult,” I said.

“So he shows up at his next free moment, which happens to be shortly after midnight maybe two nights later.”

“And he notices that the ground is still loose.…”

“And by coincidence, he’s carrying a pick and shovel.…”

“And nobody else is about.…”

“So, why not?”

“No possible harm that I can see.”

“And he puts himself to work.…”

“And it’s no small task.”

“It’s much harder to dig up someone than to bury her.”

“But hard work carries with it a reward.”

“Normally,” said Reynaud.

“Normally?” I asked.

“All of the graves this fellow ever dug up gave him value,” he said, starting to laugh again. “All of them but this one. He reaches the coffin, kind of a cheap one for such a wealthy family, but there it is. He pries open the lid, having taken the care to tie a kerchief over his mouth and nose because that first rush of decay can be something awful. But there is no such smell.”

“She was that well preserved?” I asked. “Was she a saint?”

“Perhaps even holier than that,” he said. “There’s not much of a moon, and he’s below the surface without a light to see by. He’s done this before, however, so he grits his teeth and reaches into the coffin. He comes away with nothing.”

“No jewelry on the body?”

He laughed grimly. “No body,” he said. “And that’s the punch line.”

*   *   *

“You don’t think she was like Our Savior, do you?” asked Helga quietly as we walked to the Orgerie. “His body disappeared from the Holy Sepulchre after three days.”

“And she only took two,” I said. “No, Apprentice, I see no miracle here. Miracles aren’t wasted on grave-robbers who keep them quiet. They are placed before us to bring us faith.”

“I didn’t really think it was a miracle,” said Helga, sounding disappointed. “But if it wasn’t that—”

“Then it may have been something far worse,” I said. “Look, they are already there.”