An Excellent Mystery bc-11 Page 16

  “Do you trouble me with such trifles?” Bishop Henry had demanded, after perusing, with a blackly frowning countenance, the list Nicholas presented to him. “I know nothing of any such tawdry trinkets. None of these have I ever seen, none belongs to any house of worship known here to me. What is there here to concern me?”

  “My lord, there is a lady’s life,” said Nicholas, stung. “She intended what she never achieved, a life of dedication in the abbey of Wherwell. Before ever reaching there she was lost, and what I intend is to find her, if she lives, and avenge her, if she is dead. And only by these, as you say, tawdry trinkets can I hope to trace her.”

  “In that,” said the bishop shortly, “I cannot help you. I tell you certainly, none of these things ever came into the possession of the Old Minster, nor of any church or convent under my supervision. But you may enquire where you will among other houses in this city, and say that I have sanctioned your search. That is all I can do.”

  And with that Nicholas had had to be content, and indeed it did give him a considerable authority, should he be questioned as to what right he had in the matter. However eclipsed for a time, Henry of Blois would rise again like the phoenix, as formidable as ever, and the fire that had all but consumed him could be relied upon to scorch whoever dared his enmity afterwards.

  From church to church and priest to priest Nicholas carried his list, and found nothing but shaken heads and helplessly knitted brows everywhere, even where there was manifest goodwill towards him. No house of religion surviving in Winchester knew anything of the twin candlesticks, the stone-studded cross or the silver pyx that had been a part of Julian Grace’s dowry. There was no reason to doubt their word, they had no reason to lie, none even to prevaricate.

  There remained the streets, the shops of goldsmiths, silversmiths, even the casual market-traders who would buy and sell whatever came to hand. Nicholas began the systematic examination of them all, and in so rich a city, with so wealthy a clientele of lofty churchmen and rich foundations, they were many.

  Thus he came, on the morning of this same day when Brother Humilis entreated passage to the place of his birth, into a small, scarred shop in the High Street, close under the shadow of Saint Maurice’s church. The frontage had suffered in the fires, and the silversmith had rigged a shuttered opening like a fairground booth, and drawn his workbench close to it, to have the full daylight on his work. The raised shutter overhead protected his face from glare, but let in the morning shine to the brooch he was handling, and the fine stones he was setting in it. A man in his prime, probably well-fleshed when times were good, but now somewhat shrunken after the privations of the long siege, for his skin hung on him flaccid and greyish, like a too-large coat on a fasting man. He looked up alertly through a forelock of greying hair, and asked if he could serve the gentleman.

  “I begin to think it a thin enough chance,” admitted Nicholas ruefully, “but at least let’s make the assay. I am hunting for word, any word, of certain pieces of church plate and ornaments that went astray in these parts three years ago. Do you handle such things?”

  “I handle anything of gold or silver. I have made church plate in my time. But three years is a long while. What is so notable about them? Stolen, you think? I deal in no suspect goods. If there’s anything dubious about what’s offered, I never touch it.”

  “There need not have been anything here to deter you. True enough they might have been stolen, but there need be nothing to tell you so. They belonged to no southern church or convent, they were brought from Shropshire, and most likely made in that region, and to a man like you they’d be recognisable as northern work. The crosses might well be old, and Saxon.”

  “And what are these items? Read me your list. My memory is not infallible, but I may recall, even after three years.”

  Nicholas went through the list slowly, watching for a gleam of recognition. “A pair of silver candlesticks with tall sconces entwined with vines, with snuffers attached by silver chains, these also decorated with vine-leaves. Two crosses made to match in silver, the larger a standing cross a man’s hand in height, on a three-stepped silver pedestal, the other a small replica on a neck-chain for a priest’s wear, both ornamented with semi-precious stones, yellow pebble, agate and amethyst…”

  “No,” said the silversmith, shaking his head decidedly, “those I should not have forgotten. Nor the candlesticks, either.”

  “… a small silver pyx engraved with ferns…”

  “No. Sir, I recall none of these. If I had still my books I could look back for you. The clerk who kept them for me was always exact, he could find you every item even after years. But they’re gone, every record, in the fire. It was all we could do to rescue the best of my stock, the books are all ash.”

  The common fate in Winchester this summer, Nicholas thought resignedly. The most meticulous of book-keepers would abandon his records when his life was at risk, and if he had time to take anything but his life with him, he would certainly snatch up the most precious of his goods, and let the parchments go. It seemed hardly worth listing the small personal things which had belonged to Julian, for they would be less memorable. He was hesitating whether to persist when a narrow door opened and let in light from a yard behind the shop, and a woman came in.

  When the outer door was closed behind her she vanished again briefly into the dimness of the interior, but once more emerged into light as she approached her husband’s bench and the bright sunlight of the street, and leaned forward to set a beaker of ale ready at the silversmith’s right hand. She looked up, as she did so, at Nicholas, with candid and composed interest, a good-looking woman some years younger than her husband. Her face was still shadowed by the awning that protected her husband’s eyes, but her hand emerged fully into the sun as she laid the cup down, a pale, shapely hand cut off startlingly at the wrist by the black sleeve.

  Nicholas stood staring in fascination at that hand, so fixedly that she remained still in wonder, and did not withdraw it from the light. On the little finger, too small, perhaps, to go over the knuckle of any other, was a ring, wider than was common, its edge showing silver, but its surface so closely patterned with coloured enamels that the metal was hidden. The design was of tiny flowers with four spread petals, the florets alternately yellow and blue, spiked between with small green leaves. Nicholas gazed at it in disbelief, as at a miraculous apparition, but it remained clear and unmistakable. There could not be two such. Its value might not be great, but the workmanship and imagination that had created it set it apart from all others.

  “I pray your pardon, madam!” he said, stammering as he drew his wits together. “But that ring… May I know where it came from?”

  Both husband and wife were looking at him intently now, surprised but not troubled.

  “It was come by honestly,” she said, and smiled in mild amusement at his gravity. “It was brought in for sale some years back, and since I liked it, my husband gave it to me.”

  “When was this? Believe me, I have good reasons for asking.”

  “It was three years back,” said the silversmith readily. “In the summer, but the date…that I can’t be sure of now.”

  “But I can,” said his wife, and laughed. “And shame on you for forgetting, for it was my birthday, and that was how I wooed the ring out of you. And my birthday, sir, is the twentieth day of August. Three years I’ve had this pretty thing. The bailiffs wife wanted my husband to copy it for her once, but I wouldn’t have it. This must still be the only one of its kind. Primrose and periwinkle… such soft colours!” She turned her hand in the sun to admire the glow of the enamels. “The other pieces that came with it were sold, long ago. But they were not so fine as this.”

  “There were other pieces that came with it?” demanded Nicholas.

  “A necklace of polished pebbles,” said the smith, “I remember it now. And a silver bracelet chased with tendrils of pease-or it might have been vetch.”

  The ring alone would have bee
n enough; these three together were certainty. The three small items of personal jewellery belonging to Julian Cruce had been brought into this shop for sale on the twentieth of August, three years ago. The first clear echo, and its note was wholly sinister.

  “Master silversmith,” said Nicholas, “I had not completed the tale of all I sought. These three things came south, to my certain knowledge, in the keeping of a lady who was bound for Wherwell, but never reached her destination.”

  “Do you tell me so?” The smith had paled, and was gazing warily and doubtfully at his visitor. “I bought the things honestly, I’ve done nothing amiss, and know nothing, beyond that some fellow, decent enough to all appearance, brought them in here openly for sale…”

  “Oh, no, don’t mistake me! I don’t doubt your good faith, but see, you are the first I have found that even may help me to discover what is become of the lady. Think back, tell me, who was this man who came? What like was he? What age, what style of man? He was not known to you?”

  “Never seen before nor since,” said the silversmith, cautiously relieved, but not sure that telling too much might not somehow implicate him in dangerous business. “A man much of my years, fifty he might be. Ordinary enough, plain in his dress, I took him for what he claimed, a servant sent on an errand.”

  The woman did better. She was much interested by this time, and saw no reason to fear involvement, and some sympathetic cause to help, insofar as she could. She had a sharper eye for a man than had her husband, and was disposed to approve of Nicholas and desire his goodwill.

  “A solid, square-made man he was,” she said, “brown as his leather coat. That was not a hot summer like this, his brown was the everlasting kind that would only yellow a little in winter, the kind that comes with living out of doors year-round-forester or huntsman, perhaps. Brown-bearded, brown-haired but for his crown, he was balding. He had a bold, oaken face on him, and a quick eye. I should never have remembered him so well, but that he was the one who brought my ring. But I tell you what, I fancy he remembered me for a good while. He gave me long enough looks before he left the shop.”

  She was used to that, being well aware that she was handsome, and it was one more reason why she had recalled the man so well. Good reason, also, for paying close attention to all she had to say of him.

  Nicholas swallowed burning bitterness. It was not the fifty years, nor the beard, nor the bald crown, nor even the weathered hide that identified the man, for Nicholas had never seen Adam Heriet. It was the whole circumstance, possession of the jewellery, the evidence of the date, the fact that the other three had been left in Andover, and in any case Nicholas had seen them for himself, and none of them resembled this description. The fourth man, the devoted servant, the fifty-year-old huntsman and forester, a stout man of his hands, a man Waleran of Meulan would think himself lucky to get… yes, every word Nicholas had heard said of Adam Heriet fitted with what this woman had to say of the man who had sold Julian’s jewels.

  “I did question possession,” said the silversmith, still uneasy,‘“seeing they were clearly a lady’s property. I asked how he came by them, and why he was offering them for sale. He said he was simply a servant sent on an errand, his business to do as he was told, and he had too much sense to quibble over it, seeing whoever questioned the orders that man gave might find himself short of his ears, or with a back striped like a tabby cat. I could well believe it, there are many such masters. He was quite easy about it, why should I be less so?”

  “Why, indeed!” said Nicholas heavily. “So you bought, and he departed. Did he argue over the price?”

  “No, he said his orders were to sell, he was no valuer and was not expected to be. He took what I gave. It was a fair price.”

  With room for a fair profit, no doubt, but why not? Silversmiths were not in the business to dole out charity to chance vendors.

  “And was that all? He left you so?”

  “He was going, when I did call after him, and asked him what was become of the lady who had worn these things, and had she no further use for them, and he turned back in the doorway and looked at me, and said no, for such she had no further use at all, for that this lady who had owned them was dead.”

  The hardness of the answer, its cold force, was there in the silversmith’s voice as he repeated it. Remembering had brought it back far more vividly than ever he had dreamed, it shook him as he voiced it. Even more fiercely it stabbed at Nicholas, a knife in the heart, driving the breath out of him. It rang so hideously true, and named Adam Heriet almost beyond doubt. She who had owned them was dead. Ornaments were of no further concern to her.

  Out of the chill rage that consumed him he heard the woman, roused now and eager, saying: “No, but that’s not all! For it so chanced I followed the man out when he left, but softly, not to be seen too soon.” Had he given her an appraising look, smiled, flashed an admiring eye, to draw her on a string? No, not if he had anything to hide, no, he would rather have slid away unobtrusively, glad to be rid of his winnings for money. No, she was female, curious, and had time on her hands to spare, she went out to see whatever was to be seen. And what was it she saw? “He slipped along to the left here,” she said, “and there was another man, a young fellow, pressed close against the wall there, waiting for him. Whether he gave him the money, all of it or some of it, I could not be sure, but something was handed over. And then the older one looked over his shoulder and saw me, and they slipped away very quickly round the corner into the side street by the market, and that was all I saw of them. And more than I was meant to see,” she reflected, herself surprised now that she came to see more in it than was natural.

  “You’re sure of that?” asked Nicholas intently. “There was a second with him, a younger man?” For the three innocents from Lai had been left waiting in Andover. If it had not been true, one or other of them, the simpleton surely, would have given the game away at once.

  “I am sure. A young fellow, neat enough but homespun, such as you might see hanging around inns or fairs or markets, the best of them hoping for work, and the worst hoping for a chance to get a hand in some other man’s pouch.”

  Hoping for work or hoping to thieve! Or both, if the work offered took that shape-yes, even to the point of murder.

  “What was he like, this second?”

  She furrowed her brow and considered, gnawing a lip. She was in strong earnest, searching her memory, which was proving tenacious and long. “Tallish but not too tall, much the older one’s height when they stood together, but half his bulk. I say young because he was slender and fast when he slipped away, and light on his feet. But I never saw his face, he had the capuchon over his head.”

  “I did wonder,” said the silversmith defensively. “But it was done, I’d paid, and I had the goods. There was no more I could do.”

  “No. No, there’s no blame. You could not know.” Nicholas looked again at the bright ring on the woman’s finger. “Madam, will you let me buy that ring of you? For double what your husband paid for it? Or if you will not, will you let me borrow it of you for a fee, and my promise to return it when I can? To you,” he said earnestly, “it is dear as a gift, and prized, but I need it.”

  She stared back at him wide-eyed and captivated, clasping and turning the ring on her finger. “Why do you need it? More than I?”

  “I need it to confront that man who brought it here, the man who has procured, I do believe, the death of the lady who wore it before you. Put a price on it, and you shall have it.”

  She closed her free hand round it defensively, but she was flushed and bright-eyed with excitement, too. She looked at her husband, who had the merchant’s calculating, far-off look in his eyes, and was surely about to fix a price that would pay the repairs of his shop for him. She tugged suddenly at the ring, twisted it briskly over her knuckle, and held it out to Nicholas.

  “I lend it to you, for no fee. But bring it back to me yourself, when you have done, and tell me how this matter ends. And sh
ould you find you are mistaken, and she is still living, and wants her ring, then give it back to her, and pay me for it whatever you think fair.”

  The hand she had extended to him with her bounty he caught and kissed. “Madam, I will! All you bid me, I will! I pledge you my faith!” He had nothing fit to offer her as a return pledge, she had the better of him at all points. Her husband was looking at her indulgently, as one accustomed to the whims of a very handsome wife, and made no demur, at least until the visitor was gone. “I serve here under FitzRobert,” said Nicholas. “Should I fail you, or you ever come to suppose that I have so failed you, complain to him, and he will show you justice. But I will not fail you!”

  “Are you so ready to say farewell to my gifts?” asked the silversmith, when Nicholas was out of sight. But he sounded amused rather than offended, and had turned back to his close work on the brooch with unperturbed concentration.

  “I have not said farewell to it,” she said serenely. “I trust my judgement. He will be back, and I shall have my ring again.”

  “And how if he finds the lady living, and takes you at your word? What then?”

  “Why, then,” said his wife, “I think I may earn enough out of his gratitude to buy myself all the rings I could want. And I know you have the skill to make me a copy of that one, if I so wish. Trust me, whichever way his luck runs-and I wish him better than he expects!-we shall not be the losers.”

  Nicholas rode out of Winchester within the hour, in burning haste, by the north gate towards Hyde, passing close by the blackened ground and broken-toothed walls of the ill-fated abbey from which Humilis and Fidelis had fled to Shrewsbury for refuge. These witnesses to tragedy and loss fell behind him unnoticed now. His sights were set far ahead.

  The inertia of despair had lasted no longer than the length of the street, and given place to the most implacable fury of rage and vengefulness. Now he had something as good as certain, a small circlet of witness, evidence of the foulest treachery and ingratitude. There could be no doubt whatever that these modest ornaments were the same that Julian had carried with her, no chance could possibly have thrown together for sale three such others. Two witnesses could tell of the disposal of that ill-gotten plunder, one could describe the seller only too well, with even more certainty once she was brought face to face with him, as, by God, she should be before all was done. Moreover, she had seen him meet with his hired assassin in the street, and pay him for his services. There was no possibility of finding the hireling, nameless and faceless as he was, except through the man who had hired him, and such enquiries as Nicholas had set in motion after Adam Heriet had so far failed to trace his present whereabouts. Only one company of Waleran’s men remained near Winchester, and Heriet was not with them. But the search should go on until he was found, and when found, he had more now to explain away than a few stolen hours-possession of the lost girl’s goods, the disposal of them for money, the sharing of his gains with some furtive unknown. For whatever conceivable purpose, but to pay him for his part in robbery and murder?