A Mortal Bane(43)

“There was a great deal of blood?”

Brother Godwine shuddered. “A pool of it, and that after his shirt and tunic and cloak were soaked.”

“And the blood? Was it red and liquid, or brown and like a jelly or a crust?”

The porter drew a shaky breath. “Oh, I do not know. I could not look.” He shuddered again. “And I certainly did not touch it.”

Bell wished that the brothers had not been so quick to clean the victim’s clothes. He would have liked to see for himself just how hard the bloodstains were and how much blood had been absorbed. To those unaccustomed, blood always seemed a pool or a flood when it might have been only a smear. He stepped past Brother Godwine and knelt to examine the stain. No, the mark was not owing to insufficient washing; the stain had soaked into the rough places in the mortar and stone.

“He was almost certainly killed here, on the porch, and I think some hours before Prime,” Bell said. “Let me go look at the body again.”

He went in and recrossed the chancel briskly. Brother Godwine hung back, but Magdalene kept pace with him, intensely curious about why he wished to re-examine the body. This time, despite Brother Godwine’s anguished exclamation, he pulled down the shroud and turned the corpse so that the cut in the flesh was clear. The body turned like a block, except for one arm and leg that flopped limply. Curious as she was, Magdalene stepped back a bit, and when he bent almost close enough to kiss the wound and pulled and prodded at the flesh, she drew her breath in sharply.

“Yes, as I thought, killed long before Prime. This stiffness takes some hours to form. He was rigid when you found him, was he not?”

“I do not know,” the porter said, sounding stifled. “Brother Infirmarian took charge then. You may speak to him if you must.”

Bell nodded, lifting his gaze from the wound for a moment to glance at Magdalene, who had come closer once more now that she knew what he was doing. He nodded and bent to study the cut even more closely. “I will, but later. I will want to know if he agrees with my thoughts. It seems to me that whoever stabbed Baldassare was standing close and that Baldassare made no resistance and did not move until the knife went in.”

“How do you know that?” Magdalene asked, voice hushed.

“The wound is not torn, and the way the knife went in makes me think the two were nearly of a height. I would guess they knew each other well, that they walked from somewhere together, perhaps arm in arm, the killer’s left arm in or near Baldassare’s right. Under cover of their talk, the killer drew his knife in his right hand, turned to face Baldassare—perhaps to make a point, but I do not think they were arguing—and suddenly brought up the knife and thrust it into Baldassare’s neck.”

[page]Magdalene drew back. ‘That is a horrible picture. But can it be real? If they knew each other and were not arguing, why should whoever it was kill poor Messer Baldassare?”

“I have no idea,” Bell replied, staring sadly down at the man he had known and liked. “But I think I am near right about what happened. If they were close because they were in a nose-to-nose quarrel, Baldassare would never have allowed the other man to bring up his knife hand without raising an arm to protect himself, pushing the man away, pulling his own knife, or trying to dodge. He was well able to defend himself, for he had carried the pope’s messages for years and had fought outlaws and others. Perhaps he thought his killer was going to place a hand on his shoulder or make some similar gesture. In the dark, he might not have seen the knife. This could only have been done by someone he knew and had no reason to distrust.”