A Mortal Bane(99)

“The gate is locked,” he shouted. “Give me the key.”

“I do not have a key,” Magdalene said mendaciously. “And keep your voice down. I do not want my clients disturbed.”

“It is never locked,” he said angrily but in a lower voice. “It was open when…when I was last here.”

“When was that?” Magdalene asked. “I do not remember.”

There was more color in Beaumeis’s face now, but he did not meet her eyes when he said, “I do not remember, either, but it must have been before I left the country in January.” He hesitated, then drew a deep, almost sobbing, breath. “Is Baldassare truly dead?”

“Truly. He was murdered on Wednesday night—according to Brother Paulinus, who came to accuse us of the crime on Thursday morning. Where were you on Wednesday night?”

“I do not know,” he muttered. “On the road. Somewhere on the road.” And then, as if the words reminded him, he asked, “What did you do with his horse?”

“I? I did nothing with his horse. He took it with him when he left, I assume.”

“Took it with him? Did he not—” He stopped abruptly, but now he was watching her avidly, appearing more interested than distressed, his color back to normal and a slight supercilious droop to his lips. “When did he die?”

“How would I know that?” Magdalene snapped. “If you are so curious, go ask Sir Bellamy of Itchen, who is trying to discover the facts on the bishop’s behalf.”

“Bishop? Winchester?”

“Yes, Winchester. Since Baldassare had come here to Southwark, it is possible he came to see the bishop.”

The remark did not have the effect Magdalene expected. She had hoped to surprise a look or a word confirming that Beaumeis knew about the bull, but he said nothing. He had paled again and looked away as Magdalene spoke, but not quickly enough. She was sure it was rage that thinned his lips, and the concentrated venom of his expression surprised her. She was certain now that Beaumeis was more than a selfish nodcock. He could have arranged to meet Baldassare. He hated Henry of Winchester enough to take some chances to spite him.

In another moment Beaumeis’s face was smooth and indifferent once more, although still rather pale. Magdalene again revised an opinion. He was well able, it seemed, to hide what he was thinking. She was annoyed with herself for her lack of comprehension. Of course he had never tried to hide his honest feelings from her or her women in the past; they were not important enough for him to bother.

Suddenly he seemed to notice that she was blocking his entrance into the house. “You do not need to try to keep me out,” he said, first glancing over her shoulder at Dulcie and then looking down his nose at her. “I am rich enough now to keep my own woman, who will not drip on me the leavings of other men.”

To that, Magdalene made no reply other than stepping back and slamming the door in his face. She did not waste time fuming over so silly an insult, knowing her women were trained to wash carefully between clients and remove any signs of previous use. She peered out the kitchen window in time to catch a flicker of his cloak as he rounded the corner of the house, heading for the front gate.

“I must go out,” she said to Dulcie, who nodded understanding and replaced her pan on a hook by the door.

[page]Magdalene then took the key to the front gate and hurried to her own chamber, where she wound her outdoor veil around her head and face. Taking her cloak, she peered out the door to make sure Beaumeis was gone, then ran to the front gate and pulled in the bell cord. Until she could return, they would do without extra custom. It was more important to tell Bell that Beaumeis was back.