The Lark's Lament: A Fools' Guild Mystery Page 20

  “Where is Father Firmin these days?” I asked.

  “Over there,” he said, pointing to a simple wooden cross marking a grave on the far side of the fence enclosing the cemetery.

  “Why isn’t he buried inside the fence?” asked Claudia, crossing herself.

  “Killed himself,” said Otz tersely.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Don’t know,” he said. “He wasn’t the type, but one night I come back from the tavern, and there he was, swinging by the neck in the church. Surprised me.”

  “I remember hearing about that,” said Grelho. “It surprised everyone.”

  “Do you remember if anyone sang at her funeral?” I asked.

  “Nah, no one did that,” he said.

  “Well, that was a long shot,” I said as we rose.

  “The singer came a week later,” he said.

  We looked at each other, then sat down again. Helga gave up all pretense of working on the weeds and came over to join us.

  Otz lifted the wineskin and contemplated it mournfully. “Not much left,” he said.

  “Finish it,” I said.

  He bobbed his head again, then drained the wineskin to the last drop. “Damned good wine,” he pronounced. “What were we talking about?”

  “The singer at Lady Mathilde’s grave,” I said, trying very hard not to jump on him and shake the remainder of the story out.

  “Right. Maybe two weeks later, I hear someone singing. I go out here to look, and there’s this young fellow, used to sing up in that place in town, you know the one I’m talking about?”

  “Near the Blancaria,” said Grelho. “His name was Rafael.”

  “That’s the one,” agreed Otz. “Singing his heart out. Don’t have an ear for music myself, but he sounded real good.”

  “Was he with anyone else?” I asked.

  “I didn’t see no one about,” said Otz. “None of my business what people want to do around here, except digging them up again. That’s just extra work for me.”

  “And you didn’t tell anyone about the grave being robbed?” I asked.

  “Oh, no,” said Otz. “People hear there’s grave-robbing going on, they won’t want to be buried here. Then I’m out of a job. This is all I know. Been here going on fifty years.”

  “So we’ve heard,” said Claudia, picking up Portia from where she had been playing in the grass and putting her in her sling. “Thank you for your time.”

  “All I got is time,” said Otz. “Where did you get that wine, anyway?”

  “In town,” said Grelho. “At that place. You know the one.”

  “Hmm,” said Otz wistfully. “I ought to go into town more.”

  “Here’s your scythe,” said Helga, giving it back to him.

  We left him sitting on his bench, starting to drift off.

  “Possibility,” I said as we walked. “Folquet leaves; Mathilde dies. It takes a week for word to reach Folquet in Marseille. He comes back here and gets Rafael to sing ‘The Lark’s Lament’ as a final personal tribute to her.”

  “Sounds romantic,” said Grelho.

  “Possibility number two,” said Claudia. “Folquet is threatened, leaves town, but in a fit of jealous rage sneaks back and kills her. Then, in remorse, he composes his lament.”

  “Sounds less romantic,” said Grelho. “And it shares the same problem. Why was the body stolen? And who did it?”

  “It was stolen because he couldn’t bear to have her share eternity with her husband,” said Claudia. “He rescues her from the grave and buries her in a place only he knows.”

  “Then he comes back to this grave to have Rafael sing the lament two weeks later, knowing that she isn’t there,” responded Grelho. “It still doesn’t make sense.”

  “Do you think they killed the priest?” asked Helga.

  “It crossed my mind,” I said. “I just don’t know how to fit that in with the little that we know. Grelho, whatever happened to the two men who came with Landrieux?”

  “Berenguer and Rocco? They’re still in town, to the best of my knowledge. I think they latched on to other houses after the Landrieux family was dispossessed.”

  “Who became guardian for Philippe Landrieux when his father died?”

  “Guilhem himself,” said Grelho. “He let the boy live in the family house. He appointed Berenguer as the steward for the family finances until the boy became of age.”

  “What happened to Philippe after he was disenfranchised?”

  “I don’t know,” said Grelho. “But I can find out.”

  “Theo,” said Claudia.

  “Yes?”

  “Why didn’t Folc tell you that he wrote ‘The Lark’s Lament’?”

  “That’s the first question I am going to ask when I see him,” I said.

  “Because if he did kill Mathilde, then it would be natural for him to deny it,” she said. “It would be even more natural for him to send us off on what he thought would be an impossible quest. And then he panicked and sent Brother Antime to Montpellier to find out if someone here knew what he had done, and to intercept us if we showed up.”

  “Only someone intercepted Antime first,” I said. “Yes, that certainly seems plausible. But if Folc was covering up an adulterous affair from his past, he could have reacted the same way. I have no doubt that he has some dark secret to hide, but how dark it is, we have yet to learn. Grelho, let’s go find Berenguer and Rocco and see if they will be willing to talk to us. Berenguer first, I think. He was the steward.”

  “Right,” said Grelho. “I think he lives up in the Saint-Mathieu parish. I remember seeing him come out of a house there once, and saying hello.”

  “You were the master conversationalist even then,” I said.

  “Oh, I want to solve all of this, if only to get rid of you people,” he said.

  He led us back through town, once again taking us past the markets. We came to a square filled with flower-sellers, peddling mostly dried bouquets and a few late bloomers. We turned into the narrow twisty streets north of there, and Grelho stopped at a crossing, looking uncertain.

  “It was somewhere around here,” he said. “He actually had his own place, as I recall.”

  “Maybe it’s the one with all the Viguerie clustering about it,” said Claudia, pointing to the right.

  We looked in that direction. Sure enough, a group of guards was gathered in front of a house, spears in barricade position, while others were fanning out and pounding on doors in a way that was becoming all too familiar.

  “Unfortunately, you are correct,” sighed Grelho. “Let’s go ask. Nothing unusual about being curious in these circumstances.”

  We walked up to the perimeter of the barricade.

  “Ho, Jacques, since when are you working days?” called Grelho.

  I recognized the guard who had rousted us two nights before. He nodded at us. “They woke us up for this one,” he said. “Remember Berenguer? Used to be the Landrieux steward?”

  “Vaguely,” said Grelho. “What’s he done?”

  “Done? He’s done nothing,” said Jacques grimly. “Someone’s done him. Stabbed in the chest.”

  Gasping and crossing from us all.

  “How horrible,” said Grelho. “Isn’t that what happened to that fellow you found near my place the other night?”

  “It is,” said Jacques. “And we’re going to turn this town upside down and shake it until the rat who did this falls out. Until then, I would advise you to be careful. Don’t go walking anywhere on your own at night.”

  “Good counsel, and we will abide by it, friend Jacques,” promised Grelho.

  We watched for a few minutes as if we had nothing better to do, then moved on.

  “I’ll have to ask around about Rocco,” said Grelho. “I don’t know where he lives.”

  “We have to find him as soon as possible,” I said.

  “You think he’s in danger,” said Claudia.

  “Let me put it this way,” I said. “You
know that man we thought was following us?”

  “Yes?”

  “I think he’s ahead of us now.”

  ELEVEN

  … me sui conogutz

  del gran engan qu’Amors vas mi fazia;

  [… I now know the terrible trick Love played on me;]

  —FOLQUET DE MARSEILLE, “SITOT ME SOI A TART APERCEUBUTZ” [TRANS. N. M. SCHULMAN]

  My first instinct when my husband said, “I think he’s ahead of us now,” was to go for my dagger and fling it at any man I saw in front of us. Luckily, my reason seized hold of my hand before I did so.

  “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.”