"I am a surgeon, trained in Paris. When I see the print of fingers about a dead man's neck I know what has sent him to the next world."
The cordwainer's eyes opened wide and his mouth worked open and shut again before he managed to speak. "His neck? There was a mark upon Robert's neck?"
"Aye. And no water in his lungs. He was dead before he went into the river. You knew him well, you say. Did he speak of any who sought him harm? Was he troubled, or did he seem fearful of his safety?"
I caught movement from the corner of my eye. Stelle's daughter had reappeared in the doorway. We both turned to her when she spoke.
"He had something others wanted, he said. They was seekin' him so he could not go to his lodging. Asked to sleep in the workroom for a few days."
"Did he say what it was these men sought?"
"Are you one of those who sought Robert?"
"I am. You heard me tell your father that Robert Salley possessed a book stolen from Master John Wyclif. I know not who else may be seeking the volume, or if the book was their reason for pursuing him. Perhaps it was some other possession of his they sought?"
"Not likely," the cordwainer said softly. "The lad owned nought but the clothes upon his back."
"Yet he was to renew his studies next term?"
"We, ah, had an arrangement," Stelle replied. I heard the daughter sob softly again. I said nothing and waited to hear if this arrangement would be told me. It was.
"Robert was to wed Bess," Stelle said, with a nod toward his daughter. "Wanted to take up law."
"So you were to finance your future son-in-law's education?"
"Aye."
"The thing that others wanted," I said to the lass, "did Robert keep it with him?"
The lass hesitated and glanced at her father. From the corner of my eye I saw him shrug. He would leave this decision to his daughter.
"Kept it 'ere. Wrapped in a linen cloth," she replied.
"You've seen the parcel?"
"Aye," she sighed.
"Is it much like a book in size?"
"Aye… it is."
"Where is it now?"
Bess turned her head slightly toward the workroom. "On a shelf, with father's leather goods."
"If you will bring it here you will discover, I think, that the linen wrapper conceals a book. Sentences, writ by Peter Lombard. On some pages you will find notes written in the margins, and initialed by the maker `JW'."
"John Wyclif," Stelle muttered.
The cordwainer looked to his daughter, nodded toward the workroom. The lass rubbed an eye with a knuckle, then turned and disappeared into the room. She appeared a moment later with a parcel wrapped in unbleached linen of rough weave. This she placed on the table before her father.
Stelle seemed reluctant to touch the package. I waited for him to do so, although it required great patience. I thought it best for him to discover the truth of my prediction than for me to produce the volume.
A slender hempen cord held the linen wrapping in place. Stelle began to struggle with the knot. His thick fingers were unsuited to the task, as he soon recognized. He drew a small dagger from his belt and sliced through the cord.
It was indeed Sentences which appeared when the cordwainer drew the linen from the book. He opened it at random and turned a few pages until he found a note written in the margin. "I have no Latin," Stelle said. "I cannot read what is writ here, but you speak truth. The comment is initialed."
He pointed to the page and Bess peered over his shoulder to see for herself. "This is one of Master Wyclif's stolen books?" the lass asked softly. "This is most unlike Robert. He once spoke of Master Wyclif. He had great admiration for his teaching."
The lass sniffed, and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. 'Twas most unappealing. "An' Robert, even so poor as he was, was not a man to take another's goods. I have heard him speak harshly of those who do so."
The cordwainer nodded solemnly in agreement with his daughter. "We who do business in the town," he added, "may not be scholars, but we are not fools. We know where Master Wyclif stands, and most approve. When news of his loss came to Northgate Street, near all who seek custom on the street were woeful for his loss."
I made to reach for the book, but Stelle placed a hand upon the open pages. "May be all is as you say, you seekin' Master Wyclif's books. But I don't know you. I'd be more content did Master Wyclif himself call for the book. I'll not hold what belongs to another, but I would see it go to its proper place."
This seemed to me a reasonable precaution on Stelle's part. There was a fleeting thought that, if I left to seek Master John, the cordwainer might hide the book and deny knowledge of it when I returned. I put the notion from my mind. Employment as a bailiff has created suspicion of all men in my mind. Perhaps a healthy skepticism is useful to my profession, but it is no pleasant way to live.
I told Stelle that I would return with Master John immediately and set off at a trot down the Northgate Street. I found Wyclif in his chamber, awaiting the cook's summons for dinner. I was breathless but managed to blurt out news of my discovery. Master John did not hesitate, but sprang from his bench. Together we set off for the cordwainer's shop, Master John's gown and beard flowing in the north breeze like that of an Old Testament patriarch.
Stelle stood in the same place as when I left him. The book had not been moved, not even a leaf was turned, for Master John's marginal note and initials were plain on the page.
Wyclif moved cautiously from the shop entrance to the cordwainer's table, as if he feared that his book might take fright and flee did he approach too hastily.
"Master Wyclif," Stelle greeted him with a bow. "You honor my shop. This fellow tells me he seeks your stolen books, which near all in the town know of, and that this volume is one of yours stolen some weeks past."
Master John moved around the table for a better view of the open book. He scanned a few pages, inspected the cover, then spoke: "Master Hugh speaks true. I asked him to find my stolen books and he has done so… one of them."
As he ended his claim Master John lifted his eyes from Sentences and gazed quizzically at me. I knew his thought.
"Did Robert Salley speak of other possessions kept elsewhere?" I asked Stelle.
"Not to me. Bess!" he called for his daughter. When the maid appeared he addressed her. "The book is indeed Master Wyclif's. You were near married to a thief. Did Robert speak of other goods he might have hidden elsewhere?"
The lass sniffed loudly and shook her head. The cordwainer turned first to Master John, then to me. "I am much grieved to know I have harbored a thief. Please accept my apology."
Wyclif nodded. "I hold no grudge against an honest man betrayed by another. Master Hugh, our dinner awaits."
"I will join you soon," I replied. "I would have more conversation here."
Wyclif shrugged, lifted his book, and turned to the door. "As you wish. I will tell cook to keep your meal hot 'til you appear."
Good, I thought. Even the warm pottage at Canterbury Hall holds few charms. Cold pottage does not own any appeal. Perhaps I have dined too often at Lord Gilbert's table in Bampton Castle. To a beggar or mendicant friar the pottage at Canterbury Hall might seem a feast, hot or cold.
Wyclif disappeared through the shop door with Sentences clutched tightly to his chest in both arms. He was unlikely to allow the book from his sight, I thought. Perhaps he might sleep with it under his pillow this night.
"There remain two questions," I said to Stelle. "How Robert Salley came by Master Wyclif's book, and who murdered the poor scholar."
"He was a thief," the man muttered. "Probably died at the hands of one of 'is band."
"I have doubts," I replied.
"What? That a friend did away with 'im?"
"Aye, that, and that he was a thief."
"He had a stolen book. He was a thief. An' I nearly wed my daughter to 'im."