Brother Cadfael 11: An Excellent Mystery

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 been 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