14 - The Burgundian's Tale (10 page)

I was just wondering if I could escape from the Voyager before young Bertram came to find me, when he bounced into the ale room where I was eating my breakfast.

‘There you are!’ he exclaimed unnecessarily, before ordering a mazer of small beer.

‘Not wanted by the Duke or Master Plummer today?’ I asked hopefully.

He shook his head. ‘I’m entirely at your disposal.’ That’s what I’d been afraid of. ‘However, tomorrow I might be needed for other duties. If so, you’ll have to manage without me.’

‘Heaven forfend!’ I exclaimed, but the sarcasm was lost on my companion. I swallowed the rest of my oatcake and honey.

While Bertram finished his beer, I debated whether or not to tell him of last night’s incident. I didn’t want to. It would admit my fallibility and make me seem a bit of a fool. In the end, I decided it would be unfair not to warn him to be on his guard, and to carry a knife or a cudgel at all times.

But the story seemed to excite rather than frighten him, nor did it move him to laughter at my expense.

‘I wish I’d been there,’ he said eagerly. ‘I could probably have caught up with whoever it was. My legs are younger than yours.’

‘Whoever it was wouldn’t have risked attacking me if there’d been two of us,’ I pointed out snappishly. ‘And I’m not yet in my dotage. I’ll thank you to remember that.’

He grinned and was about to make a further rejoinder when I rose from the table and said it was time we were going. The ale room was filling up with my fellow guests, all looking for their breakfasts, and I was in no mood for idle conversation. I wanted to get this case over and done with so that I could be on my way back to Bristol. (Incidentally, I had no intention of riding or of being escorted home. Someone in Duke Richard’s household could arrange for the horse to be returned to the Bell Lane livery stables. I urgently needed the freedom and solitude.)

‘Where are we going?’ Bertram asked as we left the Voyager.

‘Where do you think? To visit Judith and Godfrey St Clair, of course. They are, after all, at the centre of this mystery. Then, if we’re lucky, perhaps we can question their next-door neighbours, the Jolliffes, as well. And if we’re
very
lucky, we might get a word with their other neighbour, Martin Threadgold, Mistress St Clair’s former brother-in-law.’

The fitful May day had lost its early sunshine and turned cold and wet. As we crossed the River Fleet, a sudden squall of rain whipped spray from the water, and the houses on either side of the thoroughfare were shrouded in mist. This would undoubtedly clear as the day progressed, but for the moment, it made everything appear grey and insubstantial.

Secure in the knowledge that my arrival must be at least half-expected, I knocked boldly on the street door of Judith St Clair’s house in the Strand and waited confidently to have my summons answered. I wasn’t disappointed, and within a very few minutes the door was opened by the housekeeper, Paulina Graygoss.

She eyed me with a certain hostility. ‘The mistress said as how you’d likely be paying us a visit,’ she remarked acidly. ‘But we weren’t expecting you this early in the morning.’ She jerked her head. ‘Still, I suppose you’d better come in now you’re here; but you’ll have to wait. The master and mistress are still at breakfast.’

She left us to kick our heels in the main hall of the house while she disappeared through a door to the left of a fine, carved oaken fireplace. I looked around me. Everything – from the glazed windows opening on to the Strand, to the rich tapestries decorating the walls, to the corner cupboard with its sparkling display of silverware (interspersed with the occasional dull gleam of gold), to the Eastern rugs adorning the flagstones – spoke of money and plenty of it. Judith St Clair’s wealth had not been exaggerated.

The housekeeper reappeared and, with a very bad grace, asked us to follow her, plainly disapproving of her mistress’s decision to receive us without first finishing her meal. She led us through several more rooms, all as well furnished as the hall, to a small parlour at the back of the house, overlooking the garden and the river. The full force of a spring storm was suddenly upon us. Rain lashed down outside and candles had been lit, ribbing the room with shadows. The distant cries of boatmen echoed eerily through the horn-paned windows from the Thames.

I immediately recognized the couple seated at the table as the pair I had seen at Westminster the previous day. They were still in mourning, but the finery of the previous occasion had been replaced by more homely attire: a long, loose velvet robe, rubbed thin in patches, for him, and a plain woollen gown and linen hood for her. The man looked thinner than ever, hunched over his plate, his grey hair gilded by the candlelight. He didn’t glance up as Bertram and I entered the room, focusing all his attention on the apple he was dissecting with a pearl-handled knife. Judith St Clair, however, raised her handsome head and gave me an appraising look.

‘You must be this chapman Her Highness was telling me about.’ Her eyes raked me from head to foot in a manner which, in someone else, could have been considered insulting, but which, in her, seemed merely curious. ‘It appears that His Grace of Gloucester sets great store by your ability to solve mysteries. An odd occupation for a pedlar.’

‘A gift from God, madam.’

At my slightly caustic tone, her gaze sharpened and she smiled grimly.

‘Maybe … Well, no one will be happier than myself to see the villain of this particular crime laid by the heels.’ I thought for a moment she was on the verge of tears, but she straightened her back and gestured impatiently, as though ashamed to display any such weakness. ‘So? What do you want from my husband and me?’

‘Just to talk to you both; to ask you about Master Quantrell and to learn anything you can tell me about the night he was murdered. I’d also like to question Mistress Threadgold and your son, sir, if they’ve no objection.’ I turned towards the silent figure at the other end of the table.

Godfrey St Clair did lift his eyes at that and sent me a long, penetrating stare. Then he nodded. ‘Jocelyn has nothing to hide. I don’t see why he should object.’ He had a surprisingly strong, deep voice for someone who appeared so frail.

‘When do you wish to begin this … this interrogation?’ his wife asked with, I thought, a touch of resentment.

But before I could reply, the parlour door opened and a young girl entered the room. I judged her to be some eighteen or nineteen years of age, pretty in a plumpish way with large brown eyes and a mass of very dark hair which, at present, she wore loose about her shoulders. She had on a gown of soft grey wool with a low-cut neck and turned-back sleeves, both of which revealed her linen undershift.

‘Who’s this?’ she asked of no one in particular, seating herself at the table.

Judith St Clair said, ‘This is the chapman I told you of last night.’ And to me, ‘My stepdaughter, Alcina Threadgold.’

I had already guessed the young woman’s identity, and gave her a polite bow. She returned the compliment by looking me over much as her stepmother had done, but with a greater degree of appreciation. Bertram received the same treatment, which made him blush uncomfortably and shuffle his feet. Alcina threw back her head and laughed.

‘Be quiet!’ Judith ordered. ‘This is a house of mourning. Or had you forgotten?’

‘I’m less likely to forget than any of you,’ Alcina retorted. ‘Fulk and I were betrothed to be married.’

‘And that’s a lie,’ said a fourth voice.

A young man, a few years older than Alcina and not that much younger than myself, had joined the others at the breakfast table. This, surely, must be Jocelyn St Clair, although any likeness to his father was not marked. He had the same hawkish nose, it was true, but his eyes were blue rather than Godfrey’s indeterminate grey, and his hair, worn fashionably cut and curled about his ears, was a lighter brown than I imagined the older man’s had been in his youth.

Alcina was on her feet. ‘What do you mean, a lie?’ she demanded furiously. ‘Fulk and I were going to be married. It was common knowledge!’

‘He had no intention of marrying you,’ Jocelyn threw back at her, equally furious. ‘Lionel Broderer told me so. He told me all about that scene in the workshop the evening Fulk died. And Mistress Broderer confirmed it.’

‘Liars, both of them!’ Alcina was near to tears.

‘No! There were other people present who’ll confirm it. Stop deluding yourself, Cina! Face up to the facts! There are some who really love you.’ Jocelyn hesitated, then finished lamely, ‘Brandon Jolliffe, for one. And … And Lionel wouldn’t say no if you looked in his direction.’

‘That will do, both of you.’ Judith rose from her place, magisterial in her anger. ‘There are strangers in our midst and I will not tolerate this kind of behaviour in their presence. If you have differences, settle them in private.’ She turned to me. ‘Master Chapman, let us get this over and done with. If you’ll follow me, we’ll go to the winter parlour, which is always empty at this time of year. Although, goodness knows why. Today is more like winter than spring. Thank the saints the Duchess had a fine day yesterday.’ She glanced at Bertram. ‘Is he coming, too?’

Bertram drew himself up to his full height, such as it was. ‘I am the representative of my master, the Duke of Gloucester,’ he announced importantly. ‘I am here to assist Master Chapman with his enquiries.’

I am a tolerant man as a rule, as all who know me will testify (well, most of them, anyway), but I was beginning to harbour unkind thoughts about young Master Serifaber. Visions of racks and thumbscrews and vats of boiling oil hovered tantalizingly at the back of my mind.

‘Come with me, then.’ Judith swept past us, out of the door, and we, perforce, had to follow.

We were led up a flight of stairs, along a narrow corridor, up another, shorter staircase and into a room not more than about seven feet square, again facing south on to the Thames to catch whatever there was of the westering afternoon sun. This morning, however, it was cold and dismal and no welcoming fire burned on the hearth.

‘Wait,’ Judith St Clair ordered peremptorily. ‘I’ll send for candles.’

She disappeared. I ignored Bertram and took stock of the room.

There were no expensive rugs as in the hall, but, like the parlour below, the floor was covered with fresh rushes mixed with scented herbs and dried flowers. (Some underling had been up and hard at work since the crack of dawn.) A broad window seat was strewn with cushions, two carved armchairs were drawn up, one on either side of the empty hearth, a harp and its stool stood in one corner, an oak chest, banded with iron, offered an extra, if uncomfortable, seat, while a couple of joint stools completed the furnishings.

Bertram had his own method of inspection. Not content with letting his eyes do the work, he wandered around the room, touching everything: prodding cushions, running his fingers across the harp strings, kicking up the rushes.

After a while, I could stand it no longer. ‘For goodness’ sake, lad, you’re like a flea on a griddle. Stand still! You’re making me nervous.’

Judith St Clair returned with a servant, a man in his mid-twenties, a surly expression marring features that might, in other circumstances, have been quite pleasant. He was carrying a flint and tinder-box and some candles which he was directed to light and set in holders about the room. Then he was ordered to kindle the pile of sticks and logs on the hearth, a feat he accomplished with a great deal of difficulty, for the room was damp. Finally, when this was done, he stumped off, grumbling under his breath. Judith St Clair heaved a sigh.

‘You must forgive William,’ she said. ‘He’s been in my employ since he was eight years old. His father was servant to my first husband, Edmund Broderer, and he regards himself as privileged. But he’s very loyal.’ She paused, plainly annoyed with herself for explaining and apologizing for something that was none of our business. We were uninvited and of lowly status, even if we did have the backing of a royal duke. She sat down in one of the armchairs. ‘Well, what do you want to know?’ She didn’t ask us to sit.

I wasn’t standing for that (literally). I drew forward one of the joint stools and motioned to Bertram to do the same with the other. Only when he was settled did I lean forward, elbows on knees, and request our reluctant hostess to tell us about her reunion with Fulk Quantrell.

‘What can I say?’ She was angry at what she considered my display of bad manners, but was powerless to dismiss me without indirectly offending the Dowager Duchess, who had given her blessing to our enquiries. ‘He was my nephew, my sister Veronica’s son. Her only child. My only living kinsman. Furthermore, he and his mother had lived with my first husband and myself from the time of his birth until he was six years old, when Veronica decided to go with the Lady Margaret to Burgundy.’

‘You were expecting his arrival?’

‘Yes, but not until yesterday. I knew that he would accompany the Dowager Duchess on this visit to London. He had written to tell me so at the beginning of December.’

‘But he turned up much earlier?’

‘At the beginning of March. He had come to tell me … tell me …’ Judith’s breath caught momentarily in her throat and she seemed to be in the grip of some powerful emotion. However, she took a deep breath and steadied herself. ‘Fulk had come to tell me that my sister was dead. She had died shortly after Christmas. He had intended coming earlier, he said, but the Duchess had been too upset to spare him immediately. Except for those six years when she lived with me, Veronica had been with my lady ever since she was a child.’

I nodded, choosing my next words carefully. ‘You … You became very fond of your nephew, I’ve been told.’

After a brief hesitation, Judith answered in a restricted voice, ‘Very fond.’

It was my turn to hesitate. ‘Perhaps unwisely fond?’ I ventured at last.

Her chin went up defiantly. ‘Some might think so. In fact,’ she added candidly, ‘nearly everyone thought so, and didn’t refrain from making their opinions public. Roland and Lydia Jolliffe. Martha Broderer and her son, Lionel. My stepson, whom you met downstairs. Even my housekeeper had the gall to give me a piece of her mind.’