14 - The Burgundian's Tale (25 page)

Betsy, who had been reconnoitring outside the street door, now turned and hissed at me, ‘There’s no sign of the master or mistress. They must still be next door. But I can see your friend. He’s over on the other side of the road, buying a pie. Two pies,’ she amended hungrily.

‘That sounds like Bertram.’ I slipped my arm about her waist and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek by way of thanks.

‘What about me, then?’ Nell demanded, coming alongside and proffering her lips.

I kissed the tip of her nose instead. I didn’t believe in favouritism. Then I made my way across the Strand to Bertram’s side and nipped one of the pies – fish, unfortunately: it was Friday – from his hand before he realized I was there. He protested, but faintly, too relieved to see me to make much fuss. And indeed, I was only just in time. As we stared across to the Threadgold house, Alcina, Judith and Godfrey St Clair emerged, followed by Jocelyn, the priest from St Dunstan’s, Paulina Graygoss and William Morgan. I was amused to note that while I had been next door, they had also been joined by all three Jolliffes, who were having no compunction in adding their mite to the general discussion being carried on amongst the group. Only the housekeeper and the Welshman took no part.

Bertram and I were too far away to hear what was being said, but I could tell by Judith St Clair’s stiff-necked attitude that she considered her neighbours’ intrusion into her affairs unwelcome. I touched Bertram on the arm.

‘Let’s go back to the Voyager. It must be gone ten o’clock. This pie’s rotten. The fish is all bones and no flesh.’ I spat out the contents of my mouth on to the road. ‘I fancy one of Reynold’s good dinners.’

My companion flung an arm around my shoulder and, without saying a word, urged me forward.

We chose fish pies again, but these were vastly different affairs from those Bertram had purchased from the pieman in the Strand. A thick suet crust enclosed succulent pieces of eel, and the sauce oozed out all over the plate when they were cut – sauce which we mopped up later with chunks of good wheaten bread. Bertram, stuffing himself while he was able, to augment the meagre fare of Baynard’s Castle, had a second helping.

While we ate, we assessed what we knew about the murder of Fulk Quantrell. And it wasn’t much. In spite of my conviction that I had twice been attacked by William Morgan, I couldn’t prove it. The cloak, which I had assumed to be his, had proved a false lead, belonging as it did to Martin Threadgold and having last been seen in his possesion by Felice Pettigrew. I was sure enough in my own mind that William had stolen it for his own use when he entered the Threadgold house and found Martin either asleep or dead. That, of course, raised the question: had he killed Martin? And if so, was he also the murderer of Fulk?

‘Well, I’d say “yes” on both counts,’ Bertram said thickly, raising his plate to his mouth and drinking the remaining sauce, afterwards licking his lips clean. He had evidently abandoned Alcina as the possible killer of her uncle.

‘Why?’ I asked, leaning forward and speaking quietly. We were in a secluded corner of the ale room and there was a good deal of noise and clatter going on all around; but some people have very acute hearing, and I had no wish to make them free of our conversation.

‘Why what?’ Bertram swigged his ale.

I sighed. ‘I’ve asked you this before. Why would William Morgan want to murder either Fulk Quantrell or Martin Threadgold? What grudge, what reward, links him to either man?’

Bertram squirmed a bit on his stool, but eventually announced defiantly, ‘He didn’t like them. They’d annoyed or injured him in some way, at some time or another.’

I considered this proposition, but found it dubious.

‘You might kill one person for such a reason,’ I agreed reluctantly, ‘but not two.’

Bertram remained defiant. ‘They say it’s easier to do murder a second time, once you’ve committed the first.’

‘Maybe …’ Then I shook my head. ‘I’m not saying William Morgan’s innocent, but I’d want a better reason than sheer vindictiveness for him to be the guilty party.’ I saw Bertram open his mouth to argue, but waved him to silence. ‘Don’t bother asking me why. It’s just a feeling, but I’ve learned to trust my instincts. So! What else do we know?’

‘We know Alcina took Martin the wine which was … which we believe to have been drugged.’

I smiled faintly. ‘You’re learning, lad. And we also know that some hours before Fulk was murdered, he had told Alcina bluntly that he had no intention of marrying her. He claimed to have a sweetheart in Burgundy. She was very upset and left the embroidery workshop in pursuit of him. She said she visited her uncle, a story Martin Threadgold confirmed. But …’

‘But he’s dead, as well,’ Bertram finished slowly. ‘Now there’s a thought, chapman. Suppose Alcina’s story wasn’t true, and her uncle had threatened to expose it for a lie. Perhaps he was blackmailing her. Wouldn’t that have been a motive for her to kill him?’

‘Perhaps. But we must not let ourselves get carried away. Everything we’ve said so far is supposition. Maybe we’re wrong and Martin wasn’t drugged and murdered. We must concentrate our attention on Fulk.’

Bertram grimaced and finished his ale. ‘That’s opening the floodgates to a whole torrent of suspects: Jocelyn and Godfrey St Clair, all three of the Jolliffes, as well as Alcina herself.’

I nodded glumly. ‘You’ve forgotten to mention Lionel Broderer and his mother. Not that I think Martha Broderer a likely suspect, but she might have killed on her son’s behalf if she considered that Fulk was robbing Lionel of his just deserts.’

My companion chewed his bottom lip. ‘What else do we know?’

‘Fact or hearsay?’

‘Both, I suppose. After all, if we rule out hearsay, there’s not a lot left.’

I laughed and patted Bertram on the back. ‘Timothy Plummer will live to be proud of you yet. Cynicism is of far greater value to an investigator than wide-eyed enthusiasm.’

Bertram looked pleased at this unexpected praise, and was about to say something when he paused, frowning, staring at a group of newcomers who had just entered the inn.

‘Now what’s he doing here? I didn’t think the Voyager was one of his haunts. I thought he frequented the Bull, in Fish Street.’

‘Who are you talking about?’ I enquired, following his gaze.

‘Brandon Jolliffe.’

A man was outlined against the bright sunshine blazing in through the open ale-room doorway, but with his back to the light, it was difficult to make out his features. He was certainly short and stocky. Then, suddenly, having spotted us, he changed direction and came towards us.

‘It’s not Brandon,’ I said. ‘It’s Lionel Broderer.’

As the man approached and his face could be seen more clearly, it became obvious that he was a good deal older than Master Jolliffe.

Bertram smiled, a little sheepishly. ‘They look similar at a distance,’ he excused himself.

I had to admit that they did, at the same time experiencing an uneasy stirring at the back of my mind, as though some fact that I couldn’t quite pin down was nudging me towards a connection that I was unable to make. I made a desperate effort, but it was already too late. Lionel had drawn up a stool to our table and was greeting me like a long-lost friend.

‘Roger! We meet again. Do you have any idea of what’s happening in the Strand? If I know Judith, she’s taken charge. All the same, if you should happen to see Alcina, would you tell her that I was asking about her? I should be only too happy to render her any assistance in my power.’

‘We’ve already visited the Threadgold house this morning.’ I smiled sympathetically. ‘And you’ve guessed aright, I’m afraid. Mistress St Clair has everything under control. I doubt there’s anything left for you to do by this time.’

He looked so downcast that I whistled to a passing pot boy and ordered him a mazer of ale. He could buy his own fish pie: my generosity didn’t extend that far.

‘Strange, Martin going like that,’ he remarked, after he had thanked me. ‘He was only saying to me the other day that he felt better in health than he had done for a long time. He suffered from attacks of breathlessness, you know, but thought they had lessened since that stretch of the Thames had been cleared of some of the muck and sediment on the river bed. Farringdon Without has always been one of the more public spirited and progressive wards.’

The pot boy brought Lionel’s ale, which he downed almost in one gulp, letting out a great ‘Ahhh!’ of satisfaction and wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

‘You were thirsty.’

He nodded. ‘The workshop gets very hot this time of day.’

‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘do you recollect a young boy who used to work in Mistress St Clair’s garden?’ Even as I spoke, I wondered why I always referred to the house and garden as Judith’s and never Godfrey’s. Perhaps because it
was
her house, where she had lived ever since her marriage to Edmund Broderer. As Lionel looked puzzled, I went on, ‘He’d have been about ten or so at the time. Nell’s younger brother.’

‘Nell?’ His frown deepened.

‘One of the kitchen maids.’

‘Oh! Yes, I think I know who you mean: the little, thin one. That’s right.’ He broke off to shout for another mazer of ale before returning to his ruminations. ‘Yes, I’d forgotten all about him. So he was Nell’s brother, was he? I don’t think I ever knew that. Nothing like her to look at. Square-set little fellow. Why do you ask?’

‘Nell mentioned to me today that he’d disappeared. Vanished a couple of years ago without telling anyone where he was going.’

‘Probably stowed away on one of the ships berthed along the wharves. Boys of that age want adventure.’

‘That’s what I said. But Nell seemed to think he wasn’t that sort. Liked gardening. Not the adventurous kind, according to her.’

Lionel swallowed his second cup of ale with as much gusto as the first, then stared thoughtfully into the empty pot. ‘Is this important?’

I pursed my lips. ‘I don’t know,’ I answered frankly. ‘Probably not. On the other hand, it might be. The truth is, any facts are better than no facts, and at the moment, I don’t feel I’m any closer to solving the Burgundian’s murder than I was three days ago.’

‘I tell you what,’ Lionel said, ‘come back with me to the workshop. My mother’s there today, helping out, as two of the girls are sick with the bellyache. She knows a great deal more about Judith and her household than I do. She gets all the gossip from Paulina Graygoss. You couldn’t exactly call them friends, but Mother has a knack of wheedling information out of people.’

‘Thank you. I’ll do that if you think Mistress Broderer won’t mind.’

Lionel roared with laughter. ‘Mind! She’ll welcome you with open arms. Apart from the fact that she’s fond of a good-looking young man, she’ll be delighted with any excuse to rest her eyes a while. She finds some of the close work more trying than she cares to let on.’

I glanced at Bertram. ‘Do you want to come?’

But I wasn’t surprised when he refused, giving as his reason that he ought to get back to Baynard’s Castle and report to Timothy Plummer. Time spent in the company of someone old enough to be Lionel Broderer’s mother lacked excitement. So I said goodbye to him, finished my ale and followed Lionel across the street to Needlers Lane.

Martha Broderer was as pleased to see me as her son had predicted, rising from her stool to embrace me warmly before planting a smacking kiss full on my lips.

‘This is a pleasant surprise,’ she said with a smile. ‘I was only saying to Lal yesterday that I wished you would pay me a visit.’

‘For any particular reason?’ I asked.

She punched me playfully, and rather harder than I cared for, in the ribs. ‘Are you fishing for compliments, my lad? If so, you won’t get them from me.’ But she winked broadly, nonetheless.

I blushed and denied the accusation, conscious of the giggling girls behind me. I had imagined – I don’t know why – that Dame Broderer would be helping at the table where the purses and belts were decorated; but it became obvious that she was assisting, if not actually directing, two other women who were embroidering a magnificent cope.

‘For the Bishop of Bath and Wells,’ she told me, noticing my interest. And indeed I might have guessed, had I thought about it, by the border of white saltire crosses worked on a blue background: the cross of Saint Andrew. She eyed me curiously. ‘Do you know Robert Stillington?’

I laughed. ‘I’ve seen him, of course – I come from that part of the country – but only at a respectful distance. Do I look the sort of man who would be on speaking terms with a bishop?’

‘False modesty doesn’t become you.’ Martha Broderer rapped me sharply across the knuckles with her spectacles (I had seen her whip them off her nose the moment I came in). ‘You don’t look the sort of man who’s on speaking terms with a royal duke, but you are.’ She went on, ‘A strange man, the Bishop. I always think there’s something a little shifty about him.’

‘He was very friendly with the late George of Clarence,’ I offered in support of her statement. ‘I’ve always been convinced that there was some intrigue between them. Stillington was arrested round about the same time as the Duke, but later released.’

I watched idly as the other two women laid strand after strand of sapphire-blue silken thread side by side on the linen, then stitched them together to form a solid block of colour.

‘That’s called couching,’ Dame Broderer explained. ‘Now, isn’t it time you told me why Lal’s brought you to visit me? I’m sure there’s a reason, and it isn’t for the sake of my beautiful eyes.’

‘I should just think not,’ her son said jovially. On entering the workshop, Lionel had gone to have a word with the two men, Jeb Smith and Will Tuckett, who were setting up mesh on the wooden frames, preparatory, I guessed, to beginning a new wall hanging. But now he strolled across to join us. ‘He wants to pick your memory, Mother. Do you remember the young boy who used to work in the garden for Cousin Judith?’

Surprisingly, Martha Broderer nodded. ‘Yes. He was called Roger, the same as our friend here, and he was always referred to as Nell’s brother although they had different fathers. Their mother, if I recollect correctly, was called Eleanor Jessop. A pretty girl, widow of a Thames boatman. Judith took her on to be her tiring woman. She died – Eleanor, that is – when Roger was born, and Judith had the boy raised to work in the household. When he was old enough, he started helping William Morgan in the garden and around the house.’