The Burgundian’s Tale

Ten

Luck remained with us in so far as Lydia Jolliffe was at home. The little maid who answered my knock informed us that the young and old master were abroad, but that the mistress was in her parlour at the back of the house. And it was to this first-floor chamber that Bertram and I were conducted in due course.

It was a light, airy room facing both south and east, with windows looking out over the river at the back and the gardens and houses that clustered around the Fleet Bridge to one side. Shutters had been flung open to let in the brightness of a spring afternoon that completely belied the dismal, rain-sodden start to the day. The May sun shone proudly from a soft blue sky, and rooks, like a handful of winter-black leaves, wheeled and cawed beyond the casement.

The woman who rose to meet us was a handsome, statuesque creature with high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes of a deep, lustrous brown that gave her an almost exotic, foreign appearance. Her skin, by contrast, was extremely pale, but so skilfully had the white lead been applied that it needed a second glance to realize that its colour was due to artifice and not to nature. She was plainly but expensively gowned in green silk cut high to the throat, a modest touch that might have been more convincing had it not served to emphasize her magnificent breasts. Her hennin, draped with a white gauze veil, was one of the shorter kind which, at that time, had just begun to replace the ‘steeple’. She wore a dark-green leather girdle, tagged with silver and a jade cross on a silver chain, but no other ornament. The effect was striking and she knew it. It was easy to see why Fulk Quantrell could well have been attracted to this woman, in spite of his natural inclination towards men. (But even as the thought entered my head, I realized that, so far, I had no other proof of Jocelyn St Clair’s allegation.)

‘Mistress Jolliffe?’ I queried with a polite bow. A silly question, as it was extremely unlikely she could be anyone else.

She didn’t bother answering. Those remarkable eyes raked me from head to foot; then she let a long, lazy smile lift the corners of her delicately tinted lips.

‘So you’re the pedlar I’ve been hearing about from Judith St Clair.’ Her voice was languid. ‘Roger, isn’t it?’

‘I’m honoured, lady, that you’ve taken the trouble to remember my name.’ I smiled in what I hoped was a seductive manner (I, too, could play that sort of game) and drew Bertram forward. ‘This is Master Serifaber, the Duke of Gloucester’s man.’

Bertram was growing used to this introduction and no longer tried to look worthy of it, but he was too young, and obviously too green, to hold Mistress Jolliffe’s attention for long. She gave him a quick nod and then turned back to me, resuming her seat in the room’s only armchair and picking up her embroidery frame as she did so. But if she had hoped to present a demure, wifely tableau (Penelope at her loom), she was wasting her time. She never could, and never would, look domesticated.

‘Sit down,’ she invited, but as there was only one stool, Bertram was forced to stand, supporting himself against the nearest wall. I removed a lute from the stool, which was far too small for my hefty frame, and perched awkwardly on its edge. Mistress Jolliffe smiled slightly at my discomfort, but made no comment. The fragrance of wild flowers rose from the rushes on the floor and, with my new-found knowledge, I recognized the rich wall hangings as being embroideries rather than tapestries. I wondered if they had been purchased from the Broderer workshop; or had they perhaps been a gift?

While I made an attempt to settle myself, I took covert stock of Lydia Jolliffe, trying to guess her age. If she had a son as old as, or older than, Alcina Threadgold, she was probably in her late thirties or, more likely, early forties; but she was one of those women whose years sit lightly on them. Nevertheless, self-confidence and the mature curves of her figure led me to believe she was older than she looked.

‘I’m forty, Master Chapman,’ she said with a rich, full-throated laugh that made me start violently and blush. ‘Men are so transparent,’ she added, selecting a long pale-green silk thread from a pile on a small table beside her, and once more plying her needle in and out of the white sarcenet stretched on the tambour frame. ‘It’s so easy to tell what you’re thinking. Women are much better at concealing their thoughts. Now, I presume you wish to ask me about the murder of Fulk Quantrell. What is it you want to know?’

I rubbed my nose nervously. ‘Well, to begin with, may I ask where you were on the night of May Day or the early hours of the following morning, when the young man was killed?’

‘That’s simple. I was home here, in bed with my husband. He’ll vouch for the fact.’

Of course he would, just as she would vouch for him. A wasted question but, all the same, one that had had to be asked.

‘Did you like Fulk?’

She shrugged. ‘I neither liked nor disliked him. He was Judith’s nephew. A pleasant enough lad, prettily behaved, respectful to his elders. He had more to do with my son than with me. You must ask Brandon about him. Fulk was young enough to have been my son.’

Her last remark was more revealing than she had intended, containing as it did an undertone of bitterness.

‘Did he find you attractive?’

Lydia glanced up sharply, then laughed again, but this time it was a high-pitched, artificial tinkle.

‘Dear saints, of course not! I told you: I was old enough to be his mother.’

There it was again – that insistence on the difference in their ages. I ignored it. ‘Was your husband jealous?’

She tossed her embroidery frame angrily to one side, missing the table and letting it fall among the rushes. ‘Don’t you listen to anything I say? He was my son’s friend, not mine.’

‘Even so,’ I urged, ‘you must have formed some opinion of his character other than that his manners and general address were good. What was he really like, underneath, do you think?’

I could see her struggling with herself for several seconds – women, whatever she maintained, are just as easy to read as men on occasions – but whatever it was she had in mind to tell me, prudence eventually won. She managed to smile.

‘Fulk naturally had his own interests at heart; what young man of eighteen does not? One could hardly blame him for taking advantage of Judith’s infatuation.’

‘Did you and Master Jolliffe approve of Mistress St Clair’s decision to make him her sole heir?’

Lydia picked up the discarded embroidery frame and continued with her stitching. ‘Roland and I neither disapproved nor approved. It was not our business.’

Very commendable, but not what Judith St Clair had told me. I wondered what the Jolliffes had really said to one another in the privacy of the marital bed, and to their neighbours.

‘But you must have had some feelings about Fulk’s stealing Mistress Alcina’s affection away from your son.’

Once again there was that hesitation while she decided what to say; and once again she decided to lie. ‘Whatever you may have been told, Master Chapman, there was never anything settled in the way of a betrothal between Brandon and Alcina. If anything, he was less fond of her than she of him. They were friends. Something might have come of that friendship eventually, who can tell? But somehow, I doubt it. Brandon is a very good-looking boy. He can have his pick of any girl in London.’

I accepted this. Who was I to argue with a mother’s fond delusion? Instead, I asked abruptly, ‘Do you happen to know where your son was on the night Fulk Quantrell was murdered?’

She gave me a quelling stare. ‘My son is twenty years old: I am not his keeper. However, I imagine he was drinking in some tavern or other, probably the Bull in Fish Street, which seemes to be his usual haunt. And most likely with Jocelyn St Clair. But you must ask him.’

‘Can you or your husband confirm the time he came home?’

‘No, of course not! Did your mother know what time you got in at night when you were that age?’

When I had been twenty, my mother had not been long dead, and I had just abandoned my novitiate at Glastonbury Abbey and was busy making my way in the world in my new trade of peddling. But I naturally did not burden Mistress Jolliffe with this personal history. Instead, I enquired, ‘Did you know that Fulk Quantrell and your son had come to blows during the morning’s maying expedition? According to young Master St Clair it was about Alcina. Master Jolliffe accused Fulk of stealing her away from him.’

I saw anger and something else – something akin to fear – flash in and out of Lydia’s eyes. But she replied with creditable calm, ‘That’s the first I’ve heard of it. Mind you, you shouldn’t believe everything Jocelyn tells you. He was hoping – maybe he still is now that Fulk is dead – to fix his interest with Alcina himself. It would certainly please his father if he did.’

‘Mistress Threadgold insists that theirs is a purely brother-and-sister relationship.’

My hostess curled her lip (not an easy thing to do, but possible). ‘Alcina might think that, but I doubt if Josh does. He may not be in love with her, but he’s too canny to let the best part of half a fortune go begging for want of a wedding ring. And he wouldn’t allow a little thing like marriage vows to prevent him from continuing in his normal hedonistic way.’

She didn’t like Jocelyn St Clair, that was evident. But what had been her real feelings concerning Fulk Quantrell?

‘Master St Clair – young Master St Clair – maintains that Fulk really preferred men to women. Do you think that’s true?’

After a moment’s incredulous silence, there was an explosion of laughter so hearty and so genuine that it was impossible to doubt its sincerity. ‘You’re making it up!’ she accused me as soon as she could speak.

I shook my head and glanced at Bertram, who confirmed my statement.

‘What a liar Josh is then!’ she gasped, wiping her eyes. ‘Of course he didn’t!’ But she sobered abruptly with the realization that her merriment and vigorous denial of Fulk’s sexual predilections pointed to the fact that she had known him a great deal more intimately than she had claimed. ‘Well, I shouldn’t think so, at any rate,’ she amended hurriedly, ‘judging by the number of female hearts he enslaved.’

‘Including yours, Mistress Jolliffe?’ I suggested softly.

‘How dare you!’ she breathed, and this time there was no mistaking the combined anger and fear in both look and voice. ‘I’m a true and loyal wife, faithful in thought and deed to the most loving, gentle and considerate husband a woman could ever wish for.’

She could try pulling my other leg, too, but I still wouldn’t believe her. Once again, she had betrayed herself by overemphasis. I was certain that she had fallen for Fulk’s charms quite as heavily as his aunt and Alcina Threadgold had done. Maybe, deep down, she hadn’t liked him – I felt instinctively that she was too astute to be taken in simply by a handsome face – but had found him attractive enough to want to go to bed with him. But had she succeeded in seducing him, or in allowing herself to be seduced by him? And if so, had Roland Jolliffe discovered her infidelity and set out to remove his rival? (I recollected Martha Broderer’s words: ‘… he’s devoted to Lydia. And he’s the sort who’d never blame her if she ever did play him false. In his eyes, she’d have been … led astray by the man.’) On the other hand, if Lydia had set her cap at Fulk and been rejected, could her pride have been sufficiently lacerated for her to have murdered him?

A moment’s reflection convinced me that this latter notion was unlikely: most people are too used to rejection of one kind or another in their lives to retaliate by killing. But it was not impossible. And where the crime of murder is concerned, experience has taught me that all possibilities must be taken seriously until proved to be false.

I was saved from making a spurious apology for this slur on Lydia’s virtue by the sudden opening of the door and the arrival of two men whom I presumed to be the Jolliffes, father and son. The elder again recalled to mind Martha Broderer’s description of a ‘big, quiet man who don’t say much about anything’, and his identity was immediately confirmed by his wife, who exclaimed in a relieved voice, ‘Roland! I’m so glad you’re here!’

He went at once to stand beside her, putting a protective arm about her shoulders.

‘Who’s this?’ he grunted, his eyes, of a clear Saxon blue, regarding me with open hostility.

Mistress Jolliffe explained and also introduced Bertram, carefully drawing attention to his royal livery. ‘Master Serifaber, the Duke of Gloucester’s man.’

It was a warning, or maybe a reminder, to her husband of royalty’s involvement in this affair. Not that Roland Jolliffe appeared to be the sort of person who would make a fuss or throw his weight about. He was a large, loose-limbed, shambling man quite obviously some years older than his wife. His sartorial preference, like that of Godfrey St Clair, was for comfortable, well-worn clothes in sober shades of grey or brown, with a pleated tunic unfashionably long and a surcoat trimmed with fur that might once have been sable but now looked more like moth-eaten budge.

Brandon Jolliffe, on the other hand, was the very height of elegance in an extremely short tunic of russet velvet which revealed a modish expanse of loin and buttock encased in black silk hose (at least he didn’t favour the parti-coloured variety). A magnificent codpiece, made of the same material as his tunic, sported several black satin bows, a promise to any woman interested in the joys to be sampled underneath. He had his mother’s striking brown eyes, but other than that seemed not to favour either parent, being shorter and stockier than both, with light-brown hair carefully curled and pomaded. Yet his dandified appearance was at odds with the impression of strength given by his compact frame and powerful muscles.

He was more aggressive than his father and less intimidated by Bertram’s livery. ‘What do you mean by coming here and annoying my mother?’ he demanded, squaring his jaw and jutting his chin.

‘That will do, Brandon,’ Lydia admonished him sharply. ‘Master Chapman is making enquiries about Fulk Quantrell’s murder; and I understand from Mistress St Clair that not only Duke Richard but also the Dowager Duchess herself has asked him to do so. Just tell him where you were on the night of May Day. That’s all he wants to know.’ She looked up at her husband and squeezed the hand that was still lying protectively against her shoulder. ‘I’ve already explained that we were at home in bed, my love. We saw and heard nothing that could have any bearing on Fulk’s death.’

I saw Roland’s grip tighten momentarily, and the fleeting sideways glance of those blue eyes; but then he relaxed and nodded.

‘Quite right,’ he muttered.

I waited a second or two, but when it became apparent that this was all he intended to say, I turned back to Brandon.

He responded to my raised eyebrows with a grunt very like his father’s and seemed disinclined to answer my unspoken query. A nudge from his mother, however, changed his mind.

‘Oh, all right! I suppose I might as well tell you. I’ve nothing to hide. I was drinking in the Bull in Fish Street all evening with Jocelyn St Clair. Then I came home and went to bed. There’s really nothing else to say.’

‘Did you and Master St Clair leave the Bull together?’

He hesitated, watching me with narrowed eyes, wondering how much I already knew. He decided not to take a chance and opted for the truth. ‘I left before Josh. We fell out. I’m afraid I went off leaving him to pay our shot.’ Brandon did his best to look contrite, but failed.

‘What did you quarrel about?’

He grimaced. ‘Lord! I can’t remember. It’s more than two weeks since it happened. We were both in our cups, and I daresay at the stage where you’re ready to take umbrage at almost anything.’

‘Jocelyn St Clair says it was about your fight with Fulk Quantrell that morning, during the maying. He says he was trying to talk some sense into you – trying to convince you that Mistress Threadgold was the one doing the pursuing; that he didn’t think Master Quantrell was serious in wanting to marry her.’

While I was speaking, Brandon’s face had grown slowly redder until even his ears seemed suffused with blood. ‘It’s a fucking lie!’ he burst out as soon as I’d finished, oblivious to his mother’s presence and her furious exclamation of ‘Brandon!’

‘Are you denying that you and Jocelyn St Clair talked about Fulk Quantrell?’ I asked.

‘We might have mentioned him. It’s possible. Probable, even. But I’ve told you: it’s over a fortnight ago. Anyway, there’s no law against it, is there? Discussing a friend.’

‘A friend?’

‘A mutual acquaintance then! All right! We neither of us liked Fulk. I agree we might have uttered a few harsh words about him. Perhaps Josh and I did fall out over something that was said. I’ve told you, I don’t remember. But that doesn’t mean I went out and murdered Fulk. I didn’t see him that evening. Our paths never crossed.’

‘Besides,’ Lydia cut in smoothly, although I could sense the suppressed unease informing her words, ‘if you recall, Master Chapman, I, too, have told you that my son had no reason to hate Fulk. He wasn’t interested in marrying Alcina.’

Both husband and son gave her a brief, involuntary glance of surprise before hastily schooling their features to express agreement. The young man who, according to his mother, could have his pick of any girl in London, went so far as to puff out his chest like a barnyard cockerel, but I just felt sorry for him. If the Burgundian had been one half as handsome as reputation painted him, Brandon would have stood little chance in competition.

It was apparent to me that there was nothing more to be got out of either man – at least, not for the present. I turned once more to Mistress Jolliffe.

‘Have you known Mistress St Clair for long?’

‘I’ve known her ever since she came here as Edmund Broderer’s bride some nineteen years ago. I remember it clearly because it was the month King Edward was crowned.’ Lydia’s tone became confidential. ‘It’s my opinion that Edmund only married her because his widowed mother died very suddenly, and he wasn’t the sort of man who could fend for himself. He was thirty-one by then and in a fair way of business with that workshop of his in Needlers Lane. A good catch for any woman. He was a skilled embroiderer.’ Lydia swivelled round in her chair and indicated the wall hangings. ‘He had those made for me and did one panel with his own hands.’ She seemed to consider this a signal honour. ‘Roses and lilies, as you see, the lily being the flower of virginity and purity, the personal emblem of the Madonna.’

It was also an ancient fertility symbol, but I didn’t mention that. Instead I said, ‘You must recall Fulk Quantrell when he was a little boy. He lived next door to you for six years. Did he and Master Brandon ever play together?’

Lydia shrugged and glanced at her son. ‘I suppose you might have played together. I can’t remember. It’s a long time ago.’

‘He broke my wooden horse,’ Brandon reminded her sulkily. ‘You wouldn’t let me play with him again after that.’

‘So he did. I’d quite forgotten. I went round and complained to his mother, but Veronica was a haughty, stuck-up piece, thinking herself better than anyone else because she’d been in the employ of the King’s sister (although, at that time, some people might have considered poor old Henry as still the rightful king). Shortly after, she left and went off to Burgundy in Margaret’s train. That wasn’t very long after Edmund was drowned. It was weeks, you know, before they found his body, stripped completely naked. The river scavengers had discovered him first and taken all his clothes and personal belongings. Every last thing. Judith told me she was only able to identify him by various moles and the peculiar shape of his feet.’

‘You also knew Mistress St Clair’s second husband, then, Justin Threadgold?’

This was the sort of questioning that Lydia could understand and even appreciate. A good gossip about her neighbours was fun. She relaxed in her chair, while her son and husband joined Bertram in looking bored and resigned.

‘Roland and I knew both him and his first wife, a poor little dab of a woman. Mind you, Justin was a bully and far too free with his fists; but timidity only encourages that sort of man. If he’d been my husband, he’d have had something more to contend with than the grovelling and terrified acceptance he was used to. His brother couldn’t, or wouldn’t, stand up to him, either – not even to protect his sister-in-law and niece.’

‘Why do you suppose Mistress St Clair married him, then?’ I interrupted. ‘She was a closer neighbour even than you. She must have known what he was like.’

Lydia Jolliffe spread her hands, the left still holding her tambour frame. ‘I’ve asked myself that question many times, Master Chapman, and never arrived at a satisfactory answer. Loneliness perhaps? Because he was there and available? Probably both of those things. In my experience propinquity and availability often have more to do with marriage than love and romantic passion. At least,’ she added hastily, ‘in older people. Second marriages. Of course, I was very young when I married my dear husband. Ours was a love match.’

Roland Jolliffe gazed fondly down at his wife and once more reached for her hand, pressing it affectionately. Lydia smiled up at him in a way that fairly turned my stomach. I was glad to note that Brandon was also looking queasy.

I decided it was time for Bertram and me to take our leave. I had discovered everything I was likely to find out here. The two elder Jolliffes would cover for one another whilst swearing that Brandon had no motive for killing Fulk Quantrell. Moreover, it was time that I – and, of course, my assistant – took stock of the information we had already gathered. I feared it would prove to be of no great use, but there might be among the dross a small nugget of gold that I had so far overlooked.

I rose from the stool, disentangling my long legs from one another, and again came under scrutiny from Lydia Jolliffe.

‘If you need to call again, Master Chapman,’ she said suavely, also rising and smoothing the green silk gown over her ample hips, ‘please feel free. Something might occur to me that I’ve forgotten.’

I thanked her, managing to ignore the hand she extended for me to kiss, and beat a hasty retreat, aided and abetted by a more than willing Bertram. I did hear a phrase that could have been ‘bad-mannered oaf’ as I closed the parlour door behind me, but assured myself that it must have been intended for my companion.

‘Can we go back to the Voyager now?’ that young man pleaded as we once again found ourselves amid all the afternoon bustle of the Strand, now fairly overflowing with the two-way traffic of this busy thoroughfare linking Westminster to London. ‘My legs are aching and I’m sick of the sound of people’s voices.’

I laughed. ‘Does this mean you wouldn’t fancy a full-time position as my right-hand man?’

He shook his head vigorously. ‘I’d rather go back to Yorkshire with the Duke.’

‘I’m put down, indeed,’ I said with a grin, and took him by the elbow. ‘Come on. A beaker of Reynold Makepeace’s best ale will make you feel better and restore your temper.’

We were almost at the Fleet Bridge when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Turning, I found myself looking down at Martin Threadgold’s diminutive housekeeper.

‘Mistress!’ I said. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘If Master Threadgold wants us to return, I’m off to Baynard’s Castle,’ Bertram muttered mutinously.

Martin Threadgold did want us to return, but not, it appeared, until later.

‘Master says will you come back this evening,’ the woman said breathlessly. She must have been running to catch us up. ‘After supper, he says. He has something he wants to tell you.’

‘Can’t he tell me now, while I’m here?’

‘After supper is what he said and is what he meant. He’s having a lie-down now. Sleeps in the afternoon, he does.’ The woman turned away. ‘He’ll expect you after supper.’ And, having delivered her message, she was gone, pushing between the crowds and quickly vanishing from sight. I swore softly. If the old fool had something to impart, why couldn’t he tell me at once? I was wary of postponements. They could be dangerous.

Bertram grabbed my arm, afraid I might be tempted to return to the Threadgold house. ‘Come along!’

Reluctantly I obeyed, but as I did so, I glanced back over my shoulder. Lydia Jolliffe was standing at the open side window of her parlour, staring in our direction, towards the Fleet Bridge.