The Burgundian’s Tale

Nine

I was informed that the family had been served before us, and that a plate of apple fritters had been left in a chafing-dish for consumption after the mutton stew. I at once felt hard done by. I could have fancied an apple fritter, had any been on offer, a sentiment echoed by Bertram in a disgruntled whisper as we again mounted the stairs to the same parlour where, only an hour or so before, the family had breakfasted. This brief interval between meals seemed not to have blunted the appetites of either Master or Mistress St Clair or of Alcina, judging by the scarcity of food remaining on the table. (There was no sign of Jocelyn; presumably our talk had delayed him and he had not yet returned from the cordwainer’s in Watling Street.)

‘What now?’ demanded our reluctant hostess, glancing up and becoming aware of Bertram and myself hovering just inside the door. ‘Has Paulina given you your dinner? And if so, why are you still here?’

‘Mistress Graygoss has fed us and fed us handsomely,’ I said, nobly suppressing a complaint about the lack of apple fritters and averting my envious gaze from the one that was left in the chafing-dish. ‘But I need to speak to Mistress Threadgold. Then my henchman and I will be on our way.’

The henchman gave an indignant yelp at this description, but I took no notice.

Mistress St Clair looked enquiringly at her stepdaughter.

‘Oh, very well,’ Alcina conceded, glancing at my companion’s royal livery. ‘I suppose I must.’ (Bertram continued to have his uses.)

Judith St Clair rose to her feet. ‘You’d better stay here, then. Nell and Betsy can clear the table later, when you’ve finished talking. Godfrey, I’m sure you’re wanting to return to Marcus Aurelius.’ There was a hint of long-suffering in her tone.

‘Indeed, my love!’ he readily agreed, clapping me on the shoulder as he shuffled in his down-at-heel slippers towards the door. ‘“Love the trade which you have learned and be content with it,”’ he advised, obviously quoting his favourite author. I wasn’t quite sure whether or not this was meant for me and had a double-edged meaning, so I made no answer, merely seating myself opposite Alcina in the chair vacated by her stepfather. I turned to bid Bertram take the stool next to mine just in time to see him wolfing down the lone fritter that I had had my eye on.

‘It was going cold,’ he mumbled defiantly, meeting my accusing gaze.

I maintained a reproachful silence and turned my attention back to Alcina. ‘Mistress Threadgold,’ I said, ‘I know that on the night of Fulk’s murder you followed him to the Broderer workshop in Needlers Lane. I also know from Lionel Broderer and his mother what transpired there. After Master Quantrell had spoken to you so unkindly and left, you ran out after him. What happened then? Did you catch him up?’

Alcina shook her head. ‘There was no point. He was in one of his moods. He was punishing me because I had spoken up for Brandon when he and Fulk had come to blows that morning, during the maying. Fulk was very jealous of me,’ she added, her eyes filling with tears. (She had obviously worked things out to her satisfaction. In her own mind, her lover’s reputation had been salvaged.) ‘I knew he’d be off drinking for the rest of the evening, but I guessed he wouldn’t go to the Bull, as he usually did, in case he ran into Jocelyn and Brandon. So it was of no use looking for him there. He could have been in any of the inns or ale houses in the city.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘I came back to the Strand and went next door to see my uncle. I hadn’t visited him for quite some while.’ She grimaced. ‘We … We’re not all that fond of one another’s company.’

When I asked her why that was, she shook her head, but I suspected the reason to be that Martin Threadgold had made no push to protect her from her father when she was young.

‘How long did you stay at your uncle’s?’

‘For the rest of the evening, until it was time for bed.’

‘Even though you don’t like him?’ queried Bertram, spitting an apple pip into the rushes.

She flushed. ‘I didn’t say I don’t like him. “Not fond of his company” was the expression I used. We get on well enough provided we don’t see too much of one another.’

‘What time was it when you returned home?’ I asked.

‘Not late.’ Was the answer just a little too emphatic? ‘It was dusk, but not perfectly dark.’

‘Was anyone about?’

‘Paulina was in the kitchen. I looked round the door and said goodnight to her.’

‘Was she alone?’

‘Yes. At least, I didn’t notice anyone else. I expect Betsy and Nell had gone to bed. They knew my stepmother wouldn’t be needing them again because she had one of her headaches and had taken a poppy-juice potion. I don’t know where William was. Off in some alehouse, I expect. My stepfather was in his room, reading. I heard him coughing. I called out to him as I passed his door, but he didn’t answer. Once he gets absorbed in one of his folios, he’s oblivious to everything else.’

‘How did you get into the house?’

Alcina looked surprised. ‘From the street, of course. Paulina always waits up until the watch has cried twelve; then she goes round and bolts all the doors. It’s one of my stepmother’s few rules – but the one she’s strictest about – that everyone shall be home and in bed by midnight.’

‘And does Mistress Graygoss make sure that all of you are in before she locks up?’

Alcina looked startled. ‘I shouldn’t think so. She’d have to peep into all the bedchambers, wouldn’t she? And I hope she wouldn’t do that.’

‘Has anyone ever been locked out?’ I queried.

Alcina shook her head. ‘Not that I know of. Certainly not Josh or me. I told you: we respect my stepmother’s few rules because she’s generally very tolerant of the liberties we take.’

‘What about William Morgan?’

‘Oh, him!’ Alcina was dismissive. ‘I wouldn’t know. That man’s a law unto himself. But if he ever has spent a night out of doors, it’s never been mentioned.’

‘There’s the so-called secret stair,’ I reminded her. ‘The one that leads from Mistress St Clair’s bedchamber to the passageway outside the kitchen. Where, of course, there’s a door that opens into the garden.’

‘But to use that, even if it was left unbolted, you’d either have to climb the wall from the lane that runs between this property and my uncle’s … Mind you, it’s not impossible,’ she admitted after a moment’s hesitation. ‘There are plenty of footholds on both sides. I’ve climbed it myself when I was a child and didn’t mind hoisting my skirt above my waist. But I wouldn’t attempt it now.’ She smiled primly and cast down her eyes. I had no faith in this sudden modesty.

‘Or?’ I prompted

‘Or you’d have to take a boat to the landing stage and walk up through the garden.’

‘No postern gate or door?’

‘No, nothing. I’ve told you.’

I switched to more personal matters. ‘You were in love with Fulk Quantrell. But – forgive me – before he arrived from Burgundy, I understand you were contemplating marriage with Brandon Jolliffe.’

‘I’m fond of Brandon, yes,’ she admitted. ‘I always have been; but I’ve never loved him the way I loved Fulk. I knew the very first moment I saw Fulk that he was the man I had dreamed about since I was a girl. He was so handsome!’

‘Looks aren’t everything,’ Bertram announced truculently, evidently deciding that it was time to speak up for the plainer members of our sex.

Alcina regarded him with scorn. ‘Fulk had a nature to match his looks,’ she declared. ‘He was kind, generous and loving. He fell in love with me, too, right from the start. He told me so.’

Until he realized he didn’t need you, I thought to myself; until he discovered he could wind his aunt around his little finger and make himself heir to her entire fortune without having to marry you to get your share. Then you became just another source of entertainment to him, my girl, if you did but know it; another proof of his ability to take a woman away from any man he chose …

But I held my tongue. It was not my place to disabuse her mind or wreck her dreams; and anyway, I guessed that Alcina was unhappy enough already without being brought face to face with the truth.

‘Was Brandon Jolliffe very jealous of Master Quantrell?’

‘He was upset, naturally. But he had always been more in love with me than I was with him. There was a time when he was even jealous of Josh, because he thought I favoured my stepbrother.’

‘And did you?’

The large brown eyes opened wide and she laughed. ‘Not in the way you mean. I’m fond of Josh, but I regard him as a member of the family.’

I struggled to recall all the various bits of information I’d been given. Finally, I said, ‘Yet surely I’m correct in thinking that he hasn’t been a member of this family for very long?’

Alcina grimaced. ‘No, he hasn’t,’ she agreed wryly. ‘It’s barely two years since my stepmother married Godfrey St Clair and he and Jocelyn came to live with us. But from the beginning I’ve thought of Josh as my brother. Oh, I’m perfectly well aware that my stepfather would like the pair of us to marry, and of course, looking at it from his point of view, I can see the reason why. It would keep most of the Broderer fortune intact, except for what would go to Lionel, and Josh and I wouldn’t have to share it between us when Judith and Godfrey are dead. But I’m not in love with Josh nor he with me. We’re friends, that’s all.’

I shifted my ground again. ‘Are you fond of your stepmother?’

Alcina glanced at my face, then away again. ‘I suspect that Paulina’s been gossiping, so you already know the answer to that. I’m deeply in my stepmother’s debt.’ She drew a painful breath. ‘My father, as you’ve no doubt been told, was a very violent man. I think … I’m almost sure that Judith only married him for my sake. She must have known what he was like, how he treated my mother, because she’d already been living in this house a year when I was born next door. And, of course, her first husband, Edmund Broderer, had lived here all his life.’

‘You think she married your father to protect you from his violence? Couldn’t your uncle have done that?’

‘He was as afraid of my father’s rages as I was or as my mother had been. Uncle Martin was useless. He would never cross his brother, even though he was the elder by seven years.’

I mulled this over. Bertram was shuffling his feet, growing bored. He had probably envisaged a more exciting life as my assistant: more action, less talk. He caught my eye and nodded his head towards the door, indicating that it was time to go.

But I was interested in Alcina’s view of Judith St Clair. Would a woman marry a man she knew to be violent simply to protect a child who wasn’t even hers? Perhaps; a lonely childless woman who had not only been widowed, but who had also, in the same year, been deprived of the company of a twin sister and six-year-old nephew of whom she had been deeply fond. The young Alcina had filled a void in her life, and for that comfort, Judith might have been prepared to pay a heavy price. If so, her altruism had been rewarded. After only four years of marriage, Justin Threadgold had died.

I got to my feet and bowed briefly. ‘Thank you, Mistress Threadgold; you’ve been extremely patient. We’ll take our leave.’

Bertram was already at the door, bumping into Jocelyn St Clair as the latter entered the parlour, looking for his dinner.

‘That damn man still hasn’t finished my boots,’ he fumed, ‘and, what’s more, I’m starving. It’s way past dinner time. You still here, chapman? This is all your fault, you know. You and your bloody questions.’

I didn’t stop to argue the point, but left him to Alcina’s more soothing ministrations.

‘What now?’ Bertram asked hopefully as we stood outside the St Clairs’ house in the Strand.

It was well past noon and a bright spring day. Ribbons of sunlight were dispersing the clouds, shredding them with streamers of gold and pink. Birds sang in the trees and bushes that overhung the garden walls, and all the cobwebs trembled with a myriad diamond drops. Everything was sharply delineated, the sun swinging high in the heavens like a newly minted coin, the air clear and fresh. I took a deep, appreciative breath.

‘What now, chapman?’ Bertram repeated impatiently, fixing his eyes longingly on a seller of hot spiced wine.

‘First,’ I said, suppressing a grin, ‘we’re going to call on Martin Threadgold, and then we’re going to see if any member of the Jolliffe family is at home.’

My companion emitted a heartfelt groan. ‘Not more talking?’ he begged despairingly.

I gave him an admonitory cuff around the ear. ‘Talking, my lad, is the only way of trying to find out what people think. And what people think very often influences the way they act. And how people act can sometimes lead you to the truth.’ With which sententious piece of advice, I raised my hand and banged Martin Threadgold’s knocker.

I had almost given up hope of my summons being answered when there was the screech of rusty hinges and the door opened just enough to reveal a diminutive woman with a pale face and protuberant blue eyes. She wore a patched gown of grey homespun and an undyed linen hood that had seen better days. The hair, escaping from beneath this last article of clothing, was grey and wispy, yet her skin was as unwrinkled and unblemished as that of a (presumably) much younger woman. She looked us both over with a lack of curiosity that bordered on indifference.

‘Yes?’

I considered it would be a waste of time to try to explain our mission, so I just asked baldly to speak to her master.

The woman didn’t cavil, but merely jerked her head. ‘I’ll fetch him. You’d better come in.’

Bertram and I followed her into a commodious hall which was larger and had once been far more impressive than that of the neighbouring house, but which was now sadly neglected. Paint was peeling from the carved, spider-infested roof beams, the rushes on the floor smelled stale and were alive with fleas, a thick coating of dust lay like a pall over everything, and the furniture amounted to no more than a chair and table spotted with age and the grease of candle droppings. This was the home, I decided, of either a miser or a man who no longer had any interest in life.

Yet when Martin Threadgold joined us, after a prolonged delay, he gave the impression of being neither of these things, merely an incompetent, middle-aged man overwhelmed by the complexities of a bachelor existence. The furred velvet gown he wore had originally been of a better quality than that sported by Godfrey St Clair, and his shoes were of the softest Cordovan leather, which bulged with every corn and bunion on his malformed feet. He was almost totally bald except for a fringe of grey hair, which gave him a monkish appearance, while a smooth, round, cherubic face endorsed this impression. The blue eyes had the slightly bemused stare of a bewildered child, but they also had a disconcerting habit of suddenly sharpening their focus.

‘Forgive my tardiness,’ he said in a surprisingly mellifluous voice, extending a bony hand. ‘When Elfrida came to tell me of your arrival, I was closeted in the privy.’

I didn’t doubt this. The smell of urine and dried faeces hung redolently on the air. Still, it was no worse than the stink of the river and the city streets.

‘Master Threadgold,’ I began formally, ‘I’m hoping you’ll agree to have speech with me. I’m–’

‘I know who you are,’ he cut in, smiling slightly. ‘Paulina Graygoss called on us earlier with the warning that you would probably be wishful of speaking to me. So how can I help you? I know nothing whatever about this murder. I was here, in this house, in bed when it happened.’

‘Oh, I’m not accusing you of killing Fulk Quantrell,’ I said quickly. ‘I haven’t any reason to suppose you guilty; nor can I see that you had anything to gain by his death. But I would like to ask you one or two questions.’ I glanced suggestively at the lack of seating and added, ‘Perhaps we could go elsewhere?’

He followed my gaze, then beckoned Bertram and me to follow him, not through the door that obviously led into the interior of the house, but to a narrow stair hidden in the inglenook of the empty fireplace. A dozen or so treads took us into a tiny parlour not more than about six feet square, which boasted a narrow window seat, an armchair and a reading stand that could be adjusted to form a table. A rusting brazier, for cold winter days, stood in one corner, but walls and floor were bare. Spartan comfort for a man no longer young.

Master Threadgold indicated that Bertram and I should perch on the window seat and dragged the armchair round to face it.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘how can I help you, Master Chapman?’

But something was intriguing me and I had to know the answer. ‘Why do this house and that of Mistress St Clair contain these odd little semi-secret staircases?’ I enquired.

Our host readily explained. ‘These three houses – this one, Mistress St Clair’s and the one belonging to Roland Jolliffe – were once part of the great Savoy Palace, which, as you must know, was burned to the ground during the Great Revolt almost a hundred years ago. But because they were at some distance from the main buildings, they escaped the flames; and when the rest of the land was eventually built over, they remained as separate dwellings. My theory is that, originally, they were used as whorehouses. The “Winchester geese” were ferried across from Southwark to the landing stage, brought up through the gardens and lodged here. Gentlemen requiring their services, but who needed to be a little more discreet than their fellows, would use the “secret” stairs. Of course, such niceties didn’t bother the last occupant of the Savoy, the great John of Gaunt. He kept his mistress, Lady Swynford, in regal state in the palace itself, until she had to flee before Wat Tyler’s vengeful mob … There, does that answer your question?’

I nodded and thanked him.

‘So,’ he continued, settling back in his chair, ‘what else do you wish to ask me?’

I leaned forward, my hands resting on my knees. ‘Master Threadgold, on the night that Fulk Quantrell was killed, your niece claims to have spent the evening here, with you. An infrequent occurrence, I gather. Was she here?’

He replied without the smallest hesitation. ‘Yes, she was here. My housekeeper will also vouch for Alcina’s presence, if necessary. She let her in.’ He paused, frowning. ‘I thought she seemed upset about something – Alcina, that is – but I didn’t enquire the reason. I didn’t feel it to be my business. All the same, I suspected it might have had to do with young Master Quantrell.’

‘You knew she was in love with him?’

‘Oh, yes. I don’t have a lot to do with her or with the St Clairs, but I get all the gossip from Felice, who keeps both ears closely to the ground. She and Goody Graygoss aren’t exactly friends, but Paulina can’t resist chattering about her employers’ affairs every now and then.’

‘What did you think of Fulk Quantrell?’

Bertram was beginning to wriggle, trying to get comfortable on the window seat. I administered a warning kick on his shins.

‘I didn’t think anything about him,’ was the tart response. ‘I didn’t know him, except by report, and that might well have been biased in either direction.’

‘And what did report say of him?’ I wanted to know.

Martin Threadgold shrugged. ‘This and that. This was good, that was bad. I had no way of sifting truth from falsehood.’ But his gaze, until now clear and direct, suddenly avoided mine. ‘So you see, I’m afraid I can’t help you or the Duke of Gloucester’s representative, here.’

Bertram stopped squirming long enough to smirk importantly, then resumed his search for a less uncomfortable position.

‘Why do you think Mistress St Clair – Mistress Broderer as she then was – decided to marry your brother?’ I asked, relying on my old tactic of an abrupt change of subject to disconcert my listener. ‘He wasn’t a very pleasant man from all I’ve heard.’

‘He was a very unpleasant man,’ Martin admitted candidly. ‘Took after our father, I’m afraid: a violent man, easily moved to anger. I was more our mother’s son.’

‘Were you afraid of your brother?’

‘Everyone was afraid of Justin when he was in one of his moods or in his cups. But he could also be extremely charming if he chose. Judith made the mistake that so many clever women make about violent men: she thought she could manage him, that he would be different with her. I’m sure he convinced her that she was special, more intelligent, more beautiful, more … more … oh, more everything than Alcina’s mother had been. He would have represented himself as a man whose patience had been sorely tried by an inferior intellect; by a foolish, feckless wife … But, of course, people like him never change.’

That, I reflected, was very true. The faults of youth rarely lessen with age. More often than not, they become exaggerated.

‘Did Mistress St Clair and your brother never get on together after they were married?’ I asked.

Martin Threadgold considered this carefully, then shrugged. ‘Not often. Although they must have had their better moments. Justin planted that willow for her down near the river bank – the one you can see from this window.’

Bertram and I obediently slewed round and stared down across the walls, into the neighbouring garden, at the tree we had noted earlier.

‘Judith’s always been very fond of it,’ our host continued. ‘On hot summer days, she likes to sit in its shade and look at the water.’

‘After the marriage, I assume that your brother and niece went to live next door,’ I said. ‘Was there never any suggestion that Mistress St Clair might move into this house?’

Our host gave a dry laugh. ‘None. Once Justin had seen the luxury and comfort of the Broderer home, there was no chance of him staying here. As a family, we were not well off. We had little money and our parents had allowed the house to go to wrack and ruin before they died. My father hoped that either Justin or myself would marry money. In fact, he pressed it on us as a duty. But he died a disappointed man. I have never fancied the married state, and Justin’s first wife, Alcina’s mother, brought no dowry worth mentioning with her. That was hardly surprising: no woman of means would have looked at us.’

‘Until Judith Broderer.’

‘Until, as you say, Judith began casting lures in Justin’s direction. Mind you, he wasn’t a bad-looking man and loneliness can play terrible havoc with a person’s judgement.’

‘Your niece thinks her stepmother may have married her father in order to protect her from his violent ways.’

Martin Threadgold raised sceptical eyebrows and looked down his nose. ‘A girl’s romantic notion, surely! But there! Women are strange creatures and capable of things that we men find it difficult to understand. Especially when the flux is on them each month.’

‘You’re certain that Mistress Broderer, as she then was, was fully aware of your brother’s violent nature?’

Martin blew his nose in his fingers, inspected them with interest, then wiped them on his sleeve.

‘Bound to have been,’ he said. ‘Edmund Broderer and my brother were … well, not exactly friends – no, never that – but drinking cronies. There’s an alehouse, the Fleur de Lys, where they both drank, and they would, on occasions, help each other home when they’d drunk too much.’ Martin sighed. ‘Justin always reproached himself that he hadn’t accompanied Edmund the night that Master Broderer fell into the river and drowned.’

Bertram’s discomfort was now impossible to ignore, so I got to my feet. He joined me with alacrity.

‘Thank you for your time, Master Threadgold,’ I said, holding out my hand.

He took it, saying, ‘I hope I’ve satisfied you as to my niece’s whereabouts on the evening of the unfortunate young man’s murder?’

I nodded to set his mind at rest, although only too aware that there were still questions that remained unanswered. Then I clapped Bertram on the back.

‘Right, my lad,’ I said. ‘Let’s go and see if we can talk to the Jolliffes.’