The Burgundian's tale

As I stood staring about me, a second door at the other end of the workshop opened and a man entered carrying a small metal box, iron-bound and double-locked. This, I guessed, most likely contained pearls and other precious gems which, as I could see from several of the richer garments hanging up around the room, were used for decoration. The man put the strong-box down on the end of the trestle, said something to one of the girls, looked up and saw me.

He frowned. ‘Who are you?’

I could see by his expression that he wasn’t really annoyed, but his voice had a harsh timbre to it that made him sound as though he might be, and was probably good for discipline. He could have been any age from the late twenties to mid-thirties, and was indeed, as I discovered subsequently, not long past his thirtieth birthday. He was of middling height, the top of his head reaching just above my chin, sturdily built, but with surprisingly delicate, long-fingered hands — a great asset, I imagined, in his chosen calling. Apart from a slightly bulbous nose, his features were unremarkable: blue-grey eyes and hair of that indeterminate fairish brown so prevalent among my fellow countrymen.

Before I could reply to his query, he had noticed my pack. ‘A chapman, eh?’ he went on. ‘Looking for offcuts to fill your satchel, I daresay. You won’t find many here. The owner likes the last scrap of material, be it silk, velvet or linen, and the last inch of thread to be accounted for.’

I didn’t want to start by lying and playing the innocent, so I resisted the temptation to ask if the owner were Edmund Broderer and merely said, ‘It’s not your business, then.’ I didn’t even make it sound like a question, but the man naturally took it as one.

‘No.’ His tone was curt. ‘I’m Lionel Broderer, as anyone around here will tell you. My cousin-by-marriage is the owner. The business was left to her by her husband.’

‘That would be the man whose name is over the door of the workshop?’

‘That’s right. He died twelve years ago this summer and I’ve run the place for Judith ever since.’ He stopped and the frown reappeared. ‘Not that it’s your affair. But you’re welcome to take a look around. If you see anything that might do for your pack, point it out and I’ll say whether or not it’s for sale. If it is, we’ll fix a price.’

‘Fallen on hard times, has she, this cousin of yours?’ I enquired, as he led me towards the trestle where the smaller items were being worked.

Lionel Broderer made a noise which could have been interpreted as a snort, but which he turned into a cough.

‘Not at all,’ he answered. ‘Just careful.’

‘Wealthy, then,’ I suggested.

This time he made no attempt to hide his exasperation, but whether with me or with Judith St Clair, I wasn’t certain. But it got me a reply.

‘She’s married twice since my cousin died. Although, as far as I know, neither husband had, or has, much money.

I paused to watch one of the girls do what, in the trade, is known as ‘pricking and pouncing’, (again, a term I got to know later). She laid a long, thin strip of parchment, on which was drawn a pattern of oak leaves and acorns, along the length of a silken girdle. Then, with her needle, she pricked the outline of the pattern on to the silk.

I looked up to see the dawning of suspicion in Lionel Broderer’s eyes.

‘Who are you?’ he asked for a second time. ‘You’re not from these parts.’

‘Somerset born and bred,’ I declared proudly. ‘Wells is my home town, but nowadays I live in Bristol.’

‘Married?’

‘A wife and three children.’

The embroiderer nodded. ‘Yes. You look leg-shackled.’ (I wished people would stop saying that!) ‘Now me — I’ve had the wit to remain single.’ But his tone held that hint of wistfulness I’ve often noticed in the unmarried when they boast of their untrammelled state. ‘Anyway,’ he continued more briskly, ‘you still haven’t replied to my question.’

‘I’ve told you who I am,’ I parried. ‘A chapman up from Somerset, peddling my wares around your glorious city. You can take a look in my pack if that will help to convince you.’

‘Oh, I’m not doubting your word. I just don’t think you’re telling me all the truth.’ He was quick on the uptake, this one, and a lot sharper than he looked.

‘Why would you think I’m hiding something?’

‘Because of the murder of my cousin’s nephew?’

He didn’t bother to lower his voice and I was aware of tension throughout the workshop. Nobody stopped working, but there was a deafening silence as though everyone had suddenly sprouted ten-foot-high ears.

Lionel Broderer went on, ‘You don’t look at all surprised by this information, Master Chapman, so can I assume that you knew it already?’

I stalled for time. ‘Why should I be surprised? People get murdered every day, especially in large towns and cities.’

‘So they do,’ he agreed affably. ‘But they don’t all have royal connections.’

I raised my eyebrows with what I hoped was an incredulous smile, but he wasn’t fooled for a minute.