The Burgundian's tale

The chamber into which I had been shown was one I had not seen before. Logs burned brightly on the hearth, for the warm day had given way to a chilly evening, and there were woven rugs on the stone floor instead of the usual scattering of rushes. Tapestries — Moses in the bulrushes, Joshua before the walls of Jericho — glowed against the walls, cushions covered with jewel-bright silks and satins adorned the beautifully carved armchairs, and a broad-seated settle was drawn up in front of the fire. There was a profusion of scented wax candles, some in a silver chandelier suspended from the middle of the ceiling, others in silver candelabra and in wall sconces.

The Duke, who had changed the day’s formal attire for a long, loose gown of dark-green fur-trimmed velvet and soft slippers, also made of fur, poured wine into two Venetian glass goblets and handed one to me. (I immediately broke into a sweat in case I should drop it. My hands felt as big as shovels.) Then he filled a third, holding it up to the light. Misted by the glass, the liquid gleamed pale and tawny; amber silk shot through with a weft of gold.

‘The Dowager Duchess will join us in just a moment,’ he said.

In fact she joined us almost at once, a small page preceding her into the room in order to hold the door open, and then taking himself off with a skip and a hop that suggested his duties were finished for the day. (No doubt another lackey would materialize when the Duchess wished to leave. Such is the smooth passage through life of our superiors.) She had also shed the heavy cloth-of-gold dress and jewel-encrusted mantle that she had worn for her entry into London and was clad instead in a simple blue silk gown that enhanced the colour of her eyes, and which made her appear far less matronly than her finery had done. Her abundant hair was loosely confined in a silver net. A huge ruby ring on her wedding finger was her only adornment.

It was when she glanced in my direction that I realized she had recently been crying. Her eyes were still moist and there were traces of tears on her cheeks. She beckoned me to approach, and when I did so, she extended a plump white hand which I duly kissed.

She smiled faintly at her brother. ‘How very sensible of you, Dickon, to choose such a handsome young man as your investigator. You remembered my weakness.’

The Duke laughed with genuine amusement. ‘My dearest Margaret, I’ve known Roger Chapman for a number of years now, and have received many services from him, but I can honestly say that his looks have never been a consideration.’ He turned and indicated the settle. ‘Sit down, Roger.’ He himself sat in the other armchair on the opposite side of the fire to his sister. ‘I’ve told Her Highness all about you. She wanted to meet you. Hence this summons.’

The Duchess nodded eagerly. ‘I knew nothing of my dear Fulk’s death until my nephew, Lincoln, informed me of it when he met me yesterday at Gravesend. I’ve hardly had time to take it in. Indeed, it didn’t even seem possible until I spoke to Judith St Clair an hour ago.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘We shed a few tears together. Judith was unaware of your investigation. She hasn’t met you yet.’ The Duchess ended on a note of reproach.

‘Roger himself only arrived in London yesterday,’ Duke Richard told her sternly. He raised an eyebrow. ‘But do you have anything to report, my friend?’

‘Very little as yet, Your Grace.’ I tried hard not to sound apologetic. What did they expect? Miracles? ‘However, I have spoken at some length to both Lionel Broderer and his mother.’

The Duke looked impressed, the Duchess merely puzzled.

‘Lionel Broderer? That would be some relation of Judith’s first husband, I take it?’

I bowed assent (which is quite a difficult thing to do when you’re sitting down). ‘Edmund Broderer’s cousin’s son,’ I explained. ‘He has run the embroidery workshop for Mistress St Clair ever since his cousin’s death, and run it very successfully. He has made her a wealthy woman in her own right, irrespective of anything her second husband might have left her.’

‘Oh, you mean Justin Threadgold!’ The Duchess was dismissive. ‘According to Veronica, he was not a wealthy man, and what little he had he probably left to his daughter. Nor, I fancy, is Godfrey St Clair particularly plump in the pocket. What he brought to the marriage, as far as Judith is concerned, is an old family name and noble connections. He is, I believe, distantly related to Lord Hastings on his mother’s side.’

I had to think for a moment who Veronica was, then recollected that she had been Judith’s twin sister and Fulk Quantrell’s mother. She had died recently, shortly after Christmas.

‘So the fortune,’ Duke Richard put in quietly, ‘is Mistress St Clair’s, inherited from the first of her three husbands and enlarged by the industry of this Lionel Broderer. Does that make him the chief suspect for Fulk’s murder, do you think?’