The Burgundian's tale

After only a momentary pause, and somewhat to my surprise, Jocelyn made a direct and unflinching reply. ‘He was trying to steal my inheritance, wasn’t he? Mine and Alcina’s and Lionel’s, too. I knew what was in the will; my father had told me.’ Probably had it bullied out of him, I thought. ‘Lionel was to receive the workshop and sufficient money to continue running it for the remainder of his working life. Alcina and I were to share the rest of the fortune between us when both my stepmother and father were dead.’ He expelled his breath on a great sigh of relief. ‘Well, thank the saints that’s all been put back as it should be. The will’s been rewritten. Personally speaking, I hope Fulk’s murderer is never caught. I owe him a great debt of gratitude.’

Eight

I let this go.

Jocelyn’s frankness could be taken two ways: either as proof of his innocence, or as evidence of his cunning. He had made no attempt to hide or disclaim his hatred of Fulk Quantrell; on the contrary, he had paraded it in the hope, I presumed, that it would exonerate him in my eyes. But a guilty man, one with at least a modicum of intelligence, would surely think along the same lines. I continued to keep an open mind.

‘Tell me about the evening of the murder,’ I invited. ‘Your stepmother says that you and Fulk and Mistress Threadgold all left the house after supper, but didn’t mention where you were going. She didn’t ask. Did you go together?’

‘No. I called next door for Brandon Jolliffe and we went to the Bull in Fish Street, our usual haunt. We spent the evening there, drinking and slandering Fulk to the top of our bent. He and Brandon had come to blows that morning when we’d all been out maying. Brandon accused Fulk of stealing Alcina’s affections. Foolishly, I thought, because it was obvious, to me at any rate, that she had done most of the pursuing and that Fulk was encouraging her in order to annoy poor old Brandon and prove himself superior. I tried to talk some sense into him — Brandon, that is — that evening in the Bull, but he couldn’t or wouldn’t see it. Eventually he stormed off in a temper and left me sitting there. Left me to settle our account, as well.’ Jocelyn shrugged and gave a lop-sided grin. ‘Not that I held it against him. He was upset.’

‘Was this before or after curfew?’ I asked.

‘Lord, I don’t know. After, probably. No one takes much notice of curfew nowadays. And although all the gates are shut at sundown, there are a dozen or more ways of getting in and out of the city, if you know them. Half of London’s walls are in a shocking state of disrepair.’

I nodded understandingly. It was the same in Bristol, as it was in other inland cities in the southern half of England. Lack of invasion and attack for so many years had made for complacency among the civic hierarchy, who were loth to spend good money — or throw it away, as they saw it — on mending city walls. No doubt the matter was regarded differently in the North, where the inhabitants were under constant threat of incursions from the Scots.

‘Did you see Master Jolliffe again that evening?’

‘No. I hadn’t really expected to, but I waited awhile, then paid our shot and went home.’

‘And during that journey, you saw nothing untoward on the corner of Fleet Street and Faitour Lane?’

Jocelyn laughed. ‘If you mean did I see Fulk being done to death, I’m afraid you’re out of luck. If I had, I’d probably have given a helping hand.’ Again, there came that disarming frankness. ‘As it was, the usual congregation of beggars and layabouts were shouting and screaming, fighting, cursing, whoring. What you’d expect. But not a hint of murder.’

‘At what time did you pass the corner of Faitour Lane, do you know?’

He shrugged again. ‘Not late. I’d heard the watch calling the hour of ten as I left the Bull, so it was likely some twenty minutes after that. Maybe a little longer. I was forced to make a detour to find my exit from the city and then retrace my steps in order to cross the Fleet.’

‘And when you left this house earlier, to call for Master Jolliffe, everyone else was still here?’

‘Yes. My stepmother was suffering from one of her headaches and had gone to bed. I remember, at supper, she asked Paulina — that’s the housekeeper — to make her up a draught of poppy and lettuce juice and leave it in her bedchamber. My father went off to his study to read. As for Cina and Fulk, they were huddled together, whispering, in a corner of the parlour. I couldn’t hear what was said, but it was obvious from their general demeanour that they were arguing.’

‘Arguing or quarrelling?’