The Burgundian's tale

‘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.