The Burgundian's tale

I accepted this. Who was I to argue with a mother’s fond delusion? Instead, I asked abruptly, ‘Do you happen to know where your son was on the night Fulk Quantrell was murdered?’

She gave me a quelling stare. ‘My son is twenty years old: I am not his keeper. However, I imagine he was drinking in some tavern or other, probably the Bull in Fish Street, which seemes to be his usual haunt. And most likely with Jocelyn St Clair. But you must ask him.’

‘Can you or your husband confirm the time he came home?’

‘No, of course not! Did your mother know what time you got in at night when you were that age?’

When I had been twenty, my mother had not been long dead, and I had just abandoned my novitiate at Glastonbury Abbey and was busy making my way in the world in my new trade of peddling. But I naturally did not burden Mistress Jolliffe with this personal history. Instead, I enquired, ‘Did you know that Fulk Quantrell and your son had come to blows during the morning’s maying expedition? According to young Master St Clair it was about Alcina. Master Jolliffe accused Fulk of stealing her away from him.’

I saw anger and something else — something akin to fear — flash in and out of Lydia’s eyes. But she replied with creditable calm, ‘That’s the first I’ve heard of it. Mind you, you shouldn’t believe everything Jocelyn tells you. He was hoping — maybe he still is now that Fulk is dead — to fix his interest with Alcina himself. It would certainly please his father if he did.’

‘Mistress Threadgold insists that theirs is a purely brother-and-sister relationship.’

My hostess curled her lip (not an easy thing to do, but possible). ‘Alcina might think that, but I doubt if Josh does. He may not be in love with her, but he’s too canny to let the best part of half a fortune go begging for want of a wedding ring. And he wouldn’t allow a little thing like marriage vows to prevent him from continuing in his normal hedonistic way.’

She didn’t like Jocelyn St Clair, that was evident. But what had been her real feelings concerning Fulk Quantrell?

‘Master St Clair — young Master St Clair — maintains that Fulk really preferred men to women. Do you think that’s true?’

After a moment’s incredulous silence, there was an explosion of laughter so hearty and so genuine that it was impossible to doubt its sincerity. ‘You’re making it up!’ she accused me as soon as she could speak.

I shook my head and glanced at Bertram, who confirmed my statement.

‘What a liar Josh is then!’ she gasped, wiping her eyes. ‘Of course he didn’t!’ But she sobered abruptly with the realization that her merriment and vigorous denial of Fulk’s sexual predilections pointed to the fact that she had known him a great deal more intimately than she had claimed. ‘Well, I shouldn’t think so, at any rate,’ she amended hurriedly, ‘judging by the number of female hearts he enslaved.’

‘Including yours, Mistress Jolliffe?’ I suggested softly.

‘How dare you!’ she breathed, and this time there was no mistaking the combined anger and fear in both look and voice. ‘I’m a true and loyal wife, faithful in thought and deed to the most loving, gentle and considerate husband a woman could ever wish for.’

She could try pulling my other leg, too, but I still wouldn’t believe her. Once again, she had betrayed herself by overemphasis. I was certain that she had fallen for Fulk’s charms quite as heavily as his aunt and Alcina Threadgold had done. Maybe, deep down, she hadn’t liked him — I felt instinctively that she was too astute to be taken in simply by a handsome face — but had found him attractive enough to want to go to bed with him. But had she succeeded in seducing him, or in allowing herself to be seduced by him? And if so, had Roland Jolliffe discovered her infidelity and set out to remove his rival? (I recollected Martha Broderer’s words: ‘… he’s devoted to Lydia. And he’s the sort who’d never blame her if she ever did play him false. In his eyes, she’d have been … led astray by the man.’) On the other hand, if Lydia had set her cap at Fulk and been rejected, could her pride have been sufficiently lacerated for her to have murdered him?

A moment’s reflection convinced me that this latter notion was unlikely: most people are too used to rejection of one kind or another in their lives to retaliate by killing. But it was not impossible. And where the crime of murder is concerned, experience has taught me that all possibilities must be taken seriously until proved to be false.

I was saved from making a spurious apology for this slur on Lydia’s virtue by the sudden opening of the door and the arrival of two men whom I presumed to be the Jolliffes, father and son. The elder again recalled to mind Martha Broderer’s description of a ‘big, quiet man who don’t say much about anything’, and his identity was immediately confirmed by his wife, who exclaimed in a relieved voice, ‘Roland! I’m so glad you’re here!’

He went at once to stand beside her, putting a protective arm about her shoulders.