The Burgundian's tale

Both husband and son gave her a brief, involuntary glance of surprise before hastily schooling their features to express agreement. The young man who, according to his mother, could have his pick of any girl in London, went so far as to puff out his chest like a barnyard cockerel, but I just felt sorry for him. If the Burgundian had been one half as handsome as reputation painted him, Brandon would have stood little chance in competition.

It was apparent to me that there was nothing more to be got out of either man — at least, not for the present. I turned once more to Mistress Jolliffe.

‘Have you known Mistress St Clair for long?’

‘I’ve known her ever since she came here as Edmund Broderer’s bride some nineteen years ago. I remember it clearly because it was the month King Edward was crowned.’ Lydia’s tone became confidential. ‘It’s my opinion that Edmund only married her because his widowed mother died very suddenly, and he wasn’t the sort of man who could fend for himself. He was thirty-one by then and in a fair way of business with that workshop of his in Needlers Lane. A good catch for any woman. He was a skilled embroiderer.’ Lydia swivelled round in her chair and indicated the wall hangings. ‘He had those made for me and did one panel with his own hands.’ She seemed to consider this a signal honour. ‘Roses and lilies, as you see, the lily being the flower of virginity and purity, the personal emblem of the Madonna.’

It was also an ancient fertility symbol, but I didn’t mention that. Instead I said, ‘You must recall Fulk Quantrell when he was a little boy. He lived next door to you for six years. Did he and Master Brandon ever play together?’

Lydia shrugged and glanced at her son. ‘I suppose you might have played together. I can’t remember. It’s a long time ago.’

‘He broke my wooden horse,’ Brandon reminded her sulkily. ‘You wouldn’t let me play with him again after that.’

‘So he did. I’d quite forgotten. I went round and complained to his mother, but Veronica was a haughty, stuck-up piece, thinking herself better than anyone else because she’d been in the employ of the King’s sister (although, at that time, some people might have considered poor old Henry as still the rightful king). Shortly after, she left and went off to Burgundy in Margaret’s train. That wasn’t very long after Edmund was drowned. It was weeks, you know, before they found his body, stripped completely naked. The river scavengers had discovered him first and taken all his clothes and personal belongings. Every last thing. Judith told me she was only able to identify him by various moles and the peculiar shape of his feet.’

‘You also knew Mistress St Clair’s second husband, then, Justin Threadgold?’

This was the sort of questioning that Lydia could understand and even appreciate. A good gossip about her neighbours was fun. She relaxed in her chair, while her son and husband joined Bertram in looking bored and resigned.

‘Roland and I knew both him and his first wife, a poor little dab of a woman. Mind you, Justin was a bully and far too free with his fists; but timidity only encourages that sort of man. If he’d been my husband, he’d have had something more to contend with than the grovelling and terrified acceptance he was used to. His brother couldn’t, or wouldn’t, stand up to him, either — not even to protect his sister-in-law and niece.’

‘Why do you suppose Mistress St Clair married him, then?’ I interrupted. ‘She was a closer neighbour even than you. She must have known what he was like.’

Lydia Jolliffe spread her hands, the left still holding her tambour frame. ‘I’ve asked myself that question many times, Master Chapman, and never arrived at a satisfactory answer. Loneliness perhaps? Because he was there and available? Probably both of those things. In my experience propinquity and availability often have more to do with marriage than love and romantic passion. At least,’ she added hastily, ‘in older people. Second marriages. Of course, I was very young when I married my dear husband. Ours was a love match.’

Roland Jolliffe gazed fondly down at his wife and once more reached for her hand, pressing it affectionately. Lydia smiled up at him in a way that fairly turned my stomach. I was glad to note that Brandon was also looking queasy.

I decided it was time for Bertram and me to take our leave. I had discovered everything I was likely to find out here. The two elder Jolliffes would cover for one another whilst swearing that Brandon had no motive for killing Fulk Quantrell. Moreover, it was time that I — and, of course, my assistant — took stock of the information we had already gathered. I feared it would prove to be of no great use, but there might be among the dross a small nugget of gold that I had so far overlooked.

I rose from the stool, disentangling my long legs from one another, and again came under scrutiny from Lydia Jolliffe.