The Burgundian's tale

‘If you need to call again, Master Chapman,’ she said suavely, also rising and smoothing the green silk gown over her ample hips, ‘please feel free. Something might occur to me that I’ve forgotten.’

I thanked her, managing to ignore the hand she extended for me to kiss, and beat a hasty retreat, aided and abetted by a more than willing Bertram. I did hear a phrase that could have been ‘bad-mannered oaf’ as I closed the parlour door behind me, but assured myself that it must have been intended for my companion.

‘Can we go back to the Voyager now?’ that young man pleaded as we once again found ourselves amid all the afternoon bustle of the Strand, now fairly overflowing with the two-way traffic of this busy thoroughfare linking Westminster to London. ‘My legs are aching and I’m sick of the sound of people’s voices.’

I laughed. ‘Does this mean you wouldn’t fancy a full-time position as my right-hand man?’

He shook his head vigorously. ‘I’d rather go back to Yorkshire with the Duke.’

‘I’m put down, indeed,’ I said with a grin, and took him by the elbow. ‘Come on. A beaker of Reynold Makepeace’s best ale will make you feel better and restore your temper.’

We were almost at the Fleet Bridge when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Turning, I found myself looking down at Martin Threadgold’s diminutive housekeeper.

‘Mistress!’ I said. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘If Master Threadgold wants us to return, I’m off to Baynard’s Castle,’ Bertram muttered mutinously.

Martin Threadgold did want us to return, but not, it appeared, until later.

‘Master says will you come back this evening,’ the woman said breathlessly. She must have been running to catch us up. ‘After supper, he says. He has something he wants to tell you.’

‘Can’t he tell me now, while I’m here?’

‘After supper is what he said and is what he meant. He’s having a lie-down now. Sleeps in the afternoon, he does.’ The woman turned away. ‘He’ll expect you after supper.’ And, having delivered her message, she was gone, pushing between the crowds and quickly vanishing from sight. I swore softly. If the old fool had something to impart, why couldn’t he tell me at once? I was wary of postponements. They could be dangerous.

Bertram grabbed my arm, afraid I might be tempted to return to the Threadgold house. ‘Come along!’

Reluctantly I obeyed, but as I did so, I glanced back over my shoulder. Lydia Jolliffe was standing at the open side window of her parlour, staring in our direction, towards the Fleet Bridge.

Eleven

As I turned to follow Bertram, I collided heavily with a man coming in the opposite direction: William Morgan. His body was unexpectedly solid and well muscled, although why I should find this fact surprising I had no idea. I knew that the Welshman was only my own age in spite of the fact that, for some reason best known to himself, he took pleasure in acting older than he really was.

‘Look where you’re going, chapman,’ he growled, surly as ever.

I apologized, wondering where he’d been. But it was no use enquiring — he would take a perverse delight in not telling me, and it was, in truth, none of my business — so I nodded a brief farewell and caught up with Bertram as he entered Fleet Street from the Strand.

‘What do you think Master Makepeace will give us for supper?’ he asked longingly, striding out in the direction of the bridge.

‘Not so fast,’ I said as we negotiated the slight dog-leg bend by the Church of St Dunstan-in-the-West. ‘While we’re here, I might as well question a few of the beggars. Someone could have seen something the night of Fulk’s murder. Oh, admittedly it’s probably a forlorn hope,’ I added, forestalling Bertram’s protest, ‘but I’ll have to do it sooner or later if I’m to satisfy myself and our royal patrons that I’ve left no stone unturned to find Fulk’s murderer.’

‘And under stones is where this lot belong,’ my companion pronounced censoriously. He gave me a withering look. ‘You don’t really expect to get any information out of beggars, do you? Even if they did see something, they wouldn’t tell you. But the chances are they didn’t. They were all roaring drunk or off picking honest revellers’ pockets or spending their ill-gotten gains in the local whorehouses. For goodness sake, Roger, you’re wasting your time!’

I noted that I had become ‘Roger’ and not the more respectful ‘Master Chapman’ that he had accorded me earlier, a symptom of Bertram’s increasing familiarity which, in its turn, was breeding contempt. Master Serifaber’s cocksureness was growing too fast for my liking. I drew myself up to my considerable height.

‘I think this is where we part company,’ I told him firmly. ‘You can return to Baynard’s Castle and inform Master Plummer that I no longer have need of your services.’ And without giving him a chance to reply, I strode off up Faitour Lane.