The Burgundian's tale

It was still only mid-afternoon, and many of the beggars had not yet returned from their daily stamping grounds, those jealously guarded patches of territory within the city walls where they sat all day rattling their cups and displaying the various disabilities that accompanied their hard-luck stories. But there were a few about, squatting in the doorways of houses and brothels, counting the contents of their begging bowls, removing their eye-patches and the filthy, blood-stained bandages that had bound their balled fists into pathetic ‘stumps’. I even saw a man release one of his legs from a complicated sling that had held the lower half strapped to his buttocks, while on the ground beside him lay the crutch that had supported him throughout the morning. Don’t misunderstand me: there were, and still are, many thousands of genuine beggars in every city in the kingdom; but hoaxing people with fake injuries is an easy way of earning a living that will always attract rogues and vagabonds. And why not? It’s each man for himself in this dog-eat-dog, rich-and-poor world.

I made my enquiries, but for the most part I was met with blank-eyed stares or uncomprehending shakes of the head that might have been genuine or simply assumed — I had no way of telling. Even those who showed some intelligent interest just laughed and pointed out that murders were an everyday — or, rather, an every-night — occurrence in any big town and its environs; certainly in London. Besides, it was difficult enough, they said, to remember what had happened last night, let alone more than two weeks ago. I began to realize that Bertram had been right to accuse me of wasting my time.

But one should never give up too easily, so I hung around for a while longer until I felt that I had outstayed my welcome. Indeed, it became apparent from the mutterings and squint-eyed looks I was getting that the faitours’ tolerance was wearing thin. I decided the time had come to concede defeat and retreat to the Voyager, where a cup of Reynold Makepeace’s ale would help to restore my good humour. I thanked the last beggar I had spoken to — a poor scrap of humanity with thinning hair and pock-marked skin — and had already turned back towards Fleet Street when someone laid a hand on my arm.

‘You askin’ about that fellow what ’ad his head bashed in a fortnight or so ago?’ a woman’s voice enquired.

I stopped and glanced down into a delicate, flower-like face framed in the striped hood of the London whore. She must, I thought, be making a fortune for the pimp or brothel-master who owned her, and reflected sadly that in five years or less those pretty features would be coarsened and ravaged by disease.

‘Handsome fellow,’ I said. ‘Foreigner, name of Fulk Quantrell.’

‘That’s him.’ She nodded, smiling up at me with big, sapphire-blue eyes.

‘You knew him?’

‘’E paid fer my services a couple o’ times, yes. ’E was after the boys, too. The young ones.’

‘He told you his name?’

‘Why shouldn’t he? I liked him. ’E liked me. Told me ’e was going to be rich one day. Richer ’n ’e was already. Said if I were patient, ’e’d rescue me from this hell-hole — me and some young lad ’e’d got ’is eye on. Liked men and women equally, he did, just so long as they were young and pretty.’

I reflected that Lydia Jolliffe hadn’t known Fulk as well as she thought she did.

‘Free with his money, was he?’ I suggested.

The girl nodded. ‘Mind you, didn’t do me much good, did it? What I earn goes to Master Posset. ’E’s my pimp. And it weren’t no good giving me gifts.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Offered me ’is thumb ring, Fulk did. Lovely stone. All different colours and set in silver. But I told him he’d better keep it. It’d be stolen in a trice. The whorehouses ain’t got no locks nor bolts on the doors. Can’t hide nothing. But he would’ve give it me. And other things. Said ’e owned a ’broidery workshop where they kept a stock of jewels and such to sew on clothes.’

I grimaced. It would seem that Fulk Quantrell had not been above appropriating to himself an importance that he had neither deserved nor possessed.

‘What about the night Fulk was murdered?’ I asked. ‘Do you know anything about that?’

‘He’d been with me that night. Said ’e’d come straight from St Dunstan’s. Some saint’s day, he told me. Some saint of the place where he come from.’

‘Saint Sigismund of Burgundy?’ I suggested.

She pursed her soft, rosebud mouth. ‘Mmm … could’ve been. Something like that.’

‘What time did he leave you, do you know?’

‘Late, I reckon. It was dark. Most of the wall cressets had been doused. I went with him to the door.’ She broke off to indicate a mean-looking house a few yards distant, implying it was where she worked.

‘Did you notice anyone follow him as he left?’

The girl wrinkled her brow. ‘Strange … I’d forgotten, but now you mention it, I did fancy I saw someone walking behind ’im as he got further along towards Fleet Street. Didn’t think nothing of it at the time. There’s always folk moving about round ’ere at night.’