The Burgundian's tale

Little Sam, seeing which way the wind was blowing, didn’t bother with words, but gave a piercing whistle. It was obviously a prearranged signal recognized by all the beggars in the street. They appeared suddenly from every direction and began to encircle me in an ugly, muttering crowd. Too late, I realized that once again I had failed to bring my cudgel with me, not wishing to appear intimidating when calling on respectable folks, but stupidly laying myself open to attack from any unfriendly quarter. I had my knife in my belt, it was true, but I had no desire to wound anyone unnecessarily. Besides, the sight of it might inflame the mob of faitours even further.

They were all around me and beginning to close in. I could feel their stinking breath on my face and on the back of my neck. My one advantage was that I was taller and stronger than any of them. I braced myself for the first assault …

‘Hold! In the name of the King!’ yelled a voice. And there was Bertram striding towards us, his Gloucester blue-and-murrey livery easily mistaken for King Edward’s murrey and blue, the emblem of the white boar for that of the white lion. ‘This man’s my prisoner,’ he continued, forcing his way through the beggars and laying a hand on my arm. ‘Got you, my man! You’re under arrest. Come quietly and you won’t be harmed.’ He was clearly enjoying himself at my expense, and who could blame him? I had been rude and he was taking his revenge.

I went docilely enough until we were clear of Faitour Lane and across the Fleet Bridge; then I clipped his ear. But he was laughing so much by this time that I don’t think he felt it (although it may have stung him later).

‘Well, aren’t you going to thank me?’ he gasped as soon as he could speak. ‘And what a good job for you that I hadn’t gone back to Baynard’s Castle as you instructed.’

Ruefully I acknowledged the truth of this statement. ‘But how did you know what was happening?’

Bertram grinned. ‘I followed you. Kept my distance, of course. Watched you talking to that girl and then cross over to that one-eared fellow. Did you discover anything?’

‘You mean apart from the fact that it’s unsafe to go out without a cudgel anywhere in this city?’ We passed under the Lud Gate and jostled with the lawyers around St Paul’s, before proceeding along Watling Street to Budge Row.

‘I’ll tell you about it,’ I promised, ‘over supper.’

‘You mean you’re not dismissing me after all?’

I clapped him on the shoulder. ‘How could I possibly dismiss you, when you’ve just saved my hide?’

Over a dish of beefsteaks cooked in red wine and dressed with an oyster-and-cinnamon sauce, I told Bertram everything I had learned in Faitour Lane. Mellowed by the food and ale, he conceded that I hadn’t, after all, wasted my time and, with even greater magnanimity, that perhaps I knew more about investigating a case of murder than he did.

‘So,’ he said, as we started on a curd flan and our second jug of ale, ‘you reckon it wasn’t the murderer who stripped Fulk of all his valuables, but these two beggars who moved his body? Joe Earless and Sam Red Eye.’

‘I’d stake my life on it. Sam Red Eye was wearing the thumb ring described to me by the little whore. Mind you, I only saw the one piece, but I’d bet my last groat there were other things belonging to Fulk hidden somewhere inside that hovel.’

‘And what do you think that means?’

I sighed. ‘Not a lot, except as confirmation of what we have rather taken for granted: that Fulk’s murder was not a random killing by thieves, but by someone who wanted him dead for a specific reason — someone who didn’t even stop to strip the body in order to make it look like a robbery.’

‘Well, I suppose that’s something,’ Bertram said, a little dashed. He had obviously been hoping for some far greater revelation, some brilliant deduction and insight on my part that would instantly solve the whole case. ‘So what about the others? Mistress St Clair and her family, the Jolliffes, Martin Threadgold. Did you learn anything from them?’

‘They all said more or less what I would have expected them to say in the circumstances. There was a good deal of animosity towards Fulk, but then we knew that already.’ I poured more ale into my beaker. ‘One thing intrigues me, however, and that’s the promptness with which the St Clairs’ new will was rewritten in its original form. It’s not much over two weeks since the murder, but both Judith and Godfrey said that the bequests had been restored as they were before Fulk arrived on the scene. I can only think that perhaps Judith had started to regret her impetuosity in leaving everything to her nephew, even before Fulk died.’

‘Conscience, you mean?’