The Burgundian's tale

The rich aroma appeared to offend Lionel Broderer’s sensitive nose, for he grimaced, dropped his end of our burden and hastily departed. From beneath the bed, Mistress Pettigrew retrieved a stump of a candle in a candle holder, lit it from the one she held in her hand and placed it on a narrow ledge that ran around the bed head, to the imminent danger of bed curtains as thin as cobwebs. She started crying again and muttering about her ‘poor, dear master’, so I let her get on with it, bending forward to take a closer look at the dead man’s face. Now that I had time to examine it more carefully, I noticed suffused patches of discolouration under the eyes and along the jawline. There were others, too, all suggesting to me that Martin Threadgold might have been suffocated. I remembered the cushion, pushed so awkwardly behind his head.

I repeated my earlier question to the housekeeper, who had not been present when I asked it before, but who was, of course, the one person who might know the answer.

‘Did anyone visit Master Threadgold this evening?’

She shook her head in denial, but immediately added, ‘Only Mistress Alcina.’

‘When?’ I demanded. ‘When was this? And what did she want?’

Mistress Pettigrew looked surprised by the urgency of my tone, and I can’t say that I blamed her. ‘It was early, just after supper. She came to bring the master a flask of wine. Mistress St Clair had sent it.’

It was my turn to look surprised. ‘Did Mistress St Clair often send your master gifts?’

‘Occasionally. And why shouldn’t she? She was once married to his brother.’

‘Mmmm … Did Mistress Alcina speak to her uncle?’

‘I told her where he was and she asked me to fetch a beaker. Then she took it and the flask up to him. At least, I suppose she did. I don’t know for sure. I went back to the kitchen.’

‘You didn’t see her again?’

Felice Pettigrew shook her head. ‘She isn’t one as is over-friendly with servants.’

‘Then what happened to the flask and beaker?’ I asked. ‘They’re not in the room where you found your master. At least, I didn’t see them.’

She looked at me, puzzled. ‘I don’t know. Maybe he got rid of them.’

‘Where? Did he bring them down to the kitchen?’

She shook her head slowly. ‘Not as I remember. But I did fall asleep for a while. I often do of an evening.’

‘But surely you’d have noticed them when you woke up? On the kitchen table or somewhere.’

She shrugged, plainly beginning to lose interest. Her eyes had again filled with tears: the death of her employer outweighed any curiosity she might feel in what had become of a flask and beaker — a flask, moreover, that didn’t even belong to the household. Why should she care?

‘Did you see anything of William Morgan during this evening?’ I persisted.

‘No.’

That was brief and to the point. ‘You’re certain?’

She didn’t even answer this time, but just nodded.

‘Could he have entered the house without your knowledge? While you were asleep, for example?’

‘Yes … Yes, I suppose so. The doors aren’t bolted until after dark.’ Her feelings were now threatening to overcome her, the tears spilling down her cheeks and her thin chest starting to heave. ‘Why are you asking me all these questions? What does it matter? What does anything matter now that the master’s gone?’

It occurred to me that I might be treading on delicate ground, that her sentiments towards her late employer might be more than they should have been. In which case, I was sorry, but I had to know.

‘What doors are those? The street door? The door into the garden?’

‘Both of them.’

‘You’re saying that people can come and go at will? And if you were asleep, you wouldn’t have any idea they’d been and gone?’

‘Why would anyone want to come in here?’ she asked in genuine bewilderment. ‘There’s nothing to steal. Everyone knows my master was a poor man.’

Glancing around me, I was inclined to agree with her. The house was a testament to poverty. On the other hand, there were more reasons than one for illegal entry. Looking again on that dead face with its patches of congested blood, the word ‘murder’ sprang forcibly to mind. And what of the missing bottle and beaker? Where were they? More importantly, why were they missing?

‘Mistress Pettigrew,’ I said earnestly, ‘do you know the reason for Master Threadgold’s wanting to speak to me this evening?’

She shook her head, as I had been afraid she would. ‘He never told me anything.’ She added resentfully, ‘He was always a secretive sort of man.’

‘But can you remember exactly what your master said when he asked you to run after me this afternoon?’

‘He just said there was something he thought you ought to know and to tell you to come back after supper.’

‘But why wouldn’t he see me then?’

‘I explained that.’ The housekeeper was growing testy. ‘He always sleeps in the afternoon. He’s-’ Her voice broke. ‘He was a creature of habit. And he didn’t like those habits interfered with.’