The Burgundian's tale

I sighed. In cases of murder, people who think they know something never seem to grasp the importance of sharing that knowledge as soon as possible with someone else. I had said to Bertram that delays were dangerous and I had been proved only too tragically right. Martin Threadgold’s afternoon sleep had become all too permanent.

There was nothing more to be got out of Mistress Pettigrew, and the arrival of Paulina Graygoss, equipped with cloths and bandages and a ewer of water, put any further enquiries, however futile, out of the question. I left the two women to lay out the body and found my way downstairs.

The dilemma I faced was whether or not to mention my suspicion that Master Threadgold had been murdered to Judith and Godfrey St Clair. Or, indeed, to anyone. I had no proof except that of my own eyes. The discolouration of the dead man’s face was not pronounced; he hadn’t struggled; he had died easily. And there was only my word that I had seen William Morgan during my ride to Westminster. Moreover, if this death and that of Fulk Quantrell were connected, as I felt sure in my own mind they must be, then to voice doubts about Martin Threadgold’s death might well impede the first enquiry. And that would suit neither of my royal patrons. I therefore decided to ignore my duty as a good citizen and hold my tongue — for the time being, at any rate. I salved my conscience by telling myself that the resolution of Fulk’s death would probably solve this crime, also.

When I eventually found my way back to the great hall, I discovered that only Lionel Broderer had waited for me.

‘The others have all gone home,’ he said. ‘I thought we might walk back together. And as curfew’s sounded, the gates will be shut and you’ll need someone to show you how to get into the city.’

We crossed the Fleet Bridge in silence. It was a clear night, the sky dusted with stars, promise of a fine day tomorrow. The distant trees had turned to a rusty black, the last shreds of daylight netted in their boughs. We turned northwards at the Bailey until we reached a sizeable hole in the city wall close to the Greyfriars’ house, leading to the Shambles. From there, five minutes’ brisk walk brought us into West Cheap and a straight run home to Bucklersbury and Needlers Lane.

‘Have you discovered who murdered Fulk yet?’ Lionel asked suddenly as we passed along Goldsmiths’ Row.

‘You’re as impatient as everybody else,’ I complained sourly. ‘I’ve only been in London two and a half days.’

As I spoke, I glanced at one of the shops to my left, scene of an earlier triumph, just over two years earlier. I wondered if I would be so lucky this time. (I admitted to myself that I had made very little progress.) A lighted window showed at the top of the house. Master Babcary or one of his family was still about.

‘What were you doing at Mistress St Clair’s?’ I asked Lionel, falling back on the maxim: ‘When driven into a corner, attack.’

He looked mildly astonished. ‘I was taking her the day’s takings, of course. What did you think I was doing? As a matter of fact, I was just leaving when Mistress Pettigrew came banging on the door, shouting and crying. She wouldn’t come in, so in the end we went out to her, Paulina and Judith and Godfrey and me. We barely had time to discover what the trouble was before the Jolliffes joined us. That woman, Lydia Jolliffe, doesn’t miss anything that’s going on.’

‘Had you been at Mistress St Clair’s long?’

‘Not very. Judith is always civil, but she’s never encouraged me to stay and talk. She doesn’t treat either my mother or myself as members of the family. I’ve always had the impression that while she tolerates me — might even be quite fond of me in her own peculiar way — she doesn’t like my mother.’

‘Do you know why not?’

He shrugged. ‘Who can ever tell why one woman doesn’t like another? They’re odd creatures. Irrational. The flux makes them that way.’

I said nothing. I thought of Adela and didn’t dare.

Lionel accompanied me to the door of the Voyager, where he said goodnight, issued a pressing invitation for me to visit him and his mother at any time, then crossed the street and was immediately swallowed up in the darkness of Needlers Lane.

I didn’t sleep well, a fact I attributed to a number of reasons.

To begin with, my conscience continued to trouble me that I hadn’t voiced my suspicions concerning the death of Martin Threadgold; but I consoled myself with my previous reasoning that if the same person were responsible for both killings, I had no wish to alert him — or her — to the idea of further danger. A sense of having got away with murder under my very nose might make my killer overconfident, thinking me a fool, and therefore more likely to make a mistake.