The Burgundian's tale

But the innkeeper didn’t know and wasn’t sure whom I meant and in any case had to go and oversee what was happening in the kitchens, having recently engaged a new cook whose methods and temperament were giving him some cause for concern. I reassured him that the inn’s victuals were as good as ever, and begged him not to bother his head about it. Relieved, Reynold bustled away just as Bertram arrived, eager to know why I had been summoned to Westminster the previous evening. I had not, after all, managed to avoid him.

‘Master Plummer says you can have me for two more days,’ he announced, when I had finished a brief account of my meeting with the Duke of Albany, ‘and then I must return to my normal duties. It would be nice,’ he added wistfully, ‘to be able to say that I’d helped to find the murderer. Do you think that might happen?’

I sighed deeply. ‘Everyone, including you, is expecting me to perform miracles,’ I reproached him.

But Bertram’s attention had been distracted by the smell of bacon collops, and he was wrinkling his nose indignantly. ‘It’s Friday,’ he said, pointing an accusing finger. ‘All I had for breakfast was a dried herring.’

‘Master Makepeace isn’t as particular as he should be about Fridays,’ I replied smugly. ‘At least, not this early in the day. They were very good, too. The bacon collops, I mean. If you don’t believe me, ask one of Duchess Margaret’s grooms, who’s lodging here. I don’t suppose you’ve come across him by any chance?’

But it was too much to hope that, out of all the Duchess’s vast Burgundian retinue, Bertram would have made the acquaintance of one particular groom, and, alas, my expectations were not disappointed. He shook his head and continued to moan about dried herrings and the Spartan regimen of Baynard’s Castle until, in self-defence, I asked Reynold, on his next appearance, to bring the lad a plate of bacon and oatcakes. And while, sunny temper restored, Bertram munched his way through this welcome repast, I recounted all that had happened the previous night. The only thing I failed to mention was my suspicion — or, rather, my belief — that Martin Threadgold had been murdered.

Lacking this knowledge, Bertram’s interest in the death of one whom he considered to be every bit as old as Methuselah — anyone over the age of twenty, including myself, being, to my companion, in his dotage — was transitory. He seemed to think it perfectly natural that Martin should have died in his sleep and did not even suggest the possibility of murder. All his attention was centred on the second attack on my person by William Morgan.

‘You’re certain it was him?’ Bertram asked excitedly, actually forgetting to eat for at least twenty seconds and stabbing the air with his knife.

‘Yes, I’m certain.’ I pushed the hand holding the offending weapon aside and adjured him to take care what he was about. ‘And I’m even more certain now that he was my assailant on the first occasion. But this time I have his cloak to prove it.’

‘Are we going to arrest him?’ Bertram demanded eagerly.

I shook my head. ‘Not yet.’

‘Why not?’ My assistant was plainly disappointed. ‘Why else would William Morgan try to kill you if he isn’t the murderer?’

‘But why would he have wanted to get rid of Fulk Quantrell? Ask yourself that. Fulk was no threat to him. William didn’t stand to lose anything by Judith St Clair’s new will. Furthermore, he hasn’t attempted to kill me on either occasion; and surely he would have tried harder to dispose of me if that had been his object. Both attacks have been nothing more than warnings to me to leave well alone — to cease my enquiries into Fulk Quantrell’s death.’

‘Yet if you’re right, and your enquiries pose no threat to William, what’s the point of giving you a beating?’ Bertram finished the last of the bacon and oatcakes and proceeded to drink what was left of my ale. Letting rip with a loud belch, he stretched his arms above his head until the bones cracked. By now the ale room was filling up, and several breakfasters glanced round to discover the source of the noise.

I said, ‘I can only think that he’s trying to protect somebody else, but I don’t know who. When I do, I might be one step nearer to finding Fulk’s murderer.’

‘But you are going to confront him with the evidence?’

For answer, I bent down and pulled a rolled bundle from beneath my stool. It was the first time I had really examined the cloak since folding it up the previous night, and I was faintly surprised to note that, far from being made of that rough woollen cloth we used to call brocella, as I had supposed it would be, it was camlet, a much more expensive material of mixed camel-hair and wool.

‘A decent cloak, that,’ Bertram remarked, fingering it approvingly. ‘So where are we going now? Mistress St Clair’s?’

‘All in good time. But first, on our way, we’ll call at the Church of St-Dunstan-in-the-West. I think it might prove worthwhile to have a word with the priest there regarding Fulk’s visit on the night that he was killed.’