The Burgundian's tale

I again addressed the housekeeper. ‘Mistress Pettigrew, are you certain that you didn’t see or hear Mistress Alcina leave the house after visiting her uncle?’

She shook her head. ‘No. I told you last night I didn’t set eyes on her after giving her the beaker to take up to the master with the wine.’

‘There you are!’ Bertram exclaimed.

‘I’m not anywhere,’ I snapped. ‘Mistress Pettigrew also told me last night that neither the street nor garden door was locked while she was asleep. Anyone could have entered the house during that time. And as yet we have no proof that the wine brought by Mistress Alcina was drugged. (It was, after all, a gift from Judith St Clair.) We only have Mistress Pettigrew’s unconfirmed suspicion that it might have been.’ Personally, I considered the housekeeper’s suspicion tantamount to a certainty, but I wasn’t prepared to say so at this juncture. ‘Mistress Pettigrew,’ I went on, ‘what arrangements are being made for Master Threadgold’s burial?’

She shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘Not my affair. I’ll be leaving here soon.’ She dabbed her eyes with a corner of her none-too-clean apron. ‘It’s up to Mistress Alcina now. The master’d no other kith or kin that I know of. And she’ll not want for guidance while she has Mistress St Clair to help her.’ She jerked her head in the direction of the house next door. ‘They’ll be in directly, I reckon, after they’ve been to consult with the priest at St Dunstan’s. And there’ll be others poking their noses in, you can be sure of that.’ The housekeeper sniffed disparagingly.

I glanced towards the windows. The clarity of light piercing the shutters and the muted noise reaching us from the Strand indicated that it was still comparatively early. With luck — and for the moment I had a feeling that the luck was running my way — it might be another hour, perhaps a little longer, before the efficient Judith St Clair arrived to take charge.

‘Mistress Pettigrew,’ I wheedled, ‘will you give your permission for my assistant and myself to look around the house? Naturally, we shan’t disturb your master’s body.’

She hesitated for a moment before recollecting that she was no longer in a position to give or refuse permission. This was not her home any more. I suspected that Paulina Graygoss might have given her fellow servant a hint of what to expect last night, while they were laying out the corpse.

‘If you want to,’ she said indifferently and pattered away, presumably to the kitchen, leaving Bertram and me standing amid the dust and dead flies and mouse droppings of the musty-smelling great hall.

‘I don’t understand,’ my companion protested. ‘If we suspect Master Threadgold’s death might have been murder, why are we pretending not to know? Why aren’t we reporting it to the Sheriff’s officers? Or to Master Plummer? Or to someone in authority?’

I didn’t answer immediately, once again reviewing my reasons to see if they held water. At last, more or less satisfied, I explained, ‘Because I believe the death of Martin Threadgold really is connected to that of Fulk Quantrell, and I don’t want the murderer to be put on his or her guard. I want him — or her — to believe that he — she — has got away with this murder. When killers grow overconfident and think they’re dealing with incompetent fools, they’re liable to make mistakes. Don’t worry! Martin Threadgold will be avenged when we eventually capture whoever killed the Burgundian.’

‘You’re sure about that?’ Bertram sounded doubtful.

‘As sure as I can be about anything. Of course, if you feel that you must speak up, I can’t, and shan’t, stop you. But if you do, I sincerely believe we shall find further evidence hard to come by. The murderer will take fright and go to ground.’

Bertram considered my words carefully before allowing himself to be persuaded. It was an unexpected sign of maturity in the lad: he was not as feckless as I had thought him. On the other hand, having to explain myself and get his agreement riled me. I had not wanted, nor asked, to be saddled with an assistant, and I silently cursed Timothy Plummer’s interference in my affairs. I am much happier when working alone.

‘Very well,’ my companion finally conceded. ‘So, why are we searching the house? What are we looking for?’

‘For a start, a beaker and the flask Alcina brought the wine in. I’m not hopeful of finding either, I must admit, and in any case, they’d most likely prove nothing if we did. Both must have been rinsed clean by now: any tell-tale lees of wine are bound to have been removed. So … apart from those two items, nothing in particular, but everything in general. If I’m honest, I don’t really know what we’re looking for. We’re just looking.’

I could tell by Bertram’s expression that he found this an unsatisfactory quest, but he had the natural curiosity that is common to all human beings (men as well as women, however much they may deny it), and poking and prying among other people’s possessions is one of the most intriguing occupations that I know.