The Burgundian's tale

By common, if unspoken, consent, we both made for the little room above the inglenook where Martin’s body had been discovered. A keen scrutiny, however, revealed nothing more than we were already aware of; no missing beaker or flask came to light. The tattered cushion sat innocently on the abandoned chair and the cloak that had covered the dead man’s knees was still rolled up under my arm. Someone had removed it from this room; either William Morgan or somebody who had later given it to him. My preference was for the Welshman himself, but whether that made him the murderer I was still uncertain. Martin Threadgold could have been dead when William entered the chamber.

That, of course, begged the question as to why William should have been there in the first place. Had he been sent by someone? And if so, for what reason? Or was he just a casual thief, entering a house he knew to be easy of access at certain times of the day when its two occupants were known to be resting, probably sleeping? Was he in the habit of doing this — of helping himself to money or small objects that he could sell for cash? Mistress Pettigrew had said there was nothing in the house worth stealing, but it was possible that there were things of whose value she was unaware, or just items that would raise a few coins to buy a thirsty man a drink. William Morgan had been in this room some time during the previous day, of that there could be no doubt. His possession of the cloak made it a certainty — if it was indeed the Welshman who had attacked me the preceding night. But was I sure of that? I had been until that moment, but now I was suddenly beset by misgivings.

‘What are you looking at so intently?’ Bertram’s voice broke in on my thoughts and made me start.

‘Looking at?’

‘Yes. You’re staring at those shutters like a man in a trance.’

I became aware that I was indeed standing by the window, my forehead almost pressed against the wooden slats through which the sun was filtering in a desperate attempt to lighten this dark and gloomy little room. On impulse, I threw open both the shutters and the casement, letting in the sweet scent of flowers combined with the stink of the river and the warm, balmy morning air. I put one knee on the window seat and took a deep breath, at the same time scanning the garden below.

It was plain to see that this had not been cultivated for some considerable time, probably years. Weeds ran riot, choking whatever flowers and herbs had originally been planted — all except the roses, which grew in profusion among the long seeding grasses and were slowly reverting to the pale hedge- and dog-roses from which they sprang. Part of the boundary wall had crumbled and the cracked grey stones thrust their way through the smothering ivy like bones through broken skin. A tangle of loosestrife showed purple amongst the green.

The contrast with the St Clairs’ garden could not have been greater. There, all was order and neatness, culminating in the beauty of the willow tree, stooping to look, Narcissus-like, at its own reflection in the river, trailing its branches across the surface of the water. This was the tree that, according to Martin Threadgold, his brother had planted for the wife he had abused; a strangely tender gesture for such a brutish man. But then everyone, I supposed, had some saving grace, some moments when his better nature predominated …

I pulled myself up short. I was growing philosophical, God save the mark! A sure sign of advancing years! I should have to watch out for this deplorable tendency and nip it in the bud. I smiled at Bertram.

‘There’s nothing more to find here. Let’s look at the rest of the house while we have it to ourselves.’

We descended the hidden staircase to the great hall and made our way through the door into the rabbit warren of rooms and passages beyond. But this inspection, alas, yielded little of any value to my pitifully slim store of knowledge. I was no nearer discovering my murderer than I had been three days earlier on first arriving in London. Bertram, of course, wavered between the almost total certainty of its being William Morgan and the conviction that our killer was Alcina Threadgold. Just at present, the former was favourite for immediate arrest. My demands for a motive, for a positive link between the two men, were either ignored or merely served to convince my companion — for the next five minutes at least — that Alcina was the culprit.

‘Perhaps they’re both in it together,’ he suggested with a sudden burst of inspiration.