The Burgundian's tale

I couldn’t deny that the lady had had a strong motive for disposing of Fulk Quantrell, and therefore, eventually, might also have had one for getting rid of her uncle, depending on what he knew. But I felt that she and the Welshman were unlikely allies; and for some reason that I couldn’t quite explain, even to myself, I was reluctant to view Alcina as a suspect. Why this should be so, I had no idea, but I had an uneasy suspicion that I ought to know. In the end, I concluded that there must be something lodged in the deepest recesses of my memory, like a fishbone in the gullet, worrying and scratching at me; but for the moment I was unable to draw it out. It was a sensation I had often experienced in the past, but over the years I had learned to let these things go. My memory would regurgitate whatever it was in its own good time. For now, I would do well to follow my instinct to move slowly and cautiously towards the solution of this case.

I kept my promise to Mistress Pettigrew and left Martin Threadgold’s body undisturbed, but this didn’t prevent me from taking a good look around his bedchamber. (Promises, after all, depend on how you word them.) At first, I thought I was wasting my time; the room offered practically nothing in the way of furnishings, and what there were were either shabby and broken or torn. Moreover, Bertram was unhappy at his proximity to the corpse and anxious to get out of the room as quickly as possible. The sickly-sweet smell of corruption and decaying flesh, and the angry buzzing of several predatory flies were starting to make both of us feel ill. The bile was rising in my throat.

‘There’s nothing to be found here or anywhere else in the house,’ I grunted, wondering why on earth I had ever thought there might be.

But leave no stone unturned has ever been my motto, particularly when it satisfies the nosy streak that my mother and, subsequently, scores of other people have accused me of possessing. And I have always prided myself on my strong stomach, which rarely turns queasy at the sights and smells other people find so distressing. So I was disgusted to feel a wave of dizziness and nausea as I followed Bertram to the door, and steadied myself by leaning heavily against the wall to the right of the bed head. To my horror, I seemed to become enveloped in the tapestries, which only released me from their dusty, tattered tentacles as I pitched through the wall into an empty space beyond.

Winded and more than a little shaken, I lay still for perhaps half a minute, then struggled painfully to my feet. In Stygian darkness, I cautiously felt all round me and judged I was in a chamber hardly bigger than an oubliette. The walls were rough stone and mortar except for a single wooden panel, presumably the entrance that had opened to let me in. I was forced to stoop to avoid hitting my head against the ceiling, but there were no other obstacles. The room — if one could dignify it by that name — was empty.

‘Chapman, where are you?’ I could hear Bertram’s anxious voice on the other side of the wall.

For answer, I pushed against the wooden panel, expecting it to revolve as it must previously have done in order to let me in. Nothing happened. I pushed again with greater force, but to no avail. I began to panic, thumping the wood with both fists.

‘Bertram! I’m here, behind the wall. I know it sounds silly, but-’ The panel once more swung inwards and Bertram was standing beside me in the blackness.

‘I’ve seen one of these things before,’ he announced delightedly, pleased to be able to air his superior knowledge. ‘It’s called a fly trap. You can get in, but you can’t get out without the proper key.’

‘But we don’t have the key,’ I pointed out with enormous self-restraint. ‘And now, thanks to your stupidity, we’re both trapped inside and nobody knows where we are. I doubt if the air in here will last more than half an hour.’

‘We’ll have to shout, then.’ Bertram didn’t seem at all perturbed.

‘I very much doubt,’ I retorted with asperity, ‘that we shall be heard. Mistress Pettigrew is most probably in the kitchen, and in addition, I suspect she’s somewhat deaf.’

‘In that case,’ my young friend responded cheerfully, ‘we’ll just have to wait until Mistress St Clair arrives from next door.’

‘We don’t know when she’ll be here. It could be hours yet before she comes.’ My temper was getting shorter by the minute as I felt the sweat begin to trickle down my back. The air was already growing fetid and my heart had started to thump unpleasantly. I drew my knife from my belt and felt up and down both sides of the wooden panel. ‘You say these “fly traps” have keys, therefore they must have locks. In which case, we’ll just have to try picking this one.’ And I made a desperate effort to remember all that Nicholas Fletcher, my fellow novice at Glastonbury, had taught me.

The first rule, of course, was to keep a steady eye and hand, two things in this hell-hole that were well nigh impossible. I couldn’t even see the lock.