The Burgundian's tale

There was nothing else except for an oddly shaped key hanging from a hook driven into the front of the shelf. I guessed that this must be the key which opened the ‘fly trap’ from inside, but I was not about to close the door in order to confirm this theory. I preferred to step back outside and pick up my boots, whereupon the panel completed its interrupted journey and closed with a quiet, but menacing thud.

I gave a hasty glance around the rest of the room, but nothing appeared to have been added or removed since my last visit; so, uneasily aware that time was passing, I slipped on my boots, opened the door once more and began to descend the ‘secret stair’. I was about halfway down when someone below called, ‘Who’s there?’

I jumped and almost lost my footing, but my panic was momentary. I had recognized the voice as that of Betsy, the bigger of the two kitchen maids. Like a fool, I had forgotten the presence of the girls in the house, but I consoled myself with the thought that at least I would be able to allay their suspicions more easily than those of Paulina Graygoss or William Morgan. I took the remaining steps in a single leap (trying to show off and giving my spine a nasty jar in the process) and treated Betsy to my most charming smile.

It didn’t work. ‘What were you doing in the mistress’s bedchamber?’ she asked suspiciously. ‘Does Mistress St Clair know that you’re poking about among her things?’

‘Er — no. And I’m hoping you won’t tell her.’ I tried again with the smile and this time was slightly more successful.

‘Are you still looking for clues about Master Fulk’s murder?’

‘Yes.’ Nothing but the truth could explain my presence in Judith St Clair’s chamber.

‘You don’t suspect the mistress, do you?’

As questions went, that was a difficult one. I gave her my stock answer. ‘I suspect everyone.’

‘Even me and Nell?’

‘Well …’

‘Oh, we wouldn’t mind if you did. It might be quite exciting.’

I had never considered that being a suspect in a murder enquiry was anything but nerve-wracking and something to be avoided at all costs. I laughed.

‘I must go,’ I said. ‘I came in over the garden wall and through the back door, but do you think you could let me out at the front? — provided the coast is clear, that is.’

‘I’ll look out first and make certain,’ she offered. (The smile must have worked even better than I’d hoped.)

Nell suddenly appeared from the kitchen and Betsy briefly explained my presence to her. With the morals of her kind, Nell seemed to find nothing reprehensible about my rummaging among Mistress St Clair’s belongings, and I guessed that she had often done it herself when Judith was absent. It was one of the ways servants took revenge on their masters and mistresses for their long hours, poor wages and being constantly at everyone’s beck and call.

Betsy led our little procession up the main staircase, towards the great hall. I followed. Nell brought up the rear.

‘Do you really find out what’s happened to people who’ve disappeared or got themselves killed?’ the latter asked.

‘Sometimes.’ I decided I was being far too modest, so added firmly, ‘More often than not.’

We had traversed another corridor and ascended a second, much shorter flight of stairs before she spoke again. As we at last entered the great hall and Betsy padded over to the street door, Nell said, almost offhandedly, ‘P’raps you could find out what happened to my young brother then, when you’ve discovered who killed Master Quantrell.’

‘Your brother?’

‘Yes. He was called Roger, too. Used to work here, helping William Morgan in the garden; but about two years since, he just up and left. Vanished. Haven’t seen him since.’

Memory stirred. I recalled Gordon St Clair mentioning the brother of one of the kitchen maids and seeming peeved that the lad no longer reported for work.

‘How old was he?’ I asked, and was told that Nell thought he might have been about ten when he disappeared. So he would be twelve or thereabouts now.

‘Maybe he just ran away,’ I suggested. ‘Boys of that age do. They get all kinds of nonsensical notions into their heads. They think it could be fun to go for a soldier or stow away on a ship. It isn’t, of course. Quite the opposite. But they don’t know that until it’s too late.’

‘I don’t think Roger was that sort,’ Nell demurred. ‘He liked gardening. He liked planting things and digging in the earth.’ She shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘I daresay he’ll turn up again one day, like a bad penny.’

Betsy, who had been reconnoitring outside the street door, now turned and hissed at me, ‘There’s no sign of the master or mistress. They must still be next door. But I can see your friend. He’s over on the other side of the road, buying a pie. Two pies,’ she amended hungrily.

‘That sounds like Bertram.’ I slipped my arm about her waist and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek by way of thanks.

‘What about me, then?’ Nell demanded, coming alongside and proffering her lips.