The Burgundian's tale

I nodded glumly. ‘You’ve forgotten to mention Lionel Broderer and his mother. Not that I think Martha Broderer a likely suspect, but she might have killed on her son’s behalf if she considered that Fulk was robbing Lionel of his just deserts.’

My companion chewed his bottom lip. ‘What else do we know?’

‘Fact or hearsay?’

‘Both, I suppose. After all, if we rule out hearsay, there’s not a lot left.’

I laughed and patted Bertram on the back. ‘Timothy Plummer will live to be proud of you yet. Cynicism is of far greater value to an investigator than wide-eyed enthusiasm.’

Bertram looked pleased at this unexpected praise, and was about to say something when he paused, frowning, staring at a group of newcomers who had just entered the inn.

‘Now what’s he doing here? I didn’t think the Voyager was one of his haunts. I thought he frequented the Bull, in Fish Street.’

‘Who are you talking about?’ I enquired, following his gaze.

‘Brandon Jolliffe.’

A man was outlined against the bright sunshine blazing in through the open ale-room doorway, but with his back to the light, it was difficult to make out his features. He was certainly short and stocky. Then, suddenly, having spotted us, he changed direction and came towards us.

‘It’s not Brandon,’ I said. ‘It’s Lionel Broderer.’

As the man approached and his face could be seen more clearly, it became obvious that he was a good deal older than Master Jolliffe.

Bertram smiled, a little sheepishly. ‘They look similar at a distance,’ he excused himself.

I had to admit that they did, at the same time experiencing an uneasy stirring at the back of my mind, as though some fact that I couldn’t quite pin down was nudging me towards a connection that I was unable to make. I made a desperate effort, but it was already too late. Lionel had drawn up a stool to our table and was greeting me like a long-lost friend.

‘Roger! We meet again. Do you have any idea of what’s happening in the Strand? If I know Judith, she’s taken charge. All the same, if you should happen to see Alcina, would you tell her that I was asking about her? I should be only too happy to render her any assistance in my power.’

‘We’ve already visited the Threadgold house this morning.’ I smiled sympathetically. ‘And you’ve guessed aright, I’m afraid. Mistress St Clair has everything under control. I doubt there’s anything left for you to do by this time.’

He looked so downcast that I whistled to a passing pot boy and ordered him a mazer of ale. He could buy his own fish pie: my generosity didn’t extend that far.

‘Strange, Martin going like that,’ he remarked, after he had thanked me. ‘He was only saying to me the other day that he felt better in health than he had done for a long time. He suffered from attacks of breathlessness, you know, but thought they had lessened since that stretch of the Thames had been cleared of some of the muck and sediment on the river bed. Farringdon Without has always been one of the more public spirited and progressive wards.’

The pot boy brought Lionel’s ale, which he downed almost in one gulp, letting out a great ‘Ahhh!’ of satisfaction and wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

‘You were thirsty.’

He nodded. ‘The workshop gets very hot this time of day.’

‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘do you recollect a young boy who used to work in Mistress St Clair’s garden?’ Even as I spoke, I wondered why I always referred to the house and garden as Judith’s and never Godfrey’s. Perhaps because it was her house, where she had lived ever since her marriage to Edmund Broderer. As Lionel looked puzzled, I went on, ‘He’d have been about ten or so at the time. Nell’s younger brother.’

‘Nell?’ His frown deepened.

‘One of the kitchen maids.’

‘Oh! Yes, I think I know who you mean: the little, thin one. That’s right.’ He broke off to shout for another mazer of ale before returning to his ruminations. ‘Yes, I’d forgotten all about him. So he was Nell’s brother, was he? I don’t think I ever knew that. Nothing like her to look at. Square-set little fellow. Why do you ask?’

‘Nell mentioned to me today that he’d disappeared. Vanished a couple of years ago without telling anyone where he was going.’

‘Probably stowed away on one of the ships berthed along the wharves. Boys of that age want adventure.’

‘That’s what I said. But Nell seemed to think he wasn’t that sort. Liked gardening. Not the adventurous kind, according to her.’

Lionel swallowed his second cup of ale with as much gusto as the first, then stared thoughtfully into the empty pot. ‘Is this important?’

I pursed my lips. ‘I don’t know,’ I answered frankly. ‘Probably not. On the other hand, it might be. The truth is, any facts are better than no facts, and at the moment, I don’t feel I’m any closer to solving the Burgundian’s murder than I was three days ago.’