The Burgundian's tale

‘Because he has a link with the St Clair household, and Fulk’s murderer could well be among their number.’

‘That is, if it isn’t Lal or me,’ Martha Broderer pointed out with yet another laugh; but this time there was no mirth in it.

I gave her a brief bow and smile, but neither confirmed nor denied her statement. The truth was, I couldn’t; but the first, inchoate seed of an idea, the first, small bud of a solution, was beginning to germinate in my mind. But the tender shoot was nothing like strong enough yet for me to give hope or despair to anyone.

‘I must go,’ I said.

But before I went, I was sufficiently interested to allow Mistress Broderer to conduct me around the workshop and explain all the different processes of embroidery, in order to demonstrate the skill of the men and women under Lionel’s supervision, in which she seemed to take even more pride than he did. When she had finished, I thanked her and would have kissed her hand had she not seized me by the shoulders and kissed me on the mouth for a second time.

‘There!’ she said. ‘I’ve been wanting to do that ever since we met.’ She grinned at my discomfiture and slapped me hard across the backside with a stinging blow that was meant to hurt. ‘Off you go!’ She had an ambivalent attitude towards men. My guess was that she had been badly hurt by one of us at some time or another in her life.

I made my way back through the Lud Gate and across the Fleet River to Faitour Lane. It was fairly quiet at that hour of the morning, most of the beggars — those who were not sick or sleeping off the previous night’s carousal — away at their various posts throughout the city or in Westminster. But the brothels were doing a roaring trade, men’s carnal appetites seeming to know no limit when it came to time of day.

‘’Ullo! You come for that free ride I promised you?’ enquired a voice; and there, standing in the doorway of a house to my left, was the prettiest whore in Christendom, her big, sapphire-blue eyes watching me appraisingly.

‘Er, no,’ I said, and was alarmed to detect a distinct note of regret in my tone. She certainly was beautiful.

‘Pity!’ She gave me a tantalizing smile, but I could tell that she was not as relaxed as she wished to appear. She was alert for any sound that would indicate the proximity of the madame.

‘But perhaps you can help me in another matter,’ I suggested, struck by a sudden thought. ‘Do you remember when I talked to you yesterday, you told me that Fulk Quantrell — the young man who was murdered here two weeks ago — sometimes visited a lad he had his eye on?’ She nodded. ‘Well, did that lad work in Faitour Lane?’

The girl looked anxious. ‘I shouldn’t have told you that.’

‘Where is this particular whorehouse?’ I asked, hoping for confirmation of the woman Cicely’s information.

I got it. The girl sighed, but capitulated. ‘About fifty paces further up on this side of the lane. You … You ain’t about to complain or snitch to the authorities, are you?’

‘Certainly not!’ I was deeply offended by this remark and let it show.

‘Well, you might have to,’ she pointed out, reasonably enough, ‘if the lad you’re on about’s got anything to do with that there Fulk’s death.’

This, of course, was true — she was no fool, this girl — but even so, live and let live has always been my motto. There are ways of doing, and not doing, things so that, wherever possible, they don’t incriminate innocent people.

‘What’s the boy’s name?’ I asked, just to check that we were indeed taking about one and the same person. She was reluctant to tell me, so I asked, ‘Is it Roger Jessop?’

‘Yes.’ Surprise jerked the answer from her. ‘At least, he’s called Roger. I don’t know his other name. We leaves those behind us when we comes to Faitour Lane.’

‘And how shall I recognize this whorehouse?’

‘Told you. Fifty paces from ’ere, or thereabouts. You’ll see a lad at the door, watching out for customers.’

She was right, and also surprisingly accurate in her measurements. I had barely counted out fifty paces when I saw a young boy, some thirteen or fourteen years of age, lounging in the shadowed doorway of a ramshackle house with a crooked chimney. This last was an unusual enough feature in Faitour Lane for it to be a mark of identification in itself, yet my little whore hadn’t mentioned it. I wondered where she had come from and what was her history.

I approached the boy in the doorway.

He eyed me sharply. ‘What d’you want?’ he demanded.

‘I’d like to speak to Roger. Roger Jessop. Is he here?’

The young fellow’s face lost its suspicious look.

‘Friend of Roger, are you? You better come in then. ’E’s busy at the moment, but I shouldn’t think ’e’d be long now.’ The boy gave a raucous laugh. ‘Shouldn’t think ’is present customer’s got a good shag in ’im.’