The Burgundian's tale

‘No, no!’ Godfrey shuffled his feet. ‘It’s … It’s not as bad as most of her headaches,’ he explained. ‘And as for the potion, I’ve already mixed one for her and she’s already feeling a little better. Besides, she’s so much else to do, she feels she must talk to the pedlar, here, and get it over with. Then, perhaps, he’ll go away and leave us in peace.’ Godfrey turned back to me. ‘So if you don’t object to being received by my wife in her bedchamber, Master Chapman, I’ll take you to her.’

I gave a bow and indicated that he should lead the way. The housekeeper detained me with a hand on my arm.

‘You upset the mistress and you’ll have me to reckon with,’ she threatened in a low, furious voice. ‘Receiving you when she’s suffering from one of her headaches! Whatever next!’

‘That’ll do, Paulina!’ Godfrey exclaimed impatiently. ‘Come along, chapman, please. Mistress St Clair doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’

I followed him meekly up the main staircase and was ushered into the room I had already visited twice before, but, for the first time, I entered through the main bedchamber door.

‘I’ve brought the pedlar, as you see, my love,’ Godfrey muttered, and withdrew hurriedly, closing the door behind him. His attitude was that of a man who, having reluctantly played his part, wanted nothing further to do with the matter. His nervousness was palpable — an unease that should have made me wary but failed to do so because, in some measure, it was Godfrey St Clair’s natural manner.

Judith, fully clothed, was sitting up on the bed, but not in it. She had removed her shoes in order, I presumed, not to dirty the magnificent coverlet, while the bed curtains had been pushed right back to the head of the bed so that the story of Daphnis and Chloe was visible only as streaks of ochre and daubs of terracotta pink.

‘Ah! Roger the Chapman!’ she murmured, somewhat mockingly, I thought. ‘Sit down.’ And she indicated a stool set ready for me by the side of the bed.

She was certainly very pale, but otherwise gave no impression of a woman in the throes of a debilitating headache. A carved wooden cup with a silver rim, which stood on the bedside cupboard beside the candlestick and candle, appeared, from what I could see of it as I sat down, to be full to the top of some brownish liquid. She evidently had not yet swallowed the potion Godfrey had prepared for her, which, again, argued no great degree of discomfort. These signs and portents should have put me on my guard. But, I regret to say, they didn’t.

‘Well?’ she invited, a little smile lifting the corners of her mouth. ‘Do you know now who killed my nephew? And why?’

I didn’t return her smile. ‘I think so,’ I answered.

‘You only “think so”? I expected better of you than that.’

‘All right,’ I said. ‘I do know. But I’ll be honest with you, mistress. I’ve no real proof.’

At that, she laughed. ‘That’s not just being honest,’ she said. ‘That’s being foolhardy. So! You’ve no proof unless the murderer confesses?’

‘No. Only suspicions. And if the Dowager Duchess of Burgundy refuses to accept those suspicions-’

‘Which she doubtless will!’

‘Which, as you say, she doubtless will, then there is nothing further I can do in this matter.’

Judith nodded thoughtfully. ‘On the other hand,’ she said, ‘suspicion, like mud, tends to stick and can ruin a life quite effectively. Although, of course, one still has that life, which must be preferable to a painful death. So I can’t promise you that you’ll get your confession, chapman.’ She closed her eyes for a moment or two before suddenly opening them wide and turning them intently on me.

‘Tell me, then,’ she said, looking down her masterful nose, ‘what made you first suspect me?’

I considered this. ‘I think it was when you told me that your nephew had been murdered in Faitour Lane. This, of course, was perfectly true, but his body was later shifted by two of the beggars round the corner into Fleet Street and left outside St Dunstan’s Church.’

‘A very foolish mistake,’ Judith commented harshly, plainly angry with herself, as well as with me for picking it up. ‘So that’s how the corpse came to be moved, is it? I did wonder … Go on! What else?’

‘I found it odd that, after Fulk’s death, you changed your will back again to its original form with such speed. Not much in itself, perhaps, but when I thought about it, it suggested to me a desire to erase Fulk from your life as soon as possible — a desire to right a wrong for the people you truly cared for: your husband, Mistress Alcina and Master Jocelyn. Even, perhaps, Lionel Broderer. As I said: a feeling, not evidence.’

Judith pursed her lips. ‘No, not evidence,’ she agreed. ‘You’ve mentioned nothing so far that I couldn’t refute. So? What more? Or isn’t there anything?’

I sat up straighter on my stool and eased my aching shoulders. ‘You haven’t asked me yet’, I pointed out, ‘why I think you killed your nephew.’

She laughed. ‘Very well, then. Why did I murder Fulk, Master Chapman? Although I’m sure you’ve worked it out.’