14 - The Burgundian's Tale (15 page)

‘Or?’ I prompted

‘Or you’d have to take a boat to the landing stage and walk up through the garden.’

‘No postern gate or door?’

‘No, nothing. I’ve told you.’

I switched to more personal matters. ‘You were in love with Fulk Quantrell. But – forgive me – before he arrived from Burgundy, I understand you were contemplating marriage with Brandon Jolliffe.’

‘I’m fond of Brandon, yes,’ she admitted. ‘I always have been; but I’ve never loved him the way I loved Fulk. I knew the very first moment I saw Fulk that he was the man I had dreamed about since I was a girl. He was so handsome!’

‘Looks aren’t everything,’ Bertram announced truculently, evidently deciding that it was time to speak up for the plainer members of our sex.

Alcina regarded him with scorn. ‘Fulk had a nature to match his looks,’ she declared. ‘He was kind, generous and loving. He fell in love with me, too, right from the start. He told me so.’

Until he realized he didn’t need you
, I thought to myself;
until he discovered he could wind his aunt around his little finger and make himself heir to her entire fortune without having to marry you to get your share. Then you became just another source of entertainment to him, my girl, if you did but know it; another proof of his ability to take a woman away from any man he chose …

But I held my tongue. It was not my place to disabuse her mind or wreck her dreams; and anyway, I guessed that Alcina was unhappy enough already without being brought face to face with the truth.

‘Was Brandon Jolliffe very jealous of Master Quantrell?’

‘He was upset, naturally. But he had always been more in love with me than I was with him. There was a time when he was even jealous of Josh, because he thought I favoured my stepbrother.’

‘And did you?’

The large brown eyes opened wide and she laughed. ‘Not in the way you mean. I’m fond of Josh, but I regard him as a member of the family.’

I struggled to recall all the various bits of information I’d been given. Finally, I said, ‘Yet surely I’m correct in thinking that he hasn’t been a member of this family for very long?’

Alcina grimaced. ‘No, he hasn’t,’ she agreed wryly. ‘It’s barely two years since my stepmother married Godfrey St Clair and he and Jocelyn came to live with us. But from the beginning I’ve thought of Josh as my brother. Oh, I’m perfectly well aware that my stepfather would like the pair of us to marry, and of course, looking at it from his point of view, I can see the reason why. It would keep most of the Broderer fortune intact, except for what would go to Lionel, and Josh and I wouldn’t have to share it between us when Judith and Godfrey are dead. But I’m not in love with Josh nor he with me. We’re friends, that’s all.’

I shifted my ground again. ‘Are you fond of your stepmother?’

Alcina glanced at my face, then away again. ‘I suspect that Paulina’s been gossiping, so you already know the answer to that. I’m deeply in my stepmother’s debt.’ She drew a painful breath. ‘My father, as you’ve no doubt been told, was a very violent man. I think … I’m almost sure that Judith only married him for my sake. She must have known what he was like, how he treated my mother, because she’d already been living in this house a year when I was born next door. And, of course, her first husband, Edmund Broderer, had lived here all his life.’

‘You think she married your father to protect you from his violence? Couldn’t your uncle have done that?’

‘He was as afraid of my father’s rages as I was or as my mother had been. Uncle Martin was useless. He would never cross his brother, even though he was the elder by seven years.’

I mulled this over. Bertram was shuffling his feet, growing bored. He had probably envisaged a more exciting life as my assistant: more action, less talk. He caught my eye and nodded his head towards the door, indicating that it was time to go.

But I was interested in Alcina’s view of Judith St Clair. Would a woman marry a man she knew to be violent simply to protect a child who wasn’t even hers? Perhaps; a lonely childless woman who had not only been widowed, but who had also, in the same year, been deprived of the company of a twin sister and six-year-old nephew of whom she had been deeply fond. The young Alcina had filled a void in her life, and for that comfort, Judith might have been prepared to pay a heavy price. If so, her altruism had been rewarded. After only four years of marriage, Justin Threadgold had died.

I got to my feet and bowed briefly. ‘Thank you, Mistress Threadgold; you’ve been extremely patient. We’ll take our leave.’

Bertram was already at the door, bumping into Jocelyn St Clair as the latter entered the parlour, looking for his dinner.

‘That damn man still hasn’t finished my boots,’ he fumed, ‘and, what’s more, I’m starving. It’s way past dinner time. You still here, chapman? This is all your fault, you know. You and your bloody questions.’

I didn’t stop to argue the point, but left him to Alcina’s more soothing ministrations.

‘What now?’ Bertram asked hopefully as we stood outside the St Clairs’ house in the Strand.

It was well past noon and a bright spring day. Ribbons of sunlight were dispersing the clouds, shredding them with streamers of gold and pink. Birds sang in the trees and bushes that overhung the garden walls, and all the cobwebs trembled with a myriad diamond drops. Everything was sharply delineated, the sun swinging high in the heavens like a newly minted coin, the air clear and fresh. I took a deep, appreciative breath.

‘What now, chapman?’ Bertram repeated impatiently, fixing his eyes longingly on a seller of hot spiced wine.

‘First,’ I said, suppressing a grin, ‘we’re going to call on Martin Threadgold, and then we’re going to see if any member of the Jolliffe family is at home.’

My companion emitted a heartfelt groan. ‘Not more talking?’ he begged despairingly.

I gave him an admonitory cuff around the ear. ‘Talking, my lad, is the only way of trying to find out what people think. And what people think very often influences the way they act. And how people act can sometimes lead you to the truth.’ With which sententious piece of advice, I raised my hand and banged Martin Threadgold’s knocker.

I had almost given up hope of my summons being answered when there was the screech of rusty hinges and the door opened just enough to reveal a diminutive woman with a pale face and protuberant blue eyes. She wore a patched gown of grey homespun and an undyed linen hood that had seen better days. The hair, escaping from beneath this last article of clothing, was grey and wispy, yet her skin was as unwrinkled and unblemished as that of a (presumably) much younger woman. She looked us both over with a lack of curiosity that bordered on indifference.

‘Yes?’

I considered it would be a waste of time to try to explain our mission, so I just asked baldly to speak to her master.

The woman didn’t cavil, but merely jerked her head. ‘I’ll fetch him. You’d better come in.’

Bertram and I followed her into a commodious hall which was larger and had once been far more impressive than that of the neighbouring house, but which was now sadly neglected. Paint was peeling from the carved, spider-infested roof beams, the rushes on the floor smelled stale and were alive with fleas, a thick coating of dust lay like a pall over everything, and the furniture amounted to no more than a chair and table spotted with age and the grease of candle droppings. This was the home, I decided, of either a miser or a man who no longer had any interest in life.

Yet when Martin Threadgold joined us, after a prolonged delay, he gave the impression of being neither of these things, merely an incompetent, middle-aged man overwhelmed by the complexities of a bachelor existence. The furred velvet gown he wore had originally been of a better quality than that sported by Godfrey St Clair, and his shoes were of the softest Cordovan leather, which bulged with every corn and bunion on his malformed feet. He was almost totally bald except for a fringe of grey hair, which gave him a monkish appearance, while a smooth, round, cherubic face endorsed this impression. The blue eyes had the slightly bemused stare of a bewildered child, but they also had a disconcerting habit of suddenly sharpening their focus.

‘Forgive my tardiness,’ he said in a surprisingly mellifluous voice, extending a bony hand. ‘When Elfrida came to tell me of your arrival, I was closeted in the privy.’

I didn’t doubt this. The smell of urine and dried faeces hung redolently on the air. Still, it was no worse than the stink of the river and the city streets.

‘Master Threadgold,’ I began formally, ‘I’m hoping you’ll agree to have speech with me. I’m—’

‘I know who you are,’ he cut in, smiling slightly. ‘Paulina Graygoss called on us earlier with the warning that you would probably be wishful of speaking to me. So how can I help you? I know nothing whatever about this murder. I was here, in this house, in bed when it happened.’

‘Oh, I’m not accusing you of killing Fulk Quantrell,’ I said quickly. ‘I haven’t any reason to suppose you guilty; nor can I see that you had anything to gain by his death. But I would like to ask you one or two questions.’ I glanced suggestively at the lack of seating and added, ‘Perhaps we could go elsewhere?’

He followed my gaze, then beckoned Bertram and me to follow him, not through the door that obviously led into the interior of the house, but to a narrow stair hidden in the inglenook of the empty fireplace. A dozen or so treads took us into a tiny parlour not more than about six feet square, which boasted a narrow window seat, an armchair and a reading stand that could be adjusted to form a table. A rusting brazier, for cold winter days, stood in one corner, but walls and floor were bare. Spartan comfort for a man no longer young.

Master Threadgold indicated that Bertram and I should perch on the window seat and dragged the armchair round to face it.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘how can I help you, Master Chapman?’

But something was intriguing me and I had to know the answer. ‘Why do this house and that of Mistress St Clair contain these odd little semi-secret staircases?’ I enquired.

Our host readily explained. ‘These three houses – this one, Mistress St Clair’s and the one belonging to Roland Jolliffe – were once part of the great Savoy Palace, which, as you must know, was burned to the ground during the Great Revolt almost a hundred years ago. But because they were at some distance from the main buildings, they escaped the flames; and when the rest of the land was eventually built over, they remained as separate dwellings. My theory is that, originally, they were used as whorehouses. The “Winchester geese” were ferried across from Southwark to the landing stage, brought up through the gardens and lodged here. Gentlemen requiring their services, but who needed to be a little more discreet than their fellows, would use the “secret” stairs. Of course, such niceties didn’t bother the last occupant of the Savoy, the great John of Gaunt. He kept his mistress, Lady Swynford, in regal state in the palace itself, until she had to flee before Wat Tyler’s vengeful mob … There, does that answer your question?’

I nodded and thanked him.

‘So,’ he continued, settling back in his chair, ‘what else do you wish to ask me?’

I leaned forward, my hands resting on my knees. ‘Master Threadgold, on the night that Fulk Quantrell was killed, your niece claims to have spent the evening here, with you. An infrequent occurrence, I gather. Was she here?’

He replied without the smallest hesitation. ‘Yes, she was here. My housekeeper will also vouch for Alcina’s presence, if necessary. She let her in.’ He paused, frowning. ‘I thought she seemed upset about something – Alcina, that is – but I didn’t enquire the reason. I didn’t feel it to be my business. All the same, I suspected it might have had to do with young Master Quantrell.’

‘You knew she was in love with him?’

‘Oh, yes. I don’t have a lot to do with her or with the St Clairs, but I get all the gossip from Felice, who keeps both ears closely to the ground. She and Goody Graygoss aren’t exactly friends, but Paulina can’t resist chattering about her employers’ affairs every now and then.’

‘What did you think of Fulk Quantrell?’

Bertram was beginning to wriggle, trying to get comfortable on the window seat. I administered a warning kick on his shins.

‘I didn’t think anything about him,’ was the tart response. ‘I didn’t know him, except by report, and that might well have been biased in either direction.’

‘And what did report say of him?’ I wanted to know.

Martin Threadgold shrugged. ‘This and that. This was good, that was bad. I had no way of sifting truth from falsehood.’ But his gaze, until now clear and direct, suddenly avoided mine. ‘So you see, I’m afraid I can’t help you or the Duke of Gloucester’s representative, here.’

Bertram stopped squirming long enough to smirk importantly, then resumed his search for a less uncomfortable position.

‘Why do you think Mistress St Clair – Mistress Broderer as she then was – decided to marry your brother?’ I asked, relying on my old tactic of an abrupt change of subject to disconcert my listener. ‘He wasn’t a very pleasant man from all I’ve heard.’

‘He was a very unpleasant man,’ Martin admitted candidly. ‘Took after our father, I’m afraid: a violent man, easily moved to anger. I was more our mother’s son.’

‘Were you afraid of your brother?’

‘Everyone was afraid of Justin when he was in one of his moods or in his cups. But he could also be extremely charming if he chose. Judith made the mistake that so many clever women make about violent men: she thought she could manage him, that he would be different with her. I’m sure he convinced her that she was special, more intelligent, more beautiful, more … more … oh, more everything than Alcina’s mother had been. He would have represented himself as a man whose patience had been sorely tried by an inferior intellect; by a foolish, feckless wife … But, of course, people like him never change.’

That, I reflected, was very true. The faults of youth rarely lessen with age. More often than not, they become exaggerated.

‘Did Mistress St Clair and your brother never get on together after they were married?’ I asked.