The Burgundian’s Tale
- Автор: Sedley Kate
- Серия: Roger the Chapman #14
- Год: 2013
- Язык: английский
- Год: Severn House Publishers Ltd.
- ISBN: 978-1-4483-0102-7
- Жанр: Исторические детективы
Электронная книга - «The Burgundian’s Tale». Краткое содержание книги:
Things aren’t going too well at home for Roger the Chapman and his wife, Adela.
Their fourth child has died only days after being born and Roger fails to conceal his feelings of relief at having one less mouth to feed. Adela naturally resents his attitude and their bitter arguments become increasingly commonplace. Roger decides that to maintain harmony at home the best thing he can do is take up his pack and cudgel and once again leave Bristol to trade his goods in the surrounding countryside.
Almost as soon as he makes this decision, he receives a message from King Edward IV’s brother, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, summoning him to London to assist in the investigation into the murder of Fulk Quantrell, the son of one of the ladies-in-waiting to Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy, who is on a triumphant return visit to London. It seems Roger has no choice but to return to the dirty, crowded streets of London, where he soon meets a surprising number of people – royalty, servants and workers alike – who all have a motive for murder.
‘A veritable paragon,’ I murmured, and she gave me a sharp look, searching my face for any sign of scepticism.
‘You don’t believe me?’
‘Madam, unlike you, I didn’t know the young man, so naturally I accept your word. But that morning, did you also get the impression that all was not well between Fulk and your stepdaughter?’
Judith hesitated, then inclined her head. ‘I have to admit that I sensed some tension. I blame Alcina. She wanted to make sure of Fulk. I think that, because she was so much in love with him, she was pestering him for an acknowledgement that he felt the same way about her by agreeing to a date for their marriage.’
‘Which he didn’t. At least, not according to what Lionel Broderer and his mother told me. And they had obviously told others about that scene in the workshop, the night your nephew died. Your stepson, for example. Had you known about it, before Master St Clair mentioned it this morning?’
‘I might have done. I really can’t remember … Perhaps I dismissed it as spite on Martha Broderer’s part. She was more outspoken than the rest about the making of my new will.’
‘Maybe she felt that her son had more to lose than anyone else. If, that is, under the terms of your original will, he would have inherited the workshop when you and your husband died.’
Judith said nothing for a moment; then she nodded, accepting the truth of this statement.
‘Well, Martha needn’t worry any more,’ she said in a low voice. ‘The will has been altered for a second time and put back as it was. All the original bequests had been reinstated. So, is that all?’ And she again made to rise from her chair.
And again I prevented her. ‘You’ve told me about the morning of the day Fulk died,’ I pointed out, ‘but not about the evening of the murder.’
Judith sighed. ‘There’s little to tell. All three of the young people went out some time after supper. They didn’t say where or why they were going, and I didn’t ask. I think Fulk may first have gone to church, as it was Saint Sigismund’s Day. My husband was in his chamber, reading. He is at present studying the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. I had one of my bad headaches, which always lay me low, so I went to bed immediately after the meal finished. I took one of my draughts of lettuce and poppy juice and knew nothing more until I was awoken the following morning with the terrible news that Fulk’s body had been found in Faitour Lane.’ Her voice caught in her throat, but she went on bravely, ‘He had received a mortal blow to the back of his head.’
A log flared suddenly on the hearth with a noise like tearing silk, and Bertram gave a little start. Judith, too, seemed to come out of a kind of daze, and fixed me with a haughty stare. ‘Is there anything more you wish to know? If not, I really must insist on taking my leave.’
‘I should like to speak to your husband, if he is willing and can spare me the time.’ I was treading carefully. There was no point in putting up the backs of these people.
‘I’ll ask him to join you,’ she said. ‘Wait here.’
When she had gone, I looked at Bertram, but he was staring abstractedly at a posy of flowers which stood in a jar in a wall niche by the door: the purple glory of lady’s smock and the damp, pale gold of wild iris.
‘Do you think,’ he asked in a dejected voice, ‘that there can be many men as wonderful as this Fulk Quantrell seems to have been? My father’s always telling me I could do better if I tried, but if I live to be a hundred, I don’t believe–’
‘Don’t worry your head about it, lad,’ I advised him heartily. ‘The only advantage I can see that this Fulk had over the rest of us was that he was a damned good-looking fellow. All the rest of it you can take with a pinch of salt. A very large pinch. Women’s gullibility when confronted by a pretty face never ceases to amaze me.’
On which lofty, masculine note, which would have infuriated Adela had she heard it and led to a right royal quarrel, I got to my feet as the door opened to admit Godfrey St Clair.
‘You didn’t go out at all, sir, the evening of the murder? At least, so Mistress St Clair informs me.’
It had taken several frustrating minutes to get this far in my questioning of Godfrey. First, he had warmed his hands and backside at the fire; then he had walked over to the wall niche to straighten the jug of flowers before doing the same for the harp in the corner. Next, he had settled himself in the chair recently vacated by his wife, arranging his robe with all the fussiness of a pernickety child, rising to his feet more than once, pulling and tugging at the frayed material until at last he proclaimed himself comfortable. Then he had remarked on the chilliness of the day, discoursed on yesterday’s pageant and his and Judith’s subsequent visit to Baynard’s Castle before, finally, announcing that he was ready to answer whatever I cared to ask him.
But before replying to my question, he produced a pair of spectacles from the pocket of his gown, perched them on the bridge of his nose and blinked at me through them as though I were some rare specimen of wildlife that he had just discovered taking up residence in his house.
‘No. No, that’s right,’ he finally agreed. ‘After supper, I went to my study and continued reading the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, emperor and philosopher. A truly remarkable man. Are you familiar with any of his dictums?’
‘I – er – No, I can’t call to mind anything of his just at the moment, can you, Master Serifaber?’
Thus appealed to, Bertram goggled at me like a stranded fish and mutely shook his head.
‘Did you remain in your study, sir, until you went to bed?’
‘What? Oh … yes. Until I went to bed.’
‘And what hour would that have been? As near as you can tell.’
‘Oh, I can tell you exactly,’ Godfrey said triumphantly. ‘I put my head out of my study window for a breath of fresh air and the watch were just crying midnight. I hadn’t realized it was quite so late. Time flies when you’re enjoying yourself.’
‘Indeed it does.’ Bertram gave a stifled giggle and I frowned him down. ‘Was anyone else in the house still up at that hour, apart from yourself?’
Godfrey considered this. ‘I … I’m not quite sure,’ he said at last. ‘I’d heard the young people return earlier in the evening from wherever they’d been, and presumed that they were all at home and asleep in their beds. However, I … I did think I heard a noise of some sort, but when I went to investigate, I couldn’t find anything or anyone awake and stirring.’
‘What sort of noise? Can you remember?’
Godfrey shook his head. ‘At the time, I thought it was the door to the secret stairway opening and closing.’
‘The secret stairway?’ Bertram demanded excitedly. ‘Whereabouts is that, sir?’
Having sat still for all of ten minutes, Godfrey began to fidget with his gown again, rearranging it beneath his thin buttocks, raising and lowering himself until he fancied he was comfortable once more. Only then did he turn his attention back to me.
‘What were we talking about? Oh, yes! The secret stair. It isn’t really secret, you understand. Apparently, that was the name Alcina gave it when she was a child, and it stuck. Of course, I didn’t know her then. Didn’t know my wife then. Wasn’t even a widower probably …’
‘This so-called secret stair, sir!’ I had no compunction in cutting short the flow. He was one of those people who, if allowed to ramble into the byways of reminiscence, would be there all day. ‘Where is it?’
‘Oh, in Mistress St Clair’s bedchamber – didn’t I say? There’s a second door in one corner of her room which opens on to a little landing at the top of a flight of stairs. They lead down into the passage running alongside the kitchen.’