The Burgundian’s Tale

This had been a most instructive and enlightening digression, but I forced the conversation back on to its original path. ‘So you don’t have any idea where Fulk or Mistress Threadgold may have gone, or what they did, before arriving at the Needlers Lane workshop? You’ve heard about the scene there, I daresay?’

‘Oh yes! Martha Broderer made all of us and the Sheriff’s men free of it after the murder. Her intention was, of course, to implicate Cina and minimise Lionel’s motive for killing Fulk.’

‘And did she succeed, do you think?’

Jocelyn laughed shortly. ‘It doesn’t matter if she did or she didn’t, does it? Not now that the Duke of Gloucester, God save the mark, has taken the matter out of the Sheriff’s hands and put it in yours.’ He spoke with a sudden return to his earlier hostility.

‘You don’t think me capable of solving the murder?’ I enquired mildly.

He hunched his shoulders, not bothering to reply. ‘I must be off,’ he said, rising. ‘The cordwainer’s waiting for me and I promised him I’d not be late. It’s been interesting talking to you, Master Chapman.’ He made no effort to keep the sneer from his voice.

I didn’t try to detain him, and he had barely left the room when the housekeeper, Paulina Graygoss, appeared in the doorway.

‘It’s nearly dinner time,’ she announced grudgingly, ‘and the mistress says to ask you and your friend’ – she nodded briefly at Bertram – ‘if you’d care to eat with William and me in the kitchen.’

I did not hesitate to accept, although I could tell by my companion’s face that the arrangement was not at all to his liking. But it was too good an opportunity to miss. I could study and talk to William Morgan at close quarters. Mistress Graygoss, also.

‘Thank you,’ I said, almost before she had finished speaking. ‘If we may, we’ll follow you down.’

The main staircase descended into the back half of the great hall, whose inner door gave access to the stone-flagged passageway mentioned by Master St Clair.

As she turned into the kitchen, the housekeeper remarked tersely, ‘Dinner isn’t ready yet. Don’t get under my feet.’

‘I see a door along here,’ I said, ‘that looks as if it opens into the garden. So if you don’t mind, Master Serifaber and I will take a walk outside to clear our heads and work up an appetite.’

Mistress Graygoss indicated with a dismissive gesture of her hand that we could do as we pleased – she wasn’t responsible for us – and disappeared into the smoke and steam of the kitchen. I jerked my head at Bertram and we proceeded along the passage, heading for the door at the end. Halfway, I gave him a nudge.

‘There,’ I said. ‘Look!’

An archway in the wall revealed the lower treads of a flight of stone steps rising into the gloom above.

‘The “secret” stair, do you think?’ asked Bertram.

‘Undoubtedly, I should say.’ I glanced back over my shoulder. I could hear voices – or, rather, one voice raised in annoyance – but could see no one. ‘Shall we go up and make sure?’

‘You wouldn’t dare,’ Bertram protested, horrified. ‘Mistress St Clair might be in her room.’

He refused point-blank to accompany me; so, much against his will, I left him on guard with instructions to whistle if anyone emerged from the kitchen.

I judged there were no more than a dozen steps, although I didn’t count them, ending in a small landing about three or four feet square. To my right was a door, partially open, and when I put my eye to the crack, I could see that the room beyond was indeed a bedchamber. The door was almost on a level with the head of the bed, but this was hidden from my view by richly embroidered curtains. The walls, too, as far as I could make out, were hung with those tapestry-like embroideries that I had seen being made in the Needlers Lane workshop. Such light as there was on this rainy May morning came through two windows whose shutters and horned panes had been opened to the elements. Mistress St Clair evidently liked fresh air.

I listened carefully for a few seconds, but the silence was absolute. Cautiously, I eased myself around the edge of the door and found that I was standing, not on rushes, but on a thickly embroidered carpet that covered most of the floor. (The mistress of the house was obviously a keen promoter of her own wares.) Two large chests, their lids carved with an elaborate pattern of grapes and vine leaves, stood against the far wall and were full to overflowing with clothes. Neither was properly shut, and several errant sleeves, part of a velvet skirt, a gauze scarf and one or two belts spilled over the sides.

The bed, whose hangings, as I could now see, depicted the story of Daphnis and Chloe, occupied most of the space and was set on a raised dais in the centre of the room. With even greater trepidation than before, I parted the curtains and peered through, wondering what possible excuse I could offer if I should come face to face with Mistress St Clair, resting there. But, fortunately for me, the bed was empty. Its coverlet was dazzling, so thickly embroidered with all the glories of an English summer garden, including birds, bees and dragonflies, that its basic material was invisible. A small, plain cupboard stood to one side of the pillows and supported a candlestick and candle.