The Burgundian’s Tale

A moment’s reflection convinced me that this latter notion was unlikely: most people are too used to rejection of one kind or another in their lives to retaliate by killing. But it was not impossible. And where the crime of murder is concerned, experience has taught me that all possibilities must be taken seriously until proved to be false.

I was saved from making a spurious apology for this slur on Lydia’s virtue by the sudden opening of the door and the arrival of two men whom I presumed to be the Jolliffes, father and son. The elder again recalled to mind Martha Broderer’s description of a ‘big, quiet man who don’t say much about anything’, and his identity was immediately confirmed by his wife, who exclaimed in a relieved voice, ‘Roland! I’m so glad you’re here!’

He went at once to stand beside her, putting a protective arm about her shoulders.

‘Who’s this?’ he grunted, his eyes, of a clear Saxon blue, regarding me with open hostility.

Mistress Jolliffe explained and also introduced Bertram, carefully drawing attention to his royal livery. ‘Master Serifaber, the Duke of Gloucester’s man.’

It was a warning, or maybe a reminder, to her husband of royalty’s involvement in this affair. Not that Roland Jolliffe appeared to be the sort of person who would make a fuss or throw his weight about. He was a large, loose-limbed, shambling man quite obviously some years older than his wife. His sartorial preference, like that of Godfrey St Clair, was for comfortable, well-worn clothes in sober shades of grey or brown, with a pleated tunic unfashionably long and a surcoat trimmed with fur that might once have been sable but now looked more like moth-eaten budge.

Brandon Jolliffe, on the other hand, was the very height of elegance in an extremely short tunic of russet velvet which revealed a modish expanse of loin and buttock encased in black silk hose (at least he didn’t favour the parti-coloured variety). A magnificent codpiece, made of the same material as his tunic, sported several black satin bows, a promise to any woman interested in the joys to be sampled underneath. He had his mother’s striking brown eyes, but other than that seemed not to favour either parent, being shorter and stockier than both, with light-brown hair carefully curled and pomaded. Yet his dandified appearance was at odds with the impression of strength given by his compact frame and powerful muscles.

He was more aggressive than his father and less intimidated by Bertram’s livery. ‘What do you mean by coming here and annoying my mother?’ he demanded, squaring his jaw and jutting his chin.

‘That will do, Brandon,’ Lydia admonished him sharply. ‘Master Chapman is making enquiries about Fulk Quantrell’s murder; and I understand from Mistress St Clair that not only Duke Richard but also the Dowager Duchess herself has asked him to do so. Just tell him where you were on the night of May Day. That’s all he wants to know.’ She looked up at her husband and squeezed the hand that was still lying protectively against her shoulder. ‘I’ve already explained that we were at home in bed, my love. We saw and heard nothing that could have any bearing on Fulk’s death.’

I saw Roland’s grip tighten momentarily, and the fleeting sideways glance of those blue eyes; but then he relaxed and nodded.

‘Quite right,’ he muttered.

I waited a second or two, but when it became apparent that this was all he intended to say, I turned back to Brandon.

He responded to my raised eyebrows with a grunt very like his father’s and seemed disinclined to answer my unspoken query. A nudge from his mother, however, changed his mind.

‘Oh, all right! I suppose I might as well tell you. I’ve nothing to hide. I was drinking in the Bull in Fish Street all evening with Jocelyn St Clair. Then I came home and went to bed. There’s really nothing else to say.’

‘Did you and Master St Clair leave the Bull together?’

He hesitated, watching me with narrowed eyes, wondering how much I already knew. He decided not to take a chance and opted for the truth. ‘I left before Josh. We fell out. I’m afraid I went off leaving him to pay our shot.’ Brandon did his best to look contrite, but failed.

‘What did you quarrel about?’

He grimaced. ‘Lord! I can’t remember. It’s more than two weeks since it happened. We were both in our cups, and I daresay at the stage where you’re ready to take umbrage at almost anything.’

‘Jocelyn St Clair says it was about your fight with Fulk Quantrell that morning, during the maying. He says he was trying to talk some sense into you – trying to convince you that Mistress Threadgold was the one doing the pursuing; that he didn’t think Master Quantrell was serious in wanting to marry her.’

While I was speaking, Brandon’s face had grown slowly redder until even his ears seemed suffused with blood. ‘It’s a fucking lie!’ he burst out as soon as I’d finished, oblivious to his mother’s presence and her furious exclamation of ‘Brandon!’

‘Are you denying that you and Jocelyn St Clair talked about Fulk Quantrell?’ I asked.

‘We might have mentioned him. It’s possible. Probable, even. But I’ve told you: it’s over a fortnight ago. Anyway, there’s no law against it, is there? Discussing a friend.’