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.
‘What did this figure look like? Can you remember?’
‘Long cloak, ’ood pulled right up,’ she answered promptly. ‘But then, there’s nothing in that. It were a cold night. I didn’t hang around. Fulk was my last customer. All I wanted was my bed.’
‘How did you learn of his death?’
‘One o’ the other girls told me next morning. She said, “You know that lad what comes here reg’lar an’ always asks fer you? Well, he’s been found battered to death down the lane.” I went out at once, just in time to see Joe Earless and little Sam Red Eye moving the poor lad’s body round the corner, into Fleet Street. “Why you doing that?” I asked ’em. “’E was right on our doorstep,” little Sam said. “We don’t want no Sheriff’s men poking around our house.” And I suppose,’ the girl added fair-mindedly, ‘they don’t. The good Lord alone knows what they got salted away in that shack o’ theirs.’
‘Where do they live, this Joe Earless and little Sam Red Eye?’ I asked.
She pointed at the other side of the road, to a noisome, lean-to hut which seemed to be made chiefly of bits of wood, branches of trees and ancient rags all held together by a thick coating of dried mud, erected against the outside wall of another older but equally dilapidated building. ‘Over there. That’s Joe Earless sitting on the ground outside, counting the day’s takings.’
I thanked my beautiful little whore – who offered herself free of charge, ‘for a nice big man like you’, if ever I wished to avail myself of her services – and picked my way across the filthy lane to where a one-eared man was sitting in the dirt, dropping a succession of coins, one by one, into a canvas bag.
‘Master Earless?’
The smell of him, like ancient, rotting fish, was overpowering even in Faitour Lane, not renowned for its perfumed zephyrs.
‘’Oo wants ter know?’ He raised a belligerent, weather-beaten, pock-marked face, but seemed reassured by my shabby clothes and mud-spattered boots.
I explained my errand as briefly as I could, laying great emphasis on the fact that my enquiries were being made on behalf of the Dowager Duchess of Burgundy, who had been deeply attached to the young man in question. Even so, Joe Earless subjected me to a long and piercing scrutiny before grunting, ‘You don’t look like a Sheriff’s man, I must say.’
‘I’m not,’ I said. ‘I’ve been told you and your friend had nothing to do with the murder itself.’ Not entirely true, of course, but I permitted myself the odd lie or two (or three or four or more, if necessary) in the cause of searching out justice. ‘You and he merely moved the body round the corner into Fleet Street.’
‘Tha’s right.’ He stood up, stretching and shaking out his flea-ridden rags – several of the little beasts hurled themselves straight at me – and the stench made me take a hasty step backwards. ‘Right ’ere, ’e was. Right on our doorstep.’ (Which was one way, I suppose, of describing the pile of rotting debris in front of the flap of material covering the hovel’s entrance.) ‘I said to Sam, “We’ve gotta move ’im,” I said. “Look at them clothes,” I said. “’E’s someone, ’e is. Sheriff’s men’ll be makin’ enquiries about ’im, swarmin’ all over the place. You mark my words if they’re not. We’d best move ’im,” I said. Sam agreed, so we did. Round the corner into Fleet Street.’
‘’Ere! ’Oo you talking to, you daft bugger?’ demanded a small man of stunted growth, detaching himself from a party of returning faitours and addressing my companion. He regarded me with a pair of hostile eyes, the white of the left one being definitely tinged with red. The smell of him was even more pungent than that of his friend; and at some time or another his nose had been broken and mended at a very odd angle. He was completely bald, except for a few wisps of coarse hair adhering to the crown of his head. But what fascinated me about him most of all was a large agate-and-silver ring on the thumb of his right hand. I was filled with a sudden suspicion that amounted to total certainty.
I turned back to Joe Earless. ‘When you found the body, nothing had been taken from it, had it? You two stripped it of any jewellery and money it possessed.’
‘What you sayin’?’ Joe demanded, his manner undergoing a rapid transformation from friendly to hostile. ‘You accusin’ us of being thieves?’ The righteous indignation he managed to drum up was wonderful to behold and made me want to laugh.
Little Sam, seeing which way the wind was blowing, didn’t bother with words, but gave a piercing whistle. It was obviously a prearranged signal recognized by all the beggars in the street. They appeared suddenly from every direction and began to encircle me in an ugly, muttering crowd. Too late, I realized that once again I had failed to bring my cudgel with me, not wishing to appear intimidating when calling on respectable folks, but stupidly laying myself open to attack from any unfriendly quarter. I had my knife in my belt, it was true, but I had no desire to wound anyone unnecessarily. Besides, the sight of it might inflame the mob of faitours even further.
They were all around me and beginning to close in. I could feel their stinking breath on my face and on the back of my neck. My one advantage was that I was taller and stronger than any of them. I braced myself for the first assault …
‘Hold! In the name of the King!’ yelled a voice. And there was Bertram striding towards us, his Gloucester blue-and-murrey livery easily mistaken for King Edward’s murrey and blue, the emblem of the white boar for that of the white lion. ‘This man’s my prisoner,’ he continued, forcing his way through the beggars and laying a hand on my arm. ‘Got you, my man! You’re under arrest. Come quietly and you won’t be harmed.’ He was clearly enjoying himself at my expense, and who could blame him? I had been rude and he was taking his revenge.
I went docilely enough until we were clear of Faitour Lane and across the Fleet Bridge; then I clipped his ear. But he was laughing so much by this time that I don’t think he felt it (although it may have stung him later).
‘Well, aren’t you going to thank me?’ he gasped as soon as he could speak. ‘And what a good job for you that I hadn’t gone back to Baynard’s Castle as you instructed.’
Ruefully I acknowledged the truth of this statement. ‘But how did you know what was happening?’
Bertram grinned. ‘I followed you. Kept my distance, of course. Watched you talking to that girl and then cross over to that one-eared fellow. Did you discover anything?’
‘You mean apart from the fact that it’s unsafe to go out without a cudgel anywhere in this city?’ We passed under the Lud Gate and jostled with the lawyers around St Paul’s, before proceeding along Watling Street to Budge Row.
‘I’ll tell you about it,’ I promised, ‘over supper.’
‘You mean you’re not dismissing me after all?’
I clapped him on the shoulder. ‘How could I possibly dismiss you, when you’ve just saved my hide?’
Over a dish of beefsteaks cooked in red wine and dressed with an oyster-and-cinnamon sauce, I told Bertram everything I had learned in Faitour Lane. Mellowed by the food and ale, he conceded that I hadn’t, after all, wasted my time and, with even greater magnanimity, that perhaps I knew more about investigating a case of murder than he did.
‘So,’ he said, as we started on a curd flan and our second jug of ale, ‘you reckon it wasn’t the murderer who stripped Fulk of all his valuables, but these two beggars who moved his body? Joe Earless and Sam Red Eye.’
‘I’d stake my life on it. Sam Red Eye was wearing the thumb ring described to me by the little whore. Mind you, I only saw the one piece, but I’d bet my last groat there were other things belonging to Fulk hidden somewhere inside that hovel.’