The Burgundian’s Tale

‘What doors are those? The street door? The door into the garden?’

‘Both of them.’

‘You’re saying that people can come and go at will? And if you were asleep, you wouldn’t have any idea they’d been and gone?’

‘Why would anyone want to come in here?’ she asked in genuine bewilderment. ‘There’s nothing to steal. Everyone knows my master was a poor man.’

Glancing around me, I was inclined to agree with her. The house was a testament to poverty. On the other hand, there were more reasons than one for illegal entry. Looking again on that dead face with its patches of congested blood, the word ‘murder’ sprang forcibly to mind. And what of the missing bottle and beaker? Where were they? More importantly, why were they missing?

‘Mistress Pettigrew,’ I said earnestly, ‘do you know the reason for Master Threadgold’s wanting to speak to me this evening?’

She shook her head, as I had been afraid she would. ‘He never told me anything.’ She added resentfully, ‘He was always a secretive sort of man.’

‘But can you remember exactly what your master said when he asked you to run after me this afternoon?’

‘He just said there was something he thought you ought to know and to tell you to come back after supper.’

‘But why wouldn’t he see me then?’

‘I explained that.’ The housekeeper was growing testy. ‘He always sleeps in the afternoon. He’s–’ Her voice broke. ‘He was a creature of habit. And he didn’t like those habits interfered with.’

I sighed. In cases of murder, people who think they know something never seem to grasp the importance of sharing that knowledge as soon as possible with someone else. I had said to Bertram that delays were dangerous and I had been proved only too tragically right. Martin Threadgold’s afternoon sleep had become all too permanent.

There was nothing more to be got out of Mistress Pettigrew, and the arrival of Paulina Graygoss, equipped with cloths and bandages and a ewer of water, put any further enquiries, however futile, out of the question. I left the two women to lay out the body and found my way downstairs.

The dilemma I faced was whether or not to mention my suspicion that Master Threadgold had been murdered to Judith and Godfrey St Clair. Or, indeed, to anyone. I had no proof except that of my own eyes. The discolouration of the dead man’s face was not pronounced; he hadn’t struggled; he had died easily. And there was only my word that I had seen William Morgan during my ride to Westminster. Moreover, if this death and that of Fulk Quantrell were connected, as I felt sure in my own mind they must be, then to voice doubts about Martin Threadgold’s death might well impede the first enquiry. And that would suit neither of my royal patrons. I therefore decided to ignore my duty as a good citizen and hold my tongue – for the time being, at any rate. I salved my conscience by telling myself that the resolution of Fulk’s death would probably solve this crime, also.

When I eventually found my way back to the great hall, I discovered that only Lionel Broderer had waited for me.

‘The others have all gone home,’ he said. ‘I thought we might walk back together. And as curfew’s sounded, the gates will be shut and you’ll need someone to show you how to get into the city.’

We crossed the Fleet Bridge in silence. It was a clear night, the sky dusted with stars, promise of a fine day tomorrow. The distant trees had turned to a rusty black, the last shreds of daylight netted in their boughs. We turned northwards at the Bailey until we reached a sizeable hole in the city wall close to the Greyfriars’ house, leading to the Shambles. From there, five minutes’ brisk walk brought us into West Cheap and a straight run home to Bucklersbury and Needlers Lane.

‘Have you discovered who murdered Fulk yet?’ Lionel asked suddenly as we passed along Goldsmiths’ Row.

‘You’re as impatient as everybody else,’ I complained sourly. ‘I’ve only been in London two and a half days.’

As I spoke, I glanced at one of the shops to my left, scene of an earlier triumph, just over two years earlier. I wondered if I would be so lucky this time. (I admitted to myself that I had made very little progress.) A lighted window showed at the top of the house. Master Babcary or one of his family was still about.

‘What were you doing at Mistress St Clair’s?’ I asked Lionel, falling back on the maxim: ‘When driven into a corner, attack.’