The Burgundian’s Tale

The little parlour had grown even stuffier than when we entered it some minutes earlier. The weight of the cloak I was carrying was making my wrist ache and I shifted it to my other arm.

‘We’ll take our leave of you then, and thank you for all your help. His Grace shall hear of it.’

The priest, looking gratified if a little sceptical, nodded towards the cloak. ‘What are you doing with that? It’s Master Threadgold’s.’

I paused abruptly in the act of opening the door. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I asked what you’re doing with Master Threadgold’s cloak?’

‘Martin Threadgold?’

‘Who else? His brother’s been dead these many years.’

‘You recognize it?’

‘Of course I recognize it. Martin’s been wearing it, summer and winter, these decades past.’ The priest leaned across and fingered the material. ‘Camlet. Extremely hard-wearing.’

‘But not that uncommon. How can you be sure that this is his?’

The priest poked the material with a stubby forefinger. ‘There’s a dark stain here, on the breast, just below the hood, and a rent just below that again. Then you’ll notice that the drawstring at the neck is made of plaited yellow silk. Or it was yellow when the cloak was new, a long time ago.’ He scraped at the cord with a blunt thumbnail, removing a coating of dirt. ‘There you are! Yellow, as I told you. I suppose Martin’s mislaid this somewhere and you’re taking it back to him.’

‘I had no idea it was his.’ I protested. ‘I thought it belonged to quite a different person … Father, has no one told you that Master Threadgold is dead?’

‘Dead? When? How?’

‘Yesterday, during his afternoon sleep.’

‘Dear me! Dear me, no! No one has informed me.’ I couldn’t say that the priest seemed unduly upset by the news. ‘Ah well! It comes to us all in the end. He has a niece, as you may know, but she’s rather young. However, I feel sure Godfrey and Judith St Clair will do all that needs to be done on her behalf. Dead, you say? Well, well! Poor Martin!’ He patted my arm. ‘You’ll find that cloak very useful in the winter, my boy.’ And I realized that, in a change of opinion, he thought I’d been given the garment. Which, in a way, I suppose I had.

I didn’t correct his assumption and thanked him for his time and help.

‘Well, I hope what I’ve told you may prove to be of use. You … You’ll be mentioning me to His Grace of Gloucester, I think you said? Ah, splendid!’ He followed Bertram and me out of the priest house and disappeared once more into the church, still muttering to himself, ‘Martin Threadgold. Dead. Dear me! Dear me!’

Bertram and I stood aside in order to allow a flock of sheep, on their way to market, to pass us by. The shepherd raised his crook in salutation. ‘Thenk ’ee, masters.’

‘Come on!’ my companion urged, tugging at my sleeve. ‘I want to hear what William Morgan has to say when you confront him with the cloak.’

I laid a restraining hand on his arm. ‘No, that’s no good, now, lad. I’ll have to change my plans.’

‘Why?’ Bertram was indignant.

I sighed. ‘Because he’ll simply deny that it’s his cloak. And it isn’t. Which other people will confirm. It did cross my mind earlier to wonder why he was so willing to abandon it. Can’t you see, it’s no longer proof that he was my attacker?’

‘You’re certain it was him, though?’ I nodded, and Bertram chewed his bottom lip sulkily, a disappointed man. ‘What now, then?’ he asked.

I hitched the cloak higher up my arm, took a firm grip on my cudgel and said, ‘I must speak to Mistress Pettigrew.’

It was still early enough for there to be no obvious signs of life in any of the three houses at the Fleet Street end of the Strand, but I felt sure that the servants must be up and about. All the windows of Martin Threadgold’s dwelling were decently closed and shuttered, as became a house of mourning, but so far no wreath of yew had been nailed to the door to indicate that an unburied body lay within.

I knocked as loudly as I dared two or three times, and was just praying that Mistress Pettigrew was not afflicted with deafness when the door opened a crack and the housekeeper’s tremulous voice enquired, ‘Who’s there?’

‘It’s Roger Chapman,’ I said. ‘I must speak to you, mistress. May I come in?’

She inched the door open another fraction and peered out anxiously.

‘My master’s dead. But you know that. You were here yesterday with Master and Mistress St Clair. I can’t let you in.’

‘You must. I tell you I have to talk to you.’ As a precaution against her closing the door, I put my foot between it and the jamb and held out the cloak with the stain and the tear uppermost. ‘Do you recognize this? Does it – did it – belong to your master?’

I heard her give a little gasp and she put a hand through the crack as though she would snatch the garment from me.

‘I’ve been searching for that,’ she said. ‘Where did you find it?’

I took a hurried step backwards before she could grab it. ‘Admit me and Master Serifaber, and I’ll tell you.’

There was a lapse of several seconds before the door creaked protestingly on its hinges as it opened a little wider. Bertram and I squeezed through the gap.