The Burgundian’s Tale

‘We don’t know when she’ll be here. It could be hours yet before she comes.’ My temper was getting shorter by the minute as I felt the sweat begin to trickle down my back. The air was already growing fetid and my heart had started to thump unpleasantly. I drew my knife from my belt and felt up and down both sides of the wooden panel. ‘You say these “fly traps” have keys, therefore they must have locks. In which case, we’ll just have to try picking this one.’ And I made a desperate effort to remember all that Nicholas Fletcher, my fellow novice at Glastonbury, had taught me.

The first rule, of course, was to keep a steady eye and hand, two things in this hell-hole that were well nigh impossible. I couldn’t even see the lock.

‘Calm down, Master Chapman,’ Bertram said with a chuckle. I could have sworn he was smirking. ‘Give me the knife. The locks to these things are always in the middle of the door and have a double mechanism that it’s almost impossible to undo without the key. Unless, of course, you have the knack.’

‘And you do?’

‘I was with my father when he installed one in a house at Holborn some years ago. Now, stand back and give me room.’

He ran his fingers lightly over the surface of the wooden panel, then nodded. ‘Yes, here it is, just where I said it would be; plumb in the centre.’ He took my knife, fiddled for a moment, twisted the blade first this way, then that, then back again, and finally gave a triumphant grunt as the door swung outwards. Seconds later, we were both safely back in Martin Threadgold’s bedchamber.

I wiped the sweat from my face and tried to avoid looking at my companion’s smug expression.

‘What are these so-called “fly traps” used for?’ I asked in a shaken voice.

‘Well, the one whose lock and mechanism we installed at Holborn – we didn’t build the trap itself, you understand. My father’s a serifaber, not a builder – was for use as a safe. The owner of the house intended it as a store for his coin and plate.’

‘But thieves can get in.’

‘But they can’t get out again, can they? Not without the key. Not unless they know the secret of the lock, like me. So if someone does try to rob you, you’ve caught the thief. That’s why they’re called “fly traps”.’

‘But supposing someone falls in accidentally, as I did?’

Bertram shrugged. ‘You were just unlucky. You must have touched the hidden spring. It’s not that easy to do unless you’re trying to find the entrance.’

I glanced involuntarily at the dead man on the bed. Martin Threadgold had told me yesterday that these three dwellings had once been a part of the Savoy Palace: whorehouses, he had thought, standing at a distance from the principal building. But perhaps they had also been used as treasure stores. I wondered if the two neighbouring dwellings had ‘fly traps’ as well.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ I urged. I was more upset by my recent ordeal than I cared to admit.

We made our way back through the shuttered gloom of the house to the great hall, only to discover Mistress Pettigrew in the act of opening the street door to Judith and Godfrey St Clair, who were closely followed not just by Alcina, but also by Paulina Graygoss and Jocelyn. Instinctively, realizing that our presence would be unwelcome, both Bertram and I shrank back into the shadows, but I held the door between the passageway and the hall ajar.

‘William has gone for Father Arnold at St Dunstan’s. They’ll be here directly.’ Judith’s voice carried clearly across the intervening space. ‘You can bring us some wine, Felice, here, in the hall, while we’re waiting.’

The housekeeper muttered something under her breath, but obedience was natural to her, and she turned and shuffled across the hall. I gripped Bertram’s arm, pulling him in the direction of a flight of steps to our right, which I guessed led down into the kitchens – a guess which proved correct. As in the St Clair house, there was also a stone-flagged passage with a door at one end that led into the garden. I ushered Bertram through and we found ourselves in the overgrown wilderness we had seen from the upstairs window.

In its ruined state the garden wall was easy enough to climb, and in a matter of minutes we had both dropped to our knees in the alleyway between Martin Threadgold’s property and the St Clairs’. Brushing my hose clean of grit and dirt, I eyed the opposite wall meditatively.

‘Everyone’s out,’ I said. ‘Now’s our chance to have another look around.’

Bertram shook his head decisively. ‘Not in this livery, Chapman. I daren’t. I can’t afford to be caught trespassing in someone’s house. Especially not someone like Mistress St Clair, who has influence with Duchess Margaret. I’ll go back to the Voyager and wait for you there.’