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.
And no doubt indulge in a beaker or two of Reynold Makepeace’s best ale, I thought grimly, which you’ll instruct him to add to my reckoning. Meanly, I nipped his little scheme in the bud.
‘You’ll stay outside,’ I told him, ‘and if anyone shows any sign of returning, you’ll waylay them.’
Bertram looked sceptical, as well he might. He didn’t even bother to enquire how he was to perform this feat. He knew my real motive for keeping him away from the Voyager as well as I did.
‘Try not to be too long,’ he said caustically. ‘Here, you’d better give me that cloak. You must be tired of dragging it around with you, and it might prove a hindrance.’
Gratefully I surrendered the article in question, scaled the St Clairs’ garden wall, not quite with the ease with which I had climbed its neighbour, and landed this time more heavily and with even less grace. For a moment, I was afraid I had wrenched one of my ankles, but after a few hesitant steps, all seemed to be well.
I had counted on the fact that the garden door would be unlocked, and I was not disappointed. It opened easily into the kitchen passage, and halfway along were the arch and the ‘secret’ stair. Luck was certainly with me this morning, for when I reached the top of the steps leading to Mistress St Clair’s bedchamber, that door, too was unbolted.
I eased myself inside, where my feet gratefully encountered the softness of the embroidered carpet. Today, the two chests standing against the opposite wall, with their carvings of grapes and vine leaves, were properly closed. No belts or sleeves or scarves spilled over the sides. The bed under its dazzling counterpane was neatly made, the Daphnis and Chloe curtains pulled back and carefully wound around the bedposts beneath the canopy. A fresh candle – wax, of course, not tallow – had already been inserted into the candlestick ready for the coming night. This was a household where efficiency was highly prized.
I noticed also, which I had not done on my previous visit, that the walls were hung with the same beautifully crafted embroidered tapestries that I had seen both at the Needlers Lane workshop and in Lydia Jolliffe’s parlour. They covered every inch of the grey stone walls except … except for one wooden panel near the bed head. My heart lurched excitedly. Was it possible that this house also boasted a ‘fly trap’? And was this it?
These three houses were very similar in many respects, both outside and in. And why shouldn’t they be? If they had indeed been a part of the Savoy Palace and built for the selfsame purpose, then it was more than likely that they contained many identical features. I already knew that this one and the late Martin Threadgold’s had a ‘secret’ stair. Why not, then, a ‘fly trap’? But this time I would not be caught. Forewarned was forearmed.
I walked round the bed and surveyed the wooden panel. Bertram had spoken of a hidden spring which I had accidentally triggered when I fell against it; so, now, I extended my arms to their full length and, with my hands, cautiously began pressing the surface.
Nothing happened for what seemed like an age, but was probably no more than ten or twelve seconds. Then I spotted a mark right in the centre of the wooden paneclass="underline" a tiny circle with a thread-like circumference of silver, almost invisible until the light struck it at just the right angle. Hastily, I took off one of my boots and pressed the circle with the tip of my index finger. Immediately, the panel swung inwards, staying open just long enough, I judged, to allow someone to step inside. Then it began to close again. But this time it remained ajar, unable to move any further, jammed against the tough leather of my boot.
Fifteen
This left very little room for a man of my height and girth to get through, so I tried pushing the door further open, but it refused to budge. I then pressed the unlocking device again, but nothing happened. Obviously, this would only work if the door were closed. Exasperated and uneasily conscious that I was wasting time – time in which Mistress St Clair might return to the house – I removed my boot from the aperture, allowed the panel to swing shut, then took off both boots and, when I had once more unlocked the door, shoved them, side by side, into the vacant space. Now there was enough leeway for me to enter with ease.
This ‘fly trap’ was roughly the same size as the one in Martin Threadgold’s bedchamber, being, I judged, no more than two to two and a half feet square – about as big as a large cupboard. The main difference was that the walls were panelled and a shelf, some five or six inches wide, ran along the back wall. A carved wooden box stood at one end of it and proved to be unlocked when I lifted the lid, but the contents were disappointing. Two gold chains, a necklet and matching bracelet of quite small emeralds set in silver – and, as even I could see, poorly set, at that – a gold-and-agate thumb ring, half a dozen pearl buttons and a jade cross on a silken string. Judith St Clair might be a wealthy woman, but one thing was certain: she didn’t waste her money on the adornment of her person.
Beneath the shelf, on the floor, was a much larger box on which I had stubbed my stockinged toes as I stepped over my boots into the chamber. This, too, was unlocked – and indeed why shouldn’t it have been, stored as it was in the ‘fly trap’? – and held only a man’s rolled hose, tunics, cloaks and bedgowns, all laid up in lavender in the vain hope of discouraging the moths. (Several overweight and overfed little monsters flew at me angrily as I raised the lid.) These, I presumed, were the clothes of either the late Edmund Broderer or Justin Threadgold or perhaps both; the sad remains of Judith’s first two marriages.
There was nothing else except for an oddly shaped key hanging from a hook driven into the front of the shelf. I guessed that this must be the key which opened the ‘fly trap’ from inside, but I was not about to close the door in order to confirm this theory. I preferred to step back outside and pick up my boots, whereupon the panel completed its interrupted journey and closed with a quiet, but menacing thud.
I gave a hasty glance around the rest of the room, but nothing appeared to have been added or removed since my last visit; so, uneasily aware that time was passing, I slipped on my boots, opened the door once more and began to descend the ‘secret stair’. I was about halfway down when someone below called, ‘Who’s there?’
I jumped and almost lost my footing, but my panic was momentary. I had recognized the voice as that of Betsy, the bigger of the two kitchen maids. Like a fool, I had forgotten the presence of the girls in the house, but I consoled myself with the thought that at least I would be able to allay their suspicions more easily than those of Paulina Graygoss or William Morgan. I took the remaining steps in a single leap (trying to show off and giving my spine a nasty jar in the process) and treated Betsy to my most charming smile.
It didn’t work. ‘What were you doing in the mistress’s bedchamber?’ she asked suspiciously. ‘Does Mistress St Clair know that you’re poking about among her things?’
‘Er – no. And I’m hoping you won’t tell her.’ I tried again with the smile and this time was slightly more successful.
‘Are you still looking for clues about Master Fulk’s murder?’
‘Yes.’ Nothing but the truth could explain my presence in Judith St Clair’s chamber.
‘You don’t suspect the mistress, do you?’
As questions went, that was a difficult one. I gave her my stock answer. ‘I suspect everyone.’
‘Even me and Nell?’
‘Well …’
‘Oh, we wouldn’t mind if you did. It might be quite exciting.’
I had never considered that being a suspect in a murder enquiry was anything but nerve-wracking and something to be avoided at all costs. I laughed.