The Burgundian’s Tale

‘That sounds like Bertram.’ I slipped my arm about her waist and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek by way of thanks.

‘What about me, then?’ Nell demanded, coming alongside and proffering her lips.

I kissed the tip of her nose instead. I didn’t believe in favouritism. Then I made my way across the Strand to Bertram’s side and nipped one of the pies – fish, unfortunately: it was Friday – from his hand before he realized I was there. He protested, but faintly, too relieved to see me to make much fuss. And indeed, I was only just in time. As we stared across to the Threadgold house, Alcina, Judith and Godfrey St Clair emerged, followed by Jocelyn, the priest from St Dunstan’s, Paulina Graygoss and William Morgan. I was amused to note that while I had been next door, they had also been joined by all three Jolliffes, who were having no compunction in adding their mite to the general discussion being carried on amongst the group. Only the housekeeper and the Welshman took no part.

Bertram and I were too far away to hear what was being said, but I could tell by Judith St Clair’s stiff-necked attitude that she considered her neighbours’ intrusion into her affairs unwelcome. I touched Bertram on the arm.

‘Let’s go back to the Voyager. It must be gone ten o’clock. This pie’s rotten. The fish is all bones and no flesh.’ I spat out the contents of my mouth on to the road. ‘I fancy one of Reynold’s good dinners.’

My companion flung an arm around my shoulder and, without saying a word, urged me forward.

We chose fish pies again, but these were vastly different affairs from those Bertram had purchased from the pieman in the Strand. A thick suet crust enclosed succulent pieces of eel, and the sauce oozed out all over the plate when they were cut – sauce which we mopped up later with chunks of good wheaten bread. Bertram, stuffing himself while he was able, to augment the meagre fare of Baynard’s Castle, had a second helping.

While we ate, we assessed what we knew about the murder of Fulk Quantrell. And it wasn’t much. In spite of my conviction that I had twice been attacked by William Morgan, I couldn’t prove it. The cloak, which I had assumed to be his, had proved a false lead, belonging as it did to Martin Threadgold and having last been seen in his possesion by Felice Pettigrew. I was sure enough in my own mind that William had stolen it for his own use when he entered the Threadgold house and found Martin either asleep or dead. That, of course, raised the question: had he killed Martin? And if so, was he also the murderer of Fulk?

‘Well, I’d say “yes” on both counts,’ Bertram said thickly, raising his plate to his mouth and drinking the remaining sauce, afterwards licking his lips clean. He had evidently abandoned Alcina as the possible killer of her uncle.

‘Why?’ I asked, leaning forward and speaking quietly. We were in a secluded corner of the ale room and there was a good deal of noise and clatter going on all around; but some people have very acute hearing, and I had no wish to make them free of our conversation.

‘Why what?’ Bertram swigged his ale.

I sighed. ‘I’ve asked you this before. Why would William Morgan want to murder either Fulk Quantrell or Martin Threadgold? What grudge, what reward, links him to either man?’

Bertram squirmed a bit on his stool, but eventually announced defiantly, ‘He didn’t like them. They’d annoyed or injured him in some way, at some time or another.’

I considered this proposition, but found it dubious.

‘You might kill one person for such a reason,’ I agreed reluctantly, ‘but not two.’

Bertram remained defiant. ‘They say it’s easier to do murder a second time, once you’ve committed the first.’

‘Maybe …’ Then I shook my head. ‘I’m not saying William Morgan’s innocent, but I’d want a better reason than sheer vindictiveness for him to be the guilty party.’ I saw Bertram open his mouth to argue, but waved him to silence. ‘Don’t bother asking me why. It’s just a feeling, but I’ve learned to trust my instincts. So! What else do we know?’

‘We know Alcina took Martin the wine which was … which we believe to have been drugged.’

I smiled faintly. ‘You’re learning, lad. And we also know that some hours before Fulk was murdered, he had told Alcina bluntly that he had no intention of marrying her. He claimed to have a sweetheart in Burgundy. She was very upset and left the embroidery workshop in pursuit of him. She said she visited her uncle, a story Martin Threadgold confirmed. But …’

‘But he’s dead, as well,’ Bertram finished slowly. ‘Now there’s a thought, chapman. Suppose Alcina’s story wasn’t true, and her uncle had threatened to expose it for a lie. Perhaps he was blackmailing her. Wouldn’t that have been a motive for her to kill him?’

‘Perhaps. But we must not let ourselves get carried away. Everything we’ve said so far is supposition. Maybe we’re wrong and Martin wasn’t drugged and murdered. We must concentrate our attention on Fulk.’

Bertram grimaced and finished his ale. ‘That’s opening the floodgates to a whole torrent of suspects: Jocelyn and Godfrey St Clair, all three of the Jolliffes, as well as Alcina herself.’