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.
‘A truly lovely spot,’ I said, glancing sideways at my companion and surprising a look of amusement on her face.
‘It is, isn’t it?’ she answered. ‘You appreciate beauty in nature, Master Chapman?’
‘I’m a countryman at heart,’ I explained. ‘Bristol may now be my home, but I was born in Wells.’ Judith inclined her head, but made no comment, so I continued, fearful of an uncomfortable hiatus in the conversation, ‘I was told that these three houses’ – I jerked my chin over my shoulder – ‘once stood in the grounds of the Savoy.’
She laughed. ‘Oh, yes! I’ve heard that story, too. Whorehouses – isn’t that the theory? But I very much doubt it. In my opinion, they’re built too far eastwards. You must have seen what remains of the old palace during your to-ing and fro-ing along the Strand. I admit it was reputed to be a vast enclave in its day, but even so, I don’t believe it stretched this far towards the Fleet.’ She shrugged. ‘Of course, I could be wrong. Perhaps I just don’t like the idea of living in what was once a brothel.’
Her last word jogged my memory. I said, with what to her must have seemed like total irrelevance, ‘Your kitchen maid, Nell, said that her young brother once worked here, helping William Morgan in your garden, but that the boy disappeared some two years ago. William must miss him. There’s a lot of work just for one man.’
Judith St Clair looked faintly surprised, as well she might, by this sudden change of subject, then puckered her forehead in perplexity. ‘Nell’s brother …? Ah! Now you mention it, yes, I do have a vague recollection of him. More of a hindrance than a help, according to William, if I remember rightly. William and he nearly came to blows on more than one occasion. I’d forgotten him.’
A vague recollection? She had to be lying, of course. Martha Broderer had told me that young Roger had been brought up in Judith’s household and that his and Nell’s mother, until her untimely death, had been Judith’s tiring-woman. My companion obviously had no idea of the extent of my knowledge, but I wondered why she had bothered to lie at all. In fact, I wondered about this whole episode: why she had invited me into the garden; why she seemed to derive a certain satisfaction from showing me the view.
Footsteps sounded on the path behind us, and we turned to see William Morgan trudging towards us, looking as surly as ever; an expression that became even more sullen the moment he saw me.
‘Ah! William!’ Judith remarked coolly. ‘Master Chapman and I were just talking about Nell’s brother, who used to assist you in the garden.’
‘Stupid little varmint,’ he grumbled. ‘That boy would never do as he was told, would he? Always planting things where he shouldn’t and trying to dig up things that I’d just planted. Couldn’t tell a weed from a flower. I remember, down here, when he tried–’
‘Thank you, William.’ Judith, losing patience, interrupted the reminiscence politely, but firmly. ‘Did you want me for something?’
‘Paulina asked me to tell you that her next door has called to see you – Mistress Jolliffe. I was coming down the garden anyway, so I said I’d save her legs by giving you the message myself.’ He glowered vindictively at me. ‘Do you want me to show the pedlar out?’
‘There’s no need,’ Judith answered coolly, not best pleased, I could tell, by his familiar tone in front of an outsider. But the Welshman seemed to hold a privileged position in his mistress’s esteem, and she offered no reprimand. She turned instead to me. ‘I feel sure, Master Chapman, you can leave by the same way that you entered. There’s no need for you to go through the house. You’ll see that the wall is as easy to scale from this side as from the other. I’ll show you where you climbed over. Thank you for your company. I’ve enjoyed it.’ She laughed softly, as if at some private joke.
I should have liked to stay and have a few words with William Morgan concerning his murderous nocturnal activities, but with Mistress St Clair’s eyes fixed upon me I had no choice but to climb the wall again and make my way up the alleyway into the Strand. I realized that our conversation had omitted any mention of Martin Threadgold’s sudden death and, on reflection, found it a strange oversight, considering it should have been a topic uppermost in both our minds, but particularly in that of Judith St Clair.
The thoroughfare was as busy as ever and, above the never-ending clamour of the bells, vendors of hot pies, cold ale, sweetmeats, ribbons, laces, silks, or anything else you fancied could be heard screaming, ‘Buy! Buy! Buy! What do you lack? What’ll you buy?’ It made my head begin to ache just listening to them.
While I hesitated, unsure what to do next, I saw, coming out of the Jolliffes’ street door, Brandon and his father, the former stocky, thickset and brown-eyed, the latter large and shambling and with eyes the same Saxon blue as my own. I hailed them, but my voice got lost in the general hubbub. I was convinced that Brandon had glimpsed me out of the corner of one eye, but he gave no sign of having done so except to hurry Roland forward at a quickened pace. I let them go. I knew where to find them if ever I needed to speak to either of them in the future.
Once again, however, the sight of Brandon Jolliffe touched that elusive chord of memory within my brain. What was it I was trying to remember? Or perhaps remember was not quite the right word. Maybe I was trying to make a connection with some other fact lying dormant somewhere in the farthest recesses of my mind. I struggled to find the missing link, unaware that I was standing stock-still in the roadway until I found myself being jostled and pushed aside by various irate passers-by, who made uncomplimentary comments on the irritating habits of country bumpkins not used to the capital’s busy ways. As I had been priding myself on how well I blended into the London scene, I found this particularly galling, and I was willing to bandy words with anyone spoiling for a fight. But Londoners appeared to have no time even for a quarrel, so I gave up and went back to the Voyager, where I went to my room and stretched out on the bed, promising myself an hour of quiet reflection. But no sooner had I started to review all that had happened in the four days since my arrival in London than, lulled by the warmth of the sun coming in at the open shutters and the comfort of the goose-feather mattress, I inevitably fell deeply and dreamlessly asleep.
It was nearly dusk when I finally awoke. The May twilight glimmered fitfully before the approaching dark. Beyond the window the sky was rinsed to a thin, fragile blue above the last flushed clouds of the sunset. Shadows muffled the outline of roofs on the opposite side of the Voyager’s courtyard and, in the heavens, a single star shone, dimly as yet, the colour of unpolished steel.
My first thought was that I was famished: I had missed my supper. The second was that there was someone banging at my chamber door. The third was that the someone had to be Bertram. No one else would hammer and kick at the wood with such abandoned familiarity, and, a moment later, my suspicions were confirmed when his by now instantly recognizable voice called impatiently, ‘Roger! Master Chapman! Let me in!’
With a groan, I slid off the bed and drew back the bolt near the top of the door. Bertram tripped over his own feet as he literally tumbled inside.
‘What on earth’s the matter?’ I demanded crossly, my hunger making me irritable. ‘What’s so urgent that you must make all this racket? Don’t tell me!’ I added waspishly. ‘You’ve discovered who killed Fulk Quantrell?’