‘Was this before or after curfew?’ I asked.
‘Lord, I don’t know. After, probably. No one takes much notice of curfew nowadays. And although all the gates are shut at sundown, there are a dozen or more ways of getting in and out of the city, if you know them. Half of London’s walls are in a shocking state of disrepair.’
I nodded understandingly. It was the same in Bristol, as it was in other inland cities in the southern half of England. Lack of invasion and attack for so many years had made for complacency among the civic hierarchy, who were loth to spend good money – or throw it away, as they saw it – on mending city walls. No doubt the matter was regarded differently in the North, where the inhabitants were under constant threat of incursions from the Scots.
‘Did you see Master Jolliffe again that evening?’
‘No. I hadn’t really expected to, but I waited awhile, then paid our shot and went home.’
‘And during that journey, you saw nothing untoward on the corner of Fleet Street and Faitour Lane?’
Jocelyn laughed. ‘If you mean did I see Fulk being done to death, I’m afraid you’re out of luck. If I had, I’d probably have given a helping hand.’ Again, there came that disarming frankness. ‘As it was, the usual congregation of beggars and layabouts were shouting and screaming, fighting, cursing, whoring. What you’d expect. But not a hint of murder.’
‘At what time did you pass the corner of Faitour Lane, do you know?’
He shrugged again. ‘Not late. I’d heard the watch calling the hour of ten as I left the Bull, so it was likely some twenty minutes after that. Maybe a little longer. I was forced to make a detour to find my exit from the city and then retrace my steps in order to cross the Fleet.’
‘And when you left this house earlier, to call for Master Jolliffe, everyone else was still here?’
‘Yes. My stepmother was suffering from one of her headaches and had gone to bed. I remember, at supper, she asked Paulina – that’s the housekeeper – to make her up a draught of poppy and lettuce juice and leave it in her bedchamber. My father went off to his study to read. As for Cina and Fulk, they were huddled together, whispering, in a corner of the parlour. I couldn’t hear what was said, but it was obvious from their general demeanour that they were arguing.’
‘Arguing or quarrelling?’
‘Both, I should say.’ Jocelyn paused, then went on, ‘They’d been at odds all day, ever since they’d returned from the maying expedition that morning. My own opinion, for what it’s worth, is that Cina was trying to persuade Fulk to announce their betrothal and name the wedding day. He was resisting because I’m pretty certain he had no intention of marrying her. Why should he leg-shackle himself when he could inherit all my stepmother’s money and property for himself without the encumbrance of a wife?’
‘According to Mistress Broderer, Fulk claimed to have a betrothed back in Burgundy.’
Jocelyn gave a shout of laughter. ‘Moonshine! If he did say that, it was for Alcina’s benefit, to dampen her ardour.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘As sure as I can be. He informed me once that he had no intention of ever getting married, and I believed him.’ The small, childish teeth bared themselves in another grin. ‘Oh, Fulk liked women all right. I told you, he was after seducing Lydia Jolliffe. But women were like feathers in his cap to Fulk. They were conquests. His real predilection was for men.’
I heard Bertram draw in his breath and saw his eyes widen in disgust. But he was young. He would learn that, whatever the teachings of the Church, it takes all sorts to populate the world.
‘Did he make advances to
you
?’ I asked.
Jocelyn shook his head. ‘Too chancy. He couldn’t risk my stepmother finding out. She’s very strait-laced about such matters. But I know he’d made suggestions to Brandon, and been repulsed. Mind you, he was very discreet. I doubt if many people were aware that he favoured the vice of the ancient Greeks. Wouldn’t have believed it of him, I daresay, even if they’d been told.’
This had been a most instructive and enlightening digression, but I forced the conversation back on to its original path. ‘So you don’t have any idea where Fulk or Mistress Threadgold may have gone, or what they did, before arriving at the Needlers Lane workshop? You’ve heard about the scene there, I daresay?’
‘Oh yes! Martha Broderer made all of us and the Sheriff’s men free of it after the murder. Her intention was, of course, to implicate Cina and minimise Lionel’s motive for killing Fulk.’
‘And did she succeed, do you think?’
Jocelyn laughed shortly. ‘It doesn’t matter if she did or she didn’t, does it? Not now that the Duke of Gloucester, God save the mark, has taken the matter out of the Sheriff’s hands and put it in yours.’ He spoke with a sudden return to his earlier hostility.
‘You don’t think me capable of solving the murder?’ I enquired mildly.
He hunched his shoulders, not bothering to reply. ‘I must be off,’ he said, rising. ‘The cordwainer’s waiting for me and I promised him I’d not be late. It’s been interesting talking to you, Master Chapman.’ He made no effort to keep the sneer from his voice.
I didn’t try to detain him, and he had barely left the room when the housekeeper, Paulina Graygoss, appeared in the doorway.
‘It’s nearly dinner time,’ she announced grudgingly, ‘and the mistress says to ask you and your friend’ – she nodded briefly at Bertram – ‘if you’d care to eat with William and me in the kitchen.’
I did not hesitate to accept, although I could tell by my companion’s face that the arrangement was not at all to his liking. But it was too good an opportunity to miss. I could study and talk to William Morgan at close quarters. Mistress Graygoss, also.
‘Thank you,’ I said, almost before she had finished speaking. ‘If we may, we’ll follow you down.’
The main staircase descended into the back half of the great hall, whose inner door gave access to the stone-flagged passageway mentioned by Master St Clair.
As she turned into the kitchen, the housekeeper remarked tersely, ‘Dinner isn’t ready yet. Don’t get under my feet.’
‘I see a door along here,’ I said, ‘that looks as if it opens into the garden. So if you don’t mind, Master Serifaber and I will take a walk outside to clear our heads and work up an appetite.’
Mistress Graygoss indicated with a dismissive gesture of her hand that we could do as we pleased – she wasn’t responsible for us – and disappeared into the smoke and steam of the kitchen. I jerked my head at Bertram and we proceeded along the passage, heading for the door at the end. Halfway, I gave him a nudge.
‘There,’ I said. ‘Look!’
An archway in the wall revealed the lower treads of a flight of stone steps rising into the gloom above.
‘The “secret” stair, do you think?’ asked Bertram.
‘Undoubtedly, I should say.’ I glanced back over my shoulder. I could hear voices – or, rather, one voice raised in annoyance – but could see no one. ‘Shall we go up and make sure?’
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ Bertram protested, horrified. ‘Mistress St Clair might be in her room.’
He refused point-blank to accompany me; so, much against his will, I left him on guard with instructions to whistle if anyone emerged from the kitchen.
I judged there were no more than a dozen steps, although I didn’t count them, ending in a small landing about three or four feet square. To my right was a door, partially open, and when I put my eye to the crack, I could see that the room beyond was indeed a bedchamber. The door was almost on a level with the head of the bed, but this was hidden from my view by richly embroidered curtains. The walls, too, as far as I could make out, were hung with those tapestry-like embroideries that I had seen being made in the Needlers Lane workshop. Such light as there was on this rainy May morning came through two windows whose shutters and horned panes had been opened to the elements. Mistress St Clair evidently liked fresh air.
I listened carefully for a few seconds, but the silence was absolute. Cautiously, I eased myself around the edge of the door and found that I was standing, not on rushes, but on a thickly embroidered carpet that covered most of the floor. (The mistress of the house was obviously a keen promoter of her own wares.) Two large chests, their lids carved with an elaborate pattern of grapes and vine leaves, stood against the far wall and were full to overflowing with clothes. Neither was properly shut, and several errant sleeves, part of a velvet skirt, a gauze scarf and one or two belts spilled over the sides.
The bed, whose hangings, as I could now see, depicted the story of Daphnis and Chloe, occupied most of the space and was set on a raised dais in the centre of the room. With even greater trepidation than before, I parted the curtains and peered through, wondering what possible excuse I could offer if I should come face to face with Mistress St Clair, resting there. But, fortunately for me, the bed was empty. Its coverlet was dazzling, so thickly embroidered with all the glories of an English summer garden, including birds, bees and dragonflies, that its basic material was invisible. A small, plain cupboard stood to one side of the pillows and supported a candlestick and candle.
I withdrew my head and examined the inside of the door through which I had entered. There
was
a bolt – quite a substantial one – near the top and, when tested, I found it ran easily and noiselessly in the wards. But whether or not Judith used it to secure her bedchamber as often as was prudent I had no means of knowing. A similar inspection of the bolt on the inside of the main door of the room showed this to be stiff with disuse. She plainly felt herself to be under no sort of threat from inside the house itself.
I gave a final glance around before deciding that I had tried my luck far enough for one day, and descended the stair to find a worried Bertram peering anxiously upward, praying for my speedy return.
‘I thought someone was coming just now,’ he chided me.
We completed the length of the passage and, before letting ourselves out into the garden, I also examined the inside of this door for locks and bolts. There were two of the latter, bigger than those in Mistress St Clair’s bedchamber and both kept well oiled. The lock, too, was substantial, situated just beneath the latch, but the key, large and extremely visible, hung on a hook alongside the door where everyone could reach it without difficulty. Anyone leaving the house on the night of the murder had only to ensure that this door and the two in Judith St Clair’s bedchamber were unlocked and unbolted to be able to go and come back at will.
The rain had stopped at last. The ground squelched under our feet as Bertram and I crossed the soaked and pallid grass. A wood pigeon rustled through the branches of a tree, and although it was only mid-morning, the light was poor, cloaking the garden in shadow. We walked down the gently sloping central path to the little landing stage on the Thames. Gulls, chasing the herring boats upstream to Westminster, wheeled and called overhead with their sharp, staccato cries, and a kingfisher, disturbed by their commotion, flew up from its nest in the bank, a flash of iridescent green and blue. Brown-fingered seaweed slapped the shore, and the river itself, London’s great highway, gleamed like polished metal under a watery shaft of sunlight that suddenly pierced the overhanging clouds.
The garden itself was planted largely for pleasure. If there was a bed of herbs and simples for the cooking pot, or one for home-made physic and medicines, I did not notice it at the time. Nor were any vegetables grown that I could see. This was a household sufficiently well-to-do to buy the best and freshest produce from the local tradesmen who daily trundled into London from their smallholdings in the Paddington fields, watered as they were by their crystal-clear springs and running brooks. The grass on either side of the path was starred with periwinkles and daisies and dotted with rose bushes, some of which were already in flower; the red of the
Rosa gallica
and the white of the
Rosa alba
, and the pink and white of the sweet-smelling Damascus rose. There were also lilies and gillyflowers, and, near the river’s edge, a willow tree, stooping to trail its branches close to the water.
Bertram was unimpressed; he was not a natural admirer of God’s creation, and a chill spring breeze, blowing in off the Thames, soon had him urging me back towards the house and the warmth of its kitchen. As we retraced our steps along the path, I glanced up at the windows of the next-door house, now to my left, just in time to glimpse a face hurriedly withdrawn into the shadows. I stopped, staring enquiringly, but it did not reappear. Its owner I guessed to be that Martin Threadgold mentioned to me yesterday by Mistress Graygoss; the older brother of Judith St Clair’s second husband and Alcina’s uncle. Unless, of course, it was one of his servants.
‘He doesn’t keep but the one servant,’ the housekeeper snorted disgustedly when I mentioned the sighting to her. ‘A maid-of-all-work you might call her, although, myself, I’d term her a lazy slattern. But fortunately most of the rooms are shut up, so she’s not a lot to do. Martin Threadgold’s generally held to be a miser. Now, do you and the lad come to table. And one of you’ – she rounded on two young girls who were busily pulling pots and pans off the fire – ‘go and call William in to his victuals.’
These were obviously the young maids referred to by Godfrey St Clair, one small and undernourished, the other a well set-up piece who looked as if she could eat a man a day for breakfast. But, as is so often the case, appearances were deceptive: she was the shy, retiring one who merely toyed with her food and left half of it on her plate, while the skinny girl had wolfed her way through two bowlfuls of an excellent mutton stew before William Morgan finally deigned to obey the housekeeper’s summons. He slouched in some twenty minutes later, sat down, offering no explanation for his tardiness, and banged the table with his spoon until the bigger of the two maids had filled his bowl with stew.
I was at last able to take a good look at the Welshman, and saw that he was indeed only about my own age, somewhere in his late twenties. (I was still some four months short of my twenty-eighth birthday.) William’s swarthy skin, blue eyes, dark hair and long, thin mouth were features which, as I remarked before, could have comprised a pleasant whole if it had not been for his sullen expression and seemingly perpetual scowl. He said nothing, but I could feel his hostility as he regarded me across the kitchen table. I pushed aside my own bowl, leaned forward and gave him back scowl for scowl. I was about to make his even fiercer.