Martin Threadgold considered this carefully, then shrugged. ‘Not often. Although they must have had their better moments. Justin planted that willow for her down near the river bank – the one you can see from this window.’
Bertram and I obediently slewed round and stared down across the walls, into the neighbouring garden, at the tree we had noted earlier.
‘Judith’s always been very fond of it,’ our host continued. ‘On hot summer days, she likes to sit in its shade and look at the water.’
‘After the marriage, I assume that your brother and niece went to live next door,’ I said. ‘Was there never any suggestion that Mistress St Clair might move into
this
house?’
Our host gave a dry laugh. ‘None. Once Justin had seen the luxury and comfort of the Broderer home, there was no chance of him staying here. As a family, we were not well off. We had little money and our parents had allowed the house to go to wrack and ruin before they died. My father hoped that either Justin or myself would marry money. In fact, he pressed it on us as a duty. But he died a disappointed man. I have never fancied the married state, and Justin’s first wife, Alcina’s mother, brought no dowry worth mentioning with her. That was hardly surprising: no woman of means would have looked at us.’
‘Until Judith Broderer.’
‘Until, as you say, Judith began casting lures in Justin’s direction. Mind you, he wasn’t a bad-looking man and loneliness can play terrible havoc with a person’s judgement.’
‘Your niece thinks her stepmother may have married her father in order to protect her from his violent ways.’
Martin Threadgold raised sceptical eyebrows and looked down his nose. ‘A girl’s romantic notion, surely! But there! Women are strange creatures and capable of things that we men find it difficult to understand. Especially when the flux is on them each month.’
‘You’re certain that Mistress Broderer, as she then was, was fully aware of your brother’s violent nature?’
Martin blew his nose in his fingers, inspected them with interest, then wiped them on his sleeve.
‘Bound to have been,’ he said. ‘Edmund Broderer and my brother were … well, not exactly friends – no, never that – but drinking cronies. There’s an alehouse, the Fleur de Lys, where they both drank, and they would, on occasions, help each other home when they’d drunk too much.’ Martin sighed. ‘Justin always reproached himself that he hadn’t accompanied Edmund the night that Master Broderer fell into the river and drowned.’
Bertram’s discomfort was now impossible to ignore, so I got to my feet. He joined me with alacrity.
‘Thank you for your time, Master Threadgold,’ I said, holding out my hand.
He took it, saying, ‘I hope I’ve satisfied you as to my niece’s whereabouts on the evening of the unfortunate young man’s murder?’
I nodded to set his mind at rest, although only too aware that there were still questions that remained unanswered. Then I clapped Bertram on the back.
‘Right, my lad,’ I said. ‘Let’s go and see if we can talk to the Jolliffes.’
L
uck remained with us in so far as Lydia Jolliffe was at home. The little maid who answered my knock informed us that the young and old master were abroad, but that the mistress was in her parlour at the back of the house. And it was to this first-floor chamber that Bertram and I were conducted in due course.
It was a light, airy room facing both south and east, with windows looking out over the river at the back and the gardens and houses that clustered around the Fleet Bridge to one side. Shutters had been flung open to let in the brightness of a spring afternoon that completely belied the dismal, rain-sodden start to the day. The May sun shone proudly from a soft blue sky, and rooks, like a handful of winter-black leaves, wheeled and cawed beyond the casement.
The woman who rose to meet us was a handsome, statuesque creature with high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes of a deep, lustrous brown that gave her an almost exotic, foreign appearance. Her skin, by contrast, was extremely pale, but so skilfully had the white lead been applied that it needed a second glance to realize that its colour was due to artifice and not to nature. She was plainly but expensively gowned in green silk cut high to the throat, a modest touch that might have been more convincing had it not served to emphasize her magnificent breasts. Her hennin, draped with a white gauze veil, was one of the shorter kind which, at that time, had just begun to replace the ‘steeple’. She wore a dark-green leather girdle, tagged with silver and a jade cross on a silver chain, but no other ornament. The effect was striking and she knew it. It was easy to see why Fulk Quantrell could well have been attracted to this woman, in spite of his natural inclination towards men. (But even as the thought entered my head, I realized that, so far, I had no other proof of Jocelyn St Clair’s allegation.)
‘Mistress Jolliffe?’ I queried with a polite bow. A silly question, as it was extremely unlikely she could be anyone else.
She didn’t bother answering. Those remarkable eyes raked me from head to foot; then she let a long, lazy smile lift the corners of her delicately tinted lips.
‘So you’re the pedlar I’ve been hearing about from Judith St Clair.’ Her voice was languid. ‘Roger, isn’t it?’
‘I’m honoured, lady, that you’ve taken the trouble to remember my name.’ I smiled in what I hoped was a seductive manner (I, too, could play that sort of game) and drew Bertram forward. ‘This is Master Serifaber, the Duke of Gloucester’s man.’
Bertram was growing used to this introduction and no longer tried to look worthy of it, but he was too young, and obviously too green, to hold Mistress Jolliffe’s attention for long. She gave him a quick nod and then turned back to me, resuming her seat in the room’s only armchair and picking up her embroidery frame as she did so. But if she had hoped to present a demure, wifely tableau (Penelope at her loom), she was wasting her time. She never could, and never would, look domesticated.
‘Sit down,’ she invited, but as there was only one stool, Bertram was forced to stand, supporting himself against the nearest wall. I removed a lute from the stool, which was far too small for my hefty frame, and perched awkwardly on its edge. Mistress Jolliffe smiled slightly at my discomfort, but made no comment. The fragrance of wild flowers rose from the rushes on the floor and, with my new-found knowledge, I recognized the rich wall hangings as being embroideries rather than tapestries. I wondered if they had been purchased from the Broderer workshop; or had they perhaps been a gift?
While I made an attempt to settle myself, I took covert stock of Lydia Jolliffe, trying to guess her age. If she had a son as old as, or older than, Alcina Threadgold, she was probably in her late thirties or, more likely, early forties; but she was one of those women whose years sit lightly on them. Nevertheless, self-confidence and the mature curves of her figure led me to believe she was older than she looked.
‘I’m forty, Master Chapman,’ she said with a rich, full-throated laugh that made me start violently and blush. ‘Men are so transparent,’ she added, selecting a long pale-green silk thread from a pile on a small table beside her, and once more plying her needle in and out of the white sarcenet stretched on the tambour frame. ‘It’s so easy to tell what you’re thinking. Women are much better at concealing their thoughts. Now, I presume you wish to ask me about the murder of Fulk Quantrell. What is it you want to know?’
I rubbed my nose nervously. ‘Well, to begin with, may I ask where you were on the night of May Day or the early hours of the following morning, when the young man was killed?’
‘That’s simple. I was home here, in bed with my husband. He’ll vouch for the fact.’
Of course he would, just as she would vouch for him. A wasted question but, all the same, one that had had to be asked.
‘Did you like Fulk?’
She shrugged. ‘I neither liked nor disliked him. He was Judith’s nephew. A pleasant enough lad, prettily behaved, respectful to his elders. He had more to do with my son than with me. You must ask Brandon about him. Fulk was young enough to have been my son.’
Her last remark was more revealing than she had intended, containing as it did an undertone of bitterness.
‘Did he find you attractive?’
Lydia glanced up sharply, then laughed again, but this time it was a high-pitched, artificial tinkle.
‘Dear saints, of course not! I told you: I was old enough to be his mother.’
There it was again – that insistence on the difference in their ages. I ignored it. ‘Was your husband jealous?’
She tossed her embroidery frame angrily to one side, missing the table and letting it fall among the rushes. ‘Don’t you listen to anything I say? He was my
son
’s friend, not mine.’
‘Even so,’ I urged, ‘you must have formed some opinion of his character other than that his manners and general address were good. What was he really like, underneath, do you think?’
I could see her struggling with herself for several seconds – women, whatever she maintained, are just as easy to read as men on occasions – but whatever it was she had in mind to tell me, prudence eventually won. She managed to smile.
‘Fulk naturally had his own interests at heart; what young man of eighteen does not? One could hardly blame him for taking advantage of Judith’s infatuation.’
‘Did you and Master Jolliffe approve of Mistress St Clair’s decision to make him her sole heir?’
Lydia picked up the discarded embroidery frame and continued with her stitching. ‘Roland and I neither disapproved nor approved. It was not our business.’
Very commendable, but not what Judith St Clair had told me. I wondered what the Jolliffes had really said to one another in the privacy of the marital bed, and to their neighbours.
‘But you must have had some feelings about Fulk’s stealing Mistress Alcina’s affection away from your son.’
Once again there was that hesitation while she decided what to say; and once again she decided to lie. ‘Whatever you may have been told, Master Chapman, there was never anything settled in the way of a betrothal between Brandon and Alcina. If anything, he was less fond of her than she of him. They were friends. Something might have come of that friendship eventually, who can tell? But somehow, I doubt it. Brandon is a very good-looking boy. He can have his pick of any girl in London.’
I accepted this. Who was I to argue with a mother’s fond delusion? Instead, I asked abruptly, ‘Do you happen to know where your son was on the night Fulk Quantrell was murdered?’
She gave me a quelling stare. ‘My son is twenty years old: I am not his keeper. However, I imagine he was drinking in some tavern or other, probably the Bull in Fish Street, which seemes to be his usual haunt. And most likely with Jocelyn St Clair. But you must ask him.’
‘Can you or your husband confirm the time he came home?’
‘No, of course not! Did your mother know what time you got in at night when you were that age?’
When I had been twenty, my mother had not been long dead, and I had just abandoned my novitiate at Glastonbury Abbey and was busy making my way in the world in my new trade of peddling. But I naturally did not burden Mistress Jolliffe with this personal history. Instead, I enquired, ‘Did you know that Fulk Quantrell and your son had come to blows during the morning’s maying expedition? According to young Master St Clair it was about Alcina. Master Jolliffe accused Fulk of stealing her away from him.’
I saw anger and something else – something akin to fear – flash in and out of Lydia’s eyes. But she replied with creditable calm, ‘That’s the first I’ve heard of it. Mind you, you shouldn’t believe everything Jocelyn tells you. He was hoping – maybe he still is now that Fulk is dead – to fix his interest with Alcina himself. It would certainly please his father if he did.’
‘Mistress Threadgold insists that theirs is a purely brother-and-sister relationship.’
My hostess curled her lip (not an easy thing to do, but possible). ‘Alcina might think that, but I doubt if Josh does. He may not be in love with her, but he’s too canny to let the best part of half a fortune go begging for want of a wedding ring. And he wouldn’t allow a little thing like marriage vows to prevent him from continuing in his normal hedonistic way.’
She didn’t like Jocelyn St Clair, that was evident. But what had been her real feelings concerning Fulk Quantrell?
‘Master St Clair – young Master St Clair – maintains that Fulk really preferred men to women. Do you think that’s true?’
After a moment’s incredulous silence, there was an explosion of laughter so hearty and so genuine that it was impossible to doubt its sincerity. ‘You’re making it up!’ she accused me as soon as she could speak.
I shook my head and glanced at Bertram, who confirmed my statement.
‘What a liar Josh is then!’ she gasped, wiping her eyes. ‘Of course he didn’t!’ But she sobered abruptly with the realization that her merriment and vigorous denial of Fulk’s sexual predilections pointed to the fact that she had known him a great deal more intimately than she had claimed. ‘Well, I shouldn’t think so, at any rate,’ she amended hurriedly, ‘judging by the number of female hearts he enslaved.’
‘Including yours, Mistress Jolliffe?’ I suggested softly.
‘How dare you!’ she breathed, and this time there was no mistaking the combined anger and fear in both look and voice. ‘I’m a true and loyal wife, faithful in thought and deed to the most loving, gentle and considerate husband a woman could ever wish for.’
She could try pulling my other leg, too, but I still wouldn’t believe her. Once again, she had betrayed herself by overemphasis. I was certain that she had fallen for Fulk’s charms quite as heavily as his aunt and Alcina Threadgold had done. Maybe, deep down, she hadn’t liked him – I felt instinctively that she was too astute to be taken in simply by a handsome face – but had found him attractive enough to want to go to bed with him. But had she succeeded in seducing him, or in allowing herself to be seduced by him? And if so, had Roland Jolliffe discovered her infidelity and set out to remove his rival? (I recollected Martha Broderer’s words: ‘… he’s devoted to Lydia. And he’s the sort who’d never blame her if she ever did play him false. In his eyes, she’d have been … led astray by the man.’) On the other hand, if Lydia had set her cap at Fulk and been rejected, could her pride have been sufficiently lacerated for her to have murdered him?