A moment’s reflection convinced me that this latter notion was unlikely: most people are too used to rejection of one kind or another in their lives to retaliate by killing. But it was not impossible. And where the crime of murder is concerned, experience has taught me that all possibilities must be taken seriously until proved to be false.
I was saved from making a spurious apology for this slur on Lydia’s virtue by the sudden opening of the door and the arrival of two men whom I presumed to be the Jolliffes, father and son. The elder again recalled to mind Martha Broderer’s description of a ‘big, quiet man who don’t say much about anything’, and his identity was immediately confirmed by his wife, who exclaimed in a relieved voice, ‘Roland! I’m so glad you’re here!’
He went at once to stand beside her, putting a protective arm about her shoulders.
‘Who’s this?’ he grunted, his eyes, of a clear Saxon blue, regarding me with open hostility.
Mistress Jolliffe explained and also introduced Bertram, carefully drawing attention to his royal livery. ‘Master Serifaber, the Duke of Gloucester’s man.’
It was a warning, or maybe a reminder, to her husband of royalty’s involvement in this affair. Not that Roland Jolliffe appeared to be the sort of person who would make a fuss or throw his weight about. He was a large, loose-limbed, shambling man quite obviously some years older than his wife. His sartorial preference, like that of Godfrey St Clair, was for comfortable, well-worn clothes in sober shades of grey or brown, with a pleated tunic unfashionably long and a surcoat trimmed with fur that might once have been sable but now looked more like moth-eaten budge.
Brandon Jolliffe, on the other hand, was the very height of elegance in an extremely short tunic of russet velvet which revealed a modish expanse of loin and buttock encased in black silk hose (at least he didn’t favour the parti-coloured variety). A magnificent codpiece, made of the same material as his tunic, sported several black satin bows, a promise to any woman interested in the joys to be sampled underneath. He had his mother’s striking brown eyes, but other than that seemed not to favour either parent, being shorter and stockier than both, with light-brown hair carefully curled and pomaded. Yet his dandified appearance was at odds with the impression of strength given by his compact frame and powerful muscles.
He was more aggressive than his father and less intimidated by Bertram’s livery. ‘What do you mean by coming here and annoying my mother?’ he demanded, squaring his jaw and jutting his chin.
‘That will do, Brandon,’ Lydia admonished him sharply. ‘Master Chapman is making enquiries about Fulk Quantrell’s murder; and I understand from Mistress St Clair that not only Duke Richard but also the Dowager Duchess herself has asked him to do so. Just tell him where you were on the night of May Day. That’s all he wants to know.’ She looked up at her husband and squeezed the hand that was still lying protectively against her shoulder. ‘I’ve already explained that we were at home in bed, my love. We saw and heard nothing that could have any bearing on Fulk’s death.’
I saw Roland’s grip tighten momentarily, and the fleeting sideways glance of those blue eyes; but then he relaxed and nodded.
‘Quite right,’ he muttered.
I waited a second or two, but when it became apparent that this was all he intended to say, I turned back to Brandon.
He responded to my raised eyebrows with a grunt very like his father’s and seemed disinclined to answer my unspoken query. A nudge from his mother, however, changed his mind.
‘Oh, all right! I suppose I might as well tell you. I’ve nothing to hide. I was drinking in the Bull in Fish Street all evening with Jocelyn St Clair. Then I came home and went to bed. There’s really nothing else to say.’
‘Did you and Master St Clair leave the Bull together?’
He hesitated, watching me with narrowed eyes, wondering how much I already knew. He decided not to take a chance and opted for the truth. ‘I left before Josh. We fell out. I’m afraid I went off leaving him to pay our shot.’ Brandon did his best to look contrite, but failed.
‘What did you quarrel about?’
He grimaced. ‘Lord! I can’t remember. It’s more than two weeks since it happened. We were both in our cups, and I daresay at the stage where you’re ready to take umbrage at almost anything.’
‘Jocelyn St Clair says it was about your fight with Fulk Quantrell that morning, during the maying. He says he was trying to talk some sense into you – trying to convince you that Mistress Threadgold was the one doing the pursuing; that he didn’t think Master Quantrell was serious in wanting to marry her.’
While I was speaking, Brandon’s face had grown slowly redder until even his ears seemed suffused with blood. ‘It’s a fucking lie!’ he burst out as soon as I’d finished, oblivious to his mother’s presence and her furious exclamation of ‘Brandon!’
‘Are you denying that you and Jocelyn St Clair talked about Fulk Quantrell?’ I asked.
‘We might have mentioned him. It’s possible. Probable, even. But I’ve told you: it’s over a fortnight ago. Anyway, there’s no law against it, is there? Discussing a friend.’
‘A friend?’
‘A mutual acquaintance then! All right! We neither of us liked Fulk. I agree we might have uttered a few harsh words about him. Perhaps Josh and I did fall out over something that was said. I’ve told you, I don’t remember. But that doesn’t mean I went out and murdered Fulk. I didn’t see him that evening. Our paths never crossed.’
‘Besides,’ Lydia cut in smoothly, although I could sense the suppressed unease informing her words, ‘if you recall, Master Chapman, I, too, have told you that my son had no reason to hate Fulk. He wasn’t interested in marrying Alcina.’
Both husband and son gave her a brief, involuntary glance of surprise before hastily schooling their features to express agreement. The young man who, according to his mother, could have his pick of any girl in London, went so far as to puff out his chest like a barnyard cockerel, but I just felt sorry for him. If the Burgundian had been one half as handsome as reputation painted him, Brandon would have stood little chance in competition.
It was apparent to me that there was nothing more to be got out of either man – at least, not for the present. I turned once more to Mistress Jolliffe.
‘Have you known Mistress St Clair for long?’
‘I’ve known her ever since she came here as Edmund Broderer’s bride some nineteen years ago. I remember it clearly because it was the month King Edward was crowned.’ Lydia’s tone became confidential. ‘It’s my opinion that Edmund only married her because his widowed mother died very suddenly, and he wasn’t the sort of man who could fend for himself. He was thirty-one by then and in a fair way of business with that workshop of his in Needlers Lane. A good catch for any woman. He was a skilled embroiderer.’ Lydia swivelled round in her chair and indicated the wall hangings. ‘He had those made for me and did one panel with his own hands.’ She seemed to consider this a signal honour. ‘Roses and lilies, as you see, the lily being the flower of virginity and purity, the personal emblem of the Madonna.’
It was also an ancient fertility symbol, but I didn’t mention that. Instead I said, ‘You must recall Fulk Quantrell when he was a little boy. He lived next door to you for six years. Did he and Master Brandon ever play together?’
Lydia shrugged and glanced at her son. ‘I suppose you might have played together. I can’t remember. It’s a long time ago.’
‘He broke my wooden horse,’ Brandon reminded her sulkily. ‘You wouldn’t let me play with him again after that.’
‘So he did. I’d quite forgotten. I went round and complained to his mother, but Veronica was a haughty, stuck-up piece, thinking herself better than anyone else because she’d been in the employ of the King’s sister (although, at that time, some people might have considered poor old Henry as still the rightful king). Shortly after, she left and went off to Burgundy in Margaret’s train. That wasn’t very long after Edmund was drowned. It was weeks, you know, before they found his body, stripped completely naked. The river scavengers had discovered him first and taken all his clothes and personal belongings. Every last thing. Judith told me she was only able to identify him by various moles and the peculiar shape of his feet.’
‘You also knew Mistress St Clair’s second husband, then, Justin Threadgold?’
This was the sort of questioning that Lydia could understand and even appreciate. A good gossip about her neighbours was fun. She relaxed in her chair, while her son and husband joined Bertram in looking bored and resigned.
‘Roland and I knew both him and his first wife, a poor little dab of a woman. Mind you, Justin was a bully and far too free with his fists; but timidity only encourages that sort of man. If he’d been
my
husband, he’d have had something more to contend with than the grovelling and terrified acceptance he was used to. His brother couldn’t, or wouldn’t, stand up to him, either – not even to protect his sister-in-law and niece.’
‘Why do you suppose Mistress St Clair married him, then?’ I interrupted. ‘She was a closer neighbour even than you. She must have known what he was like.’
Lydia Jolliffe spread her hands, the left still holding her tambour frame. ‘I’ve asked myself that question many times, Master Chapman, and never arrived at a satisfactory answer. Loneliness perhaps? Because he was there and available? Probably both of those things. In my experience propinquity and availability often have more to do with marriage than love and romantic passion. At least,’ she added hastily, ‘in older people. Second marriages. Of course, I was very young when I married my dear husband. Ours was a love match.’
Roland Jolliffe gazed fondly down at his wife and once more reached for her hand, pressing it affectionately. Lydia smiled up at him in a way that fairly turned my stomach. I was glad to note that Brandon was also looking queasy.
I decided it was time for Bertram and me to take our leave. I had discovered everything I was likely to find out here. The two elder Jolliffes would cover for one another whilst swearing that Brandon had no motive for killing Fulk Quantrell. Moreover, it was time that I – and, of course, my assistant – took stock of the information we had already gathered. I feared it would prove to be of no great use, but there might be among the dross a small nugget of gold that I had so far overlooked.
I rose from the stool, disentangling my long legs from one another, and again came under scrutiny from Lydia Jolliffe.
‘If you need to call again, Master Chapman,’ she said suavely, also rising and smoothing the green silk gown over her ample hips, ‘please feel free. Something might occur to me that I’ve forgotten.’
I thanked her, managing to ignore the hand she extended for me to kiss, and beat a hasty retreat, aided and abetted by a more than willing Bertram. I did hear a phrase that could have been ‘bad-mannered oaf’ as I closed the parlour door behind me, but assured myself that it must have been intended for my companion.
‘Can we go back to the Voyager now?’ that young man pleaded as we once again found ourselves amid all the afternoon bustle of the Strand, now fairly overflowing with the two-way traffic of this busy thoroughfare linking Westminster to London. ‘My legs are aching and I’m sick of the sound of people’s voices.’
I laughed. ‘Does this mean you wouldn’t fancy a full-time position as my right-hand man?’
He shook his head vigorously. ‘I’d rather go back to Yorkshire with the Duke.’
‘I’m put down, indeed,’ I said with a grin, and took him by the elbow. ‘Come on. A beaker of Reynold Makepeace’s best ale will make you feel better and restore your temper.’
We were almost at the Fleet Bridge when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Turning, I found myself looking down at Martin Threadgold’s diminutive housekeeper.
‘Mistress!’ I said. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘If Master Threadgold wants us to return, I’m off to Baynard’s Castle,’ Bertram muttered mutinously.
Martin Threadgold
did
want us to return, but not, it appeared, until later.
‘Master says will you come back this evening,’ the woman said breathlessly. She must have been running to catch us up. ‘After supper, he says. He has something he wants to tell you.’
‘Can’t he tell me now, while I’m here?’
‘After supper is what he said and is what he meant. He’s having a lie-down now. Sleeps in the afternoon, he does.’ The woman turned away. ‘He’ll expect you after supper.’ And, having delivered her message, she was gone, pushing between the crowds and quickly vanishing from sight. I swore softly. If the old fool had something to impart, why couldn’t he tell me at once? I was wary of postponements. They could be dangerous.
Bertram grabbed my arm, afraid I might be tempted to return to the Threadgold house. ‘Come along!’
Reluctantly I obeyed, but as I did so, I glanced back over my shoulder. Lydia Jolliffe was standing at the open side window of her parlour, staring in our direction, towards the Fleet Bridge.
A
s I turned to follow Bertram, I collided heavily with a man coming in the opposite direction: William Morgan. His body was unexpectedly solid and well muscled, although why I should find this fact surprising I had no idea. I knew that the Welshman was only my own age in spite of the fact that, for some reason best known to himself, he took pleasure in acting older than he really was.
‘Look where you’re going, chapman,’ he growled, surly as ever.
I apologized, wondering where he’d been. But it was no use enquiring – he would take a perverse delight in not telling me, and it was, in truth, none of my business – so I nodded a brief farewell and caught up with Bertram as he entered Fleet Street from the Strand.
‘What do you think Master Makepeace will give us for supper?’ he asked longingly, striding out in the direction of the bridge.
‘Not so fast,’ I said as we negotiated the slight dog-leg bend by the Church of St Dunstan-in-the-West. ‘While we’re here, I might as well question a few of the beggars. Someone could have seen something the night of Fulk’s murder. Oh, admittedly it’s probably a forlorn hope,’ I added, forestalling Bertram’s protest, ‘but I’ll have to do it sooner or later if I’m to satisfy myself and our royal patrons that I’ve left no stone unturned to find Fulk’s murderer.’