I explained the nature of my enquiry and asked about Fulk’s visit to St Dunstan’s on the night that he had been killed; and I had the satisfaction of seeing the priest grow more mellow towards me. He was not, as he had feared, being called upon to account for any misdeed or misconduct, but rather to assist royalty in their quest for a murderer.
‘The young man who was killed,’ I finished, ‘came here on the night of his death, May Day …’
‘To celebrate the Feast of Saint Sigismund of Burgundy.’ The priest nodded. ‘Yes, I recollect his visit well. Mind you, I don’t say I should have done, otherwise. Saint Sigismund is not, as a general rule, much remembered in this country. A violent man who had his own son strangled. He repented of it afterwards, of course – they always do when it’s too late – and founded the Monastery of St Maurice at Agaunum, where, if memory serves me aright, the praises of God were sung day and night.’ The priest added grudgingly, ‘He was very good to the poor. But in spite of that, I’ve never thought Sigismund a suitable candidate for sainthood.’ His face brightened a little. ‘He got his comeuppance in the end, you know. He was defeated in battle by the three sons of Clovis and executed at Orleans. His body was thrown down a well.’
‘Thank you, Father,’ I said gravely, and frowned at Bertram, who had begun to fidget. ‘It’s always good to know these things. But about the young man who came here that night—’
‘Yes, yes, I’m coming to that. He was an admirer of Saint Sigismund and wanted me to offer up special prayers for the repose of the saint’s soul on his festival day.’
‘And did you?’
‘Naturally. I’m a priest.’
I didn’t ask if money had changed hands. It undoubtedly had, but there was no point in antagonizing my informant.
‘What was your impression of the young man?’ I asked. ‘I mean, was he drunk? Frightened? Nervous?’ I moved an inch or two around the table in an effort to avoid the sunbeam.
The priest pursed his mouth and contemplated the smoke-blackened ceiling. ‘Now, it’s odd that you should ask me that, because I did think him jumpy. A couple of times, he glanced over his shoulder as though to reassure himself that he hadn’t been followed. But when I thought about it later, I decided I might have imagined his nervousness.’
‘You know that he was the young man found dead in Fleet Sreet the following day?’
‘Of course I know! The body was carried into the church while we awaited the arrival of the Sheriff’s men. The back of his head may have been caved in, but his face was untouched.’ The priest frowned and went on, ‘I’ve wondered since if he might have come that evening to pray for Saint Sigismund’s protection.’
‘From whom? You didn’t see anyone? No one came into the church while he was there?’
The priest thought long and hard for a moment, then shook his head.
‘The church was empty that evening apart from you and Fulk Quantrell?’ I pressed him.
‘Was that his name? I don’t believe I ever knew it. No, the church wasn’t
completely
empty. A man had come in some half-hour beforehand and remained on his knees quietly praying throughout all the time this … this Fulk? – is that what you called him? – all the time this Fulk and I were talking.’
Bertram and I looked at one another.
‘Did this man show any interest in Master Quantrell?’ I asked eagerly.
‘None whatsoever, nor the young man in him. In fact, now I come to consider the matter carefully, Master Quantrell, as you call him, might not even have noticed the stranger, who was kneeling in the shadow of the confessional, deeply absorbed in his own prayers.’
‘Could this man have overheard what you and Fulk were talking about?’
‘I should think it very unlikely. Our voices were low and, as you can see, the confessional is halfway along the nave. We were standing near the altar.’
‘When Master Quantrell left the church, did this stranger follow him out, do you remember?’
The priest frowned, then shook his head. ‘No, but nor do I recall seeing him still … Wait a minute! Something comes back to me! Another member of my flock entered the church to make a confession just as the young man left, and there was no one kneeling near the confessional then. The stranger must have got up and gone before this unfortunate Fulk Quantrell finished his prayers.’
‘And you didn’t think to mention any of this to the Sheriff’s men when they came making their enquiries?’
The priest looked a little sheepish, but retorted sharply, ‘I did not. I believe God will uncover the truth of any crime if He wishes it known without any help from me.’
‘You mean, Father, that you believe in not getting involved in what doesn’t directly concern you. Probably a wise philosophy in the troubled times of these past thirty years.’
He shot me a suspicious look from beneath his tufty eyebrows, but ‘Quite so,’ was his only answer.
The little parlour had grown even stuffier than when we entered it some minutes earlier. The weight of the cloak I was carrying was making my wrist ache and I shifted it to my other arm.
‘We’ll take our leave of you then, and thank you for all your help. His Grace shall hear of it.’
The priest, looking gratified if a little sceptical, nodded towards the cloak. ‘What are you doing with that? It’s Master Threadgold’s.’
I paused abruptly in the act of opening the door. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I asked what you’re doing with Master Threadgold’s cloak?’
‘
Martin
Threadgold?’
‘Who else? His brother’s been dead these many years.’
‘You recognize it?’
‘Of course I recognize it. Martin’s been wearing it, summer and winter, these decades past.’ The priest leaned across and fingered the material. ‘Camlet. Extremely hard-wearing.’
‘But not that uncommon. How can you be sure that this is his?’
The priest poked the material with a stubby forefinger. ‘There’s a dark stain here, on the breast, just below the hood, and a rent just below that again. Then you’ll notice that the drawstring at the neck is made of plaited yellow silk. Or it was yellow when the cloak was new, a long time ago.’ He scraped at the cord with a blunt thumbnail, removing a coating of dirt. ‘There you are! Yellow, as I told you. I suppose Martin’s mislaid this somewhere and you’re taking it back to him.’
‘I had no idea it was his.’ I protested. ‘I thought it belonged to quite a different person … Father, has no one told you that Master Threadgold is dead?’
‘Dead? When? How?’
‘Yesterday, during his afternoon sleep.’
‘Dear me! Dear me, no! No one has informed me.’ I couldn’t say that the priest seemed unduly upset by the news. ‘Ah well! It comes to us all in the end. He has a niece, as you may know, but she’s rather young. However, I feel sure Godfrey and Judith St Clair will do all that needs to be done on her behalf. Dead, you say? Well, well! Poor Martin!’ He patted my arm. ‘You’ll find that cloak very useful in the winter, my boy.’ And I realized that, in a change of opinion, he thought I’d been given the garment. Which, in a way, I suppose I had.
I didn’t correct his assumption and thanked him for his time and help.
‘Well, I hope what I’ve told you may prove to be of use. You … You’ll be mentioning me to His Grace of Gloucester, I think you said? Ah, splendid!’ He followed Bertram and me out of the priest house and disappeared once more into the church, still muttering to himself, ‘Martin Threadgold. Dead. Dear me! Dear me!’
Bertram and I stood aside in order to allow a flock of sheep, on their way to market, to pass us by. The shepherd raised his crook in salutation. ‘Thenk ’ee, masters.’
‘Come on!’ my companion urged, tugging at my sleeve. ‘I want to hear what William Morgan has to say when you confront him with the cloak.’
I laid a restraining hand on his arm. ‘No, that’s no good, now, lad. I’ll have to change my plans.’
‘Why?’ Bertram was indignant.
I sighed. ‘Because he’ll simply deny that it’s his cloak. And it isn’t. Which other people will confirm. It did cross my mind earlier to wonder why he was so willing to abandon it. Can’t you see, it’s no longer proof that he was my attacker?’
‘You’re certain it was him, though?’ I nodded, and Bertram chewed his bottom lip sulkily, a disappointed man. ‘What now, then?’ he asked.
I hitched the cloak higher up my arm, took a firm grip on my cudgel and said, ‘I must speak to Mistress Pettigrew.’
It was still early enough for there to be no obvious signs of life in any of the three houses at the Fleet Street end of the Strand, but I felt sure that the servants must be up and about. All the windows of Martin Threadgold’s dwelling were decently closed and shuttered, as became a house of mourning, but so far no wreath of yew had been nailed to the door to indicate that an unburied body lay within.
I knocked as loudly as I dared two or three times, and was just praying that Mistress Pettigrew was not afflicted with deafness when the door opened a crack and the housekeeper’s tremulous voice enquired, ‘Who’s there?’
‘It’s Roger Chapman,’ I said. ‘I must speak to you, mistress. May I come in?’
She inched the door open another fraction and peered out anxiously.
‘My master’s dead. But you know that. You were here yesterday with Master and Mistress St Clair. I can’t let you in.’
‘You must. I tell you I have to talk to you.’ As a precaution against her closing the door, I put my foot between it and the jamb and held out the cloak with the stain and the tear uppermost. ‘Do you recognize this? Does it – did it – belong to your master?’
I heard her give a little gasp and she put a hand through the crack as though she would snatch the garment from me.
‘I’ve been searching for that,’ she said. ‘Where did you find it?’
I took a hurried step backwards before she could grab it. ‘Admit me and Master Serifaber, and I’ll tell you.’
There was a lapse of several seconds before the door creaked protestingly on its hinges as it opened a little wider. Bertram and I squeezed through the gap.
In spite of the warmth of the morning, the house felt icily cold as if, indeed, the Angel of Death had enfolded it in his wings. I was startled; I was not generally given to such flights of fancy, and I gave myself a mental shake. I was growing morbid with my advancing years, and that would never do.
Once again, Mistress Pettigrew made as though to snatch the cloak from me, but I prevented her. ‘Where did you find it?’ she whispered.
‘More to the point,’ I retorted, ‘where did you last see it?’
She shivered. ‘The master took it upstairs with him, yesterday, to put across his knees while he slept. But when I found him, it wasn’t there. I didn’t think about it at the time, I was too upset; but later, last night, I got to wondering where it had gone.’
‘Something else that had vanished, like the flask and the beaker,’ I suggested.
The housekeeper still evinced no overt interest in the two latter items, but I saw her eyes flicker. She repeated her question about the cloak. ‘Where did you find it?’
‘I can’t tell you that just at the moment.’ I clasped one of her small, cold hands in mine and said earnestly, ‘It’s very important that you say nothing to anyone else about this at present. Can you keep a secret?’
She stared up at me, her rheumy eyes suddenly wide with suspicion. ‘Does the master’s death have anything to do with the murder of that nephew of Mistress St Clair?’
‘Why do you ask me that?’
‘Because …’ She hesitated, considering her words, then added in a rush, ‘Because I wondered if the master’s death was natural. There was something about his face, some discolouration, that didn’t seem normal to me.’
‘You mean, you think Master Threadgold was murdered, like Fulk Quantrell?’ Bertram demanded, nudging me excitedly in the ribs.
‘I … I don’t know.’ The housekeeper looked frightened, fearful that she was letting her tongue run away with her. ‘It’s just that … well, there was something else that occurred to me … during the night.’
‘What was that?’ I asked gently. She was plainly wishing she hadn’t spoken, but, unlike me, felt impelled to voice her suspicions.
‘Go on,’ I urged. ‘You can rely on Master Serifaber’s and my discretion.’ I looked sternly at Bertram as I spoke, and after a moment he gave a reluctant nod.
Mistress Pettigrew bit on her thumbnail with small, pointed teeth, rather like a rat’s, but after a while she forced herself to continue.
‘When I brought Mistress Alcina the beaker for the wine, she asked me if I’d like to have a cup before she took it upstairs to her uncle. She said the flask was overfull.’
‘And did you?’ I prompted.
She nodded. ‘I thought … I thought it tasted a little odd. And then, very soon afterwards, I fell asleep. And I seem to have slept extremely soundly for quite a long time.’
‘A
re you saying you think the wine was drugged?’ Bertram demanded eagerly, his brown eyes sparkling with the excitement of the chase.
The housekeeper eyed him with growing unease, obviously regretting her moment of indiscretion and wishing she hadn’t confided in us. But of course, it was what she had meant, or at any rate meant to imply. She said nothing and looked anxiously at me.
‘Hold hard a minute, Bertram,’ I began, but my protest was ignored. The lad was pursuing his own train of thought.
‘And if Master Threadgold had been drugged, it would have made it easy for someone to smother him. Roger!’ He turned triumphantly to me. ‘Didn’t you mention a cushion stuffed behind the dead man’s head? You know – when you were telling me about your viewing of the body?’
I cursed my too-ready tongue, which was prone to describe what I saw in detail. I was beginning to realize that Bertram was a sharp lad with a retentive memory and not the casual young layabout I had originally thought him.
‘There was a cushion,’ I admitted cautiously.
‘There you are, then! So all we have to decide is who murdered Master Threadgold. It must have been his niece, Alcina. Don’t you see?’ He was well away by now. ‘She must have murdered Fulk when she realized he wasn’t going to marry her, and somehow her uncle found out the truth. So she had to get rid of him, as well. She brought him the drugged wine, waited until he fell asleep, then suffocated him with the cushion. The case is solved!’