The first rule, of course, was to keep a steady eye and hand, two things in this hell-hole that were well nigh impossible. I couldn’t even see the lock.
‘Calm down, Master Chapman,’ Bertram said with a chuckle. I could have sworn he was smirking. ‘Give me the knife. The locks to these things are always in the middle of the door and have a double mechanism that it’s almost impossible to undo without the key. Unless, of course, you have the knack.’
‘And you do?’
‘I was with my father when he installed one in a house at Holborn some years ago. Now, stand back and give me room.’
He ran his fingers lightly over the surface of the wooden panel, then nodded. ‘Yes, here it is, just where I said it would be; plumb in the centre.’ He took my knife, fiddled for a moment, twisted the blade first this way, then that, then back again, and finally gave a triumphant grunt as the door swung outwards. Seconds later, we were both safely back in Martin Threadgold’s bedchamber.
I wiped the sweat from my face and tried to avoid looking at my companion’s smug expression.
‘What are these so-called “fly traps” used for?’ I asked in a shaken voice.
‘Well, the one whose lock and mechanism
we
installed at Holborn – we didn’t build the trap itself, you understand. My father’s a serifaber, not a builder – was for use as a safe. The owner of the house intended it as a store for his coin and plate.’
‘But thieves can get in.’
‘But they can’t get out again, can they? Not without the key. Not unless they know the secret of the lock, like me. So if someone does try to rob you, you’ve caught the thief. That’s why they’re called “fly traps”.’
‘But supposing someone falls in accidentally, as I did?’
Bertram shrugged. ‘You were just unlucky. You must have touched the hidden spring. It’s not that easy to do unless you’re trying to find the entrance.’
I glanced involuntarily at the dead man on the bed. Martin Threadgold had told me yesterday that these three dwellings had once been a part of the Savoy Palace: whorehouses, he had thought, standing at a distance from the principal building. But perhaps they had also been used as treasure stores. I wondered if the two neighbouring dwellings had ‘fly traps’ as well.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ I urged. I was more upset by my recent ordeal than I cared to admit.
We made our way back through the shuttered gloom of the house to the great hall, only to discover Mistress Pettigrew in the act of opening the street door to Judith and Godfrey St Clair, who were closely followed not just by Alcina, but also by Paulina Graygoss and Jocelyn. Instinctively, realizing that our presence would be unwelcome, both Bertram and I shrank back into the shadows, but I held the door between the passageway and the hall ajar.
‘William has gone for Father Arnold at St Dunstan’s. They’ll be here directly.’ Judith’s voice carried clearly across the intervening space. ‘You can bring us some wine, Felice, here, in the hall, while we’re waiting.’
The housekeeper muttered something under her breath, but obedience was natural to her, and she turned and shuffled across the hall. I gripped Bertram’s arm, pulling him in the direction of a flight of steps to our right, which I guessed led down into the kitchens – a guess which proved correct. As in the St Clair house, there was also a stone-flagged passage with a door at one end that led into the garden. I ushered Bertram through and we found ourselves in the overgrown wilderness we had seen from the upstairs window.
In its ruined state the garden wall was easy enough to climb, and in a matter of minutes we had both dropped to our knees in the alleyway between Martin Threadgold’s property and the St Clairs’. Brushing my hose clean of grit and dirt, I eyed the opposite wall meditatively.
‘Everyone’s out,’ I said. ‘Now’s our chance to have another look around.’
Bertram shook his head decisively. ‘Not in this livery, Chapman. I daren’t. I can’t afford to be caught trespassing in someone’s house. Especially not someone like Mistress St Clair, who has influence with Duchess Margaret. I’ll go back to the Voyager and wait for you there.’
And no doubt indulge in a beaker or two of Reynold Makepeace’s best ale, I thought grimly, which you’ll instruct him to add to my reckoning. Meanly, I nipped his little scheme in the bud.
‘You’ll stay outside,’ I told him, ‘and if anyone shows any sign of returning, you’ll waylay them.’
Bertram looked sceptical, as well he might. He didn’t even bother to enquire how he was to perform this feat. He knew my real motive for keeping him away from the Voyager as well as I did.
‘Try not to be too long,’ he said caustically. ‘Here, you’d better give me that cloak. You must be tired of dragging it around with you, and it might prove a hindrance.’
Gratefully I surrendered the article in question, scaled the St Clairs’ garden wall, not quite with the ease with which I had climbed its neighbour, and landed this time more heavily and with even less grace. For a moment, I was afraid I had wrenched one of my ankles, but after a few hesitant steps, all seemed to be well.
I had counted on the fact that the garden door would be unlocked, and I was not disappointed. It opened easily into the kitchen passage, and halfway along were the arch and the ‘secret’ stair. Luck was certainly with me this morning, for when I reached the top of the steps leading to Mistress St Clair’s bedchamber, that door, too was unbolted.
I eased myself inside, where my feet gratefully encountered the softness of the embroidered carpet. Today, the two chests standing against the opposite wall, with their carvings of grapes and vine leaves, were properly closed. No belts or sleeves or scarves spilled over the sides. The bed under its dazzling counterpane was neatly made, the Daphnis and Chloe curtains pulled back and carefully wound around the bedposts beneath the canopy. A fresh candle – wax, of course, not tallow – had already been inserted into the candlestick ready for the coming night. This was a household where efficiency was highly prized.
I noticed also, which I had not done on my previous visit, that the walls were hung with the same beautifully crafted embroidered tapestries that I had seen both at the Needlers Lane workshop and in Lydia Jolliffe’s parlour. They covered every inch of the grey stone walls except … except for one wooden panel near the bed head. My heart lurched excitedly. Was it possible that this house also boasted a ‘fly trap’? And was this it?
These three houses were very similar in many respects, both outside and in. And why shouldn’t they be? If they had indeed been a part of the Savoy Palace and built for the selfsame purpose, then it was more than likely that they contained many identical features. I already knew that this one and the late Martin Threadgold’s had a ‘secret’ stair. Why not, then, a ‘fly trap’? But this time I would not be caught. Forewarned was forearmed.
I walked round the bed and surveyed the wooden panel. Bertram had spoken of a hidden spring which I had accidentally triggered when I fell against it; so, now, I extended my arms to their full length and, with my hands, cautiously began pressing the surface.
Nothing happened for what seemed like an age, but was probably no more than ten or twelve seconds. Then I spotted a mark right in the centre of the wooden panel: a tiny circle with a thread-like circumference of silver, almost invisible until the light struck it at just the right angle. Hastily, I took off one of my boots and pressed the circle with the tip of my index finger. Immediately, the panel swung inwards, staying open just long enough, I judged, to allow someone to step inside. Then it began to close again. But this time it remained ajar, unable to move any further, jammed against the tough leather of my boot.
T
his left very little room for a man of my height and girth to get through, so I tried pushing the door further open, but it refused to budge. I then pressed the unlocking device again, but nothing happened. Obviously, this would only work if the door were closed. Exasperated and uneasily conscious that I was wasting time – time in which Mistress St Clair might return to the house – I removed my boot from the aperture, allowed the panel to swing shut, then took off both boots and, when I had once more unlocked the door, shoved them, side by side, into the vacant space. Now there was enough leeway for me to enter with ease.
This ‘fly trap’ was roughly the same size as the one in Martin Threadgold’s bedchamber, being, I judged, no more than two to two and a half feet square – about as big as a large cupboard. The main difference was that the walls were panelled and a shelf, some five or six inches wide, ran along the back wall. A carved wooden box stood at one end of it and proved to be unlocked when I lifted the lid, but the contents were disappointing. Two gold chains, a necklet and matching bracelet of quite small emeralds set in silver – and, as even I could see, poorly set, at that – a gold-and-agate thumb ring, half a dozen pearl buttons and a jade cross on a silken string. Judith St Clair might be a wealthy woman, but one thing was certain: she didn’t waste her money on the adornment of her person.
Beneath the shelf, on the floor, was a much larger box on which I had stubbed my stockinged toes as I stepped over my boots into the chamber. This, too, was unlocked – and indeed why shouldn’t it have been, stored as it was in the ‘fly trap’? – and held only a man’s rolled hose, tunics, cloaks and bedgowns, all laid up in lavender in the vain hope of discouraging the moths. (Several overweight and overfed little monsters flew at me angrily as I raised the lid.) These, I presumed, were the clothes of either the late Edmund Broderer or Justin Threadgold or perhaps both; the sad remains of Judith’s first two marriages.
There was nothing else except for an oddly shaped key hanging from a hook driven into the front of the shelf. I guessed that this must be the key which opened the ‘fly trap’ from inside, but I was not about to close the door in order to confirm this theory. I preferred to step back outside and pick up my boots, whereupon the panel completed its interrupted journey and closed with a quiet, but menacing thud.
I gave a hasty glance around the rest of the room, but nothing appeared to have been added or removed since my last visit; so, uneasily aware that time was passing, I slipped on my boots, opened the door once more and began to descend the ‘secret stair’. I was about halfway down when someone below called, ‘Who’s there?’
I jumped and almost lost my footing, but my panic was momentary. I had recognized the voice as that of Betsy, the bigger of the two kitchen maids. Like a fool, I had forgotten the presence of the girls in the house, but I consoled myself with the thought that at least I would be able to allay their suspicions more easily than those of Paulina Graygoss or William Morgan. I took the remaining steps in a single leap (trying to show off and giving my spine a nasty jar in the process) and treated Betsy to my most charming smile.
It didn’t work. ‘What were you doing in the mistress’s bedchamber?’ she asked suspiciously. ‘Does Mistress St Clair know that you’re poking about among her things?’
‘Er – no. And I’m hoping you won’t tell her.’ I tried again with the smile and this time was slightly more successful.
‘Are you still looking for clues about Master Fulk’s murder?’
‘Yes.’ Nothing but the truth could explain my presence in Judith St Clair’s chamber.
‘You don’t suspect the mistress, do you?’
As questions went, that was a difficult one. I gave her my stock answer. ‘I suspect everyone.’
‘Even me and Nell?’
‘Well …’
‘Oh, we wouldn’t mind if you did. It might be quite exciting.’
I had never considered that being a suspect in a murder enquiry was anything but nerve-wracking and something to be avoided at all costs. I laughed.
‘I must go,’ I said. ‘I came in over the garden wall and through the back door, but do you think you could let me out at the front? – provided the coast is clear, that is.’
‘I’ll look out first and make certain,’ she offered. (The smile must have worked even better than I’d hoped.)
Nell suddenly appeared from the kitchen and Betsy briefly explained my presence to her. With the morals of her kind, Nell seemed to find nothing reprehensible about my rummaging among Mistress St Clair’s belongings, and I guessed that she had often done it herself when Judith was absent. It was one of the ways servants took revenge on their masters and mistresses for their long hours, poor wages and being constantly at everyone’s beck and call.
Betsy led our little procession up the main staircase, towards the great hall. I followed. Nell brought up the rear.
‘Do you really find out what’s happened to people who’ve disappeared or got themselves killed?’ the latter asked.
‘Sometimes.’ I decided I was being far too modest, so added firmly, ‘More often than not.’
We had traversed another corridor and ascended a second, much shorter flight of stairs before she spoke again. As we at last entered the great hall and Betsy padded over to the street door, Nell said, almost offhandedly, ‘P’raps you could find out what happened to my young brother then, when you’ve discovered who killed Master Quantrell.’
‘Your brother?’
‘Yes. He was called Roger, too. Used to work here, helping William Morgan in the garden; but about two years since, he just up and left. Vanished. Haven’t seen him since.’
Memory stirred. I recalled Gordon St Clair mentioning the brother of one of the kitchen maids and seeming peeved that the lad no longer reported for work.
‘How old was he?’ I asked, and was told that Nell thought he might have been about ten when he disappeared. So he would be twelve or thereabouts now.
‘Maybe he just ran away,’ I suggested. ‘Boys of that age do. They get all kinds of nonsensical notions into their heads. They think it could be fun to go for a soldier or stow away on a ship. It isn’t, of course. Quite the opposite. But they don’t know that until it’s too late.’
‘I don’t think Roger was that sort,’ Nell demurred. ‘He liked gardening. He liked planting things and digging in the earth.’ She shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘I daresay he’ll turn up again one day, like a bad penny.’