We made our return journey, together with the rest of the crowds, along the Strand towards London. By dint of much shoving and pushing, I managed to keep us both on the right-hand side of the road; and as we approached the Fleet Bridge, I grabbed the wrist of my nearest neighbour.
‘Do you know who owns that house?’ I asked, nodding towards the third of the three smaller houses.
The man shook his head. ‘Sorry, friend! I’m from Clerkenwell.’
But I didn’t give up. I just stood there, getting roundly cursed for my pains, asking anyone willing to humour me the same question. My chief hope was that Judith and Godfrey St Clair would turn up, but there was no sign of them.
Eventually, I got an answer. I had stopped a woman for no better reason than that her black homespun gown and hood suggested that she too might be in mourning. And, as it turned out, I was right.
‘Why do you want to know?’ she demanded. ‘Who are you?’ She caught sight of my companion’s livery and modified her tone somewhat. ‘Are you with him?’
‘I am. He’s a member of the Duke of Gloucester’s household.’
‘I can see that,’ the woman replied tartly. ‘But you still haven’t answered my questions.’
She was small, in height only up to my shoulder, thin as a whippet, with a sallow complexion made even sallower by her sombre clothes. She wasn’t old, but nor was she in the first flush of youth. If pressed, I would have said she was somewhere in her middle thirties. Her eyes were her most arresting feature, being so dark in colour that they seemed to be all pupil.
‘And you haven’t answered mine,’ I retorted, nettled. ‘Do you know who this house belongs to or not? I’ve been told that the middle one is the property of Judith and Godfrey St Clair, and the one to its left is the home of a certain Lydia and Roland Jolliffe.’
The woman regarded me silently for a moment or two, then her thin lips cracked into a quirky half-smile, half-grin.
‘Mmm. You’ve been told a great deal, haven’t you, master? I wonder who by.’ When I failed to volunteer the information, she went on, ‘As it so happens, I’m Paulina Graygoss, housekeeper these many years to Judith St Clair. The house you’re enquiring about belongs to Martin Threadgold, bachelor. His younger brother, who died six years ago, was my mistress’s second husband. Are you satisfied now?’ And she moved towards the door of the middle of the three houses, producing a key from the pouch attached to her girdle and inserting it into the lock. Then she turned and looked over her shoulder.
‘You still haven’t answered my second question,’ she reminded me. ‘Who are you?’
Before I could think of a suitably vague explanation, Bertram huffed importantly, ‘This is Roger Chapman. He’s an agent of my master, the Duke of Gloucester.’
‘Ah!’ The housekeeper subjected me to a long, curious stare, then laughed. ‘Dear me!’ she said enigmatically before going inside and closing the door behind her.
‘What do you suppose she meant by that?’ Bertram demanded anxiously.
I didn’t reply. I was busy thinking what a tight little enclave these three houses represented. Judith and Godfrey St Clair, his son and her stepdaughter in the middle, Alcina’s uncle (and Judith’s erstwhile brother-in-law) on one side and the Jolliffes, described by Mistress Broderer as friends of Godfrey St Clair, on the other. And into this close-knit, almost incestuous community, linked by various threads of kinship, liking and would-be kinship, had come the stranger, the outsider, Fulk Quantrell, good-looking and no doubt exotically foreign after twelve years at the Burgundian court. Small wonder he had created havoc …
‘You haven’t heard a word I’ve been saying,’ Bertram complained as we crossed the Fleet Bridge and were borne along on the tide of people all making for the Lud Gate.
There was some truth in his accusation, but I had suddenly recollected that I had had no dinner. Judging by the sun, it was well past noon and my belly, perfectly quiescent until that moment, immediately started to rumble, reminding me that food was at least two hours overdue.
‘Let’s get back to the Venturer,’ I said, ‘and see if Reynold Makepeace can find us something to eat. We’ll talk all you want to then and I promise I’ll listen.’
After an excellent meal, we spent the rest of the day indoors, avoiding the holiday crowds who still thronged the streets. The noise of their revelry reached us like the muted hushing of the sea on some distant shore, as we stood leaning over the gallery palings, staring into the Voyager’s almost deserted inner courtyard. From time to time Reynold Makepeace brought us each a stoup of ale, having given his potboys a few hours freedom to go and see the sights, like the kind and generous master that he was.
By supper time the inn was busy again as people returned, tired and happy and full of the day’s events, eager to be fed before braving the streets once more in order to sample whatever jollifications were being provided by the various guilds. Bertram would have set out for Baynard’s Castle as soon as we had put paid to a dish of brawn in mustard sauce, a cold pigeon pie, a platter of pear-and-apple fritters and several more beakers of ale. But I insisted on letting my food settle before mixing with members of the nobility, having no wish to fart and belch all evening in competition with my betters. (Heaven only knew what they had been stuffing themselves with all day!) So the church bells were ringing for compline before we left the inn.
At my insistence, we avoided the main thoroughfares, making our way by lesser-known alleyways until we reached Thames Street, where we got held up by a score or so of young people dancing round a maypole – an innocent enough pastime, but one which would obviously lead to far more lecherous activities as the evening progressed. Two of the girls entwined themselves in a highly erotic manner around Bertram and myself, advances which we reluctantly declined for different reasons. On my part, I pretended it was because I was a faithful and loving husband; but deep down, it was really because I was afraid of what noisome disease I might catch if I allowed my natural inclinations to run away with me. Bertram’s reason, I suspected, had far more to do with the fact that he was wearing the Duke of Gloucester’s livery than from fear of acquiring a dose of the pox. (I decided I must have a quiet word with the lad. He was still somewhat wet behind the ears.)
This diversion meant that the May day was closing in before we presented ourselves at the main entrance to Baynard’s Castle. Even so, we were kept kicking our heels for at least half an hour in an ante-room of Duke Richard’s private apartments before he was finally ready to receive us. Receive
me
, to be precise. The Duke dismissed Bertram with a kindly pat on the shoulder. ‘Report to Master Plummer and then get some sleep,’ he advised. ‘It’s been a long day.’
My companion had no choice but to obey, but I could see he wasn’t pleased. Not that the Duke noticed. Indeed, with great dark circles under his eyes, he looked too tired to notice very much at all; and I guessed that a whole day spent being polite to the numerous members of the Queen’s family had placed an intolerable strain on his already overburdened spirit and natural goodwill. Certainly the smile he gave me was an effort that showed in every muscle of his face, and I was seized by the sudden fancy that there was a shadow on his spirit like an indelible stain …
Such nonsensical imaginings only demonstrated that I, too, was fatigued almost to the limit of endurance. I took myself in hand.
The chamber into which I had been shown was one I had not seen before. Logs burned brightly on the hearth, for the warm day had given way to a chilly evening, and there were woven rugs on the stone floor instead of the usual scattering of rushes. Tapestries – Moses in the bulrushes, Joshua before the walls of Jericho – glowed against the walls, cushions covered with jewel-bright silks and satins adorned the beautifully carved armchairs, and a broad-seated settle was drawn up in front of the fire. There was a profusion of scented wax candles, some in a silver chandelier suspended from the middle of the ceiling, others in silver candelabra and in wall sconces.
The Duke, who had changed the day’s formal attire for a long, loose gown of dark-green fur-trimmed velvet and soft slippers, also made of fur, poured wine into two Venetian glass goblets and handed one to me. (I immediately broke into a sweat in case I should drop it. My hands felt as big as shovels.) Then he filled a third, holding it up to the light. Misted by the glass, the liquid gleamed pale and tawny; amber silk shot through with a weft of gold.
‘The Dowager Duchess will join us in just a moment,’ he said.
In fact she joined us almost at once, a small page preceding her into the room in order to hold the door open, and then taking himself off with a skip and a hop that suggested his duties were finished for the day. (No doubt another lackey would materialize when the Duchess wished to leave. Such is the smooth passage through life of our superiors.) She had also shed the heavy cloth-of-gold dress and jewel-encrusted mantle that she had worn for her entry into London and was clad instead in a simple blue silk gown that enhanced the colour of her eyes, and which made her appear far less matronly than her finery had done. Her abundant hair was loosely confined in a silver net. A huge ruby ring on her wedding finger was her only adornment.
It was when she glanced in my direction that I realized she had recently been crying. Her eyes were still moist and there were traces of tears on her cheeks. She beckoned me to approach, and when I did so, she extended a plump white hand which I duly kissed.
She smiled faintly at her brother. ‘How very sensible of you, Dickon, to choose such a handsome young man as your investigator. You remembered my weakness.’
The Duke laughed with genuine amusement. ‘My dearest Margaret, I’ve known Roger Chapman for a number of years now, and have received many services from him, but I can honestly say that his looks have never been a consideration.’ He turned and indicated the settle. ‘Sit down, Roger.’ He himself sat in the other armchair on the opposite side of the fire to his sister. ‘I’ve told Her Highness all about you. She wanted to meet you. Hence this summons.’
The Duchess nodded eagerly. ‘I knew nothing of my dear Fulk’s death until my nephew, Lincoln, informed me of it when he met me yesterday at Gravesend. I’ve hardly had time to take it in. Indeed, it didn’t even seem possible until I spoke to Judith St Clair an hour ago.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘We shed a few tears together. Judith was unaware of your investigation. She hasn’t met you yet.’ The Duchess ended on a note of reproach.
‘Roger himself only arrived in London yesterday,’ Duke Richard told her sternly. He raised an eyebrow. ‘But
do
you have anything to report, my friend?’
‘Very little as yet, Your Grace.’ I tried hard not to sound apologetic. What did they expect? Miracles? ‘However, I have spoken at some length to both Lionel Broderer and his mother.’
The Duke looked impressed, the Duchess merely puzzled.
‘Lionel Broderer? That would be some relation of Judith’s first husband, I take it?’
I bowed assent (which is quite a difficult thing to do when you’re sitting down). ‘Edmund Broderer’s cousin’s son,’ I explained. ‘He has run the embroidery workshop for Mistress St Clair ever since his cousin’s death, and run it very successfully. He has made her a wealthy woman in her own right, irrespective of anything her second husband might have left her.’
‘Oh, you mean Justin Threadgold!’ The Duchess was dismissive. ‘According to Veronica, he was not a wealthy man, and what little he had he probably left to his daughter. Nor, I fancy, is Godfrey St Clair particularly plump in the pocket. What he brought to the marriage, as far as Judith is concerned, is an old family name and noble connections. He is, I believe, distantly related to Lord Hastings on his mother’s side.’
I had to think for a moment who Veronica was, then recollected that she had been Judith’s twin sister and Fulk Quantrell’s mother. She had died recently, shortly after Christmas.
‘So the fortune,’ Duke Richard put in quietly, ‘is Mistress St Clair’s, inherited from the first of her three husbands and enlarged by the industry of this Lionel Broderer. Does that make him the chief suspect for Fulk’s murder, do you think?’
‘He must have had expectations,’ I admitted. ‘But there are others, as well, who had excellent reasons for killing Master Quantrell once his aunt made her intentions concerning him known. And very foolish intentions they were, if Your Highness will pardon my frankness.’
‘Oh, I know! I know! And so I told her.’ The Duchess sipped her wine. ‘Indeed, I think – I’m sure – she knows it herself now, in spite of all her excuses. But I should hesitate to condemn her folly too strongly.’ The blue eyes filled with tears. ‘Fulk was a most charming young man. I remember that as a child he was enchanting. He could wrap all my ladies around his little finger.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘Including me. And as he grew older, he was no less popular. To his aunt, who had not seen him for twelve years, he must have seemed hardly lower than the angels. And bringing, as he did, the news of his mother’s death, comforting his aunt as he must have done …’ The Duchess’s voice became suspended. ‘Need I say more?’ she added after a pause. ‘Judith admitted to me that she was in thrall to Fulk from the very first moment of seeing him.’
I thought this over for a minute or two. The Duke made no comment, but stared into the heart of the fire. A shower of sparks flew upwards like stars in the black night sky.
I addressed the Duchess. ‘Can Your Highness tell me what this Fulk Quantrell was really like?’
‘I’ve just told you! Weren’t you listening?’ Her indignant look appealed to her brother, who ignored it.
‘With respect, Your Highness,’ I said firmly, ‘you’ve told me what this young man was like only on the surface – about his fascination for women. But underneath, did he have a streak of cruelty? Of greed? Did he ingratiate himself with those who could advance his interests and abandon them when they could no longer be of use to him?’
‘No!’ The blue eyes flashed with anger. ‘He was like his mother, gentle and kind. He had a beautiful singing voice and was always near at hand whenever I needed him. How dare you suggest otherwise? You didn’t know him! Who has been poisoning your mind against Fulk? If this is your attitude, I would much rather you had nothing to do with solving his murder. Richard!’