to foot in a manner which, in someone else, could have been considered insulting, but which, in her, seemed merely curious. ‘It appears that His Grace of Gloucester sets great store by your ability to solve mysteries. An odd occupation for a pedlar.’
‘A gift from God, madam.’
At my slightly caustic tone, her gaze sharpened and she smiled grimly.
‘Maybe … Well, no one will be happier than myself to see the villain of this particular crime laid by the heels.’ I thought for a moment she was on the verge of tears, but she straightened her back and gestured impatiently, as though ashamed to display any such weakness. ‘So? What do you want from my husband and me?’
‘Just to talk to you both; to ask you about Master Quantrell and to learn anything you can tell me about the night he was murdered. I’d also like to question Mistress Threadgold and your son, sir, if they’ve no objection.’ I turned towards the silent figure at the other end of the table.
Godfrey St Clair did lift his eyes at that and sent me a long, penetrating stare. Then he nodded. ‘Jocelyn has nothing to hide. I don’t see why he should object.’ He had a surprisingly strong, deep voice for someone who appeared so frail.
‘When do you wish to begin this … this interrogation?’ his wife asked with, I thought, a touch of resentment.
But before I could reply, the parlour door opened and a young girl entered the room. I judged her to be some eighteen or nineteen years of age, pretty in a plumpish way with large brown eyes and a mass of very dark hair which, at present, she wore loose about her shoulders. She had on a gown of soft grey wool with a low-cut neck and turned-back sleeves, both of which revealed her linen undershift.
‘Who’s this?’ she asked of no one in particular, seating herself at the table.
Judith St Clair said, ‘This is the chapman I told you of last night.’ And to me, ‘My stepdaughter, Alcina Threadgold.’
I had already guessed the young woman’s identity, and gave her a polite bow. She returned the compliment by looking me over much as her stepmother had done, but with a greater degree of appreciation. Bertram received the same treatment, which made him blush uncomfortably and shuffle his feet. Alcina threw back her head and laughed.
‘Be quiet!’ Judith ordered. ‘This is a house of mourning. Or had you forgotten?’
‘I’m less likely to forget than any of you,’ Alcina retorted. ‘Fulk and I were betrothed to be married.’
‘And that’s a lie,’ said a fourth voice.
A young man, a few years older than Alcina and not that much younger than myself, had joined the others at the breakfast table. This, surely, must be Jocelyn St Clair, although any likeness to his father was not marked. He had the same hawkish nose, it was true, but his eyes were blue rather than Godfrey’s indeterminate grey, and his hair, worn fashionably cut and curled about his ears, was a lighter brown than I imagined the older man’s had been in his youth.
Alcina was on her feet. ‘What do you mean, a lie?’ she demanded furiously. ‘Fulk and I were going to be married. It was common knowledge!’
‘He had no intention of marrying you,’ Jocelyn threw back at her, equally furious. ‘Lionel Broderer told me so. He told me all about that scene in the workshop the evening Fulk died. And Mistress Broderer confirmed it.’
‘Liars, both of them!’ Alcina was near to tears.
‘No! There were other people present who’ll confirm it. Stop deluding yourself, Cina! Face up to the facts! There are some who really love you.’ Jocelyn hesitated, then finished lamely, ‘Brandon Jolliffe, for one. And … And Lionel wouldn’t say no if you looked in his direction.’
‘That will do, both of you.’ Judith rose from her place, magisterial in her anger. ‘There are strangers in our midst and I will not tolerate this kind of behaviour in their presence. If you have differences, settle them in private.’ She
‘A gift from God, madam.’
At my slightly caustic tone, her gaze sharpened and she smiled grimly.
‘Maybe … Well, no one will be happier than myself to see the villain of this particular crime laid by the heels.’ I thought for a moment she was on the verge of tears, but she straightened her back and gestured impatiently, as though ashamed to display any such weakness. ‘So? What do you want from my husband and me?’
‘Just to talk to you both; to ask you about Master Quantrell and to learn anything you can tell me about the night he was murdered. I’d also like to question Mistress Threadgold and your son, sir, if they’ve no objection.’ I turned towards the silent figure at the other end of the table.
Godfrey St Clair did lift his eyes at that and sent me a long, penetrating stare. Then he nodded. ‘Jocelyn has nothing to hide. I don’t see why he should object.’ He had a surprisingly strong, deep voice for someone who appeared so frail.
‘When do you wish to begin this … this interrogation?’ his wife asked with, I thought, a touch of resentment.
But before I could reply, the parlour door opened and a young girl entered the room. I judged her to be some eighteen or nineteen years of age, pretty in a plumpish way with large brown eyes and a mass of very dark hair which, at present, she wore loose about her shoulders. She had on a gown of soft grey wool with a low-cut neck and turned-back sleeves, both of which revealed her linen undershift.
‘Who’s this?’ she asked of no one in particular, seating herself at the table.
Judith St Clair said, ‘This is the chapman I told you of last night.’ And to me, ‘My stepdaughter, Alcina Threadgold.’
I had already guessed the young woman’s identity, and gave her a polite bow. She returned the compliment by looking me over much as her stepmother had done, but with a greater degree of appreciation. Bertram received the same treatment, which made him blush uncomfortably and shuffle his feet. Alcina threw back her head and laughed.
‘Be quiet!’ Judith ordered. ‘This is a house of mourning. Or had you forgotten?’
‘I’m less likely to forget than any of you,’ Alcina retorted. ‘Fulk and I were betrothed to be married.’
‘And that’s a lie,’ said a fourth voice.
A young man, a few years older than Alcina and not that much younger than myself, had joined the others at the breakfast table. This, surely, must be Jocelyn St Clair, although any likeness to his father was not marked. He had the same hawkish nose, it was true, but his eyes were blue rather than Godfrey’s indeterminate grey, and his hair, worn fashionably cut and curled about his ears, was a lighter brown than I imagined the older man’s had been in his youth.
Alcina was on her feet. ‘What do you mean, a lie?’ she demanded furiously. ‘Fulk and I were going to be married. It was common knowledge!’
‘He had no intention of marrying you,’ Jocelyn threw back at her, equally furious. ‘Lionel Broderer told me so. He told me all about that scene in the workshop the evening Fulk died. And Mistress Broderer confirmed it.’
‘Liars, both of them!’ Alcina was near to tears.
‘No! There were other people present who’ll confirm it. Stop deluding yourself, Cina! Face up to the facts! There are some who really love you.’ Jocelyn hesitated, then finished lamely, ‘Brandon Jolliffe, for one. And … And Lionel wouldn’t say no if you looked in his direction.’
‘That will do, both of you.’ Judith rose from her place, magisterial in her anger. ‘There are strangers in our midst and I will not tolerate this kind of behaviour in their presence. If you have differences, settle them in private.’ She
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