‘Very well,’ I agreed. ‘I promise to say nothing. But I can’t answer for Lionel Broderer and his mother. Or for the other women. They must all have heard what was said.’ I didn’t add that once I had established my interest in young Roger Jessop, he had at once become a more interesting subject for discussion, and, doubtless, was even now a general topic of conversation in the embroidery workshop.
Roger was dismissive. ‘None of ’em knows me well enough t’ care what I’m up to. They got other things to talk about.’
I didn’t like to disillusion him, and, after all, he might be right. It did cross my mind that I ought to use any means in my power to wean him away from his present existence, and that to frighten him into running again might not be such a bad idea. But I didn’t. The smell and the close confines of the room were beginning to make me feel queasy once again, and my one thought was rapidly becoming of escape.
I tossed the lad two more coins, mumbled my farewells and left, stumbling along the fetid passageway and staggering thankfully into the less noisome air of Faitour Lane. I walked back to the Strand and down the alleyway between the St Clairs’ and Martin Threadgold’s houses to the river’s edge, where I paused for a moment, breathing in the cleaner river smells and staring out across the Thames, a streak of silver studded with the russet and blue, crimson and emerald of hundreds of barges.
‘Ah! Master Chapman!’ said a voice. ‘Do you have any news for me yet concerning the death of my nephew?’
I jumped guiltily and turned to find myself looking over the wall, into the stern, questioning features of Judith St Clair.
‘N-No,’ I stammered nervously. ‘At least … er … no, not yet.’
‘Not yet?’ The well-marked eyebrows were raised and the blue eyes surveyed me with a faint hauteur. ‘What precisely does that mean? Do you have any idea as to the murderer’s identity or do you not? If not, why don’t you just admit defeat and return to Bristol, or wherever it is you come from? I thought from the start that it was a mistake allowing a pedlar to usurp the office of sergeant-at-law. But of course, it’s not my place to question the decision of Duchess Margaret or My Lord of Gloucester.’
I felt my hackles begin to rise, but schooled my expression to one of civility — servility, even.
‘I still have some further investigations to pursue, mistress, but I hope to be able to satisfy both you and your royal patrons in the very near future.’
She darted a suspicious glance at me, as though convinced that I was bluffing; but she permitted herself to be mollified a trifle.
‘Come and look round my garden,’ she invited most unexpectedly. ‘You can easily scale the wall.’ She raised herself on tiptoe, so that her shoulders as well as her head came into view, and by dint of resting her arms along the top of the wall, she was able to peer over to the other side. ‘Look! You see those protruding stones? There, there and there. Simple, particularly for someone of your height. Those long legs of yours should make light work of such a climb.’
I could hardly refuse such a pressing invitation, even had I wished to, and within a matter of moments found myself standing beside Judith St Clair on one of the numerous paths that intersected the beds of flowers.
‘A beautiful garden, mistress,’ I said admiringly, staring about me as if seeing it for the first time. She smiled proudly, but there was a hint of something else in her expression that I could not quite define.
‘I like it. I love flowers,’ she answered simply. ‘And my favourite place is under the willow tree, looking out across the water. In spite of the river traffic, which has greatly increased in recent years, I find it very peaceful. Come and stand there with me for a minute or two and you’ll see what I mean.’
I followed her to the main path and walked to the little landing stage on the river bank, where we stopped beneath the willow tree’s trailing branches. On the opposite bank, shimmering in a faint heat haze, I could see the landscape of Southwark set out before me. Nearer at hand, pale spears of yellow iris glimmered among the reeds at the river’s edge, and marigolds peered at their ghostly reflections in the water. A reed warbler swooped towards its nest among the grasses.
‘A truly lovely spot,’ I said, glancing sideways at my companion and surprising a look of amusement on her face.
‘It is, isn’t it?’ she answered. ‘You appreciate beauty in nature, Master Chapman?’
‘I’m a countryman at heart,’ I explained. ‘Bristol may now be my home, but I was born in Wells.’ Judith inclined her head, but made no comment, so I continued, fearful of an uncomfortable hiatus in the conversation, ‘I was told that these three houses’ — I jerked my chin over my shoulder — ‘once stood in the grounds of the Savoy.’
