The Weaver's Inheritance (10 page)

It was opened by one of the maids. ‘Yes?’ she queried. ‘What do you want?’

I pointed to my pack. ‘Is there anything you or the housekeeper might be needing?’

The girl looked dubious, but her eyes had brightened at the prospect of some relief in the monotonous routine of a dull afternoon. ‘Wait there! I’ll ask Dame Pernelle,’ she said, and withdrew indoors.

While I stamped my feet and blew on my fingers to try to keep warm, I could not help but recall the first time I had visited this house in the company of Marjorie Dyer, a distant kinswoman of the widowed Alderman, who had then been in charge of his domestic comforts. Three years later, when I again had cause to contact Alfred Weaver, Marjorie had been replaced by a veritable dragon of a woman, and I could only hope that her successor was of a sweeter disposition.

I was not disappointed. Dame Pernelle was a plump, motherly-looking creature, somewhere, I guessed, in her early or middle forties, with large, soft blue eyes and a double chin. The young maid’s attitude towards her appeared to be familiar but respectful, suggesting that the housekeeper ruled her little kingdom by persuasion rather than force, by kindness rather than fear. She peered shortsightedly at me, seemed reassured by what she saw, and indicated that I should step inside.

The kitchen, too, was much as I remembered it, with its stone-flagged, rush-strewn floor, its water-butt and ale-vat standing in separate corners, sides of salted beef and mutton and bunches of herbs hanging from hooks in the ceiling. A delicious smell of baking bread came from the ovens.

A second maid joined us at the table as I started to set out my wares. ‘I know you,’ she grinned. ‘You’re Margaret Walker’s son-in-law. You live with her in Redcliffe. I’ve seen you when I’ve been visiting my aunt.’

Dame Pernelle, who had drawn up a stool, regarded me with sudden keenness. ‘Aha! You’re
that
chapman, are you?’ The blue eyes, so guileless a moment before, now twinkled knowingly, as she fingered a carved ivory needlecase. ‘This is very pretty – if, that is, you’re really interested in selling us anything.’

‘Why shouldn’t I be?’ I asked, all innocence. ‘For what other purpose would I be here?’

The housekeeper chuckled. ‘It’s no good trying to pull the wool over my eyes, lad. I’ve heard talk of you from some of Mistress Walker’s neighbours.’

‘And what do they say of me?’ I wanted to know.

‘Oh, some say that you’re far too nosy, always poking and prying into people’s business. Others, that you’re very clever at solving riddles, and that thanks to you, some evil men and women, who might otherwise have escaped punishment, have been brought to justice. There have also been whispers of friends in high places … But I can see by the look on your face that you’d rather I didn’t talk about that.’

‘The gossip’s bound to be exaggerated, anyway,’ I answered curtly. ‘Such rumours usually are. Let me recommend to you this length of blue silk ribbon. Florentine,’ I added coaxingly. ‘It arrived in Bristol on a merchantman only yesterday morning.’

Dame Pernelle once again gave her rich, throaty chuckle. ‘And what would I do with it, pray? When would I have a chance to wear it? Or either of these silly girls, here, for that matter? No, no! Save it for someone young and pretty who can afford it, and tell me why you’ve really come.’ She lowered her voice and asked confidentially, ‘Have you been sent by Mistress Burnett to see if you can make head or tail of this strange business that’s so perplexing to us all?’

The housekeeper’s appearance was deceptive. Beneath her plumply soft exterior, and behind the rather vacuous features, a shrewd mind was at work. It was no use pretending, so I gave her what I hoped was my most disarming grin. ‘You’re right, there is no pulling the wool over your eyes. Although to say that I was
sent
by Mistress Burnett is perhaps somewhat misleading. Let’s just say that I have agreed to find out what I can.’

Dame Pernelle looked pleased with herself and her own percipience. She was about to make some further remark, when she recollected the maids who, their interest in the contents of my pack temporarily forgotten, were staring at us with a fascinated, if not entirely comprehending, gaze. ‘You’re good girls,’ she said, rising to her feet and patting them both on the head. ‘You’ve worked hard this morning and deserve a treat. Later on, I’ll buy each of you something from Roger’s pack, but for now, I must speak privately with him.’ And she gave a slight jerk of the head, indicating that I should follow her.

Dame Pernelle led the way to a small, tapestry-hung closet on the opposite side of the hall, that evidently served as her hideaway. The air struck chill as there was no hearth and therefore no fire; but as there was only one small window, through which the draughts could seep, it was not as cold as it might otherwise have been. She lit a couple of candles before closing the door and waving me to a seat. When I had lowered my bulk on to a bench which ran along one wall, the dame plumped herself down in the room’s only chair. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘we can talk without the girls overhearing everything we say. What do you want to know?’

I shrugged. ‘That’s easy. Do you believe this young man to be Clement Weaver or do you think him an impostor? No, wait! I may be putting the cart before the horse. First of all, were you previously acquainted with Clement?’

‘Oh yes! I knew him well. My elder sister and I grew up in the city, and our father, Robin Dando, was a vintner with a shop in Wine Street, close by the castle foregate. When Clement and Alison were young, they used sometimes to accompany the Alderman when he came to the shop to buy wine. You see, my father imported several excellent wines from Bordeaux to which Alfred Weaver was extremely partial. And then, when I was eighteen, my sister Alice married the Alderman’s younger brother, John.’

This revelation was entirely unexpected and I exclaimed in astonishment. ‘You’re Alice Weaver’s sister? I had no notion!’ I scrutinized her more closely. ‘But now that you say, yes, I can see a likeness.’

‘You’ve met Alice?’ It was Dame Pernelle’s turn to be surprised.

‘Six years ago, in Faringdon Without, when I was searching for Clement.’

The housekeeper nodded. ‘She and John went to London to live almost as soon as they were married. He had an idea he could make his fortune if he set up his looms there instead of in Redcliffe. Myself, I think it was a mistake; and I fancy Alice does, too, only she’s too loyal to say so.’ She echoed Alison Burnett’s words. ‘John’s comfortably off, I don’t deny that, but he hasn’t made the money that his brother has. He should have stayed in Bristol.’

‘And what happened to you?’ I asked.

‘I married my father’s apprentice,’ she said apologetically. ‘It wasn’t the match my parents had hoped for me, but we were in love and it worked out very well in the end. My father left us the business when he died, and Henry ran it at a profit for over quarter of a century until he also died, in January last year. After that, I’d no heart for it. We’d no children, so I sold up; and by great good fortune, the Alderman was looking for a new housekeeper as his old one had just been given notice to quit. He and Dame Judith never really got on.’

It occurred to me that not only was my companion sister-in-law to one of the chief suspects in this affair, but also that she had not been long in the Alderman’s employ – a matter of months, no more – before the arrival of this man who claimed to be his son. But for the moment, I suppressed the thought: I would take it out and consider it at my leisure, later on. ‘Very well then,’ I said. ‘You are a kinswoman by marriage of the Alderman and his children. You knew Clement Weaver. So, is this man who he says he is? You must have an opinion one way or the other.’

Dame Pernelle shook her head. ‘I’m afraid I don’t. Yes, there is a look of Clement about him, but six years of hardship and privation can change a man. An impostor would bank on that fact to explain any alteration in his appearance. Yes, he knows a great deal about the family, the weaving business, his childhood with Alison; but, again, his long loss of memory is held accountable for any of the many slips he makes, or for the frequent lapses of recall from which he suffers.’ She sighed. ‘It’s impossible for someone as impartial as myself to judge the truth of the matter, let alone one as blind and besotted as the Alderman.’

The housekeeper was apparently being very frank, and I realized why she had not wished the maids to hear what she had to say; so I decided to take advantage of this privacy to probe further. ‘What were the circumstances,’ I asked, ‘of this young man’s arrival? Exactly when and how did it happen?’

Dame Pernelle seemed only too glad to talk. She settled herself in her chair and, without any show of reluctance, embarked upon her tale.

*   *   *

‘It was the day after Twelfth Night,’ she said. ‘Ned Stoner and Rob Short were taking down the evergreens in the hall, and the two girls were in the kitchen washing the dirty dishes used at dinner. Cook was having a well-earned rest, with her feet up on a stool by the fire, and the Alderman had retired to the parlour after we’d eaten. I was on my way upstairs to the linen press to sort out the items which needed mending, because the seamstress was due the following day and I wanted to be sure that she had enough to occupy her time. I’d just reached the bend in the middle of the first flight of stairs, when there was knock at the street door.

‘I assumed it was Mistress Burnett come to see how her father was, for he’d not been at all well over Christmas. Ned and Rob were both perched on the tops of ladders, so I said I’d go, and came downstairs again. When I opened the door, however, it wasn’t Mistress Burnett but a strange man, wrapped in a very dirty and threadbare cloak, with the hood pulled well forward over his face. There was a grimy-looking bundle on the cobbles beside him, and I was just about to tell him to be off, when he picked up his belongings and shouldered his way past me into the hall, demanding a word with Alderman Weaver. Ned and Rob, seeing what was happening, slid down from their ladders and caught him by the arms, intending to hustle him straight out again. But immediately, the man started to struggle and shout at the top of his voice, which of course brought Cook and the girls from the kitchen and the Alderman from the parlour. Alfred was looking very displeased and demanded to know what was going on.

‘As soon as the man saw him, he got an arm free and pushed the hood back from his face. “Father!” he said. “It’s me, Clement. I’ve come home.” Well, I thought for a moment that the Alderman was going to faint. Rob must have thought so, too, because he went to stand by Alfred, ready to catch him if he fell. Ned, meanwhile, was still trying to force the man in the direction of the door, calling him all the names he could lay his tongue to, and no one could blame him for that. None of us wanted to see the Alderman upset, especially as he had been so poorly. And certainly no one expected him to do what he did.’

‘What did he do?’ I enquired, as Dame Pernelle finally paused for breath.

She turned her blue eyes upon me with the same baffled look in them that they must have worn on the day. ‘The Alderman just gave a great cry and flung his arms round the young man’s neck. “Clement,” he said, “I knew you couldn’t be dead. I’ve always hoped that one day you might come back”.’

‘Just like that?’ I asked, bewildered. ‘No questions? No initial disbelief? No incredulity?’

‘None,’ said Dame Pernelle, ‘neither then nor later, as far as I know. I don’t think any of the rest of us could believe our eyes and ears.’ She broke off for a moment, her face puckered in sudden concentration; then she leaned forward and wagged a finger at me. ‘And it’s just occurred to me, picturing the scene afresh, that no one was more surprised than our visitor. I’d forgotten it until now, but for a second or two he looked totally dumbfounded. It seemed as if he was as amazed as we were at his easy acceptance. How stupid of me not to have remembered that before.’

‘You have had too much else to occupy you,’ I consoled her. ‘But if you’re sure of what you saw, it may have some significance. If this man were truly Clement Weaver, I don’t think the possibility of not being accepted by his father would ever have crossed his mind.’

But this was going too fast for the dame: she was not yet ready to come down on one side or the other, let alone permit any observation of hers to decide the issue. ‘I … Well … Maybe I was imagining things,’ she hedged. ‘I can’t be absolutely certain.’

It was on the tip of my tongue to remind her that this was not what she had said a few moments earlier, but I could see that she was growing flustered and let the matter rest. ‘What did you think when the young man put back his hood?’ I asked. ‘Did you immediately think, “Yes, it’s Clement Weaver!”?’

‘Not then, no! I could see no resemblance. But later, when he was washed and wearing a tunic and hose that had belonged to Clement – for my sister told me that the Alderman never threw anything of his son’s away, and resisted all Alison’s persuasions to give his clothes to the poor – I was struck by a likeness. After that,’ she admitted honestly, ‘my opinion changed from day to day, sometimes from hour to hour. It still does. On occasions, he seems nothing like the boy I remember, but at other times, I think I can see Clement plainly in him.’ She sighed.

‘What about his voice? Is that the same?’

Dame Pernelle again shook her head. ‘I can’t recall how Clement sounded, not after all these years.’

‘What about Rob Short and Ned Stoner? What do they think?’

‘You must ask them.’

‘But the three of you must have discussed the affair during these past few weeks. It must surely be a frequent topic of conversation among you?’

She made no attempt to deny it. ‘Oh yes, but Ned and Rob don’t know what to think any more than I do. And with the Alderman himself so positive…’ Her voice tailed away into silence.

I understood. Alderman Weaver’s unhesitating acceptance of the stranger was the cornerstone on which all others’ belief was necessarily founded, with the exception of Alison Burnett and her husband. I mentioned their names.

The housekeeper instantly threw up her hands in dismay. ‘What goings-on!’ she exclaimed. ‘What quarrels! What terrible things said on both sides that neither will retract! It’s tragic. Alison and William are adamant that it’s all a plot to deprive her of her inheritance. The Alderman, on the other hand, insists that they acknowledge Clement – for I must call him something and know of no other name to give him – without any reservations whatsoever, which is very unreasonable, to my way of thinking. Indeed, everyone I’ve spoken to thinks Alfred a fool for not being suspicious of this young man’s story; for accepting him as his son with no more proof than his word.’