The Weaver's Inheritance (12 page)

Not so with the younger man. The expression on his face indicated that he was fully alive to its significance, and his manner was suddenly more reserved, hostile even, as though he recognized me now for an enemy rather than a friend. I decided therefore that it was time for me to leave while my stock remained high with the father at least, and I rose to my feet. My host did likewise and wrung my hand at parting as though I had been his equal rather than a common pedlar of small account. I wished that I could urge something on Alison’s behalf, but there was nothing I could say which would not be construed as an unwarrantable intrusion into his family affairs. Besides, I had no desire at this stage to upset Irwin Peto any further.

I said farewell and removed myself to the kitchen, where I collected my pack and Dame Pernelle paid me for the two items – a length of figured ribbon and a carved wooden loving-spoon – chosen by Mary and Jane. The Dame, I could tell, was anxious that I should stay and give her my views on ‘Master Clement’, but I thought it best not to commit myself to an opinion just at present. Indeed, there was nothing I could say, nothing I could think of to disprove his story; only an intuitive sense that he was not who he claimed to be. So I took my leave and stepped outside into the wintry dusk.

*   *   *

It was almost dark and very much colder than when I had entered the house an hour or so earlier. The garden path was treacherous for the unwary foot, and twice in the first minute after the kitchen door had closed behind me, I slipped and only retained my balance with the greatest difficulty. And when I arrived at the garden gate, its latch was stiff and difficult to lift. I struggled with it unsuccessfully for several seconds until it eventually opened inwards with such force that this time there was nothing I could do to save myself. I went sprawling in an ungainly heap on the ground.

A man’s voice said, ‘Are you all right? I didn’t know anyone was there.’ And a hand reached down to help me to my feet.

‘Ned Stoner,’ I said, recovering my wind. ‘It’s good to see you again.’

‘Roger Chapman,’ he answered. ‘I’d know you anywhere now that you’re upright. There’s no other man in Bristol to touch you for height. What are you doing here?’ But before I could reply, he went on, ‘No, you don’t have to tell me! I can guess. In fact, I’m only surprised you haven’t been nosing around here long before now. You must have heard about the return of Master Clement.’

‘I only came back from Hereford the day before yesterday,’ I grinned. ‘I got here as soon as I could.’

He laughed. ‘With what success?’

‘Enough. I’ve met and talked to the young man – in the presence of his father.’

Ned gave another snort of laughter. ‘I might have guessed you’d manage it somehow, in spite of the Alderman guarding that boy like a hen with one chick. But it’s too cold to stand talking outdoors on an evening such as this. Come into the kitchen where it’s warm and have a stoup of ale.’

Reluctantly, I shook my head. ‘I’ve just taken leave of them all. I can’t very well go back again.’

Ned clasped his arms about his body and stamped his feet. ‘Tell you what,’ he suggested, ‘in that case, let’s go to the Lattis and get ourselves a drink. I must know what you think of our young master.’

I readily agreed, and we set off along Tower Lane into Wine Street, then turned right and walked as far as the Corn Market. Here, opposite the entrance to Small Street, stands All Hallows Church, and behind the church an ale-house which, even at the time I am writing about, was already several centuries old. Originally known as the Green Lattis, it had been renamed Abyngdon’s Inn when members of that family took it over, but, in recent years, it had changed hands yet again. Its new title was, and, as far as I know, still is, simply the New Inn; but to most of the local inhabitants it remains either the Lattis or Abyngdon’s.

The place was crowded as always. Ned and I, entering the ale-room from the stone-flagged passage that runs the length of the house from front door to back, were fortunate to find seats at a table close to the fire, grabbing them just ahead of two other customers. We were cursed roundly, but gave as good as we got; and our luck held when a passing pot-boy took our order almost immediately, to the great annoyance of those who had been waiting for some time.

‘The angels are on our side this evening,’ Ned said, grinning. ‘Now, tell me what you think about this business.’

I shook my head. ‘Not until you tell me what
you
think. I never saw Clement Weaver, remember, but you knew him well. So, in your opinion, is this him?’

Ned sighed. ‘Well, it could be. There’s a look of Master Clement about him, allowing for the way he says he’s been forced to live these last six years. And he knows a lot about the family and its history. And what he doesn’t know is because his memory still isn’t quite right. Or leastways, so he claims. And who’s brave enough to query it? Who dares to object, “That’s very convenient, my lad,” if the Alderman accepts it?’

Our ale arrived and was placed in front of us, some of the liquid slopping over on to the board as the pot-boy hurried away to attend to other customers. ‘That’s what everyone says,’ I murmured gloomily.

Ned swallowed a generous mouthful of ale and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He leaned forward, frowning. ‘The way he claims to have escaped from those rogues, well, you’d know more about that than I would. But it seems strange to me that they didn’t bind his hands and feet before they threw him into the water. And what about his clothes? Good money to be made from them, surely?’

‘Those rogues, as you so rightly call them, couldn’t bind their victims’ hands and feet without someone, sometime, being alerted to the fact that people were being murdered. If naked bodies kept being fished out of the Thames with wrists and ankles tied together, what would be the conclusion? Even the river scavengers wouldn’t stay quiet about that for long: they’d get word to the Sheriff’s men somehow. No, money and valuables were sufficient for those murdering thieves. They weren’t going to risk the full force of the law being set in motion, because the trail might eventually lead to them. But when a fully clothed, unbound corpse is dragged out of the river, it’s naturally presumed to be one of the many unfortunates who drown every day, either by falling in accidentally or at the hands of an assailant.’

Ned rubbed his nose. ‘I thought you told me once that they tied you up. I could have sworn it.’

‘They did, but that was because I hadn’t drunk the wine. Even so, they were going to knock me over the head and untie me before dropping me into the Thames.’

‘Oh, well!’ He took another swig of ale. ‘I reckon that answers my question. I guess things could have fallen out, then, the way this Irwin Peto says they did.’

‘Is that how you think of him?’ I asked curiously. ‘Not as Master Clement?’

‘It’s not easy to know how to think of him,’ Ned admitted. ‘To begin with, I was convinced he was an impostor, but after a while, a few doubts crept in. And now you tell me that his story of how he escaped death could easily be true. Moreover, the Master’s always believed in him, from the first moment they met.’

‘That could be because Alderman Weaver has never wanted to think that Clement is dead,’ I argued. ‘He’s not going to let himself believe anything different, and woe betide anyone who tries to persuade him to change his mind.’

Ned drained his cup. ‘You mean Mistress Alison and Master Burnett? Aye, it’s a wicked thing to have done, to have treated her in such a scurvy fashion. And all because Master Burnett had courage enough to voice what the rest of the Master’s friends were thinking. Maybe Master Burnett was a trifle heavy-handed. Maybe he could have curbed his tongue a bit more than he did; been a bit more diplomatic. But then, he was angry, and he didn’t expect the Master to respond in such a way. Well, who could have foreseen such a thing? I ask you! To halve his daughter’s inheritance on account of some stranger who turns up out of the blue and claims to be Clement is insanity enough, but to disinherit her altogether … words fail me!’

I sighed. I was getting nowhere. I was hearing the same story, in very nearly the selfsame words, from every person I talked to; and there was nothing of any significance to be gleaned even from those who had known Clement Weaver before his disappearance. So far, apart from Master and Mistress Burnett, no one was prepared to say definitely whether he or she thought Irwin Peto to be an impostor or not. Well, as I had told Alison earlier in the day, all further enquiries on my part would probably have to wait now until the spring.

For the past few minutes, customers entering the New Inn had been muffled in cloaks heavily caked with snow, and there was talk from the wiseacres of a protracted spell of bad weather. All the signs, they said, pointed to a very cold season, and it would be a foolish man who ventured far afield.

The sudden noise of voices raised in altercation sounded from the room overhead, followed by the clatter of feet on the stairs and the violent slamming of the door that opened on to the street. Very few of the New Inn’s customers took any notice, but Ned Stoner did glance up briefly towards the smoke-blackened ceiling.

‘Trouble?’ I asked.

He shrugged fatalistically. ‘Where there’s gambling there’s always trouble sooner or later. Too many young cocks nowadays, all swaggering and fighting with one another. They win money at dice or some such game of hazard, fill their bellies with cheap wine instead of decent ale, and think they’re lords of the dunghill – until they sober up again and find themselves locked in the bridewell or the castle dungeons. The youth of today have it too easy,’ he grumbled.

I hid a smile, for I knew him to be only a year or so older than myself. But I let it pass. ‘Do you think it could be one of these young bravos who was responsible for Imelda Bracegirdle’s murder?’

Ned grunted. ‘More than likely. But I doubt if he’ll ever be brought to justice. His friends’ll protect him. Swear he was in their company, whenever it happened. Another cup of ale?’ But his offer was half-hearted.

I refused and got to my feet. ‘I think we’d both best be off home before the weather gets any worse.’

Ned agreed, although our caution did not seem to be shared by the rest of the customers. The ale-room was just as crowded and noisy as when we arrived, and our seats were taken almost as soon as we vacated them. We threaded our way between the tables and out into the passageway, where two young men were just mounting the stairs to the upper room. A third stood inside the street door, stamping the snow from his boots, the light from a torch, in a wall-sconce above his head, illuminating his face.

Ned paused in surprise. ‘Hello, Master Clement! Been let out on your own, have you? And not before time if you ask me!’

Irwin Peto started at the sound of Ned’s voice, and I noticed that the hand which was fumbling with the strings of his cloak, was shaking badly.

‘Are you all right, Master – er – Weaver?’ I enquired solicitously, and received a black look for my pains.

‘I’m well enough,’ he snapped, and turned back to Ned. ‘My father doesn’t know I’m here. He thinks I’m asleep in bed, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention seeing me.’ He added on a note of desperation, ‘He keeps me like a prisoner, he’s so afraid of losing me again.’

‘I shan’t say anything, you can be sure of that,’ Ned answered cheerfully. ‘Enjoy your freedom for a while. Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight,’ I echoed, and followed my drinking companion outside.

It was a fairy world. All Hallows raised a ghostly head, and every contour was rounded and softened by a mantle of glittering white. There was already a hint of frost in the air and, later on, it would freeze; but for the moment, Ned and I were almost blinded by a curtain of whirling snowflakes. As we emerged into the Corn Market, we could just make out, on the opposite side of the thoroughfare, the entrance to Small Street, and the church of Saint Werburgh standing sentinel on the corner. All sound was muffled, and we had taken several steps in the direction of the Tolzey, where Ned and I would part company, when we both stopped and glanced enquiringly at one another.

‘Did you hear someone groan?’ I asked.

My companion nodded. ‘I thought I did.’ We listened carefully and the sound came again. ‘Back there,’ he said, indicating the way that we had come.

We retraced our steps, the noise guiding us to the church, where, in the porch, a man lay huddled on the ground. I went down on one knee, gently turning him over so that we could see his face in the light from the lantern hanging from the ceiling.

Ned gasped. ‘It’s Master Burnett,’ he said. ‘And he’s been pretty badly beaten, by the look of him.’

Chapter Nine

William Burnett was unconscious, but beginning to rouse a little, groaning and mumbling broken words. I bent lower, hoping to catch some of them, but they were too jumbled to make any sense. The weather was worsening and he must be got under cover as soon as possible.

I looked up at Ned Stoner, who was peering anxiously over my shoulder. ‘Run and get two of the Burnetts’ men to bring a litter. Meantime, I’ll get him into the church where he will at least be out of this bitter cold.’

Ned said, ‘Right!’ and sped off down Small Street, while I pushed open the door of Saint Werburgh’s and lifted Master Burnett inside. I hadn’t long to wait. Indeed, I had only just laid my burden down again, when the door burst open and Alison appeared. The hood of her cloak had fallen back unheeded, and her hair was wet with snow. She was still wearing her velvet house shoes, not having paused either to change them or to strap on her wooden pattens. They and the hems of her gown and cloak were sodden.

‘William!’ she cried, crouching down beside her husband. She raised her eyes to mine. ‘What’s happened?’

I had no time to answer then, as the arrival of the Burnetts’ menservants, carrying a hastily improvised litter of a blanket knotted between two poles, precluded any further conversation until we had William safely within doors. Once in the candlelit warmth of the Small Street house, it was easier to ascertain how badly he was hurt. No bones appeared to be broken, but he was, nevertheless, severely bruised about the face, with a swollen and bloody nose, one eye half-closed and the other already beginning to discolour. The women of the household fussed and clucked about him, and Alison Burnett sent one of the maids to rouse the physician who lived nearby, in Bell Lane.