The Weaver's Inheritance (26 page)

‘You had best stay to supper,’ Dame Alice decreed. ‘John and my sons will surely wish to question you, and it would be as well if you remained to hand. We can make the stew go round if we scrape the pot.’

It was neither the most flattering nor the warmest invitation that I had ever received; moreover, the smell emanating from the kitchen at the back of the house was not one to make my mouth water. But it would save me a long walk to the Portsoken Ward, and ensure that I could observe all three men together instead of having to chase them from one weaving shed to another, while at least half their attention was elsewhere. So I thanked Dame Alice and said that I should be pleased to stay.

While the two younger women bustled about fetching plates and knives from a corner cupboard and bread and ale from the pantry, and while Dame Alice disappeared into the kitchen to attend to her broth, I sat quietly with my thoughts. The house was not large, and boasted only one maidservant, but I suspected that this was due far more to parsimony than to poverty. Both Alison Burnett and Dame Pernelle had insisted that John Weaver was comfortably off, even if he were not as wealthy as his brother. If, therefore, he deliberately chose to live in this modest fashion, why should he want more money? Why should he covet half the Alderman’s fortune? Not to spend it, that was certain, but then, misers did not want to spend their money, only to know that it was there, in a hole in the wall or under the floorboards.

And yet I could not bring myself to believe that even if one or all of the Weaver men had hatched this plot their womenfolk were party to it. Total innocence is very hard to simulate, and amongst three people I should have expected at least one unguarded look or word that would have indicated their complicity. But Dame Alice and her daughters-in-law had acquitted themselves without faltering. I must wait patiently, therefore, for their husbands in the hope that either John Weaver or one of his sons might supply me with a clue …

And if they didn’t? If I was convinced of their innocence as well as that of their wives, what then? I knew, at least, that Irwin Peto was an impostor, but not who else stood to gain from this fraud. And without that second, shadowy figure being unmasked, there was little chance of convincing the Alderman that he had been grossly and cruelly cheated.

Chapter Eighteen

The May days were growing longer, and it was well into the evening before the three Weaver men returned home from the Portsoken Ward, tired, hungry and none too pleased to find a stranger at their table. John Weaver demanded roughly, ‘Who’s this?’

When all was explained, however, and he and his two sons had blunted their appetites with generous platefuls of stew, I sensed the same sort of excited curiosity in their questioning and general demeanour as their womenfolk had shown, and which, to me, betokened innocence. They were either accomplished dissemblers, with long practice in the art of deception, or they had nothing to hide. Again, as with their wives, there was no momentary hesitation, no surreptitious glance at another member of the family, no feeling on my part that any one of them had been caught out by my unexpected visit. Once more, I dangled my bait of a black frieze tunic, trimmed with budge, and once more it remained untaken.

After an hour or so, I was ready to swear that no one present had been party to Irwin Peto’s masquerade, but was I being too credulous? Was one of their number, after all, the person whom I sought? Lucy Weaver could be exonerated as the instigator of the plot, for she had not known Clement, but there still remained the other five. If, however, either Dame Alice or Bridget were involved, then their husbands must be also, for Morwenna Peto was certain that the person she had seen with Irwin was a man. But I had been offered no evidence of collusion between any of the couples. That left the possibility that one of the men, or maybe two, or even all three of them together, had hatched this evil plan, yet the same objection remained. So far, there had not been a single indication of conspiracy amongst them; not one sign of guilt, however fleeting, on any of their faces.

‘My brother always was a gullible fool,’ John Weaver declared, embarking on a summary of the Alderman’s character that tallied with those I had heard before. ‘Oh, a shrewd enough businessman, I grant you, and not above a few shady dealings where he thought it worth his while. He’s a true Bristolian in not putting God before profit! But my nephew was his weakness: he loved Clement to distraction and the boy’s death hit him hard. I’m not saying Alfred isn’t fond of Alison, leastwise, he always has been until now, but the girl is more of a de Courcy than her brother ever was. Her mother’s blood runs strongly in her veins and now and then makes her a bit imperious. I used to have the feeling that Alfred wasn’t altogether comfortable in her presence, and he certainly grew to dislike her husband; called him a numskull and a popinjay within our hearing when my wife and I were staying with him in Bristol last summer. Didn’t he, Alice!’

‘Yes, my dear,’ the dame dutifully agreed.

‘So I don’t find it at all surprising,’ her husband continued, ‘that my brother has taken this young man to his heart without making any enquiries as to his bona fides. Sort of damn stupid thing he would do. Sort of damn stupid thing anyone who knows him well would
know
he’d do, if you take my meaning.’

I glanced sharply at my host, but the face, so reminiscent of the Alderman’s, was as bland and as guileless as before. And the subject of Clement, however intriguing, was temporarily played out. The conversation turned to other matters; what had happened that day in the Portsoken weaving sheds and tenting grounds; how well the woollen cloth was taking a new purple dye that used a greater proportion of crushed blackberries to bilberries than heretofore; and, more generally, the growing sense of unease throughout the capital and its suburbs as increasing numbers of the Duke of Clarence’s men took to the streets bearing arms.

‘There’s going to be trouble,’ Edmund Weaver opined, echoing the carter’s sentiments.

‘The King ought to do something about Prince George,’ his father added tersely.

‘It would upset Prince Richard,’ Dame Alice objected. ‘You know how fond they say he is of both his brothers.’

‘He’s a good, loyal lad,’ her husband concurred, ‘but even he won’t be able to keep the Queen’s family from Clarence’s throat for ever. If he’s any sense, he’ll stay on his own estates, up there in the north, and let the rest of ’em fight it out without him.’

There was no way in which I could prolong my stay, and reluctantly I rose from my seat. As I did so, the bells began to ring for curfew. The city gates would now be shut against me, and I must find lodgings for the night outside the walls. To my surprise, the same thought seemed to have struck John Weaver, for he said, ‘You’d better stay here, Chapman, if you don’t mind a bed on the kitchen floor.’

‘Th-thank you, sir,’ I stuttered, and glanced towards Dame Alice for confirmation.

But whatever her husband’s wishes, they were hers also, and she acquiesced willingly, promising to find blankets and a pillow after the dirty pans and dishes had been cleared away. In both these chores she and the maid were assisted by her daughters-in-law, while their husbands remained drinking ale and chatting in the parlour. I tried to make my presence as unobtrusive as possible, but occasionally they remembered that I was there and revived the subject of ‘Clement’ and his reappearance. For the most part, however, they seemed to have lost interest in the matter.

When their wives rejoined them, they sat companionably together until the candles had burned low in their holders and it was time for the younger members of the family to return to their own homes across the street. Goodnights were said and I was shown to my makeshift bed in the kitchen by my hostess, who also indicated the water-barrel, in case I should want to wash my hands and face, and told me that the privy was in the garden. The fire now was little more than a pile of ashes, but some warmth still emanated from both the wall ovens, and the night itself was mild. I took off my boots and jerkin, cleaned my teeth with the piece of willow bark I always carried in my pouch, and lay down beneath the blanket provided by Dame Alice. All the same, I kept my cudgel within easy reach of my right hand, being somewhat suspicious of why I had been invited to stay. My general feeling was that there had been no ulterior motive, and that it was simple good-heartedness on the part of John Weaver, but I couldn’t let myself be too sure.

I lay on my back, staring up into the smoky darkness, and realized that in spite of the less than complimentary pictures painted by Alison Burnett of her kinsfolk, I liked them. More importantly for my purpose, however, was the sense that the six of them made up a strongly united family, and that it was extremely unlikely that they had secrets from each other. In short, I was convinced that if one was behind this plot to palm off Irwin Peto as Clement Weaver, then they would all be in it. And yet the knowledge that I might be wrong kept me wakeful, tossing from side to side, unable to settle. Eventually, I got up and walked around the kitchen, then into the passageway in order to stretch my legs and rid them of the twitchy feeling that always possesses them when I’m restless. It was there, standing beside the stairs, that I saw a chink of light on the upper floor and heard the muted sound of voices. John and Alice Weaver were still awake; so, cautiously, and trespassing against all the rules of hospitality, I crept up the twisting flight in my stockinged feet. As I reached the top, their voices came clearly to my ears.

‘A strange business! A strange business!’ John Weaver was saying. ‘And if the man’s not genuine, as the chapman hinted, then who, in God’s Name, has put him up to it? Who’s made him free of all the facts he needs to know?’

‘I’m sure I couldn’t guess,’ said Dame Alice’s voice, now growing sleepy. ‘But it’s very unfair on Alison.’ She yawned. ‘D’you think you should go to Bristol, my dear, and try to shake some sense into Alfred?’

There was a momentary silence while, presumably, her husband considered her proposition. Then he, too, yawned loudly. ‘My niece has a husband to protect her interests. My interference might do more harm than good, and could well do further damage to her cause.’

‘My sentiments exactly,’ Dame Alice murmured placidly. ‘Goodnight, my love. God bless you.’

John Weaver held forth a little longer on the folly of his brother, but as his only answer was his wife’s gentle snoring, he was forced to give up. Silently, I crept downstairs again.

I now felt as certain as I possibly could be that neither John nor Alice Weaver was the person whom I sought. And if not them, then not their sons nor daughter-in-law, Bridget, either. I slid beneath my blanket on the rush-strewn floor, the musty, stale scent of the dried flowers and grasses irritating the back of my nose, and resumed my sightless contemplation of the ceiling. I seemed to have eliminated Baldwin Lightfoot and all John Weaver’s family as suspects, so who was there left?

If, at that moment, I had still been in any doubt as to whether or not Irwin Peto was a fraud, I might very well have decided in his favour; for without someone to coach him in all the aspects of his former life, who could he be but Clement? The trouble was, however, that I now knew him to be an impostor, therefore there had to be someone who had primed him. But who? Who else was there, apart from the Weaver family and Baldwin Lightfoot, who would know enough details about Clement’s childhood to have such information at his, or her, fingertips?

Common sense whispered that of course there were many others. As far as servants went, both Ned Stoner and Rob Short had been eliminated by Mistress Burnett herself, but there was still Dame Pernelle who, on her own admission, had known both Clement and Alison as children and was, moreover, the sister of Alice Weaver. But when would she have had any opportunity for meeting Irwin Peto? What, then, of former servants? What of neighbours? What of friends? My head began to spin as I realized that even if I discounted members of the Alderman’s family, the possibilities were endless, and that my investigation had barely begun. There might be half of Bristol to choose from …

Yet, I could not rid myself of the notion that the answer was there, somewhere, almost within my grasp; a feeling that I had all the pieces of the picture to hand if only I knew how to fit them together. Perhaps if I could get to sleep, I might dream; one of those strange dreams which, periodically, I had experienced from childhood and which, if interpreted correctly, smacked of second sight, a gift that I had inherited from my mother. (Although my mother, conscious of the dangers of such a claim, had always been loath to own to more than womanly intuition.) But when at last I did fall asleep, my dreams were just the usual jumble of worthless nonsense, immediately forgotten on waking, and deservedly so.

*   *   *

I was roused the following morning by the activities of the little maid-of-all-work as she set about rekindling the fire, putting water on to boil and heating the ovens ready to take the first of the day’s batch of loaves, that had been left standing on a marble slab overnight. I visited the privy in the garden, washed under the pump and then, whilst waiting for some hot water in which to shave, wandered down to the banks of the Fleet.

The gardens of the houses in Golden Lane were separated one from another by nothing more than a few trees and bushes, and all gave access to a footpath that, to the right, led as far as the Holborn Highway, and, to the left, beyond the entrance to Chicken Lane on the opposite bank, dwindled into an overgrown track. It was a quiet, peaceful scene in the early morning light, mist rising from the river and clumps of golden kingcups standing sentinel along the water’s edge. Willows bent to stare at their reflections, and the lilac heads of Lady’s Smock swayed in a gentle breeze. The flowers of the butterbur nestled among their heart-shaped, hairy leaves …

I felt a great shove between my shoulder blades, and the next moment I was in the river. Someone leapt in after me and was forcing my head beneath the water, trying to drown me in the Fleet. I had been taken so completely by surprise that the shock rendered me helpless for several precious seconds; but eventually my senses cleared enough to make me start to fight back. My lungs felt as though they were bursting from holding my breath, but I kicked out violently, at the same time raising my arms clear of the water and, by great good fortune, managing to catch my assailant around the neck. As my fingers tightened about his throat, he was forced to let go of my head in order to prise my hands loose, and I came up, gasping for air.