The Weaver's Inheritance (5 page)

But would he? How could my mysterious and shadowy villain be certain of getting his slice of Alfred Weaver’s fortune? Once accepted and established as the Alderman’s son, why should the false Clement be persuaded to part with any of his ill-gotten gains? Because, maybe, his true identity could be proved. Or perhaps because he had been forced to set his name to, or make his mark on, a piece of paper admitting the plot to defraud Alison Burnett of her rightful inheritance. (I had no doubt that there were plenty of lawyers who, for a sufficient fee, were unscrupulous enough to draw up and witness such a document; for when I was young, lawyers were held in even greater disrepute than they are today.) And it was possible that the man had not known what it was that he was signing …

No, I decided, that would not do. The imposter had to be of some intelligence. He had to absorb and remember a vast amount of knowledge concerning Clement’s youth. The Burnetts, and maybe others on their behalf, would be waiting to catch him out. And no one, surely, could have foreseen how easily the Alderman would accept the reappearance of his ‘son’.

Another gust of wind, tearing down the alleyway between the houses, made me shiver, and I realized how cold I was. My feet were numb and I was forced to stamp the ground in order to regain any feeling in them. It also made me aware that it was high time I was in bed. I let myself back into the cottage, moving softly so as not to disturb the women and children, and while I undressed, I wondered what I had been doing out there, in the freezing weather. This was nothing to do with me; no one had solicited
my
help to determine if this man really were Clement Weaver or no. So what was my interest?

It was twofold. Firstly, I was naturally as intrigued as everyone else in the resurrection of a dead man, in trying to decide if he really was who he claimed to be. But secondly, my pride was touched. I was the one who, six years ago, had assured Alderman Weaver that his son was dead. The possibility that he might have survived had never crossed my mind, and even had it done so, I should have rejected the notion out of hand. Common sense told me that I was not to blame, that my conclusion had been the natural one to draw. Clement had accompanied his sister to London to buy her bridal clothes and had been carrying a large sum of money about his person – a fact his killer had known only too well. And that killer had been a cunning and very thorough man. But could he have bungled the execution of his crime just this once?

I lay down and pulled up the blankets, the fire being almost out. I felt worn to the bone, as though I could sleep for a month without waking; and yet I guessed that my slumbers would be troubled by dreams. I heard Elizabeth cry out, and the immediate, soothing response from my mother-in-law, as though she slept with one ear cocked and one eye open.

My senses began to swim as I approached unconsciousness. Now was the time when all those images would make me toss and turn, disturbing my rest. My lids grew heavy and gradually closed – and I knew nothing more until morning.

*   *   *

I was awakened from this dreamless slumber by something heavy falling on me from a height, and also by a sharp pain in the head. I opened my bleary eyes to find my daughter sprawled across my chest, her small inquisitive fingers stroking the stubble on my chin, while Nicholas Juett continued to tug at my hair. They were fully dressed, as was my mother-in-law, who was busy lighting the newly laid fire.

‘You were tired, my lad,’ she remarked, getting up from her knees. ‘Even all my clattering didn’t rouse you. It took these two imps of mischief to do that. Well, we’ll leave you alone while you get dressed. There’s hot water in the pot if you want to shave.’

She shooed the two children back behind the curtain, following them to make sure that it was decently pulled. I could hear her speaking softly to Adela Juett, and I suddenly felt embarrassed by the proximity of this stranger. I scrambled into my shirt and hose and hurried through my shaving, cutting myself twice in the process. I swore under my breath. The cottage seemed cramped and overcrowded, and I longed for the freedom of my calling, of tramping the surrounding villages, selling my wares. I knew that before I went to Hereford, the stocks in my pack had been running low, and I determined that as soon as breakfast was over, I would visit the Backs to see if any merchant ships were tied up at the wharves. I could often pick up items cheaply before the cargoes were unloaded and carted away to their various destinations. Some Masters and their crews were inclined to be light-fingered with the owners’ goods, for their share of the profits was a mere pittance compared with that of the merchants, in spite of the fact that they risked their lives daily on the high seas.

I announced my intention to my mother-in-law while we ate our porridge and oatcakes, but she made no demur. Rather, she approved.

‘We could do with the money,’ she said without thinking.

Adela spoke up at once. ‘Nicholas and I won’t be a burden to you for long, Margaret. If you could speak to Alderman Weaver or Master Burnett for me, I should be grateful. The Alderman might even remember that I was one of his spinners before my marriage – although seven years is a fair time. And if there is the chance of a vacant cottage somewhere…’

‘There’s no need for you to be leaving yet awhile!’ my mother-in-law exclaimed, dismayed. ‘You must get used to being at home again before you think of setting up on your own. Between us, Roger and I can earn far more money than we need to support just ourselves and Elizabeth. You and I still have so much to talk about, and besides, the children get on so well together. They’re firm friends already. When I said we could do with the money, I was simply encouraging Roger not to be idle.’

Adela appeared to accept the lie with her usual courteous smile, which gave nothing away as to her true feelings.

‘Nevertheless,’ she persisted, ‘I should be very grateful if you would do as I ask.’

‘Roger!’ My mother-in-law appealed to me. ‘Tell Adela how pleased we are to have her and Nicholas under our roof.’

Before I could answer, Adela spoke again.

‘My wishes have nothing to do with Roger, nor are they any reflection on your hospitality, Cousin. It’s just that I’m used to my own home and find sharing with other people difficult.’

I glanced gratefully at her, and once more she gave that small, tight smile.

Margaret sighed, acknowledging defeat. ‘Oh, very well! I’ll speak to Master Burnett if I see him today. But,’ she added, brightening, ‘I must warn you that I know of no dwelling standing empty at present. You may have to remain here longer than you would wish.’

Adela nodded, reaching across to wipe Nicholas’s mouth. Again, there was no clue as to what she was really thinking. A moment later, a knock at the door heralded the arrival of Goody Watkins at the head of a small deputation of neighbours, all anxious to welcome the new arrival home to Bristol. I noticed several of the women giving me an appraising look, and I guessed that my mother-in-law had made no secret of her aspirations. But if Adela was also aware of the glances in her direction, she gave no sign.

‘Well,’ said Goody Watkins, turning to me when, at last, all the exclaiming was over, the questioning of young Nicholas and his mother finished, ‘no doubt Mistress Walker’s told you of the goings-on while you’ve been away; of Clement Weaver’s return. If,’ she added with a dubious sniff, ‘it
is
Clement Weaver! And now, if that weren’t enough excitement for one month, Imelda Bracegirdle’s been found murdered, strangled, in her cottage on the other side of the Frome Gate.’

Chapter Four

‘I told you,’ Adela said, addressing me, ‘that the cry I heard was made by someone in distress. But you wouldn’t stop and go back.’

‘How could we have gone back?’ I demanded indignantly. ‘The Porter was just shutting the gate. Besides, there are so many cries. Who was to say that this one was different from any other? And even so, what you heard may have had nothing to do with the murder of Mistress Bracegirdle.’ I turned to my mother-in-law. ‘Do you – I mean
did
you – know her?’

‘Not very well – only by sight. I don’t think we’ve ever spoken.’

‘Nobody knew her well. She kept herself to herself,’ Goody Watkins put in with the regretful air of one who had failed in a self-imposed challenge which could never now be met. She added venomously, ‘Secretive, that’s what Imelda Bracegirdle was. Secretive.’

There was a general murmur of agreement from most of the other women, but one raised her voice in dissent.

‘It’s true she wasn’t one for company. I disremember seeing her at the High Cross or the Tolzey amongst the gossips, but she was always civil if you gave her the time of day.’

‘Anyone can be civil if you give them the time of day. Did she ever invite you into her cottage?’ Goody Watkins asked belligerently, one wrinkled hand scratching her equally wrinkled chin.

‘No.’ Her friend was defensive. ‘But then there are a lot of people who live outside the walls who aren’t well known to those of us living within.’ She glanced at the older woman. ‘Are
you
on visiting terms, Maria, with anyone dwelling in Bristol Without? Because if so, it’s the first I’ve heard of it.’

‘I don’t tell you everything, Bess Simnel,’ Goody Watkins snapped back, but the spots of high colour in her wizened cheeks told their own tale.

The rest of the women were becoming anxious to get home. They had done what they came to do; they had inspected the new arrival in their midst, and one more death, even murder, in a city where death was commonplace failed to excite more than a passing interest. The Sheriff’s men would do what was needed to be done, ask all the necessary questions. A woman whom some of them knew only by sight, and others not at all, was soon forgotten. Someone had a grudge against Imelda Bracegirdle, that was certain, but there were very few people without an enemy or two; and when feelings ran high, animosity now and then turned to murder.

Goody Watkins, sensing her companions’ restive mood, said briskly, ‘We must be going. It’s a pleasure to see you again, Adela, but why you had to marry a “foreigner” from upcountry in the first place, I shall never understand, not when there were plenty of good Bristol men for you to choose from.’ She stood on tiptoe and kissed Adela’s cheek. ‘Well, well. That’s all in the past. You’re home now where you belong, but next time, pick one of your own kind. Westcountrymen are best. I should know – I’ve married three of them.’

The beady, bright blue eyes, the only youthful features in her ancient face, flickered from Adela to me and back again. I pretended not to notice and stooped to gather Elizabeth into my arms; but my daughter, formerly so flatteringly eager for my embraces, protested vociferously and struggled to get down again. I had interrupted a game she was playing with Nicholas. My mother-in-law suppressed a triumphant smile as she saw her visitors to the door and closed it behind them. Margaret knew better, however, than to remark on Elizabeth’s defection, although she did give her granddaughter an approving pat on the head on passing.

‘You’d best be off, Roger,’ she advised, ‘if you want to get started early.’ She seated herself at her spinning wheel. ‘Adela, my dear, I shall leave the children and the cooking in your charge today.’

Adela was doubtless only too pleased to be able to repay her cousin’s hospitality in this fashion, but she nevertheless looked somewhat resentful at being told what she should do, rather than asked. There was an edginess to the way she responded with, ‘Of course, Cousin, anything you say,’ which made me glad to escape from the house. In my experience, when women fall out, it’s better to be elsewhere. I pulled on my boots, threw my cloak around my shoulders, gathered up my pack and cudgel, and let myself out into the street.

*   *   *

I retraced my steps of the previous afternoon, over the bustling thoroughfare of Bristol Bridge, with its busy shops and elegant houses, up High Street to the High Cross, where the citizens gathered to hear the latest gossip, and along Broad Street towards Saint John’s Archway, beyond which lay the Frome Bridge and Gate.

In Broad Street, I paused opposite Alderman Weaver’s house, staring up at the three-storeyed building, searching for signs of life. But the door remained firmly closed, and the windows, although unshuttered, had the dead-eyed look of an uninhabited place. Yet somewhere inside was a man either newly reawakened to an awareness of his former existence, or a clever imposter, trained in his deception by one even cleverer than himself. I wished I could get a glimpse of him, thought it would do me little good, for I should not recognize my quarry if I saw him. But no one appeared, not even one of the servants.

As I passed under the Frome Gate, I looked for the Porter, but it was a different man from the one of the previous afternoon. All the same, I gave him good-day and added, ‘There’s been trouble, I hear.’

He understood me at once. ‘Ay! A murder just over the way, one of the houses in Lewin’s Mead. Imelda Bracegirdle. She was strangled, so they say. The Sheriff’s men are over there now.’

There was a temporary lull in the traffic going in and out of the gate, so I asked, ‘Did you know her?’

The Porter shrugged. ‘I’ve seen her about. A widow, but not a woman who mixed much with her neighbours.’

‘So I’ve been told. Was she old or young? Plain or pretty?’

He laughed. ‘Neither. Not young, not old. Not plain, not pretty. A well-looking creature, I suppose, but over thirty. Her husband, John Bracegirdle, died some seven or eight years ago. The house was rented by him from Saint James’s Priory, and after his death, the Brothers let Imelda go on living there.’ The Porter added darkly, ‘Her mother was from Oxford, a woman called Elvina Stacey. But her father’s name was Fleming.’

I smiled inwardly. Although it was over a century since the last King Edward had encouraged his Flemish wife’s countrymen to settle here, and although, in the meantime, Fleming had become a common enough surname, Englishmen in general have never ceased to resent this influx of foreigners who came, as our forefathers saw it, ‘to take the bread from out of our mouths.’ To my way of thinking, the descendants of the Flemish are usually hardworking, diligent and sober-minded people, not much given to the theory that it is a working man’s bounden duty to do as little as possible in exchange for his wages. But in England, both when I was young and still, today, we believe that pleasure is just as important as industry, maybe more so. And who is to say that we are wrong?