Kate Sedley - The Weaver's inheritance

‘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.