Kate Sedley - The Weaver's inheritance

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.’

‘And why do you think the Alderman has done so?’

‘Because, secretly, he’s never ceased to blame himself for Clement’s death, for allowing him to carry so much money on that visit to London. In the years following his son’s disappearance, whenever Alfred visited the wine shop, he often used to speak of Clement as if he were still alive. Then he’d pull himself up short with a terrible, lost expression on his face. It broke my heart to see it. A doting father.’

‘Not so doting,’ I answered drily, ‘if he can disinherit his own daughter. First he halves her inheritance, then deprives her of it altogether.’

‘Oh, he’ll change his mind, given time,’ the housekeeper assured me warmly, but there was, nevertheless, an underlying uncertainty in her tone. ‘He doesn’t care for his son-in-law very much, that’s the trouble, and takes pleasure in giving him a fright. I think he liked William well enough when Alison first married him, and his father was one of Alfred’s best friends; but over the years, he seems to have lost his fondness for Master Burnett.’

I found this understandable, but not to the extent of punishing his daughter for it. However, there was no point in my saying so, and instead I asked, ‘Have you had any word from your sister in London on this subject?’

Dame Pernelle smiled. ‘Alice can’t write and I can’t read. We were never taught our letters. I did send word to her of what had happened by a carter who was London-bound, but it’s too soon to expect a message in return.’

‘Well then, has the Alderman written to his brother?’

‘Now that I don’t know, nor is it my place to enquire. He may have done, but he won’t be bothered with anything that takes him away for long from Master Clement’s side.’

There was a knock at the door and one of the maids put her head around it. ‘Beg your pardon, Dame Pernelle, but the master wants to see the chapman. He came looking for you in the kitchen, and then realized that Roger was here. He saw his pack on the table.’ She glanced towards me. ‘He wants you now, at once.’

The housekeeper rose hurriedly and smoothed down her skirts. ‘Is he displeased, Mary?’ she queried.

‘He didn’t sound it. He sent Jane upstairs to fetch down Master Clement.’ Mary obviously had no difficulty in calling the newcomer by the name he had, rightly or wrongly, appropriated to himself.

‘Where is the Alderman now?’ I asked, likewise getting to my feet and straightening my jerkin.

‘He said he’d be in the parlour. It’s warmer than the hall.’ And Mary withdrew her head, leaving Dame Pernelle and me regarding one another thoughtfully.

A moment’s delay, however, was all that the housekeeper allowed herself before returning to her duties. ‘You’d better not keep him waiting, lad. As for me, I must go and see about the supper. Master Clement’s very fond of rastons, and what he fancies he must have, on the Alderman’s orders. That’s what you could smell cooking in the oven. When they’ve been hollowed out, he likes the crumbs mixed with butter and honey.’ She added thoughtfully, ‘It seems that he always has done. They used to be made frequently for him, I’m informed, when he was a boy.’

‘Who told you that?’ I asked, as we moved towards the door.

‘He did, himself, and the Alderman confirmed it. And so did Alison.’ Her tone was bland and matter-of-fact, but she could not resist glancing at me as she said it.

I made no comment, but followed her into the hall, where Mary was still hovering anxiously. Dame Pernelle hurried off to the kitchen to attend to her baking.

Alfred Weaver, who rose civilly from his chair as I entered the parlour and held out a hand in greeting, looked a little healthier than he had done when I had last seen him a few days before the start of the Christmas festivities. There was a sparkle in his eyes, and he was a little fleshier about the cheeks and jowl. ‘Come in, come in, my boy,’ he invited jovially. ‘You’ve heard my good news, I expect? Of course you have! There can’t be anyone left in Bristol who’s in ignorance of it.’ He waved me to a chair. ‘Sit down. I’ve sent for my son.’ He uttered the last two words with pride. ‘I want you to meet him. After all, who has a better right than the man who brought those murdering rogues to justice?’ He dug me playfully in the ribs before resuming his own seat. ‘But you were wrong about Clement. Oh, not about what happened to him. They tried to kill him all right, as they killed the others. But in his case, thanks be to God, they bungled it and he survived.’

‘You’re … You’re sure of that, sir?’

The Alderman laughed, showing his blackened teeth. ‘People have been getting at you, have they? Planting doubts in your mind? Take no notice of them, boy. Take no notice! Give me credit for knowing my own child when I see him.’

I smiled weakly, unsure what to say; unable to share in his certainty, but afraid of causing distress by voicing my misgivings. I tried once again, however. ‘Our murderers were very thorough people.’

‘They were — I won’t quarrel with you about that — in every case but one. But Clement will be here in a moment and then you can see him for yourself.’

‘I never knew your son, Alderman. I never saw him, not even in death.’

‘How could you, when he was never dead?’ He gave a bark of laughter.

I heard the parlour door open behind me and slewed round in my seat. The Alderman surged to his feet again, arms outstretched, a look of utter joy suffusing his face. ‘Clement, my boy, I’m sorry to have disturbed your rest, but there’s someone here I want you to meet. I’ve spoken to you at length about Roger Chapman, and now’s your chance to shake him by the hand.’

The young man who took my hand and gave me a wary smile bore a resemblance to both Alison Burnett and Alderman Weaver, without being strikingly similar to either one of them. The hazel eyes lacked their distinctive flecks of green; his hair, although brown, was of a lighter shade; the mouth, equally wide and mobile, was so thin that the lips almost disappeared, and the nose was less well-defined. Yet these were the normal discrepancies of feature between brother and sister, parent and child, and the most telling impression was of an overall family likeness.

If he were an impostor, whoever had chosen him had chosen well, with a sharp eye for the similarities between him and the two supposed to be nearest him in blood. This was the more percipient because the mantle of the poor, the hungry and the dispossessed hung about him, largely obscuring what lay beneath. The man was plainly in ill-health. The emaciated flesh was loose on his bones, robbing him of his natural bulk; sores and scabs peppered his scalp, and I could see two large weeping pustules behind his left ear. No doubt the rest of his body was similarly marked (although good food and rest should quickly restore him to full vigour). Either this man was Clement Weaver, or I was looking for a puppet-master of some cunning.