Kate Sedley - The Weaver's inheritance

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.