Kate Sedley - The Weaver's inheritance

‘Granny ill,’ Elizabeth informed me, raising her tear-blotched face.

By the evening, my mother-in-law was in a high fever which lasted several days and which, at one point, I thought would be the death of her. As it was, it left her debilitated and bedridden for weeks afterwards, and she did not fully recover her health and strength until the beginning of April.

Adela came daily to the cottage and nothing was too much trouble, either for her or for our neighbours. Mistress Burnett, on hearing of our difficulties, sent and paid for the services of the physician from Bell Lane, who dosed Margaret with lozenges of dried lettuce juice, in order to reduce the fever, and a distillation of rosemary and rue which, he assured me, had a purging effect upon the body. All in all, I was the recipient of more kindness that I would have thought possible, and probably of far more than I deserved. Even so, a great deal of extra work fell upon my shoulders.

I had previously had no notion of how demanding, and what hard work, a child of two years old could be. My mother-in-law had seen to all Elizabeth’s needs, and when my daughter woke in the night, which seemed an all too frequent occurrence, had roused herself to dance attendance. Now it was my turn, and I was no longer assured of unbroken sleep. In addition, during the early stages of Margaret’s illness, she was in need of constant nursing, and there were no willing helpers during the small hours on whom I could call. I often started the day as tired as I finished it.

As I said, Adela came every morning to see how the patient did and to perform those more intimate female tasks which delicacy forbade me attempting. Nevertheless, she could not stay longer than an hour or two, for she now had a living to earn for herself and Nicholas, and was unable to neglect her spinning. This also applied to those other neighbours who dropped in and out during the short winter afternoons; but one or other of these good women would arrange to sit with my two womenfolk, so that I was able to get out of the house and peddle my wares from door to door.

I could not go far, however, even had I wished to. The weather was equally as bad, if not worse than, the preceding winter, with hard night frosts freezing the closely packed snow, and then more snow falling during the day. The dirty white mounds at the roadside grew steadily higher, wells froze over (including the great Pithay well near Christchurch with Saint Ewen), and, worst of all, the great cistern of the Carmelite Friars, filled by a stream which flowed downhill from the heights above the city and which was now reduced to the merest trickle, began to dry up. Water from this cistern was piped across the Frome Bridge and fed the conduit by Saint John’s Arch, so it meant that yet another burden was added to the hardships of the season with the necessity of melting lumps of frozen snow before anyone could wash or drink. Even the rubbish set solid in the open sewers, but at least it did not stink so much as usual.

In these circumstances, my life was reduced to getting through each day as best I could, with no spare time to pursue my promise to assist in the mystery of Clement Weaver.

‘When my mother-in-law is well again and the better weather comes and I can travel abroad once more,’ I assured Mistress Burnett, meeting her by the High Cross one bleak morning in late February, ‘then you may be certain that I shall resume my enquiries.’

Her nostrils were pinched, her lips blue with cold and she was shivering uncontrollably in spite of her fur-lined cloak, but she paused politely to hear me out. ‘I understand,’ she said, adding that she had no expectations from me as matters stood at present. Greatly daring, I asked her how her father was faring in these icy conditions, only to be fixed with a basilisk stare. ‘I neither know nor care,’ was the embittered answer.

‘And Master Burnett,’ I continued hastily, ‘has he quite recovered from the attack?’

‘He is perfectly himself again, thank you, Chapman,’ she said and walked on down High Street. After a few paces, however, she stopped and glanced over her shoulder. ‘But I shall expect to see you, and hear of your plans, when it grows warmer and Mistress Walker has regained her strength.’

I reassured her for a second time, and went on my way along Broad Street and across the Frome Bridge to Lewin’s Mead, to see if Adela had enough wood chopped to last her for the next few days. It was no surprise to discover Richard Manifold there, for he was to be found visiting the cottage as often as not. I had become inured to his constant presence, and no longer resented it as I had done in the beginning. Nothing had been made by him or his fellow officers, or even by the sheriff himself, of the secret hiding place under the floor and the silk threads caught on the iron bar which lifted the flagstone. They had all settled it in their minds that the murderer of Imelda Bracegirdle was a chance thief who was unlikely ever to be brought to justice; not, that was, unless some other villain, jealous of his friend’s sudden wealth, revealed his name and whereabouts to those in authority. As for the unknown’s knowledge of the hiding place, Richard Manifold had argued that those kind of secrets were bound to reach somebody’s ears eventually. So interest in the mystery had gradually dwindled from being a nine days’ wonder to being no wonder at all, and by the beginning of March the killing was rarely mentioned.

I saw Irwin Peto once or twice around the town, and a couple of times drinking in the New Inn, but for the most part he kept within doors and the shelter of the Alderman’s house, not even emerging for the great Candlemas procession. He needed no further excuses, of course, for this shadowy existence than the atrocious weather and his own impaired health; and I guessed he was relying on the fact that by the time spring arrived, people would have grown so used to the idea of Clement Weaver still being alive that all speculation concerning him would have ceased. I should have liked to speak to him again, but in spite of calling at the Broad Street house on several occasions to sell my goods, I saw neither hide nor hair of him, nor heard even a distant echo of his voice. I had the impression that Dame Pernelle had been told to confine me to the kitchen quarters, so that there was little danger of our meeting. I had served my purpose by confirming to the doting Alderman that the young man’s story of his survival could be true.

By the beginning of April Margaret was fully recovered, putting the lethargy of the past six weeks or so firmly behind her and bustling about the cottage as though she had never been sick, in full command once more of her own domain and resentful of any interference, however well-intentioned. Neighbours were discouraged from doing anything other than enquiring after her health, and I was given to understand that, during the day at least, my absence was preferred to my presence. I was only too happy to oblige; and now that I was a free man again, I could turn my thoughts to Alison and William Burnett and my promise to them.

A sudden thaw, mid-March, had brought heavy flooding in its wake, causing the Friars’ cistern to overflow and several of the pipes conveying the water to Saint John’s Conduit to burst, but it had also been the harbinger of sunnier, milder weather. By the beginning of April, trees were a haze of green, primroses starred the woods with constellations of creamy-yellow blossoms, and purple-veined, honey-scented white violets trembled at the ends of their fragile stalks. Wild arum was starting to thrust its hooded head above the earth, dwarfing the wood sorrel and ground ivy, while along the river banks, the marsh marigolds’ great golden cups were reflected in the rippling water. And as the hardships of winter receded and the balmier weather of spring brought the long-delayed promise of summer, my dreams were once again haunted by a vision of two blue eyes set in a delicate, tragic face, surrounded by an aureole of pale, corn-coloured hair.