Kate Sedley - The Weaver's inheritance

I had been looking for another face in the little knots of people that had gathered, but could not see it, although I fancied that one of the elderly dames was Rowena’s aunt. I could not be sure, however, my memory of her being unclear; and in any case, I had promised myself to complete my business with Baldwin Lightfoot before seeking her out. I touched him on the arm and he jumped as though I had pricked him with a knife.

‘Good God, man, don’t do that!’ He was white and shaken, his face the colour of uncooked dough. He added defensively, ‘I didn’t see you there. You startled me.’

‘I’m sorry, but I have to be leaving soon, and I still have to deliver the letter from your cousin.’

For a moment Baldwin looked bemused, recent events having driven everything else from his mind, but then he recollected and nodded. ‘Come inside,’ he said. ‘We need some wine to settle our stomachs.’ He glanced towards his housekeeper, but she was so deep in conversation with two other women that he shrugged and obviously decided not to disturb her.

The house struck chill after the warmth of the April sun outside, and we both shivered. My host ushered me into a parlour hung with tapestries, all of which had seen better days. One, depicting the Judgement of Paris, had a great rent in it, while another was so faded that it was almost impossible to determine its subject matter without closer scrutiny. The room’s one armchair had a broken leg that was propped up by a block of wood, and a carved chest, ranged along one wall, was badly splintered around the lock. An air of poverty and decay was all-pervasive.

Baldwin, who had briefly disappeared into the back of the house, returned with two beakers of wine, one of which he handed to me with the loud-voiced assurance that it was a good Bordeaux. I knew as little then about wines as I do now, but I had sufficient knowledge to recognize an English verjuice when I tasted it, and to be certain that its grapes had never been ripened by the hot southern sun. I took one unwary sip, almost choked and put the beaker down on the window seat beside me. Baldwin, happily, was still too bewildered by recent events to take much notice.

‘Too potent for you, eh?’ he asked. ‘I thought it might be.’ He sat down in the rickety armchair, passed a hand across his sweating forehead and took a gulp of wine. ‘Ah!’ he breathed. ‘That’s better.’ He looked at me. ‘Now, where’s this letter?’

I took it from the pouch at my belt and handed it to him, observing him closely while he broke the seal and began to read. But if he was already aware of what it might contain, he gave no sign, and his amazement when he had finished it seemed genuine enough.

‘Mother in Heaven!’ he muttered, taking yet another swig at his cup, like a parched soul desperate for water. He got up and started pacing up and down the room. ‘What a day this is turning out to be! First Widow Twynyho arrested and now my cousin writes to tell me that Clement has reappeared.’ He sat down again abruptly and referred once more to the letter. ‘No, that isn’t exactly what she says … She says it is someone pretending to be Clement, and that Alfred has cut her out completely from his will … I’m at a loss. I don’t understand it … Ah! But she does write that you will explain everything to me.’ And he glanced up expectantly.

I did my best to satisfy his curiosity, and to do him justice, he was a good listener, such questions as he asked being both pertinent and necessary. Nor did I need to repeat myself, for he had a ready grasp of all the details, surprisingly so, perhaps, for one who had just suffered a severe shock and was now consoling himself with an ample draught of wine. When I had finished, he drained the dregs from his beaker, stared regretfully for a moment into its depths and then sat back in his chair, folding his hands over his paunch.

‘A sorry affair! A sorry affair, indeed, and I don’t wonder that my cousin is suspicious of this — what did you say his name is? — this Irwin Peto! But what help she thinks I can be to her in the matter is beyond my comprehension. My interference would only make things worse. Alfred never liked me, nor I him. I always thought the man a fool, and his present actions only serve to confirm my opinion. No one but an idiot would have accepted this young man at face value, simply because he bears a passing resemblance to Clement.’

I took another sip of verjuice, but its sharpness set my teeth on edge and I hurriedly put it down again. ‘You think then,’ I suggested, ‘that Mistress Burnett might be right in considering it a plot to rob her of her inheritance?’

‘I should say it’s more than likely, wouldn’t you? But what a couple of crass blunderers Alison and that husband of hers must be to make bad worse! Between them, they seem to have ensured that she’ll get nothing at all, when she might at least have hung on to half of Alfred’s money. Half a loaf is better than none. But there!’ he added bitterly. ‘I’ve no doubt that William Burnett really has no need even of that, being the sole inheritor of his father’s fortune. “To those that hath shall be given…’” His voice tailed away, and he sat, staring before him, wrapped in thoughts of his own.

I was at a loss how to break the silence, for the purpose of my visit — to see and talk to Baldwin Lightfoot — had been accomplished; and I thought it unlikely, were he the instigator of the plot, that he would give anything away. He was a much shrewder man, with a much sharper mind, than first impressions had led me to believe, and he had obviously seen better days. It was a combination to make me pause and wonder if he were indeed our man — always provided, of course, that Irwin Peto really was a fraud.

Baldwin’s voice, cutting across my thoughts, echoed them uncannily. ‘Has my cousin considered,’ he asked, tapping the letter, ‘that this man may, after all, really be her brother? As far as I can tell from your story, while there’s no proof that he is Clement, there’s no proof either that he isn’t. And you haven’t answered my other question yet. What help does Alison imagine that I can be to her? And why does she feel it necessary to write to me with this news when we’ve neither seen nor communicated with one another for years!’

I feigned ignorance. ‘Mistress Burnett didn’t confide in me, sir. She knew I was visiting an acquaintance in Keyford and merely asked me to deliver the letter.’

It was a mistake. Baldwin shot upright in his chair, fixing me with those pale grey eyes, which were now as cold as steel.

‘Do you seriously expect me to believe that? According to what you’ve just told me, you’ve been a part of this business from the very beginning. Alfred himself, you say, has turned to you for assurance that this Irwin Peto’s story could be true. And you want me to believe that you’re not deep in Alison’s confidence?’ He gave a mirthless smile. ‘Do you think me so stupid?’

There was nothing left of his earlier geniality, no trace of the bonhomie with which he had treated me in the beginning. The flint-like eyes were brimming with hostility, and I cursed myself for having made such a silly mistake.

He went on, leaning forward and stabbing the air with his forefinger, ‘I know why my cousin sent you! So that you could probe and pry into my doings in the hope that I might reveal myself as the instigator of this plot to defraud her of half her fortune. Well, I’ll tell you something, Chapman! Even if I’d met someone who resembled Clement, and even if I’d recognized the likeness after all these years, I doubt if I have sufficient cunning to have seen how to turn the opportunity to my advantage. I may be poor, but I’m not a rogue.’

His scorn was lacerating, but although it made me uneasy, I was not convinced by it. My feelings about Baldwin Lightfoot was that he was perfectly capable of concocting such a plot, and that if he was not the culprit, then his anger was directed more against a fate which had denied him the challenge than against me for suggesting it. But I had handled the matter badly and should get no more from him now.