Kate Sedley - The Weaver's inheritance

‘Surely,’ I pressed, ‘you must have formed some idea as to whether this man was young or old, rich or poor, tall or short. Can you recollect nothing about him?’

She darted me a look of irritation. ‘Neither young nor old, rich nor poor, tall nor short. And with that you’ll have to be satisfied,’ she finished waspishly, ‘for it’s the truth. I was at a distance on each occasion that I saw him and Irwin together, and there was nothing to distinguish him from anybody else.’

‘Can’t you recall any item of clothing that he was wearing?’ I was growing desperate. ‘A hat, a cloak, a tunic?’

Morwenna frowned. At length, she said, ‘I think he may have had a scarlet lining to his cloak. Now you force me to it, I think I can remember a flash of colour as he turned.’ Her face took on a grimmer expression. ‘Why didn’t Irwin tell me what he was up to?’ She answered her own question. ‘I suppose because he knew I’d advise him against it. He’ll be out of his depth.’

‘On the contrary,’ I said, ‘he managed to persuade Alderman Weaver that he is indeed his son, right from the start.’

An angry flush tinged Morwenna’s cheeks and she compressed her lips tightly.

I had been aware for several minutes that Philip was growing restive, but I had attributed it to boredom, now that our quest was at an end. But suddenly he jumped to his feet, handed me my cudgel, at the same time ostentatiously fingering the haft of the knife tucked into his belt. ‘Time we were going,’ he said. There was an edge to his voice and the eyes which met and held mine were bright with urgency, willing me to agree.

I got to my feet with the utmost reluctance, for I felt sure that if I were to press Morwenna Peto further, she might recall something about the stranger which she had temporarily forgotten. But Philip had already opened the door and was halfway through it, and by the time I had taken a hasty farewell of our hostess, he was out in the street. As I joined him, he grabbed my arm and hissed, ‘Walk normally to the corner, and then run as fast as you can back to the water stairs.’

‘What’s all this about?’ I asked indignantly as we made our way out of Gibbet Lane, Philip’s obvious desire to break into a trot showing plainly in the peculiar nature of his gait. ‘For goodness’ sake, why didn’t you let me question her further?’

‘I wonder about you sometimes,’ my companion said, his grip tightening on my arm, ‘I really do! Morwenna is this fellow’s mother! Not his adopted mother, but his own flesh and blood; and she’s got more cutthroats at her command than you and I have had hot dinners! And there are you, making it plain to her that you’re going to put a noose around her son’s neck, and you don’t expect any reprisals? I was trembling in my shoes. I thought that at any moment she was going to shout for assistance and have us both carved up there and then. I think it’s only because she’s so angry at her precious son’s betrayal, because she can’t accept that he didn’t confide in her, that what you’re up to hasn’t quite sunk in … Here’s the corner. Now, run as if old Scratch himself is after you!’

He dropped my arm as he spoke and was off, weaving his way through the network of narrow alleyways, every now and again doubling back on his tracks, never pausing for breath until we came out on to the quay close by the Southwark gate of London Bridge. The strip of sand was now covered with water, but a boat was, fortunately, moored alongside the water stairs, waiting for custom. We sank, panting, into its stern, with hardly enough breath left to issue our instructions.

‘You gentlemen seem to be in an almighty hurry,’ the boatman observed. He nodded in the direction of the receding Southwark shore. ‘Couple more there, by the looks of it, in as great a haste as you two, shouting and shaking their fists. Well,’ he added comfortably, ‘there’ll be another boat along in a minute. Ah … Seems they can’t wait. They’re setting off across the bridge.’

By offering him an extra penny above the price of our fare, we persuaded the boatman to row a little way downriver and put us ashore at Saint Botolph’s Wharf, instead of at Fish Wharf, which was adjacent to London Bridge. From there, we returned to Cornhill via Roper Lane, Hubbard Lane and Lime Street, glancing anxiously over our shoulders all the way. Fortunately, we seemed to have shaken off our pursuers, but we took a circuitous route, nonetheless, to the Old Clothes Market and the daub and wattle hut behind Philip’s stall.

I could see, while we ate the dinner prepared for us by Jeanne, that my companion’s enthusiasm of the morning was already on the wane. Philip’s taste for adventure had faltered at the first hint of possible danger, and who could blame him? He had his wife and business to consider; and in any case, he knew as well as I did that he could be of no further use to me. He had helped me find both Bertha Mendip and Morwenna Peto: my visits to the Weaver family I must pay alone. As for himself, he would lie low for a week or two, and trust that after such a lapse of time the details of his appearance would fade from Morwenna’s mind. (My height was against me, as always, when seeking anonymity, but, with luck, I should be gone from the capital within a very few days.)

‘What I can’t understand,’ Jeanne said, serving me with a second helping of dried, salted fish fried in oatmeal, ‘is why this Irwin Peto should hang on to any of his past life at all. Surely he might have expected Alderman Weaver to make enquiries of his own, and so discover the truth. He couldn’t have known, as you say, Roger, how unquestioning would be his acceptance.’

‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ I said, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand. ‘First of all, without Bertha Mendip’s assistance, and Matt Mendip to guide us, we might never have traced Morwenna Peto. And without your husband, I should never have discovered Bertha again. In that part of Southwark, they’re as close as oysters, and won’t betray the whereabouts of any of their kind to outsiders; so unless the Alderman’s envoys knew someone like Philip to begin with, it’s more than probable that they would never have found her.

‘Secondly, we have now established that Irwin Peto is indeed an impostor, and therefore there must be more than enough for him to remember, more than enough pitfalls strewn in his path, without having to make up a story about his life for the past six years, as well. And on those six years, he must be accurate; there must be no discrepancy between one account and another; no risk of being told “but last time you said so-and-so, although the time before that you said the other”. There is a good excuse, you see, for his lapses of memory concerning his early life as Clement Weaver, but none at all for forgetting what happened to him as Irwin Peto. So it’s much simpler for him to tell the truth whenever he can. The only thing he has to remember is to refer to Morwenna as his adoptive, and not his real, mother.’

Philip nodded his approval of this reasoning, agreeing that it was simpler and safer to tell the truth where possible; and even Jeanne, always harder to convince of anything than her husband, finally agreed that it might be so. ‘What will you do now?’ she asked me.

I swallowed my last morsel of fish and took a swig of ale. ‘I must visit the rest of Alderman Weaver’s family, and also the cousin of a certain Baldwin Lightfoot who lives near Saint Paul’s.’

‘You won’t be needing my company, then?’ Philip suggested anxiously, exchanging a somewhat shamefaced glance with his wife.

I shook my head and laughed. ‘You’ve been more than helpful, Philip, and I couldn’t have got this far without you. But henceforward what I have to do, I must do alone. I shall say my goodbyes after dinner, and you won’t be troubled with me any further. I shall return to Bristol as soon as possible.’