Kate Sedley - The Weaver's inheritance

I lay on my back, staring up into the smoky darkness, and realized that in spite of the less than complimentary pictures painted by Alison Burnett of her kinsfolk, I liked them. More importantly for my purpose, however, was the sense that the six of them made up a strongly united family, and that it was extremely unlikely that they had secrets from each other. In short, I was convinced that if one was behind this plot to palm off Irwin Peto as Clement Weaver, then they would all be in it. And yet the knowledge that I might be wrong kept me wakeful, tossing from side to side, unable to settle. Eventually, I got up and walked around the kitchen, then into the passageway in order to stretch my legs and rid them of the twitchy feeling that always possesses them when I’m restless. It was there, standing beside the stairs, that I saw a chink of light on the upper floor and heard the muted sound of voices. John and Alice Weaver were still awake; so, cautiously, and trespassing against all the rules of hospitality, I crept up the twisting flight in my stockinged feet. As I reached the top, their voices came clearly to my ears.

‘A strange business! A strange business!’ John Weaver was saying. ‘And if the man’s not genuine, as the chapman hinted, then who, in God’s Name, has put him up to it? Who’s made him free of all the facts he needs to know?’

‘I’m sure I couldn’t guess,’ said Dame Alice’s voice, now growing sleepy. ‘But it’s very unfair on Alison.’ She yawned. ‘D’you think you should go to Bristol, my dear, and try to shake some sense into Alfred?’

There was a momentary silence while, presumably, her husband considered her proposition. Then he, too, yawned loudly. ‘My niece has a husband to protect her interests. My interference might do more harm than good, and could well do further damage to her cause.’

‘My sentiments exactly,’ Dame Alice murmured placidly. ‘Goodnight, my love. God bless you.’

John Weaver held forth a little longer on the folly of his brother, but as his only answer was his wife’s gentle snoring, he was forced to give up. Silently, I crept downstairs again.

I now felt as certain as I possibly could be that neither John nor Alice Weaver was the person whom I sought. And if not them, then not their sons nor daughter-in-law, Bridget, either. I slid beneath my blanket on the rush-strewn floor, the musty, stale scent of the dried flowers and grasses irritating the back of my nose, and resumed my sightless contemplation of the ceiling. I seemed to have eliminated Baldwin Lightfoot and all John Weaver’s family as suspects, so who was there left?

If, at that moment, I had still been in any doubt as to whether or not Irwin Peto was a fraud, I might very well have decided in his favour; for without someone to coach him in all the aspects of his former life, who could he be but Clement? The trouble was, however, that I now knew him to be an impostor, therefore there had to be someone who had primed him. But who? Who else was there, apart from the Weaver family and Baldwin Lightfoot, who would know enough details about Clement’s childhood to have such information at his, or her, fingertips?

Common sense whispered that of course there were many others. As far as servants went, both Ned Stoner and Rob Short had been eliminated by Mistress Burnett herself, but there was still Dame Pernelle who, on her own admission, had known both Clement and Alison as children and was, moreover, the sister of Alice Weaver. But when would she have had any opportunity for meeting Irwin Peto? What, then, of former servants? What of neighbours? What of friends? My head began to spin as I realized that even if I discounted members of the Alderman’s family, the possibilities were endless, and that my investigation had barely begun. There might be half of Bristol to choose from …

Yet, I could not rid myself of the notion that the answer was there, somewhere, almost within my grasp; a feeling that I had all the pieces of the picture to hand if only I knew how to fit them together. Perhaps if I could get to sleep, I might dream; one of those strange dreams which, periodically, I had experienced from childhood and which, if interpreted correctly, smacked of second sight, a gift that I had inherited from my mother. (Although my mother, conscious of the dangers of such a claim, had always been loath to own to more than womanly intuition.) But when at last I did fall asleep, my dreams were just the usual jumble of worthless nonsense, immediately forgotten on waking, and deservedly so.

* * *

I was roused the following morning by the activities of the little maid-of-all-work as she set about rekindling the fire, putting water on to boil and heating the ovens ready to take the first of the day’s batch of loaves, that had been left standing on a marble slab overnight. I visited the privy in the garden, washed under the pump and then, whilst waiting for some hot water in which to shave, wandered down to the banks of the Fleet.

The gardens of the houses in Golden Lane were separated one from another by nothing more than a few trees and bushes, and all gave access to a footpath that, to the right, led as far as the Holborn Highway, and, to the left, beyond the entrance to Chicken Lane on the opposite bank, dwindled into an overgrown track. It was a quiet, peaceful scene in the early morning light, mist rising from the river and clumps of golden kingcups standing sentinel along the water’s edge. Willows bent to stare at their reflections, and the lilac heads of Lady’s Smock swayed in a gentle breeze. The flowers of the butterbur nestled among their heart-shaped, hairy leaves …

I felt a great shove between my shoulder blades, and the next moment I was in the river. Someone leapt in after me and was forcing my head beneath the water, trying to drown me in the Fleet. I had been taken so completely by surprise that the shock rendered me helpless for several precious seconds; but eventually my senses cleared enough to make me start to fight back. My lungs felt as though they were bursting from holding my breath, but I kicked out violently, at the same time raising my arms clear of the water and, by great good fortune, managing to catch my assailant around the neck. As my fingers tightened about his throat, he was forced to let go of my head in order to prise my hands loose, and I came up, gasping for air.

To my surprise, I did not know him; for in the very few seconds of rational thought afforded me since my unexpected immersion, I had decided that my attacker was either John Weaver or one of his sons. But this was a stranger, a rough-looking man with a tangled, bushy, black beard, broken teeth and of an enormous ox-like strength. ‘What do you want of me?’ I demanded, coughing and spluttering.

He had by now freed himself and lunged at me again. Luckily, I saw the blow coming and managed to seize his wrist in midair, exerting all my own strength to prevent his fist crashing into my jaw and rendering me unconscious. With both of us treading water, it now became a trial of strength, but I suspected my assailant to be even stronger than I was; and how it might have ended I still shudder to think, had not the maidservant come running down the garden, shouting at the top of her voice. The man swore, dragged himself on to the bank and loped away, as fast as his girth and his sodden clothes would permit, in the direction of the Holborn Highway.

With the assistance of the girl and some willow roots, I managed to climb out of the water, and sat for several minutes on the path in order to get my breath. Meantime, John Weaver and his wife, awakened by the noise and still in their nightclothes, had come out to see what was happening, and, when they knew, to inveigh against the prevalence of footpads in the area.

‘It used to be such a respectable neighbourhood,’ lamented Dame Alice.