Death and the Chapman (5 page)

The housekeeper busied herself with making a junket. ‘Your father will be home soon,’ she remarked, nodding at Alison. ‘It’s nearly supper-time.’

I was surprised. The four hours since noon and my meeting with Marjorie Dyer at the High Cross had passed so swiftly that I might almost have thought her mistaken had I not been able to hear the Vespers bell ringing from one of the nearby churches. Three hours to Compline, I thought automatically.

‘He won’t be here yet awhile.’ Alison glanced at me. ‘Well, that’s the story.’

I frowned. ‘You say that no one but your father and your brother himself knew how much money he was carrying. That may be true, but surely everyone concerned with the venture must have been aware that your brother had money on him, and a substantial sum at that, if it was known that you were going to London to buy your bride-clothes.’

‘What are you suggesting? ‘ Alison’s voice rose sharply. ‘That a member of this household, or my uncle ‘ s household, was in some way responsible for Clement’s disappearance? ‘

‘Yes, are you suggesting that?’ Marjorie echoed, her face bright red with indignation.

I realized guiltily that my thoughts had indeed been straying in that direction. Supposing Ned or Rob or either of John Weaver’s men were hand-in-glove with one of the many cut-throat bands of thieves and pickpockets who roamed the London streets, and had given their fellow criminals prior warning... But no! How could they, when no one could have foreseen the exact circumstances of Clement Weaver’s arrival; the casting of his horse’s shoe, which prevented his riding straight into the courtyard of the Baptist’s Head and the safety of Thomas Prynne’s welcoming arms. Nor could anyone have foretold that Ned would not be with him. The two women were right to be angry. I had not allowed myself time to consider the implications of my question.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It was a foolish conclusion to jump to.’

‘And a false one!‘ I wondered for a moment if Alison were about to withdraw her offer of a lodging for the night, but she went on: ‘I didn’t like the look of that place, the Crossed Hands inn.’

‘You think... You think it might have had something to do with your brother’s disappearance?’

She chewed her bottom lip. ‘I’ve no reason for saying so,’ she admitted reluctantly, after a pause. ‘My father and uncle made inquiries there, when they were searching for Clement, but the landlord and servants swore they had heard and seen nothing. There was no cause to doubt them. Nor was there anything to suggest that they were in any way connected with what had happened to Clement.’

‘But you think that they might have been lying?’ Alison shrugged. ‘I just felt there was something a little sinister about the place, that’s all. I’m probably being silly.’

I thought privately that she probably was. She had seen the inn under the most unfavourable conditions, late in the afternoon, in near darkness and pouring rain, when she was hungry and tired. And she had inevitably associated it with her brother‘s disappearance. It was the last time that she had seen him, standing beneath the flaring torchlight ... Once again, the picture sprang, fully formed, into my mind.

I hesitated for a moment before putting my final question. It was a delicate one, and I felt for the second time that I could be putting my night’s billet by the kitchen fire at risk. Nevertheless, in spite of what Marjorie had said to me earlier, I felt compelled to ask it, if only for my own satisfaction. Wherever I slept, I should sleep the sounder for having tied up the loose ends of this problem. I have always disliked loose ends.

‘Is there any reason at all,’ I began cautiously, ‘why your brother would have ... might have ...? What I am trying to say is…’

Alison Weaver interrupted me. Her voice was like ice. ‘You’re asking me if Clement would have robbed his own father? The answer to that is no.’

I knew I should have left it there, but I persisted. I had to convince myself that she was telling the truth. ‘A great deal of money was involved. Young men have been known to succumb to sudden temptation.’

I expected her to fly into a rage, but, somewhat to my surprise, she answered my impertinence calmly enough. Calmly, but, I have to admit, coldly. ‘Clement and I love our father. He has never given us reason to do otherwise. My brother, particularly, has always been close to him and will take over the business when my father is too old to continue. There has never been any dissension between them.’

‘I’ve already told you that,‘ the housekeeper reproached me.

‘I know.’ I was somewhat shamefaced. I could see she was hurt by my inability to accept her word, but I had needed confirmation. Alison had spoken with heartfelt sincerity and there had been no hesitation about her reply.

The silence grew around us, holding us, enclosing us. There was nothing more to be said. Like Marjorie, like Alison, for all that she had spoken of her brother just now as if he were still alive, I was convinced that Clement Weaver had been murdered. Whether his attackers were connected with the Crossed Hands inn or no - and I thought not - he had been set upon, robbed and killed that wet November afternoon last year and his body disposed of. In the fading light it would have been the work of a moment to slip a knife between his ribs. There would have been no sound, no cry, to carry as far as the Baptist’s Head and alert his waiting friend. And even if he had managed to call out, it was doubtful if he could have been heard above the noise of the rain. No, when all the facts were assembled, the answer was still the same; the simple answer, the obvious answer. Clement Weaver had been one of the hundreds of men and women who were murdered each year for the money which they might, or might not, be carrying. The world was a violent and dangerous place, as Abbot Selwood had warned me when I left the Abbey to seek my fortune, outside the safety of its walls.

The three of us were so engrossed, each in his or her own thoughts, that no one heard the opening and shutting of the street door. The first any of us knew of the Alderman’s return was his voice raised in question.

‘Alison? Marjorie? Are you there?’

‘God’s Body! ‘ Marjorie turned from her junket-making with a flurry of skirts. ‘Y our father’s home, and not a plate on the table. And gone supper-time by now, I shouldn’t wonder!’ She waved an agitated hand at me. ‘Out of my way, you! You’ve kept me gossiping too long.’ She turned to Alison. ‘You’d best go and greet him.’

But the girl was already moving towards the door, calling out: ‘I’m here, Father! Supper will be on the table presently.’ The kitchen door shut behind her.

‘Presently, is it?’ Marjorie grumbled. ‘It’ll be more like half an hour before I’m ready.’

She bustled about, much faster than I should have expected, given her bulk and the bad legs of which she had complained. She loaded plates and knives and pewter beakers on to a tray of beaten copper which she then bore off to the parlour, where the family took their meals. Afraid of hindering her, I resumed my seat beside the fire and waited patiently until she should have time to spare for me again. A few moments later she was back, muttering furiously.

‘Here’s Master Burnett returned with the Alderman and asked to share the meal. Am I ever given warning? No, I’m not! I’m just one of the servants as far as they‘re concerned.‘ She seized hold of the ladle, a piece of cloth wound around her hand, and gave the stew another vigorous stir. ‘You’d never think, would you, that I’m the Alderman’s cousin?’

So that was it. She was a poor relation Of the Weaver family, which explained the peculiar relationship which seemed to exist between her and Alison; on one hand that of mistress and servant, on the other that of family friend.

The back door opened and two men came in, both short and stocky, with the heavy, lantern-jawed faces, swarthy skins and dark hair which are prevalent among the inhabitants of Bristol. There has been much intermarrying over the centuries between them and the people of southern Wales, and the Celtic colouring has predominated over that of the Saxon. One man, the smaller of the two, was obviously the elder, and I guessed him to have something more than thirty summers. The younger was probably about my age. I suspected that they were Ned and Rob, the Alderman’s menservants.

‘It’s no good looking for your victuals yet awhile,’ Marjorie scolded them. ‘I’m late as it is, and Master William come for his supper, and no warning. Out of my way, you great oafs! Sit by the fire, with the chapman.’

The older man shrugged and muttered, ‘I’ll be back later,’ making his way once more into the garden, where the storm had blown itself out, stopping as suddenly as it had started. The sun had reappeared from behind the clouds, and I could sniff the sweet-smelling herbs and grasses. The younger man, however, did as he was bidden and came to sit by me, dragging another stool, covered with the same green and red cloth, out of its corner.

He nodded briefly, regarding me askance, as though uncertain as to what I was doing there.

‘My name’s Roger, ‘ I said, offering my hand.

‘Ned Stoner,’ he grunted, squeezing my fingers until the bones cracked.

So this was the young man who had returned to Crooked Lane to find Clement Weaver missing; vanished from the face of the earth as though he had never been. I took covert stock of him and liked what I saw. He was somewhat slovenly in his general appearance; there were grease and food stains down the front of his jerkin, a tear in the left knee of his thick woollen hose and his leather shoes were scuffed and dusty. But he had an honest, open face and a particularly friendly smile, which tended every now and then to broaden into what I can only describe as a joyous grin. He obviously loved life and I could no more have suspected him of harming a hair of anyone’s head than I could have suspected myself. He knew nothing about his young master’s disappearance, I decided.

An arbitrary decision, you might say, and you’d be right. But you have to remember that I was green in those days; a callow youth who knew nothing about the world, but thought he knew everything. In the long years between then and now, I’ve learned more than once that you can’t judge a book by its cover.

Alison reappeared in the kitchen doorway.

‘It’s no good looking for food on the table yet, ‘ Marjorie snapped at her, putting a pan of plovers’ eggs on the fire to boil. ‘I can’t work miracles.’

The girl ignored her and crooked a finger at me. ‘My father wants to see you.’

There was an astonished silence, while the three of us, the housekeeper, Ned and myself, gaped at her stupidly. It was Marjorie who found her tongue first. ‘Why would the Alderman want to see a chapman?’

Alison raised eyebrows which I noticed, for the first time, had been inexpertly plucked in order to emulate the almost non-existent eyebrows of great and fashionable ladies. ‘If that were your business, Marjorie, I’d tell you.’ She looked at me. ‘Well,’ she asked impatiently, ‘are you coming?’

I rose to my feet, glancing apologetically at the housekeeper, and smoothed down my shabby doublet with awkward hands. I had considered the possibility that the Alderman would rescind his daughter’s promise of a night’s free lodging, but not that he would wish to do so face to face. After all, it was not I who had broken the rules of his household.

I followed Alison into the hall, off which parlour, kitchen and buttery all opened. In spite of my trepidation, I noticed that although the windows giving on to Broad Street had wooden shutters below, the top halves were made of glass. Nowadays we think far less of glass in private houses, but it was quite a new thing in England then, and very expensive. The Alderman was plainly a man of substance. The doorposts and ends of the roof-beams had birds and faces and flowers carved on them, and were painted red and gold. There was a big, equally ornate cupboard in one corner, in which the family silver and pewter were displayed, and two carved armchairs one on each side of the fireplace. The Alderman was seated in the larger of these, his future son-in-law in the other.

Alderman Weaver was a florid, thickset man with eyes the same green-flecked hazel as his daughter’s, and dark hair already going thin on top. He wore it in a style long gone out of fashion, cropped short above his ears, with a few strands plastered carefully across his pinkly shining pate. His long, fur-trimmed gown was also of a previous age, with a hood attached to it, as had been fashionable earlier in the century. I say this with hindsight, you understand. I had been too short a time out in the world to understand then what was modish.

Mind you, I had a pretty good notion when I looked at Alison Weaver’s betrothed. William Burnett’s auburn hair hung to his shoulders, with a thick fringe cut so low across his eyes that he could barely see. His smooth-skinned face was clean-shaven, a fact which immediately made me conscious of my own day-old stubble of beard, and his fiercely padded doublet, half purple, half red, with its narrow belted waist, was indecently short, revealing a codpiece decorated with tassels. But the chief point of focus was his shoes, made of soft scarlet leather and with toes so long that they had to be fastened with thin gold chains around his knees. These toe-pieces were known as pikes and made walking difficult. A few years earlier, a papal Bull had limited pikes to two inches in length, on pain of a papal cursing. But English cordwainers had ignored this edict on the grounds that ‘the Pope’s curse would not hurt a fly’, and continued to make shoes in this fantastical fashion.

I could hear the Alderman’s voice as I emerged from the kitchen.

‘If King Edward wins the coming struggle, there will be fines levied, and they’ll be heavy. I warned the rest of the Council against letting the Frenchwoman into the city, but they wouldn’t listen. Some of the burgesses have always been for the house of Lancaster. A grave mistake, in my view, to take sides openly. There have been too many swings of the pendulum, these past few years, to be free with one’s opinions. Wait and see, is my motto, and a sound one. We could have made some excuse to bar the gates. Plague always offers a valid reason. They won’t make the same foolish mistake at Gloucester, you mark my words. Up there, they have a strong sense of self- preservation.’