The Fabric of Murder (Mysteries of Georgian Norfolk Book 2)

I
t was
Mr. Ashmole Foxe’s invariable habit to take his breakfast at nine in the morning. He liked a substantial meal with fresh rolls, toast, cake, preserves and hot chocolate. Then, each day except Sunday, he left his house, promptly at ten, to walk to The Swan Coffee House below the marketplace. There he would occupy his usual place at a table in the corner and pick up the latest edition of the morning newspaper. Thus he would acquaint himself with whatever was happening in Norwich and the world beyond. Finally, he would turn the pages to find the advertisements placed by the many other booksellers in the city. He was always interested to see what each might be offering.

Norwich had many coffee houses. The Swan occupied a building from the time of Queen Elizabeth. Though it was spacious and the coffee was good, it was never noisy, as some were, filled with disputes and arguments. People here sat at their regular tables, met the friends they met yesterday and talked of habitual subjects in quiet voices. A raised arm was sufficient to call a waiter. The chairs were comfortable and the room warm, even in winter. It was not unusual to see that one or two of the older denizens had fallen asleep over their newspapers.

There was no doubt that Mr. Foxe was a bookseller. What manner of bookseller was harder to define. His shop, on the ground floor of the building where he lived, was open for business only on one or two afternoons. A casual visitor would find the shelves within stocked mostly with books of an ordinary sort. Taken all together, they might be worth fifteen or twenty pounds. Probably less.

Yet Mr. Foxe dressed like a gentleman. He kept five servants – a housekeeper, who also did his cooking, a housemaid, Molly, his manservant, Alfred Horsfall, plus a scullery maid and a chambermaid for cleaning. He occupied the whole of the building above and behind the shop. It was even rumoured that he owned the premises.

How could a mere bookseller live in such luxury? Especially one who seemed to sell so few books?

Men such as Mr. Foxe attract gossip. If it was wide of the mark, that was largely because the man himself did not offer to explain. From time to time, someone would come to the shop door of a morning, knock and be admitted at once. Since that someone would be a person of substance, it was widely believed that Mr. Foxe sold pornographic literature to the gentry. And if this was untrue – as indeed it was – Mr. Foxe made no effort to set the record straight.

That was how it was each morning, save only Sunday. Mr. Foxe left his house, sat for an hour or more in the coffee house, then took a turn along Gentleman’s Walk and around the marketplace. On his way, he bowed or raised his hat to the many persons he knew, sometimes stopping to speak, though rarely for long. His walk would take him less than an hour, then he would return home to attend to business in his shop. Yet even that appeared to occupy little enough of his time, for the shop was rarely open to casual browsers for more than an hour or so in the afternoon. What he did with the rest of the day was a mystery. On Sundays he rarely left his house, for he was not a churchgoer and thus had little need to rouse himself. He might go out when the day had warmed enough to make walking in one of the city’s gardens a pleasure. He might not be seen at all.

A quiet man, his friends said. A man with secrets, others countered. A man on the easiest of terms with everyone who mattered in the city, but on what basis no one quite knew. If he was rich, he didn’t show it. If he was a person of influence, none knew whence that influence came. No mere bookseller, then. But what else he might be was so much a mystery that most simply accepted the enigma that was Ashmole Foxe and turned their attention to other matters.

The day when these events began was a Wednesday. A cool, blustery day when broad patches of blue sky betokened spring, but the wind itself remained wintry. During the night, it had rained a good deal, an event which pleased Mr. Foxe. His house, not far from St. Peter Mancroft Church, lay on the long slope down to the huge cathedral and the river beyond. The streets in this great city of Norwich resembled those in London itself, foul with mud, ordure and horse droppings. But today, the rain had washed much of this down the hill. That allowed Foxe to step out boldly. Since his shoes were expensive, he had no wish to cover them with mud if it could be avoided.

The events themselves began with a simple message. Since Foxe had left the coffee house and was making his way towards the marketplace, he must have received it sometime after eleven o'clock.

Feeling someone tug at his sleeve, Foxe looked down and saw an ill-dressed urchin with an uncommonly dirty face. The boy beckoned him to bend closer. Then he delivered his message in something between normal speech and a hoarse whisper. Since Foxe was above average height, and the urchin very small, this bending occasioned him some difficulty. Still he contrived to smile as he did it, hoping thus to reassure the diminutive person. Alfred often used young Charlie Dillon to carry messages. Foxe suspected the lad was tougher than he looked, but he had found kindness was often repaid in unexpected ways.

‘Begging your pardon, Mr. Foxe, sir. Alfred do say as how you should come home directly. You has a visitor, he do say, and such as you will want to see right away.’

Straightening with some relief, Foxe took a penny from his purse. By now a grubby palm was already stretched out to receive it. Then, as the boy ran off, well pleased with his reward, Foxe turned towards St. Peter’s Church and his home.

‘It’s Alderman Halloran. I put him in the parlour.’ Alfred had let Foxe in through the shop door and was now speaking softly so that he should not be heard in the house beyond. Foxe nodded his head in response. It was no surprise that Alfred had summoned him at once. Alderman Benjamin Halloran was an important man in Norwich, a rich merchant, and one of Mr. Fox's best customers. It would not do to keep him waiting.

Foxe paused in the hallway to use the mirror. He straightened his wig slightly and checked that his stock was tied neatly. He liked to appear well-dressed when he could, as he liked to do all else well.

‘Good morning, alderman. My apologies that I was not here to greet you. Have you been offered refreshments?’

The alderman showed the glass of punch he was holding. His solid frame, distinct paunch and rich attire marked him out at once for one of the wealthiest yarn merchants in a city renowned for its trade in fine worsted cloth.

‘Morning, Foxe. I should apologise for coming unannounced. Alfred looked after me, as he always does. I've come straight here from talking with the mayor and some of my colleagues. We've got a difficult problem and your name came up.’

Foxe merely nodded. ’Will you take a seat, sir? I've a feeling you have a story to tell me.’

They sat either side of the fireplace. Foxe occupied his chair neatly, with his feet on the floor side-by-side. Alderman Halloran sprawled in his chair and stretched his legs out towards the hearth, though there was no fire at this time of year. His face was flushed and they were beads of dampness above his eyes. It must be a serious matter for him to have hastened so much.

‘There's been a murder. Master Daniel Bonneviot. His family came from the Low Countries nigh on 150 years ago, but the name has stuck. Normally we let the family sort out finding the killer, but this Bonneviot was important. Important to the city, I mean. Besides, his wife is said to be something of a ninny and his only son has gone heaven knows where.’

Foxe waited.

‘Damned fine workers, the Huguenots. Sober, industrious, highly skilled. They brought a great deal to this city. Of course, nearly all the present generation were born here. Still, they’ve generally kept to their forefathers’ trade.’

‘Weavers,’ Foxe said.

‘That's right. Calvinists, most of them. Prickly too.’

‘I seem to recall …’ But Alderman Halloran wasn't listening.

‘Much better than being Papists! I hope we’ll be free of their kind now. Was it less than twenty years ago … yes, 1745 …’ He was losing the thread of his story.

‘The murder?’

The alderman shook himself. ‘An important man, as I said. He’d done well. Bonneviot employed thirty or so weavers as out-workers. Worsted and damask. I’ve sold him yarns, on and off.’

‘What was his secret?’

‘Bonneviot was a hard man. He’d had to make his own way from weaver to employer. He had no time for those who wouldn’t work as hard as he did.’

Now things were becoming clearer. Mr. Daniel Bonneviot was, it seemed, a noted master weaver in Norwich, who had done well for himself. Not quite one of the elite of the city – yet – but a rising star. Describing an employer as a hard man generally meant he demanded more than his workers wanted to give. A bully? Cruel to any who couldn’t keep up?

Foxe didn't speak. Instead, he closed his eyes for a moment, then reopened them. Why come to him? The weavers formed their own community. It would be hard for any outsider to get them to talk.

’No one is quite sure who will take over the business. Maybe his son – he only has the one – maybe not. He and his father rarely saw eye-to-eye. He doesn’t even live in the city, so far as I know.’

‘How did he make his money. Bonneviot, I mean?’’

‘Norwich produces the finest worsted cloth in Britain. That makes us the ones to beat. We’ve plenty of competitors elsewhere and many are turning to new-fangled machinery to let them undercut our prices. Most of it’s water-powered, so Norfolk isn’t suitable for these manufactories, as they call them.’

‘So they’ll take our business?’

‘If we let ‘em! They can’t come close to us in quality at present, but it’s not every buyer who cares about that. Men like Bonneviot are vital. He employed a good many people. He cut costs harder than anyone and kept his trade when others lost theirs. And he had no time for all the restrictive working practices left over from the past.’

‘None of which would make him popular.’

‘There’s the problem. This city is notorious for hotheads raising the rabble. The future for cloth trade is very uncertain, what with problems at home and wars abroad. Some have already lost their employment. More will follow them, if our weavers, dyers and other outworkers cling so stubbornly to their old ways. The fools blame anything and everyone else for taking their work. They never look at themselves. We’re always sending constables in to break up various strikes and disturbances.’

The alderman drank all the rest of his punch in a single gulp. Foxe discreetly rose to fill his glass again, before returning to his seat.

‘We can't afford to have problems like this now,’ Alderman Halloran continued. ‘Very bad for our trade in fine cloth. Very bad for the city. That's why the mayor sent me here. So far we’re holding our own, but …’

‘How may I assist His Worship?’

‘This isn't a job for the constables. They’re only fit to deal with vagabonds, whores, pickpockets and the like. We thought of asking someone to come from Bow Street in London, but they’d be far too conspicuous and none of the locals would speak to them anyway. Then your name came up.’

Foxe hadn't tasted his punch. Now he picked up the glass and took a delicate sip. Alfred had mixed it carefully and it tasted delicious.

‘The job you did for us before was outstanding. I know this one will be tough but you’re our best hope. We all agreed on that.’

What he meant was their last hope.

‘Will you take it on? Will you help us as you have done before?’

Foxe waited for a few moments, then nodded. ‘Please tell His Worship that I will do my best. I cannot, of course, guarantee success …’

‘Good fellow!’ The older man struggled to his feet, but as he turned towards the door, he paused.

‘I don't suppose you've got anything for me? It's been a while …’

’At the moment, sir, I have not. However, I am conducting some delicate negotiations with a gentleman of great discernment who has temporally fallen on hard times due to gambling debts. It may be that in a few weeks …’

‘Bear me in mind then. You know the kind of thing I like. We've done good business before, Foxe, as you know.’

‘Indeed, Mr. Alderman. As I hope we will again. I will call Alfred to escort you out. I presume you came in via the shop?’

‘Of course, Foxe. I know your habits.’

‘Then Alfred will take you out that way. I will be in touch with you as soon as I have anything to report to the mayor.’

‘Make it soon, Foxe, if you can. This situation could become very serious.’

‘I will try, sir. Alfred, show the alderman out through the shop. A very good day to you, sir, and please give His Honour The Mayor my most sincere compliments.’

‘Good day to you too, Foxe. Soon, remember! Both on the city’s business and mine.’