The Weaver's Inheritance (6 page)

According to my mother-in-law, who had it from her father, the Flemings who settled in Bristol had given a great boost to the city’s flagging wool trade, so that Bristol’s red cloth soon became famous not only throughout the land, but on the Continent, as well. This fact, however, had not made them any more popular, and their progeny were still regarded with a certain amount of suspicion and dislike. Those who lived retired, like Imelda Bracegirdle, would inevitably incur more than their fair share of hostility from inquisitive neighbours.

I went out into Lewin’s Mead, once an open meadow but which was now gradually being built over as the town’s population steadily increased. (It was no longer possible for everyone to live within the safety of the city walls, as was witnessed to by the number of houses already climbing up the sides of the encircling hills.) Across from where I stood and a little to my right, I noted a great deal of activity around one of the cottages, much tramping to and fro and in and out, and people busily conferring with each other. A Brother from the Priory, his black Benedictine habit flapping about his ankles, was running agitatedly from one person to the next, and it was all I could do to stop myself from going over to join them. But it was not my business; God had not called upon me to intervene here. (Or to poke my nose in, which would, I suppose, be a more honest way of putting it.) So, reluctantly, I turned to my left and proceeded westwards along the northern bank of the Frome.

It was only then that I paused to wonder why I had not turned left after passing under Saint John’s Archway, and walked along the river’s southern bank. Why had I bothered to cross it at all? The answer, of course, was simple. Because I had wished to see the site of last night’s murder. My natural curiosity would not let me rest until I had done so – but did this also mean that God was directing my feet? I was still pondering the question an hour or so later when I said goodbye to the crew of the only ship I had visited that morning, and strolled down the gangplank on to the quay.

My pack was still half-empty, for as ill-luck would have it, most of the vessels moored along the Frome that day were carrying fish; a cargo of dried cod, or stockfish as the locals call it, from Iceland, and from Ireland two more of salted herrings. I had, however, managed to find one merchantman with a lading of caps, combs, silks and suchlike, but the Master was a cautious fellow, prepared to sell only a very few of his employer’s goods for fear of being found out and losing his position. I sighed. I should be forced to go to the market after all and pay higher prices, which meant that my profit would be less.

I walked back the way I had come. When I reached the Frome Gate, I saw that only a solitary Sheriff’s Officer now remained on guard outside Imelda Bracegirdle’s cottage. On impulse, I went across and spoke to him.

‘Do you know who killed her?’ I asked.

The man, red-haired with bright blue eyes, slowly shook his head.

‘Nor never will, I don’t suppose. A chance thief, hoping to find some secret store of money, is as good a bet as a person with a grudge against her.’

The house was like my mother-in-law’s, one-roomed, one-storeyed with a single door and window facing on to the track which ran past it. I said, ‘No one forced his way in. Neither door nor window is broken. Therefore, whoever killed her was known to Mistress Bracegirdle. She must have invited her murderer inside.’

The man’s face assumed a look which boded me no good. ‘You think yourself a clever sod, and no mistake. Why don’t you just push off and mind your own business?’

‘There’s no need for that,’ I protested in an injured voice. ‘I’m only trying to be helpful; making you free of my observations.’ A thought struck me. ‘Do you know what’s going to happen to the cottage?’

The Sheriff’s Officer eyed me with distaste, not without good reason.

‘You don’t miss an opportunity, do you?’ he sneered. ‘And Mistress Bracegirdle not yet laid to rest in her grave.’

‘I don’t ask for myself,’ I assured him hastily, ‘but for an impoverished widow and her little son who have just returned to Bristol after seven years in Hereford…’

Before I could explain further, the guard interrupted me, his blue eyes suddenly widening with pleasure.

‘Adela Woodward! Is that who you mean? She married a Hereford man – I forget his name. Is it her? Is she back at last, then?’

‘Adela Juett,’ I said, ‘cousin in some degree or another to my mother-in-law, Margaret Walker. Yes, I believe her name was Woodward before her marriage.’

‘Well!’ The round face beneath the red hair beamed with delight. ‘Tell her Richard Manifold was asking after her. She’ll remember me, I don’t doubt.’

I promised most earnestly to pass on his message, and then returned to the subject of the empty cottage without any further resentment on the part of my companion.

‘Best go to the Priory and ask,’ he advised, adding, ‘they’ve carried the body there already.’

At these words, I hesitated, not hurrying away as Richard Manifold seemed to expect.

‘In that case,’ I said persuasively, ‘might I just go in for a moment or two and look around?’

I could see from his expression that he was about to warn me off, but then he recollected that I was to be the bearer and interpreter of his good wishes to Adela Juett, and thought better of it.

‘Very well,’ he grudgingly agreed, ‘but only for a minute. Leave the door ajar and if you hear me whistle, come straight out. It’ll mean someone’s coming. Though why you want to look inside beats me. There’s nothing to see. Nothing out of the ordinary, that is.’

I thanked him and, after glancing round to make sure that I was not observed by any passer-by, I pushed open the door and went inside.

*   *   *

My informant was right: there was nothing to see beyond the normal paraphernalia of everyday living. The rushes on the floor were several days old, but not yet in urgent need of replacement. When the fire was lit, the smoke rose straight up through a hole in the roof, which, like most of those in Bristol, was tiled with slates. The cottage walls were made of wood and plaster. A bed, covered with a quilt of faded and badly rubbed amber velvet, occupied one wall of the room and appeared not to have been slept in. A stool, a table, a chair and a corner cupboard which held the dead woman’s few possessions, made up the remainder of the furniture, except for a carved wooden chest standing beneath the window. This latter, on inspection, proved to be disappointingly empty, but the pot suspended from the crane arm, over the burnt-out ashes on the hearth, was still half-f of what smelled like mutton stew, a crust of congealed fat covering the surface. A clean wooden bowl and spoon were laid out on the table. There seemed to have been no disturbance of any kind, no struggle or scuffle, confirming me in my belief that Imelda Bracegirdle had known her attacker and had felt in no danger from him or her. My guess, therefore, was that she had been strangled suddenly, from behind, with no prior warning.

I said as much to Richard Manifold when I rejoined him outside, but he shrugged and said no doubt his Sergeant had already noted all these things and that they would be included in his report to the Sheriff. As for himself, he held by his opinion that Mistress Bracegirdle had been killed by a thief who was after her money.

‘For you must know,’ he added, ‘that the gossip along the Mead is that she had a secret hoard of gold hidden somewhere in the cottage.’

‘Then why didn’t the murderer turn the room upside down to look for it?’

But Richard Manifold had his answer ready. ‘Maybe it wasn’t difficult to find. Maybe she kept it in that chest under the window.’

‘And how did the killer get in without forcing an entrance?’

Again, he was ready for me. ‘Mistress Bracegirdle had gone to bed and forgotten to bolt the door…’

‘She hadn’t gone to bed. The bed hasn’t been slept in. Moreover, her supper is still in the pot over the fire, uneaten. Not even tasted. The spoon and bowl on the table are clean.’

‘Very well! She hadn’t gone to bed.’ My companion was desperately trying to control his temper. ‘She was still sitting over the fire but had forgotten to lock the door. Our murderer crept in, strangled her and took the money from the chest. It would be the first place to look, now wouldn’t it? And if he found it there, there’d be no need to go ransacking the cottage.’

He hadn’t convinced me, but I had to admit that his version of events was plausible enough. It was known that some thieves tried the latches of houses at night on the offchance that a few doors might be left unbolted. I recollected seeing our own latch being lifted on one occasion, when I happened to wake up in the middle of the night. (I scared my mother-in-law half to death by leaping out of bed, yelling at the top of my voice, in order to frighten away the would-be intruder.) So I sighed and conceded the argument.

‘You’re probably right. I’ll be off to the Priory then, to see about the cottage.’

Richard Manifold nodded smugly. ‘You do that. Ask for Brother Elmer. And in future, stick to the thing you’re good at. Peddling.’

I gritted my teeth, but made no answer.

*   *   *

The Priory of Saint James had been founded as a cell of Tewkesbury Abbey, but at some time in the distant past, an agreement had been reached between the then Abbot and the local people that the nave should be maintained by the parishioners and used for parochial purposes. This morning it had been taken over by the Sheriff and his men in order to hold a brief, preliminary inquest into Imelda Bracegirdle’s murder. I wondered whether or not to go in and make them free of my thoughts on the subject. Then I told myself not to be a fool, and went instead in search of Brother Elmer.

The January morning was less overcast than it had been earlier, the threat of rain and sleet receding, but it was still extremely cold and the trees of the orchard stood like skeletons against the skyline. I found Brother Elmer at last, after enquiries at both the brewery and the bakehouse directed me thither; he was closeted with Father Prior, and so I was able to make my request on Adela’s behalf to the highest authority. I was promised that the matter would be raised at the following day’s Chapter meeting, and with that I had to be content. There would also be, as Brother Elmer pointed out to me, other equally deserving cases to be considered, but the claim of Adela Juett would be borne in mind.

‘Do you have any idea by whom, or why, Mistress Bracegirdle was murdered?’ I asked as I turned to go.

‘Oh, a chance thief, undoubtedly,’ replied Brother Elmer, ‘who took advantage of an unbolted door. The Sheriff is convinced of it.’ He glanced for confirmation at Father Prior, who inclined his venerable head. ‘There were always stories that Imelda had a secret hoard of money, though alas, poor soul, I think it most unlikely. But a thief, abroad after dark and who had heard the rumours, finding her door unlocked could have thought it worth the risk, and a sudden evil impulse prompted him to kill her. Or perhaps a man desperate for money, to repay an urgent debt.’

I knew now where Richard Manifold got his version of events, for it seemed to be the Sheriff’s version, too. I was half-inclined to pay this worthy a visit and tell him about the scream heard by Adela Juett, with the added information that it had still been only dusk at the time. But what good would it do? The Sheriff already seemed to have decided what had happened, and Adela would not thank me for dragging her into the clutches of the law. Besides, what proof did I have that the scream had been uttered by Imelda Bracegirdle? Neither the Porter nor I could confirm Adela’s story. I decided therefore to go about my business and not interfere. With a sigh of relief, I hitched up my pack and bade Father Prior and Brother Elmer good-day.

*   *   *

It was nearly suppertime when I returned to the Frome Gate, and my pack was once again almost empty.

On leaving the Priory, I had decided to visit those remote homesteads and dwellings on the heights above the city, and had walked as far as the great gorge cut between the rocks by the River Avon as it ebbs and flows between Bristol and that narrow sea which divides us Westcountrymen from the wilder shores of Wales. I had done well, parting with such wares as I had for a purseful of money, and I hoped that my mother-in-law would be pleased; for I should need all the goodwill I could muster when she discovered that I had done my best to obtain the tenancy of Imelda Bracegirdle’s cottage for Adela, and so thwart her plans for keeping us both beneath the same roof. I felt a little guilty when I thought of my daughter, for Elizabeth was certainly enjoying Nicholas’s company, but she had not yet had sufficient time to grow used to it, and would no doubt soon recover from his loss.

As I entered the Frome Gate, I glanced back towards the empty cottage, where it now stood shuttered and silent. Richard Manifold had vanished, relieved of his guard, and there was no longer anyone or anything to single it out from its neighbours. Adela could make herself and her son comfortable there, I reflected, provided that what had happened did not give her a distaste for the place. But I did not think that likely. She was a sensible woman, not easily given to panic, and I sent up a short prayer that the Prior and his monks would favour her claim above the others.

Shops were beginning to close for the night, stall- and booth-holders locking their goods away until morning. The central drain was choked with meat and fish offal, although not so much as in the summer months, and the stench was correspondingly less. I was looking forward to my supper, for it was some hours since I had last eaten; a collop of salted bacon between two slices of black bread given me by an elderly woman to whom I had sold some needles. I recollected that Adela was to do the cooking today and wondered what she would put on the table.

As I pushed open the door of my mother-in-law’s cottage, a warm, savoury smell stole out to greet me, making my mouth water. But I was also aware that the room was even more crowded than when I had left it early that morning. A woman was seated in our only good chair, a man standing behind her, drumming his fingers impatiently against its back.