The Weaver's Inheritance (9 page)

‘He has always been very fond of me,’ she gulped, ‘but this evil impostor whispers in his ear and poisons his mind against us. My father insists that he will not reinstate my name in his will unless William makes an abject,
written
apology to be presented on his knees, in the presence of all who overheard what was said – meaning, of course, the servants. But that is too much to ask of him. I will not, cannot, let him do it. I won’t allow my husband to be humiliated in such a fashion.’

The conditions did seem harsh, and I could understand the reluctance of both the Burnetts to comply with them, especially as William was a wealthy man in his own right and could live comfortably for the rest of his days without having to crawl to his father-in-law for money. All the same, a fortune was a fortune; and one as large as Alderman Weaver’s was not to be relinquished without a fight, particularly into the hands of an impostor (if that was indeed the truth of the matter).

‘Mistress Burnett,’ I said, ‘if this man is not your brother, he must, as you point out, have been primed by an accomplice concerning everything to do with Clement’s past life, with the exception of the last six years. I had already reached this conclusion for myself, because when my mother-in-law told me what had happened – I was absent from Bristol for the first few weeks of this month – I naturally felt a great personal interest in the story and thought about it very carefully. So, who would know your family well enough not only to recognize this man’s uncanny resemblance to your brother, but also to be able to instruct him in all the details of its history?’

Alison turned her chair a little more towards the fire and again held her delicate hands towards its warmth. ‘The most probable suspects are my Uncle John and his wife, Aunt Alice, who, as you doubtless remember, live in London. Then there are their children, my cousins George and Edmund. Both the boys are married now, and live with their respective wives in the ward of Farringdon Without, not far from their parents.’

‘Your Uncle John is your father’s brother.’

I had never seen John Weaver in person, but I had met Dame Alice, together with the elder son, George, and his wife, Bridget, during those weeks in London, six years earlier, when I had been trying to find out what had become of Clement. (At that time, as I recalled, Edmund had been unmarried and still living at home.) Alison had been fond of her kinsfolk in those days, and had stayed with her aunt and uncle whenever she had visited the capital. I asked her what had happened in the meantime to make her change her mind about them.

She shrugged. ‘Nothing. I’m still fond of them – until I have reason to feel otherwise. But my uncle, although well enough to do, has never amassed as much money as my father. He thought that by going to London all those years ago, he would make his fortune, while his stay-at-home, older brother wouldn’t thrive. I know it has always irked him that my father has done so much better than himself.’

‘Has he said so?’

‘Not directly. At least, not to me. Of course, he wouldn’t. But you know how it is: you can sense these things. In recent years – whenever he and Aunt Alice have visited Broad Street, or when we have stayed in Farringdon Without – his attitude towards my father has been less open and friendly. He frequently makes snide remarks on the subject of my father’s wealth, as though the thought of all that money angers him. On the occasions when either Father or I have taken exception to these remarks, my uncle just laughs and claims that they are only a bit of fun. “Can’t you take a joke?” he asks. But they’re not really jokes; there’s something bitter and twisted behind them.’ She added rather sadly, ‘The two families don’t see each other as much as they used to.’

‘And your cousins, George and Edmund, do they also feel this resentment towards your father?’

‘I’m afraid so. They have always been easily influenced by Uncle John. When William and I went on a visit to London two years ago, we both noticed how distant and cold the boys had become. I haven’t seen either of them since.’

I moved my chair a little closer to the fire as the air in the room began to strike chill. ‘What about their wives?’ I asked. ‘Is either of them the sort who would aid and abet her husband in a deception such as the one that we’re suggesting?’

‘Bridget would,’ Alison said, nodding her head decisively. ‘That’s George’s wife. She’s the kind of person who loves money, not to spend, but to hoard. I’m sure that just knowing it’s there, piling up under the floorboards or wherever they keep it, gives her a glow of satisfaction. She’s parsimonious when she has no need to be.’

I still remembered, six years on, the sallop, the ‘poor man’s beer’ made from wild arum, which Bridget had served me instead of decent ale, and thought that Alison was probably right. ‘What about Edmund’s wife?’ I asked.

My hostess gave a dry laugh that degenerated into a cough. ‘Lucy is exactly the opposite, as big a spendthrift as Bridget is a miser, and consequently they despise one another. Lucy gets rid of Edmund’s money as fast as he can make it. She’s so pretty that she can wind him round her little finger, and the poor fool’s so besotted, so proud to have her on his arm when they go out together, that he’s afraid even to remonstrate with her.’

I stared thoughtfully into the fire, watching a tiny green flame which flickered like a will-o’-the-wisp at the heart of the inferno. Of the six people named by Alison, only Lucy could not possibly have been the instigator of the deception (if deception it was) because six years previously she had not been a member of the Weaver family, and therefore could not have known her husband’s cousin, Clement. But any one of the other five might have had a chance encounter with someone who bore him a strong resemblance and recognized the possibilities; although whether or not Dame Alice would have done so, I was unable to decide. My recollection of her was of a stout, pleasant-faced, easily flustered woman of poor intelligence, deferential to the opinions of others and having very few of her own.

After a brief silence, I asked, ‘Is there anyone else you can think of who might feel entitled to a slice of your father’s fortune, and have the wits to see a way of getting it if he or she met your brother’s double?’

Alison gave an uncertain smile. ‘I suppose almost anyone who is familiar with us.’

‘No. It has to be someone who knows your family history intimately – more intimately, at least, than a mere friend or acquaintance. How long have Rob Short and Ned Stoner been in the Alderman’s employ?’

‘In Ned’s case, only a year or so before Clement disappeared, and Rob perhaps a twelvemonth longer. I can’t really remember, but they certainly weren’t members of the household when Clement and I were young.’ Alison frowned suddenly. ‘But I’m forgetting Baldwin Lightfoot.’ When I raised my eyebrows, she went on, ‘He’s a cousin of my mother’s. They were the children of sisters, and I think Baldwin has always resented the fact that it was his aunt, and not his mother, who married into the de Courcy family. I remember him saying to me once, when I was a child, that if he’d been a de Courcy instead of a Lightfoot, he wouldn’t have married beneath him. “But I’ve no doubt,” he said, “it was for the money.” I was too young at the time to realize that he was talking about my parents, but I never liked him after that. Instinct again, I suppose. I could tell that he despised my father as a common man who had made a fortune out of trade.’

I was intrigued by this Baldwin Lightfoot. ‘Where does he live?’ I asked. ‘Here, in Bristol?’

Alison shook her head. ‘No, in Keyford, near Frome.’

My heart lurched in my chest, and immediately a face swam before my eyes; the most beautiful face in the world. Eyes the colour of periwinkles, hair the shade of ripe corn, skin as flawless as a peach, lips as red as cherries … I pulled myself up short. Surely no woman in the world was as perfect as that! What in heaven’s name was the matter with me? Rowena Honeyman had me bewitched. I turned back to my companion.

‘Is anything wrong?’ she asked. ‘You look so strange.’

I managed a smile. ‘It’s just that I know someone who lives in Keyford,’ I answered lamely. ‘Tell me more about this Baldwin Lightfoot.’

Alison grimaced. ‘There’s little to tell. He’s a bachelor, some fifty and more years of age. He has property in Keyford, inherited from his father.’

‘Does he ever go to London? Would he have had the opportunity to meet this man who calls himself your brother? Would he have recognized a likeness to Clement?’

Alison bit her lip. Her tone of voice when speaking of Baldwin made it obvious to me that she disliked her mother’s cousin. All the same, she wished to be fair.

‘In answer to your last question, probably not,’ she admitted at length. ‘It’s a number of years now since he last set eyes on Clement, although in our youth, we saw Baldwin often. As for your other queries, I can only say that he used to visit a kinsman of his father who lived close by Saint Paul’s churchyard, but whether or not he still does so, I have no notion. If he does, however, then he might have had the opportunity. But that is for you to find out. It is, after all, what you will be paid for.’

‘This Baldwin Lightfoot,’ I persisted, ‘would he know enough about you, your brother and parents to be able to prime a complete stranger with all those little customs and rituals which are peculiar to every family, but known only to its members?’

The hazel eyes, with their strange green flecks, again met mine, and Alison laughed scornfully. ‘He’d know enough. But you still don’t understand, do you, Chapman? But then why should you? You haven’t yet met the creature claiming to be my brother! Whenever he’s challenged with some awkward question to which he doesn’t know the answer, whenever he makes an error, he blames it on his loss of memory. “The past six years have taken their toll of me,” he says. “I’ve been ill, and I’m still not completely well yet.” And he clutches his brow and complains of pains in his head and looks piteously at my father, who roars at everyone to leave the boy alone. So you see, the gaps in Baldwin Lightfoot’s knowledge, were he the instigator of this plot, wouldn’t really matter.’

‘I see.’ I stared thoughtfully at her. ‘Mistress Burnett,’ I said at last, ‘I’ll try to find out as much as I can within the next few days. But if I am to discover all the truth, I must travel not only to Keyford, but to London, also, and such journeys will now have to wait until spring. The worst of the winter weather is yet to come, and will soon be upon us. There are obligations which must keep me at home, for a while at least; obligations to my mother-in-law and her kinswoman, Mistress Juett, whom you met yesterday, to Mistress Juett’s son and also to my little daughter. In which case, it might possibly be high summer before I am able to offer a solution to your troubles. Even then, I may fail. I can’t promise you an answer. In these circumstances, do you still wish me to pursue my investigations?’

She frowned. ‘Must they take so long?’

‘It’s probable. Will the state of the Alderman’s health allow him to survive the colder months, do you think?’

Alison continued to look worried, but after a little consideration, she nodded. ‘I think it more than likely. My father seems to have been given a new lease of life since the arrival of this impostor. At Christmas, I was convinced he could not be long for this world, although William thought I was being unduly pessimistic. He considers my father good for several years yet, and now I am inclined to agree with him.’

‘Are you then not afraid,’ I suggested, ‘that it might hasten your father’s end should it be proved that this young man, in whom he places so much trust and who seems to be so necessary to his well-being, is really a villain?’

Something akin to eagerness leapt into my companion’s eyes, before they were veiled by decorously lowered lids. ‘I don’t think that’s likely to happen,’ she said, now arguing against herself. ‘My father is tougher than you think. He’s had to be, to weather the tragedies and disappointments of his life, and also to make himself one of the richest men in Bristol.’ She stood up rather abruptly, indicating that our meeting was at an end. ‘You’ll let me know how you go on, Master Chapman. I wish to be kept informed of anything you may discover. Are you in need of money?’

I had risen with Alison, and bowed over her proffered hand. ‘I shall render my account when I have an answer to this riddle, and only so long as I am able to reach a firm conclusion. If I am unable to do so, I shall waive my fee. But if I do have the answer, you will pay me regardless of the outcome. That is our bargain.’

‘Very well,’ she agreed, after the briefest of hesitations, adding, ‘what will you do now?’

I had not given the matter much thought, but inspiration struck even while Alison was speaking. ‘I shall return to my mother-in-law’s cottage to fetch my pack, and then I shall call on Dame Pernelle in Broad Street. There must be something she, or one of the maids perhaps, could usefully buy from a chapman. And while there, I shall try to discover the general feelings of the household with regard to this man calling himself Clement Weaver. I might also, if luck favours me, manage to have a word with Ned Stoner and Rob Short, both of whom are old acquaintances.’

Alison nodded her approval and rang the little silver bell which stood on a table beside her chair. A servant answered the summons and, two minutes later, I was standing outside the house, thankful that William Burnett had not reappeared.

Chapter Seven

I approached Alderman Weaver’s house in Broad Street from the back, through the garden gate that opened into Tower Lane.

The garden itself, after I had lifted the latch and entered, was much as I remembered it, except that the apple and pear trees were at present leafless, the bed of herbs and the border of flowers along one wall locked in their winter sleep. A thin layer of frost, untouched by the feeble midday sun, still coated the pathway and the roof of the lean-to privy, a sure indication that the bad weather was tightening its grip; and a sudden sharp intake of breath made me sneeze, as the cold irritated the back of my nose and throat. I knocked on the outer door of the kitchen.