Death and the Chapman (3 page)

I swallowed the spoonful of stew which I had shovelled into my mouth and repeated, ‘Murder?’ It had not been just a casual remark, I could tell that by the way she spoke and looked. The word had a special significance for her.

She replenished my mazer from the vat of ale which stood near the door and drew up another stool to the table. ‘Forget I said anything. I shouldn’t be discussing the family’s troubles with a stranger.’

I wiped my mouth on my sleeve. I was pretty uncouth in those days. ‘That’s not fair,’ I protested. ‘You shouldn’t arouse my curiosity and then refuse to tell me what it’s about. Who do you know who’s been murdered?’

Marjorie took one of the little leeks from the dish and began to nibble it. ‘It was just a remark. I didn’t say I knew anyone.‘ She glanced sideways at my sceptical expression and capitulated. ‘All right. Although I ought not to say anything, really. And besides, no one’s sure that it is murder. At present, it’s just a case of... disappearance.’

‘Whose disappearance?’ I found myself intrigued, the more so now that my first pangs of hunger had been assuaged. In the distance, through the open kitchen door, came sounds of the bustling city, alive and vigorous in the warm spring weather.

‘The Alderman’s son,’ she said at last, reluctantly, as though wishing she hadn’t spoken. Nevertheless, she went on. ‘He disappeared last winter in London.’

I tore a piece off the loaf of bread. ‘You mean they never found a body? But in that case, what makes you think it’s murder?’

‘The circumstances of his disappearance.’ She leaned forward, folding her plump arms together on the table. ‘There was no reason for Clement to run away - if that’s what you were thinking.’

It was a possibility which had crossed my mind, I had to admit, and I wasn’t going to abandon it in a hurry. ‘How old was Master Clement?’

‘About as old as you. Maybe a little older.’

I considered this information. ‘My mother always insisted that I was born in the same year as the Duke of Gloucester. So ... I reckon I’ve seen nineteen summers.’ My companion nodded. ‘That seems about right. Clement would have been about nine when King Edward visited Bristol.’

‘And ten years on, he‘s the age when he might well have quarrelled with his father and decided to be his own master.’

Marjorie shook her head. ‘No!’ she said emphatically. ‘Clement got on well with his father, like his sister. The Alderman’s an indulgent father. Over-indulgent, if you want my honest opinion. Ever since his wife died, a year ago last Michaelmas, Alison and her brother have meant everything to him. And now Alison’s getting married he’s going to be very lonely, but he won’t do anything to stand in her way. There’s no talk of postponing the marriage so he can keep her at home a bit longer. And I know plenty of men who would be selfish enough to do that, whatever you might be planning to say in defence of your sex.’

‘I’m not planning to say anything of the sort,‘ I protested mildly. ‘I’ve no illusions about people’s shortcomings, whether they’re male or female. Humanity has a lot of failings.’

‘An old head on young shoulders,’ she mocked. ‘That I should live to see the day!’

I ignored this. ‘So Clement Weaver didn’t disappear voluntarily. Didn’t the Alderman make inquiries for him?’

‘Of course he did, you stupid boy! He went to London himself, stayed there for months, with his brother and two of his nephews. They scoured the city from end to end. They even managed to enlist the help of Lord Stanley, but all to no avail. Clement was never found. He just disappeared from the face of the earth.’

I had finished my stew by this time and looked significantly at my empty plate. Marjorie Dyer, somewhat to my surprise, took the hint and rose to fetch me a second helping. ‘You’ll never want for asking,’ she commented drily.

Pointless to say that I hadn’t uttered a word. Meekly, I accepted the refilled plate which she set before me, drained my mazer and attacked the food with relish. When I could speak once more, I said: ‘You’ve intrigued me. Having gone this far, why don’t you tell me the whole story? That is, if you can spare the time. I can see you’re a busy woman.’

‘Mmmm... And I can see you’ve a silver tongue when it suits you. A way of charming the birds off the trees, as my father would have said. And I shouldn’t really spare the time to sit and chat with you. I’ve a junket to make for supper. However, there’s not much to tell, and ten minutes or so won’t make that much difference. Not if you’re really interested, that is.’

I nodded, unable to reply because my mouth was full. But before she could begin, there was an interruption. The door leading from the hall opened and a girl about my own age, or a little younger, came into the kitchen. This, I assumed, correctly as it happened, was the daughter of the house, Alison Weaver.

She wasn’t a girl you could really call pretty; her nose was too large and the wide mouth a little too decided. But she had lovely eyes, a soft hazel, flecked with green and fringed with very long, very thick lashes. Her skin was honey-coloured, and she had made no attempt to whiten it, as was fashionable. She was thin, with tiny hands and feet, but had a wiry kind of strength which, at second glance, detracted from my first impression of a soft and yielding vulnerability.

‘Marjorie--’ she began, then stopped abruptly. ‘Who’s this?‘ she demanded, staring at me and my plateful of stew.

Marjorie, I thought, seemed a little flustered; a little nervous of a girl she must have known since childhood. It was almost as though there were some antipathy between them.

‘He’s a chapman. He gave me his arm as far as Marsh Street because my legs were bad.’ She was defensive, improvising, and sent me a quick, covert glance which told me plainly not to contradict her. And, indeed, it was the truth as far as it went. ‘I was feeling faint and he brought me home. I felt the least I could do was to offer him something to eat.’

The girl continued to stare at me, then nodded briefly. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘As long as you don’t make a habit of it. You know Father’s rules about the servants entertaining strangers.’ I looked at Marjorie and saw the faint stain of red on her cheeks, the badge of her resentment, and wondered fleetingly why she stayed here. A number of reasons presented themselves, but before I could formulate them properly in my mind, Alison Weaver addressed me. ‘What sort of merchandise do you carry?’

I dropped the spoon on my plate and wiped my mouth hurriedly, this time on the back of my hand. ‘I... I have s-some very fine lace,’ I managed to stutter. ‘And some very pretty coloured ribbons. Needles, threads, toys ... The usual sort of things,’ I finished lamely.

I could see by her dark green gown of very fine wool, with its trimming of sable, that money was no object to the Alderman when it came to his daughter’s clothing. A coral rosary was wrapped around her left wrist, and a black-enamel and gold cramp ring adorned one finger. She had other rings, some of them set with precious stones, and several gold chains around her neck. It was not difficult to see that her father was a man of substance. I doubted if she would be interested in the sort of things that were in my pack.

As I say, I was young then, and had been out of the world for a number of years. I didn’t appreciate, as I do now, that women can never resist the prospect of buying, particularly if it’s for the adornment of their bodies.

‘Show me!’ she commanded.

I rose hastily and fetched my pack from the corner, while Marjorie Dyer cleared more space on the table so that I could lay out my stock. I had been pleased with it when I bought it off the old pedlar, but it looked little enough now that it was on display. Or perhaps it was simply that I was seeing it as I imagined Alison Weaver was seeing it, appraising it against the goods she could buy in the shops of Bristol and London. But I need not have worried. Without even glancing at anything else, she stretched one thin brown hand instinctively for the best thing there, a length of figured, ivory-coloured ribbon. She held it up to the light, letting it cascade through her fingers in a shimmering waterfall to the dusty floor. For the first time since entering the kitchen, she smiled.

‘It’s beautiful. Look, Marjorie! I shall use it to trim the neck of my wedding gown. I’ll take it. All of it.’ She did not even ask the price. ‘Pay the man, Marjorie. I’ve no money on me. Father will give it back to you when he comes home.’ Marjorie, none too pleased, as I could tell, shuffled away to get her purse while Alison waved me back to my seat at the table. ‘You might as well finish your meal.’

I thanked her politely, repacked the rest of my stuff, told Marjorie the cost of the ribbon and pocketed the money before sitting down again to my stew, which had now gone cold and congealed on the plate. It looked grey and unappetizing and I no longer fancied it, so I pushed it to one side and finished my ale. I was just about to say I must be going, when Alison Weaver drew up another stool and sat down beside me.

‘What were you both talking about,’ she demanded accusingly, ‘when I came in?’

There was an uneasy silence, and I could see that Marjorie Dyer was debating with herself whether to tell the truth. I drained the dregs of my ale and read the little rhyme carved into the wooden base of the mazer.
‘If you would a Goodman please, Let him rest and take his ease’
A fine sentiment, no doubt, but not one many Goodwives were prepared to abide by. And, indeed, why should they? Most of them worked hard from sunrise to sundown. I know my mother did. I’m not talking about the nobility, you understand, or even Alderman Weaver’s daughter. At this point in my life, I knew very little about such women.

Marjorie cleared her throat, but her mistress was quicker. ‘You were talking about Clement, weren’t you? You know Father doesn’t like you discussing our business with strangers! You’re a gossip, Marjorie, and you know what happens to gossips. They get ducked in the pond.‘ The girl then seemed to relent, but I could see by the expression on Marjorie’s face how deeply she resented the reprimand, particularly in front of me. Once again, I wondered what the real relationship was between her and the family. She seemed, on one hand, to hold the privileged position of an old and trusted retainer, but on the other to be everybody’s whipping-boy. Alison Weaver went on: ‘Oh well, I suppose there’s no harm done. How much have you told him?’

‘Only that Master Clement disappeared last winter in London.’

‘And hasn’t been heard of since,’ I added. ‘Other than that, I know nothing, so you need have no fear that I shall be bruiting your family business abroad. I’ll be on my way.’

I half rose from my stool, but the girl waved me down again. She had an air about her of one accustomed to being obeyed, and in those days I was unused to standing up for myself. She looked at me with curiosity.

‘You don’t talk like any chapman I’ve ever met. Who are you?’ So I recounted my life’s history once more and was gratified to note that by the end of it she was regarding me for the first time as though I were a human being and not a part of the furniture. I could tell, too, that she liked what she saw. I was a good-looking youth at that age, even if I do say so myself. When I’d finished speaking, she rested her elbows on the table and propped her chin between her hands; little hands that gave small, fluttering movements like captive birds.

‘Would you care to hear the whole story,‘ she asked me, ‘about my brother’s disappearance?’

‘If you would care to tell it me,’ I answered gravely.

‘What do you think, Marjorie? Would Father mind?’

Marjorie shrugged her plump shoulders. ‘He might, but he’s not here, is he? And won’t be for an hour or two yet. He’s gone to a Guild meeting, and afterwards to a service at the Temple Chapel.’ She added for my benefit: ‘It’s the Weavers’ chapel, dedicated to St Katherine, their patron saint.’

Alison copied the housekeeper’s shrug. ‘In that case, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.’

I have never ceased to marvel, all my life, at the pragmatism of women: I think they are born without scruples. Nevertheless, I have been thankful for it on many occasions, as I was thankful for it then, because my curiosity had been aroused, and to leave with it unsatisfied would have been like denying a man dying of thirst a drink. And as though she read something of my thoughts, Marjorie Dyer asked: ‘Shall I pour us all some ale?’

Her mistress nodded. ‘And open the door a little more. It’s close in here with the heat of the fire.’

The housekeeper took my empty mazer and reached two more down from a shelf, filling all three from the cask of ale. Then she stood the door wide, letting in the fragrant scents of the garden. The afternoon had turned extremely warm and there was a faint shimmer of heat in the air. The light quivered as bright as a sheet of pressed metal, and the faint, far cry of a bird was, for a moment, the only sound on the still, spring air. Then the noises of the city seeped back, like a slowly rising tide.

Alison Weaver sipped her ale and fingered the coral rosary around her wrist. ‘I don’t know where to begin,’ she said.

‘Begin with your journey to London. There’s nothing much to tell before that.’

Marjorie, I thought, spoke with unnecessary sharpness, but looking at her, I could see that she was upset. Clement Weaver had probably been her favourite; less imperious, perhaps, than his acid-tongued sister. I had a mental picture of a sweet, soft-spoken boy, deeply affected by his mother’s death.

Alison nodded, sipped more ale, then resumed her former position, elbows on the table, chin propped between her hands. ‘It was before Christmas, last year,’ she began, ‘around All Hallowstide ...’

She had recently become betrothed to William Burnett, the son of another of Bristol’s Aldermen and a fellow member of the Weavers’ Guild. The Burnetts, I gathered, were even more well-to-do than the Weavers themselves, owning up to a hundred looms in the suburb of Redcliffe and claiming kinship with a nobleman who lived in the village of Burnett, some miles outside the city. It was an alliance, therefore, to gratify the one family more than the other, and Alderman Weaver was determined that no expense should be spared on arrangements for the wedding. In particular, his daughter’s bride-clothes should be the best that money could buy and Bristol merchants were deemed unworthy of providing the necessary materials. Alison was despatched to London, in the company of Clement, to stay with her uncle and aunt, the Alderman’s brother and his wife. John Weaver, also employed in the cloth trade, had elected many years previously, on the occasion of his marriage, to try his fortune in the capital and was now, it seemed, nearly as rich - although, gratifyingly, not quite as rich--as his elder brother. He and his wife lived in the ward of Farringdon Without, which, so Alison informed me, taking pity of my self-confessed ignorance of London and its byways, included Smithfield cattle-market, the Priory of St Bartholomew and the Temple and its gardens, which ran down to the River Fleet. It was, moreover, within easy reach of the Portsoken ward, where the weavers had their dwellings.