The Fabric of Murder (Mysteries of Georgian Norfolk Book 2) (6 page)

‘Daniel had a son too,’ Foxe said.

‘Him!’ Miss Abigail’s scorn was obvious. ‘His mother spoiled him, though it cost her a fair few bruises. George must do his apprenticeship in London, same as his father. George must be journeyman elsewhere too. As Daniel decreed, so George must obey. Then only a few weeks ago, his father drove him out of the house without mercy. We heard he gave the boy a hundred pounds and told him he never wanted to see or hear of him again. That money was all he should ever have. I wonder where all his wealth will go now?’

‘Do we know he cut the boy off from his inheritance?’ Miss Hannah asked her sister. ‘All this happened quite soon before Mr. Bonneviot died. Would he have had time to change his will? After all, even when it was clear the lad wouldn’t agree to follow his father’s bidding in everything, he still seemed to stick by him … for a while.’

‘I don’t think the boy was ever going to have an inheritance. If you ask me, it was to be as it had been with his father. He must make his own way,’ her sister replied. ‘Daniel never accepted young George wasn’t interested in weaving. Nothing else counted for him. He didn’t change his mind for anyone. As I see it, the boy had been given some time to come to his senses and do as he was told. It seems he hadn’t. Time was up.’

‘And the other thing …?’

‘Well, yes. We all had our doubts about George in that way. Still that’s only imagination and gossip, dear. He may yet ask some young lady to marry him.’

Miss Hannah snorted in a very unladylike manner at that. ‘Young lad, more likely …!’

‘Where did George go when his father threw him out?’ Foxe asked.

‘I’m afraid we’ve no idea, Ashmole. He may have gone to London or somewhere.’

‘Were there any other children?’

‘Only the step-sister. She may know something, but I doubt it.’

They knew no more. Daniel Bonneviot’s wife had, it seemed, made little impression on them or anyone else in Norwich. George, the only son, had been away in London for years, completing his apprenticeship. Miss Abigail eventually added the gossip that he had nurtured hopes of becoming an actor at one time, but the local theatres had all rejected him.

That had been the main difference between father and son, it seemed. The father set his mind on something and drove himself – and everyone else – until he achieved it, whether by fair means or otherwise. His son wished and hoped and dreamed of great things, but showed neither the talent nor the energy to do more.

Had an enraged father thrown that failure in the son’s face? Might that have been enough to stir the younger man to take his revenge? He would never have confronted his father openly. Foxe felt sure of that. But an attack from behind in a dark street …? That might be another matter altogether. Even so, Foxe couldn’t see this young man they had suggested was limp and effeminate as the murderer. To cut someone’s throat, even in the dark, demanded resolution and suddenness. Besides, Bonneviot had been a powerful man and of a good height. He had been taken by surprise, to be sure, but few people have the strength to slit another’s throat so quickly there is no chance for them to call out or fight back.

No, from all Foxe had heard, George Bonneviot did not have the makings of a killer, unless it should be by some secret poison. From the description of him given both by the Misses Calderwood and Gracie Catt, Foxe had come to regard him as much too feeble. He could, of course, have paid some ruffian to do it – that was a point worth investigating – but he would not himself be capable of such a deed.

W
hen Foxe entered
the coffee house at ten the next morning, Brock was waiting. Since he had already finished his coffee and discarded the newspaper, it looked as if he had been there for some time.

‘Thought you might be in earlier than this.’ He sounded irritated. Brock didn’t like to be kept waiting.

‘Why?’ Foxe said. ‘This is quite a respectable hour to come here. I also have an appointment at eleven, so that leaves me a reasonable time to drink a dish of coffee and peruse the papers.’

Foxe had not dressed in quite such an elegant manner this morning. He needed to look the kind of customer Mrs. Swan would want to serve in person, but not the kind she would remember for too long afterwards.

‘Do you have news?’ he asked Brock.

‘Wouldn’t have come here if I hadn’t. Nothing significant from those of Bonneviots’ men I’ve spoken to. They’re angry about being owed money and want their due – be sure of that. But that’s a simple matter of justice, in their eyes. I can’t see them doing more than breaking a few windows to let off steam. Trade seems brisk enough and a good weaver is always in demand. Of course, the ones that remain are the ones ’e treated better. Those ‘e already threw out have either left Norwich and gone elsewhere or found a new master. To be honest with you, I don’t see any of ‘em being angry enough with the man to kill ‘im.’

‘That bothers me, Brock. If trade is so good, why was Bonneviot laying men off at all? Forget the useless ones. Any master would get rid of them as soon as he could. It’s the others I’m thinking of: the ones who soon found a new master.’

‘See your drift. If another master was glad to have them at short notice, they must be good – or good enough.’

‘Anyone else you talked to?’

‘I wanted to talk to his foreman at the warehouse, but he said he was too busy. Now there’s another odd thing.’ Brock’s frown was so ferocious the waiter coming with Foxe’s usual coffee stepped back in alarm.

‘Ignore my friend,’ Foxe said to the lad. ‘He suffers from stomach cramps brought on by too much drink.’

‘I don’t drink much more than you do,’ Brock said. ‘Besides, this coffee would soon give any man the bellyache.’

‘Go on, Brock,’ Foxe said. ‘You said something about Bonneviot’s foreman was odd.’

‘Not him so much as his situation. His employer has just been murdered, yet ‘e’s rushed off ‘is feet. Doin’ what? I’d also say the man is happy as they come. Now, he may not have liked Bonneviot – ‘ated his guts even – but he’d worked for him for more than ten years, as I heard. Now ‘is master’s dead and the son doesn’t show any interest in the business. You’d expect an old hand like this cove – Jack Astle, he’s called – to be worried about ‘is job. But ‘e isn’t, it seems. Already staying on in the same position.’

‘Now that is odd, I grant you. Is the widow keeping the business on?’

‘That’s what I rushed here to tell you, only you were frolicking in bed with one of them Catt sisters, I guess, and not most keen to get up.’

‘For your information, Brock – not that it is any business of yours – I slept alone last night and this is always the time I come in here. Go on, my friend, and keep your thoughts to yourself.’

‘Keep your wig on. Here’s the real news. I’ve heard from several of the weavers who used to work for Bonneviot that his business, stock and premises have already ended up in the hands of someone else. They’re to work on as if nothing had happened, it seems.’

‘There wouldn’t be time to obtain probate, surely.’

‘I wouldn’t know about that. All I could find out is that some person is already running the business just as before. I imagine the executors agreed. A going concern is worth a hell of a lot more than one that’s already closed down. Or one so beset with uncertainty no one will place orders.’

‘True enough, I suppose. I don’t imagine you found out who this new owner is going to be?’

‘Not for certain. But I did ‘ear a certain Mr. Callum Burford mentioned. He’s a master weaver, but in a much smaller scale of doing business than Bonneviot was. If ‘e’s going to be the owner, I’d like to know where he’s getting the money from.’ Brock paused. ‘There’s something else strange. I got good contacts amongst the bargees and wherrymen, as you well know, seein’ as ‘ow I owns a good few of their boats. Most of the cloth from around here goes to London, a good deal of it along the roads. The rest goes by boat to Yarmouth, then by ship into London.’

Foxe interrupted. ’Is there no local trade?’

‘Nothing enough to keep all Norwich’s folk busy. Now, our trade has been in the hands of the London merchants for a good time. Not that some ‘aven’t tried to break free, but only a few seem to have managed it and then not for long.’

‘So lots of wagons, packhorse trains and the like along the London road and the rest to Yarmouth.’

‘Right. But Bonneviot, it seems, was one of those who ‘ated the London merchants most. He had to deal with them, but it stuck in ‘is throat. Well, for the past few months, ‘e’s sent almost nothing for London or anywhere else by boat. Can’t say about the roads, mind. But it seems peculiar. If it was all going by road, ‘e sold so much ‘e’d take a good many of the wagons and pack-horses just for ‘is own goods, with few left over for the other master weavers. It looks as if ’e was lettin’ finished goods pile up in ‘is warehouse. Now, what merchant does that unless ‘e ‘as no other choice?’

‘Good work, Brock. Now sit quiet and let me think a while.’ Foxe drank some more coffee, then leant back in his chair and closed his eyes. He remained like that, not moving, for a full five minutes at least. All at once he sat up, opened his eyes and turned to Brock in excitement.

‘Thanks to you, Brock, I can see I’ve been on the wrong track. I even suspect I’m wasting my time this morning with Mrs. Swan too. Still, I can’t disappoint my friend, so I’ll still need to go. I just hope it doesn’t cost me as much as I fear it may.’

‘Hope you know what you’re going on about,’ Brock growled. ‘Hell’s Teeth if I know.’

‘Brock. Forget the weavers and the foreman. The answer isn’t there. You can forget about the new buyer or owner or whatever as well. I’ll find his name from elsewhere. What I want you to do next is vital.’

‘What is it then?’

‘I need you to find a man who has been willing to kill someone for payment, Brock.’

‘Got someone you dislike, have you? Look, Foxe. You could find twenty or more men willing to do that if you paid them enough. Can’t you help me narrow it down a bit.’

‘Not someone who would kill, Brock, someone who
has
– and recently. Someone who seems to have more cash about him than he should. If I’m right, it won’t be the kind of person you or I would choose – assuming either of us would stoop so low. It has to be someone a stranger could find. Someone desperate and not too expensive. Someone others would give as a name if they didn’t want to get involved.’

Brock thought a moment, then smiled. ‘McSwiggan. That’s your man I reckon.’

‘Why him, who ever he is.’

‘A nasty, verminous, mean, vicious, loud-mouthed shit is who ‘e is. Scotsman, so he says, but I don’t believe ‘e’s ever left Norfolk. He’s just the type to talk big and take anyone’s money for whatever dirty work they needed done. Coming on a man at night from behind and slitting his throat would be exactly McSwiggan’s style.’

‘Find him! I don’t want you to do more than that for now. Find him, find out what he’s been up to the past few days and see if anyone has noticed him getting more drunk than usual or having money to burn.’

‘Right you are, though ‘e don’t move in the kind of areas I’d be happy to go into much. Mind if I use one or two others? Reliable blokes.’

‘Not at all, Brock. I don’t want you getting hurt. Nor your friends either. If it comes to laying hands on this McSwiggan, we’ll leave that to the constables. But there won’t be any use in doing that without having enough to hang him first. From all you say, I can’t see him confessing or – much more important – telling us who paid him to do it.’

‘That’s true enough,’ Brock said. ‘He’s been in enough tight places to know every trick there is for getting away. Take care! He’s a slippery bastard. Unless you have a case not even an elver could slip out of, ‘e’ll laugh in your face.’

‘Right. To it, Brock! That is, unless you want any more of the delicious coffee they sell here.’

‘I’d rather drink water straight from the gutters!’

‘Be off then. I have to leave soon to meet my wife.’

‘Merciful God! You haven’t married one of those Catt women, ‘as you? Or even both on ‘em?’

‘Whatever put that idea into your head, Brock? Mrs. Eleanor Foxworth is young and pretty, I grant you, but she is already married to a most respectable gentleman. They have come to our fair city to visit certain relatives. Knowing its renown for the production of fine worsteds, they have also decided to buy material to make Mrs. Foxworth a new gown. They may also look for a similar amount for Mrs. Foxworth’s sister, as a gift.’

Brock threw back his head and roared with laughter, thus causing several of the older customers to wake up and look around in surprise. ‘I don’t know how you thinks these wheezes up. I won’t ask who is to play the part of your wife. It ‘as to be Kitty. But you’re a braver man than most to take her into a mercers!’

‘I agree, Brock. But needs must. I just hope my bravery is not tested further than I fear.’

M
rs. Swan turned
out to be a gaunt, grey-haired woman, a little above the average in height, but otherwise unremarkable. Her manner veered between oily, obsequious and patronising. It suggested to Foxe that she would do well in the general run of things to leave the selling of her wares to her assistants.

Kitty Catt, of course, played her part to perfection as the pretty ingenue, married to a doting older husband. She had hidden her hair under a mousy brown wig and dressed in a sober, provincial day-gown and petticoat. It was what anyone might expect of someone wearing her best, yet more at home in a far smaller town than Norwich.

As Mrs. Swan brought out swathe after swathe of rich silks and satins, Kitty exclaimed in excitement at every one. Of course, had Mrs. Swan bothered to take note, she might have realised all was not quite as she imagined. This girl she took as naïve rejected all the outdated and remnant stock she was trying to palm off on her. None quite matched the colours Mrs. Foxworth had in mind. They were likely to resemble materials she knew her friends were using. When the shopkeeper brought out several bolts of embroidered and ornamented silk in peculiar dyes of maroon and purple, Mrs. Foxworth seemed first to look on them with delight. Then she said they were far too expensive and showy for their home town of Cheltenham.

Why she picked on this innocent market-town in Gloucestershire, Foxe had no idea. Yet, it seemed to serve well enough. Mrs. Swan clearly knew nothing of the place. She doubtless assumed it to be the sort of small, rural township common throughout the eastern counties of England.

‘Lah, Madam! This is indeed lovely, but it will not do to dress so far above our station, will it, dear Mr. Foxworth? That would only excite comment of an envious nature. Nor would I have you waste our money on such expensive cloth. Our small assemblies and balls attract few of the gentry. Yet those who do condescend to appear would never feel it right for a simple merchant’s wife to dress more richly than them.’

‘Whatever you say, dearest,’ Foxe replied. He was trying to catch the tone of a husband willing to indulge his new wife in almost anything. He too had dressed as simply as he could, while retaining the appearance of a gentleman. His brown coat and matching waistcoat were of excellent worsted brocade, but neither displayed the embroidery in gold or silver thread that he loved so much.

For some time, Kitty engaged in the prettiest dithering about her choice between several fabrics of but modest expense. That left Foxe free to draw Mrs. Swan into conversation.

‘You show an excellent and extensive knowledge of the fabrics of these parts, madam. I am glad we were recommended by our hosts to come here to make our purchases.’

‘You are most kind, Mr. Foxworth. I own that few mercers and haberdashers can match my experience or understanding. My late father and grandfather, you see, were both noted master weavers of this city. I grew up amongst looms and bales of cloth of all kinds.’

‘Indeed? A most helpful start for a mercer. I am told that you are, alas, a widow. But perhaps you have a young son you are grooming to succeed you?’

‘No, I fear not, sir. My husband and I were blessed with two sons, but both died while still infants. Now only my daughter remains. I am delighted to say, she is now married with children of her own. I will be the last of our line to work in the textile trade.’

‘Ah, that is sad. Of course, you mentioned your late father but a moment ago. But perhaps he had a son to succeed him?’

Mrs. Swan’s face darkened somewhat, before resuming its professional blandness.

‘My mother died when I was young and my father married again. As you can imagine, he was eager to have sons to succeed him. Yet the one who did come – aye, and near cost his mother her life in doing so – has interest neither in business nor cloth.’

Foxe judged it best not to pursue that point further. It would not do to raise Mrs. Swan’s suspicions by showing too close an interest in her family.

‘So his widow, your step-mother, now runs the family business?’

‘Her! She has not the wit of a chicken. No, my father died but a few days ago, sir, and I fear his business is to be sold.’

‘Ah, that is sad,’ Foxe said. ‘Forgive me, madam, for treading on such recent grief in my ignorance. It was but idle conversation. I had no idea I might stray into what cannot fail to be the most painful recollections for you.’

Kitty, despite her quiet murmuring and fluttering over the bolts of cloth, had kept her ears alert. Now she came to Foxe’s rescue.

‘My dearest husband,’ she said. ‘I am most grateful for your patience. This is such a large expense that I determined to make the best choice possible. Now, if it is not too much of a strain on your purse …’ Here she added a simpering laugh. ‘… I have chosen a fabric for the gown and two others for the petticoat to go with it. I believe that five or six yards of each one should be ample for my dressmaker to work with.’