Chapter 5
I was unsure how my skills of reading and writing could be useful to Alderman Weaver, so I maintained a diplomatic and not unhopeful silence. At least it looked as though my night’s lodging might be safe, after all. He had not reacted like a man who was about to turn me out into the street.
After another pause, he went on painfully: ‘Alison also tells me that you know about … about my son’s … disappearance.’ I nodded gently. I could see the subject caused him great distress. He swallowed hard and one hand played restlessly with the trimming of budge which edged his gown. ‘I don’t… approve of gossiping with strangers, of making every jack-in-the-hedge privy to my family’s affairs. But in your case my daughter may have been wise to make an exception.‘ I was still in the dark and glanced sideways at Alison, but she looked as mystified as I was myself. The Alderman continued: ‘Do your travels often take you to London?’
‘I — er-’ I cleared my throat. ‘I’ve never been there.’ I hurried on: ‘But I intend to do so. I haven’t been on the road very long, you understand. Mistress Alison must have told you that until recently I was a novice with the Benedictines at Glastonbury. But London is my goal. A man can make his fortune there, if he’s clever.’
William Burnett roused himself from his enraptured contemplation of the tassels on his codpiece and gave me a lofty smile.
‘You fancy yourself as another Richard Whittington, do you? You won’t make that sort of fortune selling needles and thread and ribbons in the Cheap. Besides-’ his condescension was overpowering- ‘Whittington was, after all, the son of a gentleman.’
Alderman Weaver waved him to silence with an impatient hand. ‘That’s neither here nor there.’ He turned back to me. ‘The point is, boy, when you do get to London, I want you to keep your eyes and ears open for any whisper as to the fate of my son. You can mix with people I can’t in my position. Oh, I’m able to question them, but that’s no good. If they’ve anything to conceal, they’ll lie faster than a dog can run. But with you, they’ll talk openly. You’ll overhear conversations to which I could never be privy. So, if you hear anything, anything at all, which you think might be of value-the slightest indication as to what happened to Clement — go to my old friend, Thomas Prynne at the sign of the Baptist’s Head in Crooked Lane and he’ll see to it that I get your message. Well? Will you do that for me?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course,’ I said, wondering if the poor man realized that he was clutching at straws. But what else did he have to clutch at? He couldn’t just sit back and tamely accept that his only son was dead.
‘And as you can read and write,’ he went on, ‘you have an advantage. You may see something… read something …’ This was not just clutching at straws, but at straws on the wind.
‘If I can find out anything at all,’ I promised, ‘I shall go at once to your friend Thomas Prynne. But I may not be in London for many months yet. I have only my own two legs, and my living to earn as I go. Villages and hamlets away from the main tracks are my best source of livelihood; distant places, where the inhabitants are far from the nearest market.’
I could see that the Alderman was disappointed. His shoulders sagged and he looked dispirited. He had imagined me being in London within a couple of weeks.
‘Well…’ He drummed with his fingers on the arm of his chair. ‘Whenever you get there, you would still oblige me by keeping a lookout.’ He made an effort to sound cheerful and my heart warmed to him. He patently wasn’t a man to vent his spleen on underlings for something that was not their fault. I could see why his children were fond of him. Moreover, he hadn’t sent them away to be brought up in other people’s households, like so many of his kind. He had kept them with him and showed them affection; not a very common trait, except among the poor. He smiled and nodded my dismissal, adding: ‘My daughter says she has offered you a bed by the kitchen fire for the night. If you want it, you’re welcome to stay.’
I mumbled my thanks and returned to the kitchen, where Marjorie Dyer was getting ready to carry the pot of stew into the parlour. There was also a meat pie, the plovers’ eggs and a dish piled high with fritters, side by side with a bowl of almonds and raisins. The junket was still only half-set, but Marjorie had produced a plate of fruit tarts to round off the meal. If this were supper, I wondered what they had eaten for dinner.
When she returned from serving in the parlour, she, Ned Stoner and I sat at the kitchen table and applied ourselves to our own meal. There was more of the stew and goat’s milk cheese, together with black bread and spring vegetables from the garden. Marjorie also found from somewhere, with a conspiratorial nod and wink, a plate of pastry doucettes, filled with egg yolks, cream, saffron, and sweetened with honey. Of the other man, Rob, there was still no sign.
‘What did the Alderman want you for?‘ Marjorie asked, once she had blunted the edge of her hunger. And when I explained, she sighed gustily and wiped her mouth on a corner of her sleeve. ‘Poor man.’ She echoed my own thoughts with uncanny precision. ‘Clutching at straws. He can’t accept that Master Clement is dead.’
I turned to Ned. ‘When you got back to the Crossed Hands inn that night, were there any signs of a struggle?’ He crammed his mouth with a spoonful of stew and answered thickly: ‘It was raining.’ After a few seconds’ mastication, he added the one word: ‘Hard.’
‘You mean any telltale marks would have been washed away?’
‘‘S right.’ He took a massive bite of cheese which effectually prevented any further conversation with him for at least two minutes.
When he had finally cleared his mouth, and before he could fill it again, I inquired urgently: ‘There was nothing at all? Nothing, for instance, ripped from your master’s clothing? A button? A buckle? A scrap of material perhaps?‘ Ned stared at me, frowning. He plainly considered me mad. ‘It was raining,’ he repeated. ‘I didn’t stand rakin’ about in the mud. Besides-’ he shrugged his shoulders- ‘I wasn’t lookin’ fer anything, was I? I thought me young master safe at the Baptist’s Head. ‘Tweren’t till I got there, I knew he was missing.’
A sudden thought struck me. ‘What about your master’s baggage? Did he have that with him?
Ned considered the question with as much gravity as if I had asked him to explain some abstruse mathematical theorem. One hand, none too clean and with black-rimmed fingernails, hovered impatiently in the vicinity of his mouth, holding a spoonful of stew. At last, he nodded. ‘His saddlebags were in the coach with Miss Alison, but Rob and I lifted them out fer ‘im and put ‘em down on the road. I remember seeing them by his feet as we rode away. He only had a little distance to carry ‘em.‘ This last was added somewhat defensively, as though Ned were afraid of being accused of failing in his duty. The stew disappeared into the wide, gaping cavern of his mouth. He champed slowly and with satisfaction.
‘And they were never found, either?’
‘Not likely, is it? Emptied and dropped in the Thames.’ Marjorie pushed the plate of pastry doucettes towards me. ‘Have one of these and stop fretting. You’re worrying at this thing like a dog with a rat.’ She lowered her voice, leaning across the table to clasp my hand. ‘Look, lad, forget it. Master Clement’s gone and there’s nothing you or anyone can do about it. He fell among thieves, like the man in the Bible. It’s natural enough that the Alderman should want to think otherwise; that some day, somewhere, Clement will turn up again, but it’s not going to happen, and in his heart of hearts, he knows it. If you want to salve your conscience when you finally get to London, you can ask a few questions at the Crossed Hands Inn, but don’t waste your time doing more than that. There’s nothing to find out and sooner or later my master is going to have to accept the truth.’
Ned nodded in mute agreement, having just refilled his mouth with a whole doucette, the honey and cream running down his chin. Reluctantly, because I found the problem intriguing, I, too, was forced to agree. What Marjorie said made sense. All the same, some nagging worry, which refused to be pinpointed, hovered at the back of my mind.