Never a word would he vouchsafe about what part of Ireland, how he had escaped from bondage, what ship had brought him home.' She shrugged and gave a sad, wry smile. 'But of course he couldn't. He was never in Ireland.
For that's the conclusion we were all forced to in the end.' I nodded. 'So Alderman Weaver believes, and confirmed your opinion that no one would have wanted to buy an old and injured man. Slavers, he maintained, would not have beaten a captive about the head in such a brutal fashion as to cause him to lose his wits.'
Lillis, who had eaten very little, being too busy watching me with her slanting eyes, asked softly, 'Then where was he? And why should he believe he had been taken to Ireland?'
Margaret put in swiftly, to save me the embarrassment of doubting her father's word, 'Perhaps he didn't. Perhaps he knew where he had been and why, but for reasons of his own did not wish anyone else to know. Although,' she added, encountering her daughter's derisive smile, 'I am inclined to the view that he really remembered very little of anything that had happened to him. Even events prior to his disappearance were hazy in his mind, and it was necessary to go back many years before he was able to recall things with any clarity. He knew that he had lived with Lllis and me, in this cottage, which was why he returned here and not to his home in Bell Lane, but that was four years and more ago.'
I finished my stew and laid down my spoon, resisting Margaret's attempts to ladle me out a second helping. I drank my ale, conscious of a sudden thirst, before asking, 'And there's nothing else you can tell me which might shed any light on where Master Woodward had been?' I knew by her expression that something had puzzled her. She sucked her teeth thoughtfully, clearing them of bits of food, staring straight ahead but seeing nothing. I waited patiently, content to let her take her time.
'It was his clothes,' she said at last. Her eyes swivelled round to meet mine. 'They weren't his. They weren't any that I'd ever seen before.'
'Someone had robbed him of his, perhaps,' I suggested, when she paused. 'Or his had been torn and bloodied so badly when he was captured that he had to be found new ones to wear. There are probably half a dozen reasons.' She nodded slowly. 'Maybe, but these were good clothes. Rich clothes. The hose were pure wool, the doublet velvet, the shirt and drawers of fine, bleached linen.
Gentleman's garments, every one. The boots, although well-worn and rubbed, were made of Spanish leather, and there was also a hooded cape, lined with silk and scalloped round the edges.'
'Don't forget the cloak,' Lillis reminded her mother.
'Oh yes, the cloak.' Abstractedly, Margaret Walker stirred the remains of her soup around the bottom of her wooden bowl. 'It's true it was made of frieze, but it was fur-lined, and none of your sheepskin or badger or cat! It was squirrel, a delicate grey colour and beautifully soft.'
I was intrigued. 'What happened to them when your father died?'
'I still have them. They were too good to part with and I folded them in lavender and put them away in the chest.' She nodded towards the stout oaken coffer ranged against one wall. 'I'll show you them if you'd like.' She rose, selecting one of the keys from the bunch which hung at her belt, inserted it in the chest's iron lock, and lifted the lid. The room was immediately filled with the sweet intermingled scents of musk and violet and lavender. Having removed her own and Lillis's best gowns from the top, she stooped and brought out, almost reverently, the pile of clothes beneath.
I went to stand beside her. We once more closed the lid of the chest and placed them on top. Gently I picked up each garment, shook it out, and held it up to the light filtering through the parchment of the window. The velvet doublet was a dull amber colour, very rich, but lacking the tightly nipped waist which had become so fashionable among the wealthy in recent years. The drawers and shirt, as Margaret had said, were of fine, bleached linen, the hood and cape lined with scarlet cendal. And the frieze cloak was indeed lined with the soft grey fur of squirrel.
The apparel of a gentleman, and one more reason, if another was needed, to doubt that William Woodward had come by them as a slave in Ireland. But there was nothing else, alas, to suggest where they might have come from, or how William had obtained them. I did notice one thing, however, on closer examination. The seams of the garments were strained and in some places beginning to part.
The boots, also, showed the imprint of feet slightly too large for them. The soiled Spanish leather had been pushed out of shape at the base of each big toe, and the toes themselves had bulged in protest against their too rigid confinement. A well-built man had owned these boots and clothes, but not so well-built as William Woodward.
Beyond that, however, they told me nothing, and I helped Margaret return them to the chest, covering them again with the two women's gowns. There were other things in the chest; I noticed sheets, neatly folded, and a woollen blanket such as the one I used at nights, a pair of old shoes, some spare hose and a cloak of that thick, coarse material we used to call burel. There was also the edge of what looked like a book: I had a fleeting glimpse of rubbed velvet binding and the protruding edges of vellum. But before I could be sure of what I had seen, Margaret had replaced the clothes, slammed the lid of the chest and locked it. Had I been mistaken? I asked, and Margaret Walker laughed, but to my ears there was something forced about the sound. 'What would poor people, who can neither read nor write, be doing with books?' she mocked. 'Why would they spend good money on something that would be of no use to them?' Lillis, who was heating water over the fire in order to wash the dishes, said nothing. A small, contemptuous smile tilted the comers of her mouth, but whether the object of her disdain was myself or her mother, I had no means of knowing. And the more I thought about what I had seen, the less able I was to picture it clearly. As Margaret had pointed out, a book or folio would be an unlikely item to find in such a dwelling. I noted, however, that she did not offer to unlock the chest and solve the mystery. So my suspicions remained, but I had no means of verifying either their truth or falsity,
'What will you do now'?' Lillis asked me.
I put my hand inside my leather pouch and produced the letter. 'Alderman Weaver has kindly provided me with the means of introduction to Edward Herepath. I shall visit him this afternoon and hope to find him at home. If not, I shall return tomorrow.'
Both women were obviously impressed by the fact that my boast to know the alderman had been no idle one. At the same time, I again sensed that uneasiness in Margaret Walker as though, much as she wished to discover the truth behind her father's disappearance, she nevertheless was frightened by what I might uncover. She made no demur, however, at my plans, beyond remarking that Nick Brimble was bringing his truckle bed for me sometime today, and might have been glad of a helping hand.
'Tell me where he lives, and I'll fetch it myself this evening,' I offered promptly.
She shook her head. 'Lillis can aid Nick after she returns from the dyer's with the new batch of wool. And hurry up with those pots, girl!' she scolded. 'I need the room to get on with my spinning.'
Lillis's face darkened angrily, and I could foresee one of those furious spats which enlivened the existence of mother and daughter, but which were so distressing to outsiders. Cravenly I made my escape, thankfully latching the door behind me as, warmly wrapped in my good frieze cloak, I stepped into the street.
In spite of my letter from Alderman Weaver, I knew better than to knock on Edward Herepath's front door, if there were any other entrance. Having ascertained which house was his, I walked the length of Small Street and turned into Bell Lane, where William Woodward had lived. I looked curiously at the two rows of dwellings, one on either side of the roadway, but had no time just then for more than a cursory glance, as I had found what I was seeking. A narrow alleyway, such as served the houses of neighbouring Broad Street, also ran along the back of those in Small Street. High walls enclosed each plot of ground, with stout oaken, iron-studded gates giving access to the gardens.