‘You mustn’t think I blame William for the way in which he stood up to my father. My welfare is his sole concern. The outcome was unfortunate, to put it mildly, and it’s true that he let his tongue run away with him. What he said was very bad, but then he was extremely incensed by my father’s foolish, irresponsible and totally unreasonable behaviour. And no one could have foretold that I would be cut out of the will entirely. Such a possibility was unthinkable and never entered either of our heads. Even the Broad Street servants were horrified when they heard of it. Dame Pernelle, the housekeeper, went so far as to remonstrate with my father, and was threatened with dismissal for her pains.’ Tears trickled down Alison’s cheeks and she dashed them away with the back of her hand.
‘Have you made no attempt at reconciliation with the Alderman?’ I asked gently. ‘It was my impression, all those years ago, that he was very fond of you and would certainly not wish to do you permanent injury.’
‘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.’