There was a knock at the door and one of the maids put her head around it. ‘Beg your pardon, Dame Pernelle, but the master wants to see the chapman. He came looking for you in the kitchen, and then realized that Roger was here. He saw his pack on the table.’ She glanced towards me. ‘He wants you now, at once.’
The housekeeper rose hurriedly and smoothed down her skirts. ‘Is he displeased, Mary?’ she queried.
‘He didn’t sound it. He sent Jane upstairs to fetch down Master Clement.’ Mary obviously had no difficulty in calling the newcomer by the name he had, rightly or wrongly, appropriated to himself.
‘Where is the Alderman now?’ I asked, likewise getting to my feet and straightening my jerkin.
‘He said he’d be in the parlour. It’s warmer than the hall.’ And Mary withdrew her head, leaving Dame Pernelle and me regarding one another thoughtfully.
A moment’s delay, however, was all that the housekeeper allowed herself before returning to her duties. ‘You’d better not keep him waiting, lad. As for me, I must go and see about the supper. Master Clement’s very fond of rastons, and what he fancies he must have, on the Alderman’s orders. That’s what you could smell cooking in the oven. When they’ve been hollowed out, he likes the crumbs mixed with butter and honey.’ She added thoughtfully, ‘It seems that he always has done. They used to be made frequently for him, I’m informed, when he was a boy.’
‘Who told you that?’ I asked, as we moved towards the door.
‘He did, himself, and the Alderman confirmed it. And so did Alison.’ Her tone was bland and matter-of-fact, but she could not resist glancing at me as she said it.
I made no comment, but followed her into the hall, where Mary was still hovering anxiously. Dame Pernelle hurried off to the kitchen to attend to her baking.
Alfred Weaver, who rose civilly from his chair as I entered the parlour and held out a hand in greeting, looked a little healthier than he had done when I had last seen him a few days before the start of the Christmas festivities. There was a sparkle in his eyes, and he was a little fleshier about the cheeks and jowl. ‘Come in, come in, my boy,’ he invited jovially. ‘You’ve heard my good news, I expect? Of course you have! There can’t be anyone left in Bristol who’s in ignorance of it.’ He waved me to a chair. ‘Sit down. I’ve sent for my son.’ He uttered the last two words with pride. ‘I want you to meet him. After all, who has a better right than the man who brought those murdering rogues to justice?’ He dug me playfully in the ribs before resuming his own seat. ‘But you were wrong about Clement. Oh, not about what happened to him. They tried to kill him all right, as they killed the others. But in his case, thanks be to God, they bungled it and he survived.’
‘You’re … You’re sure of that, sir?’
The Alderman laughed, showing his blackened teeth. ‘People have been getting at you, have they? Planting doubts in your mind? Take no notice of them, boy. Take no notice! Give me credit for knowing my own child when I see him.’
I smiled weakly, unsure what to say; unable to share in his certainty, but afraid of causing distress by voicing my misgivings. I tried once again, however. ‘Our murderers were very thorough people.’
‘They were — I won’t quarrel with you about that — in every case but one. But Clement will be here in a moment and then you can see him for yourself.’
‘I never knew your son, Alderman. I never saw him, not even in death.’
‘How could you, when he was never dead?’ He gave a bark of laughter.
I heard the parlour door open behind me and slewed round in my seat. The Alderman surged to his feet again, arms outstretched, a look of utter joy suffusing his face. ‘Clement, my boy, I’m sorry to have disturbed your rest, but there’s someone here I want you to meet. I’ve spoken to you at length about Roger Chapman, and now’s your chance to shake him by the hand.’
Chapter Eight
The young man who took my hand and gave me a wary smile bore a resemblance to both Alison Burnett and Alderman Weaver, without being strikingly similar to either one of them. The hazel eyes lacked their distinctive flecks of green; his hair, although brown, was of a lighter shade; the mouth, equally wide and mobile, was so thin that the lips almost disappeared, and the nose was less well-defined. Yet these were the normal discrepancies of feature between brother and sister, parent and child, and the most telling impression was of an overall family likeness.
If he were an impostor, whoever had chosen him had chosen well, with a sharp eye for the similarities between him and the two supposed to be nearest him in blood. This was the more percipient because the mantle of the poor, the hungry and the dispossessed hung about him, largely obscuring what lay beneath. The man was plainly in ill-health. The emaciated flesh was loose on his bones, robbing him of his natural bulk; sores and scabs peppered his scalp, and I could see two large weeping pustules behind his left ear. No doubt the rest of his body was similarly marked (although good food and rest should quickly restore him to full vigour). Either this man was Clement Weaver, or I was looking for a puppet-master of some cunning.
‘Master Chapman, I’ve been hoping to meet you.’ The voice had an unmistakable West Country burr to it, with the hard ‘r’s and the diphthonged vowels of our Saxon forebears, but anyone could be taught to speak in such a fashion. ‘My father’s told me how you went to London, searching for me, and laid those villains by the heels.’
‘The credit was not all mine by any means,’ I disclaimed hastily. ‘Indeed, I was nearly a victim myself. I owe my life to the good sense and watchfulness of another.’ I resumed my seat in obedience to a peremptory gesture from the Alderman and the young man sat opposite me, on a joint stool. ‘Tell me of your own experience,’ I begged him. ‘How did you manage to escape with your life?’
Once again came that disarming smile. ‘That’s the trouble. I’ve no idea. I remember being given some wine to drink — and I’ve only been able to recall that in recent months — but otherwise, all’s a blank until I came to, lying stark naked on the banks of the Thames, on the Southwark side of the river. I couldn’t even remember my name. I didn’t know who I was or where I was or how I got there. There was blood oozing from a wound over my left eye — you can still see the scar if you look closely — and my head felt like it was home to a swarm of bees.’
‘The wine, of course, was drugged,’ I said.
The young man nodded. ‘I realize that now, but at the time, I remembered nothing, and assumed it was because of the blow to my head. I’d been struck violently on the left temple, and reasoned that I’d got it from whoever it was that had stolen my clothes. My tunic was of good camlet trimmed with squirrel fur and must have earned the thief a pretty penny. Not, of course, that I knew this at the time, or had any knowledge of ever having owned such a garment. This is one of the things that has come back to me, you understand, over the past few months, as my memory has gradually returned.’
I frowned. ‘So can you recall now how you managed to escape from the Thames?’
‘Not really.’ He glanced at the Alderman, who gave him an encouraging nod, and then went on, ‘I can only think that the drug must have begun to wear off sooner than had been intended, so instead of drowning, I recovered consciousness and managed to strike out for the shore. My father tells me that even as a small boy, I was a prodigious swimmer.’
‘And you’re sure it was the thief who wounded you? You didn’t hit your head on something?’
‘I can’t be certain, but I don’t think so. Nor do I think that I was stripped before being thrown into the river.’ The hazel eyes met mine with a puzzled stare. ‘I have a … a sensation, no more than that, of still being fully clothed while I was in the water. So it’s my opinion that the thief discovered me lying there and hit me with something. Perhaps I stirred or groaned, and he was afraid that I was about to recover my senses. In his anxiety, he dealt me a blow which not only rendered me unconscious again, but also robbed me of my memory for six long years.’