On the face of it, it was a plausible enough explanation and one with which I could find no immediate quarrel. Everything could have happened exactly as he said it did. ‘So where have you been all these years?’ I asked curiously. ‘Where did you live? What name have you been using?’
‘I lived among the beggars and felons of Southwark,’ he answered simply. ‘I was befriended by a woman called Morwenna Peto, a Cornishwoman by birth who had run away from home when she was young and journeyed to London, where she found work in the Southwark stews. But her whoring days are long past, and nowadays she runs a thieves’ kitchen, where those down on their luck or seeking shelter from the law are always welcome. She found me and took me in. She’d had a son once, who’d ended his life on the gallows, and she said that I reminded her of him. So, when she found I had no knowledge of who I was or where I’d come from, she called me Irwin in his memory.’ The young man smiled, but there was, I fancied, a hint of defiance in his expression. ‘And that’s who I’ve been for the past six years; Irwin Peto, thief, pimp, pickpocket … My father knows the whole story.’
‘I do indeed,’ the Alderman confirmed, ‘and I don’t condemn the boy. Nor will anyone else in my hearing.’ He thrust out an aggressive lower lip.
‘And how, finally, did you recover your memory?’ I asked this young man who might or might not be Clement Weaver, and who, for the time being at least, I decided to think of as Irwin Peto.
‘Strangely enough, by another blow to the head. Several months ago now, one day last October, when it had been raining and freezing both together and the cobbles were very treacherous, I was trying to escape from a man whose pocket I’d just picked, when I slipped and fell heavily, cracking my skull. I was half-stunned, but managed to haul myself to my feet and make off again. I eluded my would-be captor and reached home, where Morwenna bound me up and told me to get some sleep.’ Irwin drew a deep breath. ‘I did, and it was after I woke up that, very slowly, memories of my past life, my real life, began to come back to me; a little piece here, a brief glimpse there until, at last, by the beginning of December, I knew who I was, where I came from and some of the circumstances which had led me to be cast up, robbed and left for dead on the Southwark strand.’
He sounded like a child, reciting something he had been taught, his intonation unemotional and flat because he was intent only on speaking the words in their proper order and making no mistake.
‘So you decided to come home,’ I prompted.
‘Yes. I had to let my father know that I was still alive. A week or so before Christmas, I said goodbye to Morwenna and set out for Bristol.’
‘You walked all the way?’
‘I got a lift now and then from a passing carter.’
‘You didn’t consider going to your uncle in Farringdon Without and asking for his assistance?’
Irwin shoot his head. ‘It seemed only right to confront my father first with my story. Until he believed me, and accepted me for who I am, I felt I had no claim on other people’s understanding.’
Once more, there was nothing to quarrel with in this answer, and if it again sounded like something carefully rehearsed, perhaps the fault was with me and my unspoken wish — for my own sake as well as Mistress Burnett’s — that he should be lying.
‘Well, Chapman!’ Alderman Weaver leant across from his chair to mine and clasped my shoulder. ‘Are you satisfied with my son’s account? Is there anything which couldn’t have happened as he says it did? Tell me honestly if you think he’s lying.’ But his glowing countenance testified to his conviction that I could have nothing detrimental to say.
I glanced towards Irwin Peto and detected a look of apprehension in the hazel eyes. Or did I? The expression was so fleeting that it was gone before I could be certain, and the confidence of innocence was all that remained. ‘No,’ I said, ‘it could have happened exactly as Master Pet- as Master Weaver has explained.’
The Alderman clapped his hands to his thighs in a gesture of satisfaction, his face beaming, the years of misery and ill-health seeming to slip away before my eyes. And I realized that if there had been a doubt that this really was his son lurking in any corner of Alfred Weaver’s mind, then my admission had laid it to rest. He seemed not to have noticed my slight slip of the tongue, or if he had, he regarded it as being of so little importance that it was already forgotten.
Not so with the younger man. The expression on his face indicated that he was fully alive to its significance, and his manner was suddenly more reserved, hostile even, as though he recognized me now for an enemy rather than a friend. I decided therefore that it was time for me to leave while my stock remained high with the father at least, and I rose to my feet. My host did likewise and wrung my hand at parting as though I had been his equal rather than a common pedlar of small account. I wished that I could urge something on Alison’s behalf, but there was nothing I could say which would not be construed as an unwarrantable intrusion into his family affairs. Besides, I had no desire at this stage to upset Irwin Peto any further.
I said farewell and removed myself to the kitchen, where I collected my pack and Dame Pernelle paid me for the two items — a length of figured ribbon and a carved wooden loving-spoon — chosen by Mary and Jane. The Dame, I could tell, was anxious that I should stay and give her my views on ‘Master Clement’, but I thought it best not to commit myself to an opinion just at present. Indeed, there was nothing I could say, nothing I could think of to disprove his story; only an intuitive sense that he was not who he claimed to be. So I took my leave and stepped outside into the wintry dusk.
* * *
It was almost dark and very much colder than when I had entered the house an hour or so earlier. The garden path was treacherous for the unwary foot, and twice in the first minute after the kitchen door had closed behind me, I slipped and only retained my balance with the greatest difficulty. And when I arrived at the garden gate, its latch was stiff and difficult to lift. I struggled with it unsuccessfully for several seconds until it eventually opened inwards with such force that this time there was nothing I could do to save myself. I went sprawling in an ungainly heap on the ground.
A man’s voice said, ‘Are you all right? I didn’t know anyone was there.’ And a hand reached down to help me to my feet.
‘Ned Stoner,’ I said, recovering my wind. ‘It’s good to see you again.’
‘Roger Chapman,’ he answered. ‘I’d know you anywhere now that you’re upright. There’s no other man in Bristol to touch you for height. What are you doing here?’ But before I could reply, he went on, ‘No, you don’t have to tell me! I can guess. In fact, I’m only surprised you haven’t been nosing around here long before now. You must have heard about the return of Master Clement.’
‘I only came back from Hereford the day before yesterday,’ I grinned. ‘I got here as soon as I could.’
He laughed. ‘With what success?’
‘Enough. I’ve met and talked to the young man — in the presence of his father.’
Ned gave another snort of laughter. ‘I might have guessed you’d manage it somehow, in spite of the Alderman guarding that boy like a hen with one chick. But it’s too cold to stand talking outdoors on an evening such as this. Come into the kitchen where it’s warm and have a stoup of ale.’
Reluctantly, I shook my head. ‘I’ve just taken leave of them all. I can’t very well go back again.’
Ned clasped his arms about his body and stamped his feet. ‘Tell you what,’ he suggested, ‘in that case, let’s go to the Lattis and get ourselves a drink. I must know what you think of our young master.’
I readily agreed, and we set off along Tower Lane into Wine Street, then turned right and walked as far as the Corn Market. Here, opposite the entrance to Small Street, stands All Hallows Church, and behind the church an ale-house which, even at the time I am writing about, was already several centuries old. Originally known as the Green Lattis, it had been renamed Abyngdon’s Inn when members of that family took it over, but, in recent years, it had changed hands yet again. Its new title was, and, as far as I know, still is, simply the New Inn; but to most of the local inhabitants it remains either the Lattis or Abyngdon’s.