The place was crowded as always. Ned and I, entering the ale-room from the stone-flagged passage that runs the length of the house from front door to back, were fortunate to find seats at a table close to the fire, grabbing them just ahead of two other customers. We were cursed roundly, but gave as good as we got; and our luck held when a passing pot-boy took our order almost immediately, to the great annoyance of those who had been waiting for some time.
‘The angels are on our side this evening,’ Ned said, grinning. ‘Now, tell me what you think about this business.’
I shook my head. ‘Not until you tell me what you think. I never saw Clement Weaver, remember, but you knew him well. So, in your opinion, is this him?’
Ned sighed. ‘Well, it could be. There’s a look of Master Clement about him, allowing for the way he says he’s been forced to live these last six years. And he knows a lot about the family and its history. And what he doesn’t know is because his memory still isn’t quite right. Or leastways, so he claims. And who’s brave enough to query it? Who dares to object, “That’s very convenient, my lad,” if the Alderman accepts it?’
Our ale arrived and was placed in front of us, some of the liquid slopping over on to the board as the pot-boy hurried away to attend to other customers. ‘That’s what everyone says,’ I murmured gloomily.
Ned swallowed a generous mouthful of ale and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He leaned forward, frowning. ‘The way he claims to have escaped from those rogues, well, you’d know more about that than I would. But it seems strange to me that they didn’t bind his hands and feet before they threw him into the water. And what about his clothes? Good money to be made from them, surely?’
‘Those rogues, as you so rightly call them, couldn’t bind their victims’ hands and feet without someone, sometime, being alerted to the fact that people were being murdered. If naked bodies kept being fished out of the Thames with wrists and ankles tied together, what would be the conclusion? Even the river scavengers wouldn’t stay quiet about that for long: they’d get word to the Sheriff’s men somehow. No, money and valuables were sufficient for those murdering thieves. They weren’t going to risk the full force of the law being set in motion, because the trail might eventually lead to them. But when a fully clothed, unbound corpse is dragged out of the river, it’s naturally presumed to be one of the many unfortunates who drown every day, either by falling in accidentally or at the hands of an assailant.’
Ned rubbed his nose. ‘I thought you told me once that they tied you up. I could have sworn it.’
‘They did, but that was because I hadn’t drunk the wine. Even so, they were going to knock me over the head and untie me before dropping me into the Thames.’
‘Oh, well!’ He took another swig of ale. ‘I reckon that answers my question. I guess things could have fallen out, then, the way this Irwin Peto says they did.’
‘Is that how you think of him?’ I asked curiously. ‘Not as Master Clement?’
‘It’s not easy to know how to think of him,’ Ned admitted. ‘To begin with, I was convinced he was an impostor, but after a while, a few doubts crept in. And now you tell me that his story of how he escaped death could easily be true. Moreover, the Master’s always believed in him, from the first moment they met.’
‘That could be because Alderman Weaver has never wanted to think that Clement is dead,’ I argued. ‘He’s not going to let himself believe anything different, and woe betide anyone who tries to persuade him to change his mind.’
Ned drained his cup. ‘You mean Mistress Alison and Master Burnett? Aye, it’s a wicked thing to have done, to have treated her in such a scurvy fashion. And all because Master Burnett had courage enough to voice what the rest of the Master’s friends were thinking. Maybe Master Burnett was a trifle heavy-handed. Maybe he could have curbed his tongue a bit more than he did; been a bit more diplomatic. But then, he was angry, and he didn’t expect the Master to respond in such a way. Well, who could have foreseen such a thing? I ask you! To halve his daughter’s inheritance on account of some stranger who turns up out of the blue and claims to be Clement is insanity enough, but to disinherit her altogether … words fail me!’
I sighed. I was getting nowhere. I was hearing the same story, in very nearly the selfsame words, from every person I talked to; and there was nothing of any significance to be gleaned even from those who had known Clement Weaver before his disappearance. So far, apart from Master and Mistress Burnett, no one was prepared to say definitely whether he or she thought Irwin Peto to be an impostor or not. Well, as I had told Alison earlier in the day, all further enquiries on my part would probably have to wait now until the spring.
For the past few minutes, customers entering the New Inn had been muffled in cloaks heavily caked with snow, and there was talk from the wiseacres of a protracted spell of bad weather. All the signs, they said, pointed to a very cold season, and it would be a foolish man who ventured far afield.
The sudden noise of voices raised in altercation sounded from the room overhead, followed by the clatter of feet on the stairs and the violent slamming of the door that opened on to the street. Very few of the New Inn’s customers took any notice, but Ned Stoner did glance up briefly towards the smoke-blackened ceiling.
‘Trouble?’ I asked.
He shrugged fatalistically. ‘Where there’s gambling there’s always trouble sooner or later. Too many young cocks nowadays, all swaggering and fighting with one another. They win money at dice or some such game of hazard, fill their bellies with cheap wine instead of decent ale, and think they’re lords of the dunghill — until they sober up again and find themselves locked in the bridewell or the castle dungeons. The youth of today have it too easy,’ he grumbled.
I hid a smile, for I knew him to be only a year or so older than myself. But I let it pass. ‘Do you think it could be one of these young bravos who was responsible for Imelda Bracegirdle’s murder?’
Ned grunted. ‘More than likely. But I doubt if he’ll ever be brought to justice. His friends’ll protect him. Swear he was in their company, whenever it happened. Another cup of ale?’ But his offer was half-hearted.
I refused and got to my feet. ‘I think we’d both best be off home before the weather gets any worse.’
Ned agreed, although our caution did not seem to be shared by the rest of the customers. The ale-room was just as crowded and noisy as when we arrived, and our seats were taken almost as soon as we vacated them. We threaded our way between the tables and out into the passageway, where two young men were just mounting the stairs to the upper room. A third stood inside the street door, stamping the snow from his boots, the light from a torch, in a wall-sconce above his head, illuminating his face.
Ned paused in surprise. ‘Hello, Master Clement! Been let out on your own, have you? And not before time if you ask me!’
Irwin Peto started at the sound of Ned’s voice, and I noticed that the hand which was fumbling with the strings of his cloak, was shaking badly.
‘Are you all right, Master — er — Weaver?’ I enquired solicitously, and received a black look for my pains.
‘I’m well enough,’ he snapped, and turned back to Ned. ‘My father doesn’t know I’m here. He thinks I’m asleep in bed, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention seeing me.’ He added on a note of desperation, ‘He keeps me like a prisoner, he’s so afraid of losing me again.’