Margaret must have followed my glance, for I turned my head to see her watching me anxiously. I gave her a reassuring smile. 'I'll be off to Broad Street as soon as it's light,' I promised.
I approached Alderman Weaver's house in Broad Street as I had done two years ago, from the back and the narrow confines of Tower Lane. The little walled garden with its pear and apple trees, both now bare of leaves, its herb and flower beds deep in their winter slumber, was much as I remembered it. But the formidable dame with the bunch of keys at her belt who came to the kitchen door in answer to my knock, was not Marjorie Dyer. She, I supposed, had long gone.
My request to speak to the Alderman was greeted with suspicion, and my insistence that he would know me with outright contempt. Behind the housekeeper's back, I could see two little kitchen-maids regarding me goggle-eyed, delighted by the unexpected diversion. I was desperately calculating how long it would be before the door was slammed in my face with nothing achieved, when someone entered the garden and made to push past me into the warmth of the kitchen.
'Ned!' I exclaimed thankfully. 'Ned Stoner! I must see the Alderman. Tell the goodwife here that he knows me.' The heavy, lantern-jawed face regarded me straitly for a moment, then was wreathed in smiles. 'Dang me, if it ain't the chapman! How goes it then, me old acker? What you doing back in Bristol?' And without waiting for an answer to either of these questions, he addressed himself to the dragon barring my path. 'It's all right, Dame Judith, you can tell the master 'e's here. The master'll see 'im too, I shouldn't wonder. Owes our friend the chapman a lot, I reckon.'
Stiff with outraged dignity, the housekeeper eventually withdrew, reappearing some minutes later to say that Alderman Weaver would indeed be pleased to see me.
Her reluctance at delivering this message was aggravated by the sight of me, at Ned's invitation, already inside her kitchen, and the two girls neglecting their duties to stare and giggle bashfully. She was plainly at a loss to account for my standing with her master, and I speculated whether or not she would sink her pride sufficiently to question Ned about it after I was gone.
The alderman had finished his breakfast and received me in the parlour with its painted and carved doorposts and roof-beams. The glass windows, which had so intrigued me when I first saw them, were dulled now with the grime of winter, but still let in a deal of light. The ornate cupboard, displaying the family pewter and silverware, had been removed to another corner from the one in which it previously stood but, apart from that, all was much as it had been. The alderman, rising to greet me from one of the armchairs beside the hearth, on which burned a roaring fire, was as I remembered him; a little older, perhaps, a little more careworn, the hair sparser and greyer, but with the same thickset build and old-fashioned clothes.
He held out his hand in greeting and waved me to the other armchair. 'Roger Chapman,' he said, 'how can I help you?'
I explained my errand and, as I did so, a faint smile, tinged with sadness, curved his lips.
'So,' he said, when at last I finished speaking, 'you are still using your peculiar talent to help other people as you once helped me. With,' he added, after a moment's sorrowful reflection, 'the prospect of no happier an outcome. Less happy, perhaps, for at least I had the satisfaction of seeing the malefactors brought to justice. I fear in this case, there is no hope of that, for the simple reason that the crime lies at the door of us, the citizens of Bristol. We allowed our dislike of a young man to cloud our judgement; even, in some cases, making up evidence against him and, worse still, growing to believe it, because we wanted to think him guilty. A shame most of us will have to bear for the rest of our lives.' He flung up a hand.
"Oh, I can guess what you're thinking; that what happened Io him did not make Robert Herepath any the less of a burden to his brother and to the rest of us who had to endure his effrontery, his gambling, his debts and drunkenness. But no man, whatever his faults, deserves to choke to death at the end of a rope for a murder he did not commit.'
I nodded. 'I think so, too. But I do not think that two innocent women should be made to suffer for something which was not their fault. Which is why I should like to discover, if I'm able, where William Woodward was during the time between March and August last year; between the Day of the Annunciation and the Day of the Assumption of Our Lady.'
The alderman frowned. 'An impossible task, I should have thought, now that the only person who might have thrown any light on the subject is dead.'
‘He claimed to have been taken to Ireland by the slavers, but no one seems to have believed him. Yet the evidence of the hat, and of the witnesses at Robert Herepath's trial, would give the claim credence. Why is it so summarily dismissed?'
Alderman Weaver sighed. 'Because the slavers do not in general trouble themselves with people over a certain age; they are of little value in the market-place. But if they do …. and there are unscrupulous men and women who will pay handsomely to be rid of elderly relatives they are not so foolish as to beat the victim so severely about the head as to make him lose his wits. What profit would there be for them in that? No, the truth behind William's disappearance must be sought elsewhere. And now, young man, you must hold me excused. I have to be at the weaving sheds this morning. The aulnager is coming to inspect a consignment of cloth before it's dispatched to London and the Steelyard.'
Chapter Six
The alderman would have risen to his feet, but I stretched out a hand. 'A few minutes more of your time, Your Honour, I beg you.'
He hesitated, then sank back into his chair, but his manner betrayed impatience.
I went on quickly, 'Forgive me, but do you have certain knowledge that William Woodward's story was false?'
It was Alderman Weaver's turn to pause for thought, but after a moment, he said firmly, 'I do not have certain knowledge, no. That would be impossible. But if you ask me am I as sure as I can be, then the answer must be yes.' He sighed. 'I have often wished that Mistress Walker would marry again, but as she has never seemed inclined to do so, I have felt in some sense responsible for her and her daughter. Although nearly a score of years ago, it was one of my carters, a drunken fellow who should have been dismissed long before, who was the cause of her husband's death, and also that of her child. Her only son.’ There was a poignant silence, during which I guessed he was thinking not of Colin Walker, but of his own son, Clement. The alderman continued bravely: 'Therefore, when this trouble came upon them; when William Woodward came back, as it were, from the dead, I felt obliged to investigate his story in the hope that it might prove to be true. If it were, then no blame could be attached to either him or his family.' He raised his earnest glance to mine and leaned slightly forward in his chair. 'I have done much business over the years with the Irish of the eastern seaboard, from Waterford up as far as Dublin, which is the trading ground of Bristol men. Many of these acquaintances have become good friends, for the Irish are a friendly people.'
'I doubt if those sold into slavery to them think so,' I put in drily.
The alderman smiled. 'In most cases you would be wrong. Oh, there are cruel masters, I don't deny. What nation can claim to be free of cruelty? But in general, the Irish treat their servants as friends, all sitting down to table together and eating from the same dish. You look incredulous, as well you might, but I assure you that it's true. I have seen it with my own eyes and know it to be the general custom. Many Bristol men and women, sold into slavery in Ireland, have found a happiness there they did not know at home. And although,' he added hastily, 'I cannot condone something that is a crime against both Church and State, its consequences are not always to be deplored.'