‘With the result,’ Adela said slowly, ‘that Alison was cut out of the will altogether.’ She tidied away a stray lock of hair that had escaped from beneath her linen hood. ‘Now, let me see if I have this aright. You’re accusing William Burnett of being the instigator of this plot, the man who stumbled across Irwin Peto, recognized his likeness to Clement Weaver and persuaded him to impersonate his dead brother-in-law. But when could this have happened?’
‘Listen! When Timothy Plummer and I were talking, that evening in Tewkesbury, he mentioned, quite by chance, that a deputation of Bristol weavers had been in London last October, demanding a higher price for their cloth. William may well have been one of them, and that could have been when Irwin Peto crossed his path. He was immediately struck by the likeness to Clement, and saw a way by which he could try to secure at least a portion of the Alderman’s fortune for himself after Alison’s death. No doubt, he and Irwin Peto arranged to split the inheritance in half. The state of Alfred Weaver’s health had probably convinced William that they wouldn’t have long to wait.’
Adela regarded me with consternation. ‘Roger, are you sure you’re not letting your imagination run away with you? I can see that William Burnett would know enough of his wife’s past, and enough details of Clement’s disappearance, to make him a good instructor; but how could he possibly rely on the word of a man such as Irwin Peto? What’s to prevent Peto hanging on to all the inheritance once it’s his?’
‘I have no doubt at all that William Burnett has foreseen that situation, and holds some sort of written, legally witnessed document, allowing him to claim half of any monies that come to Irwin. And with such a paper in William’s possession, Irwin would be a fool to withhold his share, unless he’s willing to risk getting his neck stretched.’
Adela rubbed her nose. ‘But why would William murder Imelda Bracegirdle?’
‘For the reason I’ve already given you. When Clement turned up just after Christmas, and the city was buzzing with the news, she was astute enough to suspect some underhand dealing on William’s part, and threaten him with exposure. He panicked, because she held the only proof that might connect him to such a plot, Alison’s horoscope, predicting her death before her father’s. So he killed Mistress Bracegirdle and removed the evidence. What he did with it, heaven alone knows. Burnt it, most like.’
Adela said nothing for a minute or two, turning over what I had said in her mind. At last she asked, ‘The black and red silk threads, where do you think they came from?’
‘The day William Burnett visited Margaret’s cottage with his wife, he was wearing a black and red silk girdle. He could have been wearing it the night of the murder.’
Adela still appeared dubious. ‘If all you say is founded in fact and isn’t a product of your imagination, and presuming that William Burnett believes the horoscope cast by Mistress Bracegirdle to be true, then why did he seek to widen the breach between Alison and her father? If she dies first, the Alderman will leave everything to Clement anyway.’
I shrugged. ‘I can’t say for certain, but probably to make it plain to Alison that he was taking her part against her father, and to make absolutely sure that all the money goes to his partner in crime when the Alderman is dead.’
‘But supposing Imelda Bracegirdle’s prophecy is wrong and Mistress Burnett doesn’t die before her father, then Master Burnett will have robbed himself of half of Alfred Weaver’s fortune.’ Adela finished her ale, propped her elbows on the table, cupped her chin in her hands and regarded me challengingly.
I returned her look resentfully. I was growing irritated by her constant questioning of my theory. To me, it all seemed as clear as day. ‘You have to try to think like he does,’ I protested. ‘You have to think with his thoughts, not your own. He must know enough of his wife’s state of health to believe implicitly in Mistress Bracegirdle’s forecast. Most likely, all he sought from her was confirmation of his own worst fears. At that time, he couldn’t see what to do about it; indeed, he may well have reconciled himself to the idea that there was nothing to be done. It was only when he chanced across Irwin Peto and recognized his likeness to Clement Weaver that he saw a possible remedy for the situation.’
‘So, what do you propose doing now?’ Adela asked. ‘As far as I can see, you have no proof for any of these accusations. And it’s doubtful if anyone will credit your story without it.’
‘I can only go to Mistress Burnett and Alderman Weaver and tell them what I think happened,’ I answered.
My companion shook her head. ‘Neither will believe you,’ she warned. ‘Neither will want to.’
I sighed. ‘Nevertheless, I must try. I might rattle either William Burnett or Irwin Peto enough to make one of them do something foolish. The realization that I know the truth…’
‘If it is the truth,’ Adela murmured.
I continued as if she had not spoken, ‘… could make them panic. Or I might plant a seed of doubt in the mind of either Mistress Burnett or the Alderman. It’s in God’s hands.’
It was Adela’s turn to sigh. I rose to my feet and she rose with me, coming round the table to embrace me. ‘Take care, Roger. If you’re right, both William Burnett and this Irwin Peto are dangerous men.’
‘I’ll be as careful as I can,’ I promised, before gently kissing her goodbye.
I left the cottage and set out in the direction of the Frome Gate, so intent on my errand that I failed to notice I was being followed.
Chapter Twenty
It must by now have been approaching four o’clock and supper-time; but although it was many hours since I had eaten dinner at an inn on the heights above Bath, so much had happened since my arrival home that I was feeling none of the pangs of hunger usual after so long an abstinence.
Traffic was thin at the Frome Gate, and the Porter would willingly have exchanged a few words with me had I not pushed my way past him, intent only on confronting first Alison and William Burnett, then Alderman Weaver and Irwin Peto, before my courage failed me. My rudeness was greeted with a sniff, and I was vaguely aware that the Porter, with a resolution to match my own, had waylaid the man behind me, determined to alleviate the tedium of a slack afternoon with a little conversation. On such slender threads of chance does human life depend, for I am certain that had my pursuer not been detained, a knife would have been slipped between my ribs once we were across the bridge and within the shadows of Saint John’s Arch. As it was, I had walked out into the sunshine of Broad Street before he could shake off the unwelcome attentions of the Porter. (This is surmise, of course, but well-founded surmise, given subsequent events.)
My eyes were momentarily dazzled as I stepped from darkness into light, and for a second or two I was unable to see what was happening. My ears, however, told me that a very public quarrel was taking place, and that the chief protagonist was a woman. Indeed, I instantly recognized the voice as that of Alison Burnett, her vituperations carrying loudly in the still, summer air.
My sight cleared and I could see the tableau ahead of me. Alison, her face livid and damp with sweat beneath her blue silk hood, her eyes wild and staring, was so beside herself with rage that she was behaving like any fishwife from Billingsgate Market. Her language, as she heaped abuse on her father’s head, was worse than anything I have ever heard used by a man, and how she came to know such expressions is a mystery. (Although Adela always used to laugh when I said as much.) Behind her hovered William, gesturing ineffectually and apparently incapable of restraining her excesses.