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Another gust of wind, tearing down the alleyway between the houses, made me shiver, and I realized how cold I was. My feet were numb and I was forced to stamp the ground in order to regain any feeling in them. It also made me aware that it was high time I was in bed. I let myself back into the cottage, moving softly so as not to disturb the women and children, and while I undressed, I wondered what I had been doing out there, in the freezing weather. This was nothing to do with me; no one had solicited my help to determine if this man really were Clement Weaver or no. So what was my interest?

It was twofold. Firstly, I was naturally as intrigued as everyone else in the resurrection of a dead man, in trying to decide if he really was who he claimed to be. But secondly, my pride was touched. I was the one who, six years ago, had assured Alderman Weaver that his son was dead. The possibility that he might have survived had never crossed my mind, and even had it done so, I should have rejected the notion out of hand. Common sense told me that I was not to blame, that my conclusion had been the natural one to draw. Clement had accompanied his sister to London to buy her bridal clothes and had been carrying a large sum of money about his person — a fact his killer had known only too well. And that killer had been a cunning and very thorough man. But could he have bungled the execution of his crime just this once?

I lay down and pulled up the blankets, the fire being almost out. I felt worn to the bone, as though I could sleep for a month without waking; and yet I guessed that my slumbers would be troubled by dreams. I heard Elizabeth cry out, and the immediate, soothing response from my mother-in-law, as though she slept with one ear cocked and one eye open.

My senses began to swim as I approached unconsciousness. Now was the time when all those images would make me toss and turn, disturbing my rest. My lids grew heavy and gradually closed — and I knew nothing more until morning.

* * *

I was awakened from this dreamless slumber by something heavy falling on me from a height, and also by a sharp pain in the head. I opened my bleary eyes to find my daughter sprawled across my chest, her small inquisitive fingers stroking the stubble on my chin, while Nicholas Juett continued to tug at my hair. They were fully dressed, as was my mother-in-law, who was busy lighting the newly laid fire.

‘You were tired, my lad,’ she remarked, getting up from her knees. ‘Even all my clattering didn’t rouse you. It took these two imps of mischief to do that. Well, we’ll leave you alone while you get dressed. There’s hot water in the pot if you want to shave.’

She shooed the two children back behind the curtain, following them to make sure that it was decently pulled. I could hear her speaking softly to Adela Juett, and I suddenly felt embarrassed by the proximity of this stranger. I scrambled into my shirt and hose and hurried through my shaving, cutting myself twice in the process. I swore under my breath. The cottage seemed cramped and overcrowded, and I longed for the freedom of my calling, of tramping the surrounding villages, selling my wares. I knew that before I went to Hereford, the stocks in my pack had been running low, and I determined that as soon as breakfast was over, I would visit the Backs to see if any merchant ships were tied up at the wharves. I could often pick up items cheaply before the cargoes were unloaded and carted away to their various destinations. Some Masters and their crews were inclined to be light-fingered with the owners’ goods, for their share of the profits was a mere pittance compared with that of the merchants, in spite of the fact that they risked their lives daily on the high seas.

I announced my intention to my mother-in-law while we ate our porridge and oatcakes, but she made no demur. Rather, she approved.

‘We could do with the money,’ she said without thinking.

Adela spoke up at once. ‘Nicholas and I won’t be a burden to you for long, Margaret. If you could speak to Alderman Weaver or Master Burnett for me, I should be grateful. The Alderman might even remember that I was one of his spinners before my marriage — although seven years is a fair time. And if there is the chance of a vacant cottage somewhere…’

‘There’s no need for you to be leaving yet awhile!’ my mother-in-law exclaimed, dismayed. ‘You must get used to being at home again before you think of setting up on your own. Between us, Roger and I can earn far more money than we need to support just ourselves and Elizabeth. You and I still have so much to talk about, and besides, the children get on so well together. They’re firm friends already. When I said we could do with the money, I was simply encouraging Roger not to be idle.’

Adela appeared to accept the lie with her usual courteous smile, which gave nothing away as to her true feelings.

‘Nevertheless,’ she persisted, ‘I should be very grateful if you would do as I ask.’

‘Roger!’ My mother-in-law appealed to me. ‘Tell Adela how pleased we are to have her and Nicholas under our roof.’

Before I could answer, Adela spoke again.

‘My wishes have nothing to do with Roger, nor are they any reflection on your hospitality, Cousin. It’s just that I’m used to my own home and find sharing with other people difficult.’

I glanced gratefully at her, and once more she gave that small, tight smile.

Margaret sighed, acknowledging defeat. ‘Oh, very well! I’ll speak to Master Burnett if I see him today. But,’ she added, brightening, ‘I must warn you that I know of no dwelling standing empty at present. You may have to remain here longer than you would wish.’

Adela nodded, reaching across to wipe Nicholas’s mouth. Again, there was no clue as to what she was really thinking. A moment later, a knock at the door heralded the arrival of Goody Watkins at the head of a small deputation of neighbours, all anxious to welcome the new arrival home to Bristol. I noticed several of the women giving me an appraising look, and I guessed that my mother-in-law had made no secret of her aspirations. But if Adela was also aware of the glances in her direction, she gave no sign.

‘Well,’ said Goody Watkins, turning to me when, at last, all the exclaiming was over, the questioning of young Nicholas and his mother finished, ‘no doubt Mistress Walker’s told you of the goings-on while you’ve been away; of Clement Weaver’s return. If,’ she added with a dubious sniff, ‘it is Clement Weaver! And now, if that weren’t enough excitement for one month, Imelda Bracegirdle’s been found murdered, strangled, in her cottage on the other side of the Frome Gate.’

Chapter Four

‘I told you,’ Adela said, addressing me, ‘that the cry I heard was made by someone in distress. But you wouldn’t stop and go back.’

‘How could we have gone back?’ I demanded indignantly. ‘The Porter was just shutting the gate. Besides, there are so many cries. Who was to say that this one was different from any other? And even so, what you heard may have had nothing to do with the murder of Mistress Bracegirdle.’ I turned to my mother-in-law. ‘Do you — I mean did you — know her?’

‘Not very well — only by sight. I don’t think we’ve ever spoken.’

‘Nobody knew her well. She kept herself to herself,’ Goody Watkins put in with the regretful air of one who had failed in a self-imposed challenge which could never now be met. She added venomously, ‘Secretive, that’s what Imelda Bracegirdle was. Secretive.’

There was a general murmur of agreement from most of the other women, but one raised her voice in dissent.

‘It’s true she wasn’t one for company. I disremember seeing her at the High Cross or the Tolzey amongst the gossips, but she was always civil if you gave her the time of day.’