The Hanged Man

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.'

Realizing that my remark had caused him to digress, I prompted, 'So you made inquiries of your Irish friends regarding William Woodward?'

'I did indeed, and very thorough they were, too. But no sighting of anyone resembling him could be recollected in any of the slave markets held in March last year. These markets of necessity take place in secret, but are well attended; and if my immediate informant had not been present, he always knew of someone else who had.' Alderman Weaver leaned even closer, thumping the arm of his chair. 'I feel sure in my own mind that an elderly man with severe head injuries would not have been overlooked, if only for the simple reason that his appearance would have provoked ridicule from the onlookers. Furthermore, there appears to have been no talk of a runaway slave in the latter half of August, and I am assured that such news does get about.' His gaze became yet more earnest. 'Mistress Walker has doubtless told you in what condition her father returned to her, and indeed, I saw William for myself on more than one occasion. The blows he had received to his head had addled his wits; and while I believe a man in his state could, by instinct, make his way home on foot, I am extremely doubtful of his having the ability to find a ship's master willing to transport him across water. Sailors are too superstitious. And if he had found someone, William had no money with which to pay for his passage.'

I realized with dismay that I had given very little thought to William Woodward's return journey, and silently upbraided myself for the lapse. This latter argument of the alderman seemed to me a more telling one than any he had hitherto advanced, although taken altogether, his reasoning convinced me that I must look elsewhere for the truth concerning the old man's disappearance. It seemed unlikely that he had ever been in Ireland.

I stood up. 'Thank you for your time and patience,' I murmured humbly, still shaken by the fact that I had obtained but half a story from Margaret Walker, and determined to remedy this omission as soon as possible.

My recent illness, I decided, must have blunted the sharpness of my mind. The alderman also rose, anxious to be away to the weaving sheds and the waiting aulnager. I went on, 'If I am to help Mistress Walker discover what really happened to her father, I shall need to make more inquiries. But I hesitate to intrude upon the grief of Edward Herepath and Mistress Ford without some kind of introduction. Would you… could you provide me with a letter?'

Alderman Weaver considered my request, then nodded briskly. 'Accompany me to the weaving sheds, and I'll dictate some lines to my clerk after I have finished with the aulnager. Meantime, you can take yourself down to the tenter ground. It was two of the tenterers' children who fished William's hat from the Frome. You may gain some further information from them, although after all this time, I would not wish to raise false hopes. But something new may be discovered.'

He called for his manservant to bring his hat and warm frieze cloak, and together we set out, along Broad Street, down High Street, and across the bridge with its shops and tall, narrow houses. Spanning the middle of the bridge was a chapel dedicated to the Virgin and, as we passed through, I sent up a prayer, asking Our Lady's blessing on my mission. I might have asked for its successful conclusion, except I had learned at an early age that neither God, nor His gracious Lady Mother, nor His Son, our Saviour, are prepared to give something for nothing. I should have to work to ensure a happy outcome.

The weaving sheds were busy at that time of day, and the clack of the looms could be heard even before we reached St Thomas's Church. From every cottage there sounded the hum of spinning-wheels. The aulnager was already waiting outside the counting-house, tapping an impatient foot and resisting the head weaver's attempts to placate him for the alderman's tardiness. An alderman of Bristol, however, was unlikely to be intimidated by the annoyance of a mere city inspector, and Alderman Weaver took much longer than was necessary instructing me how to reach the tenter grounds, which lay on the other side of the Redcliffe wall, along the bank of the Avon.

'Come back later,' he told me finally, 'and you shall have your letter.'

I thanked him and went out by the Redcliffe Gate. To my left, William Canynges's beautiful church of St Mary stood guard over the row of houses climbing Redcliffe Gate but I turned to my right, past the gravel pits to where the fullers had their small community, soaking and hammering the newly woven cloth before dispatching it to the tenters to be stretched. The tenter fields were further on again, looking across the river towards the Great Marsh and the Backs, where ships rode at anchor, waiting to be relieved of their cargoes or loaded for the journey home.

I cursed myself for a second time when I realized I had failed to ask the alderman for the two boys' names, but set about remedying the omission. There were a number of men working at the wooden frames. One couple near me fixed the selvedge of a piece of fulled cloth to the tenterhooks of the crossbar, before hooking the other selvedge to an even heavier wooden bar which was then allowed to swing free, its weight pulling and stretching the wet material into shape. When they had finished, I approached them cautiously and made my request. I knew from experience how loath closely knit communities of craftsmen were to give information to prying strangers, and was not surprised to be met with tightly shut mouths and uncomprehending stares. But once I had mentioned the names of Margaret Walker and Alderman Weaver, I was treated with less suspicion, and one of the two men told me what I needed to know.

'You're wanting Burl Hodge's young lads,' he said, giving me a long hard look. 'Come to think of it, Burl's mentioned you. You're the chapman who was taken sick some weeks back, just after Christmas. He helped carry you to Widow Walker's cottage, if I remember rightly.' I assured him that he did and asked where I could find Burl Hodge's sons this time of day.

'You'd best ask Burl himself,' my informant answered grudgingly, and nodded towards the opposite end of the field. 'Over there, with the green jerkin and brown hood.' I thanked him and made my way between the frames to where Burl Hodge was taking a well-earned rest from the rigours of hanging wet cloth on a cold, dank January day. He regarded my approach with some suspicion until sudden recognition dawned. He stopped blowing on his chilblained fingers and grinned.

'It's you, chapman. Hob and I've wondered how you were doing, if you were up and about yet. A nasty turn you had there. But Mistress Walker will've looked after you. A good woman, that, whatever some people might whisper behind her back. But then, some'd whisper about their own grandmothers. You're still seemingly a bit pale, though. Get plenty of her good victuals inside you. Now what can I do for you?'

I explained as best I could without taking up too much of his time, for I could see his partner was waiting to hang a new length of cloth which had just been brought from the fulling yard. 'I understand it was your two lads,' I ended, 'who fished William Woodward's hat from the River Frome. Alderman Weaver suggested I speak to them if I could find them.'

Burl scratched his head thoughtfully. 'They might be at home with their mother this time o' day, but mostly they're out getting into mischief. A pair o' rascals, and always have been. But the elder, Jack, 'll soon be starting his apprenticeship, praise be to St Katherine, for he's to be a weaver, unlike me. This job's not fit for a dog in winter. He's to go to Master Adelard in Redcliffe Hill.

As to this other business of William Woodward, speak to them by all means, though I doubt either Jack or Dick'll be able to tell you more'n they've told already. All the same, I'd be glad to have the mystery cleared if it were possible. It's been hard on those two women.' 'Where do you live?' I asked, as he turned away to grasp his end of the wet cloth which the second man was pulling from the basket.

'Hard by Temple Church, near the rope-walk. Knock on any door. Anyone'll tell you where me and my Jenny live.' I left him and his partner struggling with the weight of the red-dyed cloth, fixing it between the two sets of tenterhooks, and retraced my footsteps back through the Redcliffe Gate. I followed the line of the city walls to my right and came eventually to the rope-walk, where two men, one at either end of the stretch of gravel, were twisting strands of hempen fibre into an inch-thick rope.

Temple Church stood on the corner of Temple Street and Water Lane, and I was quickly directed to Burl Hodge's cottage, where the door was answered by a young, fresh-faced woman in a brown homespun woollen gown. In spite of being flushed from the exertions of cooking, for she was obviously preparing the midday meal, she gave me a smile as wide as her husband's and invited me inside.

For the second time that morning I repeated my story, while Jenny Hodge brought me a cup of small ale and two of her oatcakes to sample. When I had finished, she said: 'You're in luck. The boys have gone to fetch my bread from the baker's oven, and they should be back any minute. Thursday,' she added, 'is Water Lane's day for baking.'

Even as she spoke, the door opened and two young lads came in, carrying a large, covered basket. The scent of newly baked bread filled the room, and it was hardly surprising that, ignoring my presence, Jack and Dick Hodge immediately clamoured for a slice off one of the loaves.

'In a minute,' their mother replied sternly, 'when you've spoken to this gentleman. Listen to what he has to say and answer him nicely.'

Two round, freckled faces, small counterparts of their father's, were turned towards me with an inquiring air, and the boys flopped down on the bench beside me. I repeated my request for a third time.

Jack explored his nose with a probing finger while considering his answer. 'It was just a hat,' he said at last, 'wasn't it, Dick? Except there were bloodstains on it.' 'Bloodstains,' his brother echoed with ghoulish satisfaction.

Jack continued, 'We don't usually fish the Frome.

Mother doesn't like us going across the city, so we stay beside the Avon. But that day, well, we thought we'd like a change, didn't we, Dick?'

'Like a change,' Dick assured me dutifully.

'Did you catch anything?' I asked, diverted. 'Apart from the hat, I mean.'

Two heads nodded in unison. 'A cod, that long.' Jack held up his hands to indicate a length of well over two feet, while his brother went one better and spread wide his arms. 'And then we found the hat. It caught on the end of my line.'

'End of his line,' Dick said, smiling.

'What sort of hat?' I returned Dick's smile.

Jack shrugged, a gesture at once copied by his brother.

I wondered how the younger boy would fare when the elder went to live with Master Adelard, the weaver.

'Just a plain hat,' Jack said, 'with a wide brim. All soggy it was, but you could see darker patches on it. We didn't know it was dried blood then,' he admitted reluctantly.

'But you knew who it belonged to?'

'We guessed. We'd all heard about Master Woodward being missing.'

'So what did you do with it?'

'We meant to take it to Mistress Walker, but Master Herepath just happened along at that moment, so we gave it to him.'

'Master Edward Herepath?'

Jack opened his eyes wide at my stupidity. 'Of course.

His brother was in the Newgate prison.'

'Newgate prison,' came the expected echo.

I interrogated them for a few moments longer, but it soon became apparent that they had no more to tell. They could recall nothing other than what they told the sheriff's officers at the time; and even those few details were fading from their minds. Each new day presented them with ever-expanding horizons, and the events of almost a twelve-month since held no interest for them. I thanked them both with solemn courtesy and rose to take my leave. Released from the need to be polite, the boys whooped around their mother, clamouring for a slice of bread, preferably one of the golden-baked crusts.

Fending them off with practised hands, Jenny Hodge escorted me to the door just as someone knocked. A man stood outside, muffled in his cloak against the cold, its hood pulled well forward to conceal his face. Nevertheless, Jenny had no difficulty in identifying her visitor and gave a nervous start.

'Oh!' she said, 'it's you.' She glanced sideways at me, then held the door wide. 'Burl's from home at present, but he'll be back soon for his dinner. You'd… You'd best come in and wait.'

'Thank you, Mistress.' The man stepped across the threshold without sparing me a look, keeping his head lowered so that the hood fell even further forward about his face. He said nothing else before Jenny Hodge ushered me out and closed the door behind me, yet somehow I felt as though I had heard that voice before, and recently.

I racked my brains, repeating the unknown's words over and over inside my head, but gradually I lost the intonation and gave up trying to remember. I told myself that I was probably mistaken.

I returned to Alderman Weaver's counting-house, to find him pacing up and down. The aulnager had been gone a little while, all the alderman's cloth being of the required width, with no thin patches from the use of inferior wool. Each roll now bore the aulnager's seal, and awaited collection by the carter.

'Ah, there you are at last,' was the impatient greeting. 'Here's the letter you wanted for Master Herepath.' The alderman held out a thin sheet of parchment, then snatched it back again. 'He has suffered greatly. You must promise me not to hound him should he refuse to see you.'

I gave my word willingly, for if God did not mean me to solve this mystery, then I could be on the road once more. And without the assistance of the hanged man's brother, I doubted that I should learn very much. I said my farewells and thanked the alderman for his help. My stomach was telling me that it was time for dinner, a sure sign I was getting better, and I turned my feet in the direction of Margaret Walker's cottage.

It was as I made my way along St Thomas's Street that I recalled where, and in what circumstances, I had heard the voice of Jenny Hedge's visitor before. Until that moment, I would have deemed it impossible that it was one and the same, for the voice of Margaret Walker's nocturnal caller during my illness had been muted; nothing more, I would have sworn, than an indistinguishable murmur to my straining ears. Now, however, I realized it must have sounded plainer than I thought, for I knew beyond doubt that on both occasions, the speaker had been the same man.