‘Course, now that’s dead, who’ll pay anyhow? It’ll all be talk o’ wills and lawyers. More delaying while poor men starves.’
‘An’ ‘e weren’t the only one in this city playing suchlike tricks on ‘onest working men! All they masters be at the same game. As soon as they got any excuse, they lays us off. ‘Ow can we live like that, that’s what I wants to know.’
‘I say we comes back o’night and brings a few torches. Lobs ‘em through ‘is winders.’
‘Them bastard constables ‘ud be on us afore we even got there, I reckon. Old mayor an’ ‘is cronies be runnin’ scared o’ summin’ like that. This ‘ole place be full o’ constables after dark.’
‘I did see some fair flints in the street back there. Couldn’t we slip back and lob a few o’ them beauties through ‘is glassworks right now?’
This suggestion met with general agreement and some rapid downing of the remaining ale. Foxe slipped away before the others left. He wanted to be well clear before any trouble broke out. Besides, he’d learned a good deal of what he wanted to know. Maybe, if he hurried, he could fill in a few more blanks before it was time for dinner.
The trouble with visiting all parts of the city, Foxe decided, was all the costume changes it demanded. You had to blend in sufficiently, or no one would speak a word in your presence. Without that, he could have gone at once to his next potential information source. But it would never do to arrive at Alderman Halloran’s home dressed as he was and expect to gain admittance.
Back home then. A word with Alfred to summon a chair. Foxe did not want the world and his wife to notice where he was going. A swift change into attire more suitable for the elegant and urbane bookseller visiting a rich customer. A wig and hat to top it all off. Then a few moments working out the questions he needed to ask, before the chair arrived.
All this, of course, depended on Halloran being at home. There might be a meeting of the City Council. He would take that chance.
Foxe sat well back in the chair to shield himself from the casual watcher and thought hard during the short trip to the alderman’s house.
What had Bonneviot been up to? As one of the master weavers in a city devoted to the cloth trade, he should be more than usually prosperous. Hadn’t Halloran said Bonneviot employed about thirty weavers. That was well above the usual number, so it marked him out as particularly successful.
A hard man. Would that alone account for him delaying payments to his workers? The habitual urge to demand quick payment and pay tardily? Foxe knew relations between the great men of the city and the thousands of self-employed workers were tense. The weavers, dyers, hot pressers and finishers, who produced the great bales of finished cloth sent to the London buyers, felt they didn’t get a fair share of the profits. That was why the people of Norfolk, and especially Norwich, had a reputation for being turbulent and fractious.
Someone had murdered Bonneviot. Had some angry worker come upon him, demanded his money and, being pushed aside, drawn a knife and killed his tormentor? Was it as simple as that? Or was this death planned and thought through in advance?
Foxe's luck was good. The alderman’s footman invited him inside, took his hat and stick and said he would ask his master if he was available to speak with a visitor. When he returned, he led the way into a pleasant parlour room where Halloran was waiting.
‘Surprised to see you so soon, Foxe. Solved it all?’
‘Not yet, Alderman. I have made one or two discoveries, however, that have raised questions I hope you can answer. At this stage, I would like to be sure I am at least on the right track.’
‘Glad to see you so busy. Mr. Mayor has already been bothering me for news. I gather his informants are telling him there may be some move to attack the premises of the city’s master weavers. Quite a few men have been laid off in the past few weeks. Being hungry and without work brings a powerful urge to hit out at someone.’
’That’s one of my questions, alderman. I thought our cloth trade was healthy. Yet this implies some master weavers at least have less business that they once did.’
‘What you have to understand, Foxe, is that the trade has constants ups and downs. The men in London who buy our cloth are prey to people’s whims. One minute, fine satin is all the rage in the capital. The next it’s muslin or damasks. Then only silk will do – or camlacoes or camblets. And that’s without reckoning on the ups and downs in people’s wealth or willingness to buy. About the only trade that’s steady is bombazine for mourning dresses.’
‘A difficult trade overall, then.’
‘And one in the hands of those same London merchants. The weavers and merchants of Halifax have long sold much of their produce abroad. There demand may be rising, even as home demand is falling. Thus it evens out.’
‘Do our master weavers not sell abroad too, sir?’
‘Most certainly. But almost always through those same London dealers. To trade overseas requires a good deal of capital, which our men lack. Prices may be good, but you may wait long for payment. Meanwhile, you have to meet your own costs.’
‘Ah, now I see, sir. But that would apply to the whole of the Norfolk cloth trade, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes it would, Foxe. But these new manufactories in the north of the country use machines, even if the quality suffers. That means their costs are lower than ours. We still use independent workers in their own homes. We can only survive by cutting our costs to the bone in hard times. That means low wages and people paid off.’
‘So if Bonneviot did this, he wouldn’t be acting unusually for a Norwich master weaver?’
‘Ah, Bonneviot. A hard man, as I said before. No, everyone has to lay people off sometimes. But Bonneviot … Bonneviot cut hard and he cut fast. Most of us don’t like putting good men out of work. We try to wait fashion out or reduce costs in other ways first. Not Bonneviot. At the first sniff of weak trade, out they went. People reckoned he enjoyed showing how powerful he was.’
‘So why work for him?’
‘Simple. He was the largest single employer – or one of the largest. Besides, if you complained or failed to turn up when he needed you, you wouldn’t work for him again. In some cases, so the stories go, he even put false rumours about of thieving so no other master would take the man on either.’
‘Another question, alderman, if I may. You told me the other day you had sold him yarn. But you implied you’d only done it from time to time. I think those were your exact words.’
‘Bonneviot didn’t like to pay even a quarter as much as he liked to collect payments due to him. He’d find reasons to delay, or complain about the quality, or simply say he’d forgotten. However he did it, you’d find yourself waiting for months for him to settle your account. My business is large enough to be able to avoid customers like that. Others weren’t so fortunate.’
Foxe thanked the alderman for being so helpful and rose to take his leave.
‘A word, sir. I would send a few constables to patrol the area beyond the river for the next few nights. I think various people have grudges they want to settle by attacking Bonneviot’s house and warehouse.’
‘How the devil did you know that! Word reached me only moments before you arrived that some rabble had been throwing stones at his house this very day. Already sent someone to call the constables and make sure they’re alert for worse. I’m glad I did, now you’ve mentioned it too.’
‘Oh, and one last thing. I think I may have one or two things for your personal attention soon.’
‘Good, Foxe, good. Just send word and I’ll be round. Damn me! You move fast when you’ve a mind to it.’
As Foxe returned to the chair waiting for him outside, he was well pleased with his day. Bonneviot had indeed been a hard man. The question was, how else might he have sought his own profit at others’ expense?
#
Back home again, Foxe planned his next moves. There was so much he needed to know. Brock had yet to come to him with news and Gracie Catt’s girl
s were not yet likely to have much to tell him. They were well used to getting information from their clients, but the men in bed with them would have other things on their minds than Bonneviot’s murder.
No, it was up to him. Those assisting him would do what they could, but the problems were for him to solve, not them.
Calling Alfred, he asked him to find the boy, Charlie Dillon, and tell him to be ready to carry a message to Kitty Catt, either at her house or at the Theatre Royal. Then he prepared to word his note carefully. Would dear Kitty please send word to her many theatrical contacts in London to enquire after the Bonneviot son? He did not know his first name, but such a distinctive surname should suffice. Was he working on the stage? What was known of him?
Kitty and her sister rarely did anything without expecting some reward. He therefore added mention of a grand ball that he had heard would be held at Thomas Ivory’s new Assembly House the next month. If he was pleased with her, he wrote, he might ask her to accompany him. That should do it.
The note was written and thrust into Charlie’s dirty hand, together with three whole pence for his trouble. Then Foxe returned to his tasks for the next two days.
First, he decided, he would visit the Calderwood sisters, Hannah and Abigail. Once they had run a Dame School for the children of those who could afford the penny each day they charged per child. Many sent their children largely to know they were safe while their parents worked. Nonetheless, the sisters taught all to read and most to write enough for their future needs. Boys they taught simple arithmetic. Girls learned sewing to make clothes for themselves and their families.
Best of all, these two ladies, who must both be beyond their seventieth year, had lived amongst the working people of Norwich their whole lives. If anyone could tell him the story of Daniel Bonneviot’s life and background, it would be them.
Bonneviot’s financial status also worried him. For the past few years, Norwich master weavers had been riding high. The worsteds, camblets and other materials they produced, were in strong demand. Norfolk shawls had never been more popular. Whether it was silk and camblet for petticoats or flowered and patterned stuff for a gentleman’s waistcoat, London wanted what Norwich provided.
Why, then, had Bonneviot been laying weavers off? Why had he been seeking to drive his costs down so much? There was a mystery there and one that might have a good deal to do with his death.
Yet how to discover the answer was a problem. In the end, Foxe decided on a double approach. He would see if he could start a useful conversation amongst the denizens of the coffee-house. All would have known Bonneviot and many might have done business with him. Then he would visit his friend and customer Mr. Nathan Hubbard. Hubbard was an attorney much involved in drawing up contracts, leases and bills of sale. He was also an inveterate gossip with a nose for future business. If Bonneviot were in financial trouble, Hubbard might sense a chance for profitable legal work.
So far so good. What else? Yes, Sebastian Hirons.
The Norfolk Intelligencer was one of the more useful newspapers in the city. Mr. Sebastian Hirons was its editor. Editions came out thrice weekly, carrying London, national and international news as well as information on local matters. Since a city devoted to trade, banking and shipping, as Norwich was, had a great need for accurate, up-to-date news, Hirons was a man who knew many things. He also had a prodigious memory. Many times, articles in his paper drew links between events past and present in a way that other papers could not match. Foxe had known him for many years. There had once been few boundaries between printers, booksellers, and the publishers of broadsides and newspapers. Mr. Fox’s own father had been a printer of broadsides, corantos, pamphlets, handbills and other forms of street news-sheets.
Now, he must talk with Bonneviot’s widow. Everyone had ignored her. The alderman had called her a ninny. Yet she might well know more of her husband’s dealings and situation than they thought. She also had a right to know that someone was trying to find her husband’s murderer and bring him to justice.
#
There was something melancholy about Daniel Bonneviot’s house. Even from the outside, it showed little sign of care, though it was well-built, fronting the street like a prize-fighter staring down an opponent. Inside, all was clean, but somewhat old-fashioned. The home of a bachelor, you might say. A man who had inherited his father’s home and furniture and been content to let things be as they always had been. No sign of a woman’s touch either. Did Bonneviot ever entertain? Did any save business associates come here at all?
Mrs. Bonneviot received Foxe in the parlour. Though she wore conventional mourning attire, she showed no other sign of sadness or grief. Her voice, as she greeted her visitor, was low and firm. A tallish woman. Neat in her appearance and with a good figure. None would ever call her beautiful, but neither was there anything to justify the epithet of ninny the alderman had bestowed upon her.
They exchanged polite greetings, Foxe added the appropriate words of condolence and she invited him to sit. A maid brought tea.
‘You wished to speak with me about my husband, sir?’
‘Indeed. The mayor and certain other notable men of the city have asked me to see if I can help bring the murderer of your husband to justice.’
An odd look, almost defiant. She knew what she was about to say would not be either expected or conventional.
‘I do not condone murder, sir. Yet whoever did this deed has given me a great benefit, even though he will not know of it. He has given me my freedom at last.’
Here was a surprise indeed.
‘Your freedom, madam?’
‘My husband was a bully and a tyrant, sir. I know he never loved me, but love and marriage rarely go together outside the pages of books. I do not know whether he even liked me much. He married me for my dowry, as many men do. Sometimes a true regard and affection builds between husband and wife over the years. In our case, it did not.’
‘I am sad to hear that. Yet you had children.’
‘One child. A son. Eliza is my step-daughter, and she despises me as her father taught her. It would not be seemly for me to talk of matters of the bedchamber. I will say though that my husband always had what he wished and was not unwilling to use force to get it.’
‘It was really your family’s business I wished to discuss.’
‘Then you have wasted your time, sir. I know almost nothing of it. My husband held the opinion that a wife’s task was to provide a comfortable home, no more. I often heard him say that the feeble brains of the female sex were unsuitable for matters of importance.’
‘You never noticed for yourself what was happening? His warehouse and offices appear to be next door.’
‘He kept me a virtual prisoner, as he did his daughter, until she finally married – against his wishes, so that he cut her off from that day. Though he did not want my company, he would not have anyone else have it. I have no friends in this city, sir, and few acquaintances. Now he is dead, as soon as I may I will leave and return to my family home in Hertfordshire, shaking the dust of this place off the soles of my feet as I leave.’
‘And your son …?’
‘I do not even know where he is. When he visited us last, my husband ordered him from the house and vowed he should never return. He also cut him out of any inheritance. It did not do to defy my husband’s commands. None who did so ever escaped punishment.’
‘Might your step-daughter know where he is? Does he even know of his father’s murder?’
‘My answer is the same to both questions, Mr. Foxe. I do not know. I am sorry to be such an unsatisfactory witness, but you must blame my husband and not me. Though, in truth, if I knew the name of his killer and could tell you exactly where to find him, I am unsure that I would do so.’
‘I am truly sorry that you feel thus, madam, though I believe I might have felt the same in similar circumstances. You have been most cruelly mistreated. I cannot put any of that right, nor will I insult you by talking of abstract
notions of justice. Yet I feel a great sadness that in our day any husband might treat his wife as yours has dealt with you.’
‘You know, Mr. Foxe … I think I even believe you. I am glad you came to see me, for you have restored a little … a very little … of my belief in human kindness. I doubt we will meet again, nor can I wish you success in your investigations, for the reasons I have explained. Yet I wish you well as a person, sir. Do you have a wife?’
‘No, madam.’
‘Then you should take one, sir. There are few men today worthy of the love of a woman. You should not deprive our sex of even one of them.’
5
Hidden Knowledge
‘To be honest with you, Foxe, I’m somewhat disappointed.’
In Foxe’s experience, there were two kinds of book collectors. There were those for whom possession was all. Some bought many books, some few, but all were willing to pay almost any amount for something upon which they had set their hearts. Then, having bought it, they retreated into some inner sanctum to gloat over their purchase as a miser contemplates his gold. For the second category, it was finding and securing some addition to their collection which mattered most. These were like hunters, filled with the joy of the chase and maybe even a little sad when the quarry was at length run to earth and secured.
Alderman Halloran was definitely in the first group. His was a working library. Indeed, he seemed often to take far more interest in searching through his books than running his business. Foxe had asked him about this once. He received the enigmatic reply that the success of his business depended in large part on his purchases of books, not the other way around.
‘Alderman,’ Foxe protested, ‘it was but an initial visit. I have had scant time to search. I do not normally make so much as a mention of possible new purchases to anyone, until I arrive at their door with chosen volumes already in my possession. It is only because I know how eager you are for fresh discoveries that I told you at all.’
The Fabric of Murder (Mysteries of Georgian Norfolk Book 2) Page 4
