The Fabric of Murder (Mysteries of Georgian Norfolk Book 2)

by William Savage

  ‘Right, Alfred. Please bear this with all speed to the coroner’s house. Tell whichever servant takes it in that I am awaiting his or her master’s reply with great eagerness. He is like to take all day about the matter otherwise. If whoever takes in the letter still seems reluctant to make haste, you may add that the mayor is being informed of its contents. He will be angry should the matters within not be set in motion as quickly as may be.’

  None of this made any sense to poor Brock, but it seemed his friend was not in a mood to explain himself.

  ‘Now, Brock,’ Foxe said. ‘I am in need of breakfast, early though it is. I am sure that Mrs. Dobbins has already anticipated my wishes in the matter, so be so good as to pull the bell for the maid. We will eat together.’

  Before Brock could even rise from his chair, they heard a knocking on the front door of the house and the maid hastening to see who else could be calling at such an hour. There was a sound of low voices, then the girl herself came into the room with a letter on a small tray.

  ‘Beg pardon, Master. But seein’ Mr. Alfred is absent and the alderman’s man said this ‘ere note was most urgent, I thought as ‘ow I should bring it right away.’

  ‘You thought rightly, Molly. Thank you. When you return to the kitchen, please ask Mrs. Dobbins to send breakfast for myself and Mr. Brock as soon as she may.’

  ‘She ‘ad it almost ready when I left ‘er, Master, so I’ll be bringin’ it soon enough, I dare say.’

  Foxe looked at the letter before him and gave a great sigh. ‘It seems to be a day for surprises, Brock. Let us hope this one at least does not involve death. I doubt the alderman will even have heard of Hinman’s murder, so it cannot be about that.’

  Quickly he opened the letter and scanned the contents. Then, to Brock’s total amazement, he let out what sounded like a cry of triumph.

  ‘I was right, Brock. This proves it. See! The alderman writes that he has spoken himself with a good many of the master weavers of the city and sent messages to the rest. The final reply came late last evening, so he must have written this before he retired to bed and told a servant to deliver it first thing. I cannot see our worthy alderman being about at … what is it?’ Foxe peered at the clock on the shelf above the grate. ‘ … a quarter to eight in the morning.’

  ‘You’re the most irritating of men sometimes, Foxe,’ Brock growled. ‘I rush ‘ere bearing what seems to me the worst news possible in this affair and you seem barely interested. Then you sit and write a letter, saying nothing to me of the contents, and calmly call for your breakfast. Now you yell like an excited child and still tell me nothing of what’s in your mind. It’s enough to make a man run mad.’

  ‘Ah, my humblest apologies, good Brock. I am too wont to assume that what I see must be plain to all, though there is no way that you could work out why I am not cast down by your news. Nor see what the alderman has written as proof that I am right in my reasoning.’

  ‘For Heaven’s sake, man, stop talking in riddles and tell me plainly what is going on.’

  Foxe smiled at his friend and waved the letter towards him. ‘First, Alderman Halloran writes that Hinman approached no one amongst the master weavers save Bonneviot. None had even heard of him. He has no idea what to make of this.’

  ‘But you have, it seems.’

  ‘Indeed I have, Brock. I had guessed as much last night, after a long time of going over and over the matter in my head. Now I am certain that this whole affair has been aimed solely at Bonneviot from the start. All the rest was a smoke-screen to hide this fact. Someone wanted to seize as much of Bonneviot’s wealth as he could. He also needed to do so before the falling-out with the Londoners could see it much diminished, or even lost.’

  At that moment, Foxe fell silent. He stared at Brock without seeing him. He clapped his hand to his head and let out another yell that made poor Brock start from his chair. Even Mrs. Dobbins came from the kitchen to see what might be amiss.

  ‘What a devilish cunning plan, Brock! What daring and determination! It all makes perfect sense. Oh, it would be beautiful, if it were not aimed at murder. There is just one piece missing, which I must deal with at once. Mrs. Dobbins! I am glad you are here. Has Alfred returned?’

  ‘Not yet, Master. But are you well? I thought I heard you cry out.’

  ‘Never better! Now, you will have to take Alfred’s place. Find young Charlie Dillon. He may be hanging around outside already, for he has the best nose for business I ever encountered. Have him ready to take a note to Miss Kitty with all the speed he can muster. She will not be awake at this hour, but he is to insist that her maid give her the note at once. Then he is to wait for her reply and bear it back to me as fast as his young legs will carry him. Tell him it is worth a whole shilling, if he be but quick. Now where is that pen …?’

  Mrs. Dobbins and Brock exchanged looks that said clearly they might both esteem Mr. Foxe greatly, but neither would ever fathom the full extent of his oddities. Then, as Mrs. Dobbins hurried away, her master called her back.

  ‘One more thing, Mrs. Dobbins. Send Charlie first to take my letter to Miss Kitty and bring back her reply. Then tell him he is to go to the alderman’s house and ask if I might might call there tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock. Let him add that the mystery is solved and I will explain all when I come.’

  Brock was struck dumb at that last part. He sat with his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide with wonder.

  ‘Cheer up, Brock! All we have to do now is wait. Ah, Molly. What a brace of treasures you and Mrs. Dobbins are. Breakfast! I have not been so hungry in many a long year. Now, set all on the table and I will try to persuade my friend here to use his open mouth for its proper use by filling it with food. Fresh coffee too, girl! Quick as you can.’ Then, with a broad wink at Brock, he set to and began to eat.

  #

  The alderman replied swiftly to Foxe’s message. Indeed, Foxe and Brock had barely finished their breakfasts when the note arrived. They would be expected at eleven the next day. The mayor and the Master of the Weaver’s Guild would also be present, for all were eager to learn what Foxe had discovered.

  Charlie Dillon had also brought back a verbal message from Miss Kitty. ‘She says to tell you two things,’ he said, trying and failing to conceal a mighty grin as he did so. ‘The answer to your question is about two years or more past. The other is that if you ever demand she be woken again for such a silly matter as this, she’ll forbid you ‘er ‘ouse. I don’t think as ‘ow she meant it, Mr. Foxe. She were smiling too much.’

  ‘Perhaps you are right, though I will not take the risk, save in a matter as important as this. I see that you are already learning the ways of women, Charlie. If you continue thus, in a few years you will become a terrible temptation to their whole sex, I fear. Now, here is your shilling, just as I promised. Alas, this affair is almost at an end, so you will have no need to be on call outside so much of the time.’

  ’Thass all right, Mr. Foxe. It were good while it lasted and I’m sure you’ll ‘ave some other caper goin’ afore long.’

  ‘That young man’s too sharp,’ Brock said, after Charlie had left. ‘I wonder he ain’t cut ‘is own throat before now.’

  ‘I only wish I could persuade him to get some schooling,’ Foxe said. ‘I would pay willingly, but there … he would wilt in such an environment. Now, Brock, you must come with me tomorrow to the alderman’s house.’

  ‘I was afraid you’d say that. Do I have too? You know these rich types make me uneasy.’

  ‘They are no better than you, Brock. Maybe worse. They just have money, which usually says as much about their fathers as it does about them. You must be there. You have been an essential part of the unravelling of this mystery from the start. Just dress a little more tidily than usual and I am sure they will scarce notice you.’

  ‘But they’re rich merchants and the like, and I was only ever the man who sailed a wherry up and down to Yarmouth!’

  ‘Without you, and those lik
e you, Brock, their businesses would soon have fallen into ruin. Until you had that accident, you were the best captain on the river. Now you and I are owners of the most wherries. You have helped build a fine business, though others had to take your place on board. How many wherries do we own now?’

  ‘Six … no, seven … eight.’

  ‘There you are. You have been as successful as they. Now, no more complaints. Come here at a suitable time and we will walk to the alderman’s house together.’

  ‘Can’t you tell me what you know now, Foxe? That message from Kitty made your face light up, but I couldn’t make head nor tail of it.’

  ‘Patience, my friend. I have yet to hear from the coroner to make my enquiries complete. Tomorrow you will know all, I promise. Now, off with you about your business. I have to get my thoughts into their proper order, if I am to convince the mayor and his colleagues.’

  Around an hour later, Foxe had received replies to both of the notes he had asked Alfred to deliver that morning. As he read the final one, he smiled. Mrs. Bonneviot had provided the very last piece in the puzzle.

  22

  Foxe's Tale

  Foxe, Brock and his other guests were gathered next morning in Alderman Halloran’s fine new library. He was so proud of it. He was still more proud of some of the books collected there. Since many had passed through Foxe’s hands before finding a resting-place on the shelves, Foxe was quite proud of it too. Brock had, as requested, come in his best clothes. They may have been sombre in comparison with what Foxe was wearing, but no one – least of all three leaders of the textile trade – could miss the quality of the cloth and the cut.

  Mr. Foxe was resplendent. His dark maroon frock-coat was adorned with embroidered flowers and leaves, picked out with gold threads. The coat was then edged with an intricate pattern of acanthus and fastened with gilded and enamelled buttons. His breeches were in a matching cloth and were decorated in similar style. He wore a waistcoat of glistening white silk brocade, though it was hard to see the fabric for the dense embroideries in silver wire that covered the surface. Its buttons were also silver, though each had upon it a neat pattern of small diamonds and sapphires. His stockings were finest white silk and his shoes made of flowered brocade, with diamond and silver buckles. He was even wearing his newest and finest wig. These great men of the city – though each was sporting his own finery – were quite eclipsed by his magnificence.

  The three worthies greeted this apparition solemnly, then Alderman Halloran turned to Brock and extended the welcome to him.

  ‘Mr. Brock – nay, Captain Brock! I am delighted to see you in my house, sir. You must know the mayor and the Master here, for they know you, I am sure. Your wherries are amongst the best and most reliable on our river. We were all sad when you were forced to leave your post on the deck. Yet I know that your business has prospered since then, so perhaps Providence worked its mysterious ways to the good. Sit down, gentlemen! We are agog to hear your news, but you must, I beg you, take some coffee or chocolate first. Mr. Mayor? Master? Good. I will ring for the maid.’

  As politeness demanded, all sipped their drinks and engaged in light conversation. Meanwhile, the air hummed with tense anticipation for what was to come. Eventually, the alderman put down his dish, glanced at his guests and turned to Foxe.

  ‘We are all ready, Foxe. If it is agreeable to you, please begin.’

  #

  Foxe put down his empty coffee dish, took a deep breath and looked at his expectant audience. He was as sure as he might be that he had solved the mystery. Still, he could not help feeling some nervousness. To the world at large, there had never been anything to take note of beyond the sad murder of an eminent master weaver by some footpad. The people in this room alone would know the full extent of the conspiracy, and only he could tell them how it had unfolded and point to the events and characters who had brought it about.

  ‘We must begin at the beginning,’ Foxe said, ‘and that was some years ago.’ This was the first surprise. The mayor and the Master looked at one another in alarm. All these events had taken place within the last month. Why was Foxe delving so far into the past?

  ‘The roots of this mystery reach back some thirteen years,’ Foxe said. ‘That was when Daniel Bonneviot decided that his only son, George, had received more than enough schooling. He should now be prepared to succeed his father as a master weaver. Bonneviot decided to send him to London, as his father had done with him. There he would serve his apprenticeship with a relative. Daniel had served under an uncle. George was to serve one of his father’s cousins. George was twelve.’

  ‘That’s about the usual age to start an apprenticeship,’ the Master commented. ‘Nothing strange so far.’

  ‘Late yesterday evening I received some information I had asked for from Mrs. Eliza Swan, Daniel Bonneviot’s daughter and George’s step-sister. It adds something essential to this tale.’ Foxe refused to be put off his stride. ‘George was adamant, even then, that he had no interest in the weaving trade or an apprenticeship. He wished to continue his schooling. It seems he was always quite a bookish lad. His father, being a perfect tyrant to all his family, would listen to no opposition. He decided everything. Others around him were expected to submit to his will on the instant.’

  The other men looked at each other. This was, perhaps, a little extreme, but most fathers expected to be obeyed in major matters.

  ‘George fell ill, perhaps as a result of his father’s bullying. Ill enough for the move to London to be delayed by a full year. Still Daniel was adamant that he would be obeyed, so young George was despatched the next year to live with his new master. According to his step-sister, this man offered his new apprentice greater kindness and indulgence than he, George, had received at home. Perhaps that was why George stayed and duly completed his apprenticeship. I do not know. What I do know is that sometime during his stay in London, George discovered the theatre. Soon he became certain that his future lay in that direction.’

  ‘The theatre!’ The mayor had only contempt for such a futile business as the theatre.

  ‘Indeed. Now a fully-fledged journeyman weaver, George returned home for the first time in seven years. What passed between him and his father I cannot say. Mrs. Swan was married by then and no longer privy to what went on in her father’s household. I imagine George must, once again, have refused to take up the work his father expected of him. I do know that he went the rounds of the Norwich acting companies, trying to find a place with one of them. All turned him away. They had no room for a young man they saw as the dilettante son of a wealthy merchant. Perhaps they also feared reprisals from his father. Whatever the reason, they suggested Daniel try his luck in London. So that is what he did. This brief and unsatisfactory return home was about two years ago. As a result, George went back to London, determined to begin an acting career.’

  ‘And his father allowed this?’ Alderman Halloran asked.

  ‘Again, I do not know. It may be that his father assumed the plan to be no more than youthful rebellion. Perhaps he was sure George would meet the same rebuff in London as he had in Norwich, and be forced back into obedience by that route. In once sense he was correct. No London manager would take the lad. This time, their reason was a good one: London audiences can be cruel and it is no place to learn your stagecraft. Yet they were prepared to allow George to take part in rehearsals and by this means confirmed his real talent. So they advised him to seek out some provincial company to train with. Once again, George left London. This time he went north, probably to Richmond or Harrogate in Yorkshire. There he found what he sought and began to act.’

  ‘So he was in the north when his father was killed?’ Brock said.

  ‘That is what we all assumed. I must own to making too many mistakes in understanding this matter. First I accepted the tale, doubtless coming from Bonneviot senior, that George was a limp young man, unwilling to apply himself. Now I find he possessed all the determination and strength of purpose that both hi
s father and grandfather had shown.’

  ‘The old man, Jerome Bonneviot, was totally pig-headed,’ the Master commented. ‘You could no more move him from his purpose than shift our cathedral a mile up-river. I encountered him as a young man and he terrified me.’

  ‘My second mistake was to assume that George’s return to Norwich and attempt to find work in the theatre here was of recent date. If so, the time needed to return to London, be turned away again – kindly, this time – and go to the north must mean he was far, far away when his father died. I recall commenting to you, Brock, that he may not yet have heard of the death.’

  ‘You did say that, as I recall. And I agreed with you.’

  ‘Now I know two years or more had passed since he left Norwich. Was he still in the north?’

  ‘Was he?’ the mayor asked.

  ‘No, sir. I must make some guesses here, but I am sure I will not be too far from the truth. I believe that recently – say four weeks ago – George returned home to see his father. I suspect he was doing well in his new career. Maybe he even had an opportunity to go to London and take a major part there. Whatever the occasion, he was proud of what he had achieved. Now he came to point out to his father that he had made good, though Daniel Bonneviot had always doubted him. It was what happened next that caused all the other elements in this mystery.’

  Foxe’s audience were silent now, completely caught up in the drama unfolding before them.

  ‘Far from being pleased, we know that Daniel Bonneviot was enraged. He thrust a note for a hundred pounds into his son’s hand, told him that was all the inheritance he would ever get and forbade him the house. George was to be cut-off totally. So much is certain. The next is conjecture, but I am sure again that it is not far from the truth. Someone told George about his father’s quarrel with the London merchants. He also learned of the unsold cloth piling up in the warehouse. Maybe he guessed his father was existing only on the basis of loans. He would certainly hear that Bonneviot was laying off out-workers and delaying payments where ever he might. That was the common talk of the town. George knew his father only too well. He knew Daniel would never be willing to admit a mistake or back down. He must have realised that, without some change, the business and the family fortune was in gravest danger.’