The Prodigal Son

Eleven

I had forgotten that the next day was Sunday, so I naturally postponed my journey home until the Monday. Travelling on the Sabbath, then as now, was not generally acceptable unless it was a matter of life and death.

The night before, I had again shared Anthony Bellknapp’s bed, and had once more taken it upon myself to caution him about his conduct. I had, of course, no right to do so, being a guest and a stranger; but in the curtained intimacy of the four-poster, I felt I might stand a better chance of being attended to than George Applegarth and his necessarily perfunctory warnings. But I was wrong. Anthony merely yawned and told me to mind my own business. He was perfectly justified, and for me to have pursued the subject further would have done no good. Indeed, it could have done positive harm. So I changed tack and informed him that I would be returning to Bristol first thing on Monday morning.

‘Hell’s teeth! I haven’t upset you that much, have I?’ he laughed. ‘It’s just that I won’t have people instructing me what and what not to do.’

‘You are perfectly entitled to tell me to keep my nose out of your affairs,’ I agreed. ‘No, no! It’s not that. But I’ve done as much as I can and — ’ I broke off, realizing that my tongue had run away with me.

Anthony heaved himself up in the bed, arms clasped around his knees, and, turning his head, looked down at me curiously.

‘Done as much as you can about what?’ he asked, adding, ‘You know, I’ve had an idea there was more to your visit here than met the eye.’

I had told George Applegarth the truth, so I might as well be frank with Anthony. Besides, it suddenly struck me that I could try to enlist his interest in persuading Dame Audrea that she had no case against my half-brother without stronger support than that of Edward Micheldever. In any case, Anthony would probably enjoy putting a spoke in the receiver’s wheel. So I explained my personal interest in proving John Wedmore innocent of the charge against him.

‘What’s more, I fully intend to do it,’ I said with greater confidence than I actually felt.

‘Great boast, small roast,’ my companion grinned in a tone of voice that was bordering on a sneer.

Now I can honestly say that I didn’t often blow my own trumpet — in fact, I sometimes went to considerable lengths to keep my past achievements quiet — but there was a condescension in the way he spoke that riled me, and before I could stop myself, I was giving him details of all my past successes in unravelling the various mysteries and problems that had come my way (in the course of which I naturally had to touch on the work I had done for the Duke of Gloucester).

‘So you see,’ I finished, ‘I do have some experience of discovering the truth.’

By this time, of course, I was feeling thoroughly ashamed of myself as one so frequently does after deliberately setting out to impress. And succeeding. For Anthony was regarding me with a kind of resentful awe, while his disbelief in what I had told him vied with a conviction that I had not been exaggerating.

‘Well,’ he remarked eventually, ‘I must spread the word tomorrow that we are entertaining a friend of the royal family.’ He laughed again, but nastily. ‘You will no doubt find that Mistress Micheldever hangs, in future, on your every word. I shall be quite eclipsed in her affections.’

‘There’s no need for you to say anything of what I’ve told you to anyone else, especially Rose Micheldever. I have no designs upon her virtue, I assure you. Master Steward knows only a part of the story; that John Wedmore is my half-brother and that I am trying to prove his innocence. He, also, is convinced that John is not the former page. All I ask is for you to try to persuade your mother likewise.’

‘I know nothing about the matter,’ Anthony answered roughly. ‘I wasn’t here.’

‘I realize that.’ I tried to sound humble, an almost impossible task after my recent attack of egomania, which I now deeply regretted. ‘But you would have my undying thanks if you would do what you could.’

‘That, of course, must be of paramount importance to me.’ Then, quite suddenly, he gave me a lopsided grin and abandoned his hostile tone. ‘All right, Chapman, I’ll do what I can.’ His grin grew more pronounced, and I guessed that my conjecture had probably been correct; the prospect of foiling any project of Dame Audrea’s filled him with satisfaction.

‘Thank you, you’re very good.’

‘What will you do when you get back to Bristol?’ he asked.

I shook my head and admitted I hadn’t decided. ‘But I’ll think of something,’ I added sleepily.

Anthony lay down again, heaving himself over on his left side and taking most of the blanket with him.

‘I’m sure you will,’ he agreed.

I woke very early the following morning, conscious of having slept badly. My bedfellow and Humphrey Attleborough were still snoring noisily, so I got up as quietly as I could, donned shirt and hose and, having crept through the sleeping house, including the kitchen, without arousing anyone save Hercules, I let myself out into the yard and held my head and hands under the pump. Then I wandered across the paddock to the moat, the dog running ahead of me, wagging an ecstatic tail. The damp morning air smelled deliciously of ripening apples and burning wood, and a white mist, ankle deep, ruffled about my feet. The gatekeeper, yawning and stretching, appeared to unlock the moat gate, so, after a while, Hercules and I wandered across the bridge and let ourselves out into the countryside beyond. A few minutes walking in an easterly direction brought us into Croxcombe woods and another minute or so found us in the clearing where Hamo Gough had his dwelling.

There was at present no sign of him, but the door to his hut stood open, so I knocked and peered inside. He wasn’t there, either, so I guessed he must be somewhere in the woods, gathering sticks for his fire or looking for truffles. Hercules, with a whimper of excitement, immediately began a search for rats. I hung around for a few minutes in the expectation of Hamo’s return, but soon got tired of waiting, and, having winkled an angry dog out from under the bed, made my way further into the dim, cathedral-like gloom of the woods. Suddenly, I could hear someone swearing in a soft, steady flow and what sounded like the thud of a spade hitting hard ground. I picked up Hercules, putting him under my arm and ordering him to be quiet, and inched quietly through the trees until I found myself on the edge of another clearing in the middle of which stood a huge and very ancient oak. Hangman’s Oak? It had to be, almost certainly; and not just because the spreading lower branches lent themselves to such grisly work, but also because the charcoal burner was digging furiously at its base.

In between cursing, he muttered from time to time, ‘C’mon! C’mon! Thee’s here somewhere.’ And then, later, as he rested on the spade handle, sweat pouring down his face, ‘I don’ reckon ’e ’ad time to dig thee up.’ And again, ‘I were back too quick, and ’e’d gone.’ None of which made any sense to me, but I let him dig for a little longer before stepping into view.

‘Searching for something, Master Gough?’

At the sound of my voice, he jumped so hard that he hit his foot with the blade of the spade and let out a screech that was half fright, half pain. When at last he could speak, he demanded furiously, ‘What thee doing here, Chapman?’

‘An early morning walk with my dog,’ I replied, all innocence. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Diggin’ for truffles,’ he snapped. ‘What’s it seem like?’

‘That far down?’ I queried, indicating a hole about a forearm’s length deep.

He stared at me for a second or two, nonplussed. Then he grunted, ‘Got carried away. Weren’t thinkin’ what I were doing. Jus’ went on diggin’.’

It was a lame explanation, but he knew I couldn’t contradict him. I had nothing to accuse him of; but my guess was that my conversation with him, two days previously, concerning the robbery at Croxcombe Manor, had awakened old memories. Ronan Bignell had told me that he and his friends had seen Hamo Gough surveying the ground around Hangman’s Oak the night following that of the murder. He hadn’t been digging then, but I was willing to bet a substantial amount of money that he had gone back to dig later. And perhaps for several weeks after that. Finding nothing, he would have tired of the exercise in time and given up. But here he was, six years on, his memory jogged, hopes newly reawakened, once more digging around Hangman’s Oak.

But for what?

The obvious answer was the Bellknapp treasure, but that raised yet another question. Why? Did he have reason to believe that John Jericho had buried his spoils from the robbery in Croxcombe woods? Had he seen something on the night of the murder? According to Ronan Bignell, the page had been taken ill somewhere in the vicinity of Hangman’s Oak. Furthermore, neither the butcher’s son nor his friends had any recollection of seeing a sack, which might mean nothing — Ronan had said that it was dark under the trees in spite of it being a moonlit night — or it could mean that the thief, realizing he would be unable to travel further until his indisposition had passed, had already dug a hole and dropped the booty in it …

But what had John Jericho dug a hole with? He had not, presumably, been carrying a spade, so that left his bare hands. This seemed highly unlikely unless the ground had been exceptionally soft, perhaps after heavy rain. Surely he would have done nothing more than cover the sack with leaves and other detritus from the forest floor until he was feeling better. If the charcoal burner had indeed been an observer, he would have known this. Could he, therefore, have spoken to the thief? Had he come across him in the throes of his sickness and offered help? But in that case, was it likely that John Jericho would have told him the truth; that he had stolen from his absent employers and killed Jenny Applegarth? Unless, of course, he had not been ill, but drunk; so drunk that he had been unaware of what he was saying. Perhaps he had given himself false courage to commit the robbery by drinking a quantity of Master Bellknapp’s wine. But the depths of drunkenness that a man has to plumb before being unable to recall his words and actions the following day are profound. Surely, in such a case, the page would have been too inebriated even to reach as far as Croxcombe woods. Such a degree of intoxication, however, might explain the murder …

I became conscious of the fact that Hamo Gough, still resting on his spade, was regarding me suspiciously.

‘What’s going on in that head o’ thine, Maister?’ he enquired. ‘Eh? Eh?’

‘Nothing,’ I lied, wishing that I could make some sense of the muddled thoughts crowding my brain. I grinned weakly at him.

He threw down the spade and asked, ‘Hast eaten?’

‘I’ve not yet breakfasted,’ I admitted. ‘It’s very early, and my hosts weren’t stirring when I left the manor. I mean to return there now.’

‘I’ll give thee summat,’ he offered, much to my astonishment. ‘A bacon collop and a beaker of ale. That do thee? Thee looks like a young fellow who could eat two breakfasts.’

I guessed that this sudden burst of generosity was just a ploy to distract my attention from his digging, but I accepted nonetheless. I was indeed a fellow who could eat two breakfasts, and always had been; although I was aware, as Adela had lately pointed out more than once, that I was heavier than I had been a year or so previously. Fortunately, my height concealed the unwelcome fact.

Hamo shouldered the spade and preceded me from the Hangman’s Oak clearing to the one where his cottage stood. Halfway along the track which connected the two, he paused, head tilted sideways, listening. Then he shrugged and continued walking. His first job on reaching home was to attend to his smouldering, turf-covered fire before producing an ancient skillet and frying the promised bacon collops on top of it. They had a strange, smoky taste that was not unpleasant, but I remembered in time to refuse the proffered beaker of ale, having just seen Hamo fish a dead rat out of the barrel, confirming my worst suspicions regarding its outdoor location. We sat in the open on this beautiful morning to eat our meal, while Hercules begged for scraps or disappeared inside the hut from time to time after bigger game. (He returned after one of these forays with a decapitated mouse, dropping the headless corpse at my feet and smirking proudly. And if you think dogs can’t smirk, you’re wrong.)

‘Thee ankle’s better, by the looks o’ it,’ the charcoal burner remarked suddenly. ‘Art still at the manor? Things is pretty lively there, I daresay, now Anthony Bellknapp’s come home again?’

‘Lively enough.’ I scrambled to my feet and stretched. ‘I’m leaving them to it. I’m returning to Bristol tomorrow.’

‘Ar.’ He followed my example and got up from the grass where we’d been sitting. ‘Thee’d best be getting back now, I reckon. Sir Henry’ll be preaching his Sunday morning sermon and they’ll expect thee to attend that. I’ll come to the edge of the woods with ’ee.’

‘There’s no need for that,’ I protested. ‘I have my cudgel and I can look after myself.’

‘Don’t doubt it,’ he grunted. ‘But I’ll come, all the same.’

There was little point in arguing: he seemed to have made up his mind, so I let him go ahead, but kept a firm grip on my stick, wary of his unexpected decision to accompany me. Hercules, alert as ever to any change in my mood and sensing in his own mysterious way my apprehension, trotted alongside the pair of us, instead of running off about his own business as he would normally have done. And when Hamo suddenly stopped in his tracks, the dog growled warningly. But we need not have worried. The charcoal burner merely repeated his previous performance, cocking his head at an angle and listening.

‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.

He continued in the same way for a few more seconds, then shook his head.

‘Jus’ thought … No, it’s nowt.’ But I could see that he was uneasy.

At the same moment, I, too, imagined that I heard a twig crack somewhere amongst the trees and undergrowth that bordered the path. I stood, straining my ears, and Hercules whined, but there was no further sound. Hamo started to move again, whistling tunelessly as he went, and both the dog and I relaxed.

There was no further incident, and Hamo left us where the path emerged into the open countryside with nothing more than a grunt and a curt nod of his head, vanishing into the trees once more and swiftly disappearing from view. He had got rid of me and my awkward questions at the expense of a slice of bacon and a piece of stale oaten bread. No doubt he felt it was worth the price.

As Hercules and I neared the manor, I saw three figures approaching the moat gate along the road from Wells, and even at a distance, recognized them as Thomas Bignell and his wife and son. I waited beside the moat for them to draw abreast.

‘Dame Audrea sent a message yesterday inviting us to breakfast and to hear Sir Henry’s sermon,’ the butcher said before I could greet them, as if he owed me an explanation for their presence.

‘You were up betimes, then,’ I said. ‘You’ve had a long walk.’

‘It’s nothing. We’re always up at sunrise,’ Ronan put in, ‘and Mother likes to see Rose of a Sunday.’

‘We all do,’ his father added in a tone of reproof, while Mistress Bignell nodded her agreement.

I suspected that today they had been particularly eager to take advantage of the invitation, it being possible, or even probable, that Dame Audrea’s message had hinted at some discord between their daughter and son-in-law. And as for the Dame herself, she must surely hope that the appearance of Rose’s parents and brother in their midst would have a restraining influence on both Anthony and Edward Micheldever. For my own part, I was delighted to see Thomas Bignell, as it occurred to me that I might be able to question him about the horseman he was reported to have seen on the night of Jenny Applegarth’s murder.

But before I could do that, we had to sit through Mass and a somewhat rambling sermon by the chaplain in the Bellknapp family chapel, followed by breakfast (my appetite in no way impaired by this being my second meal of the day, although it was barely past the hour of prime). Anthony incurred his mother’s displeasure by being late on both occasions, his arrival each time creating the maximum disturbance. He apologized in a rather sneering way, blaming his tardiness in the first instance on having risen late, and in the second on an urgent visit to the privy. I could tell that he was in a bad mood (I was glad to have avoided him earlier by rising betimes); a mood that was not helped by the appearance at breakfast of Simon, very pale, but smiling bravely, his injured arm ostentatiously reposing in a sling. Dame Audrea fussed around her younger son with a solicitude that seemed to me to be foreign to her nature, a suspicion that was given colour by Anthony’s sharp reprimand.

‘Sit down, Mother, and stop this charade. You demonstrated precious little concern when I had broken bones as a child.’

Dame Audrea showed heightened colour and her lips thinned to an almost bloodless line, but she made no answer, merely taking her seat and turning with some polite remark to Thomas Bignell, who, with his wife and family, including the receiver, was breakfasting at the top table. Reginald Kilsby was also there, seated at one end, and Dame Audrea made the mistake of glancing in his direction and giving him a small, tight smile. Unfortunately, Anthony saw her and, leaning forward in his chair, addressed the bailiff in a loud voice that carried to all corners of the hall.

‘I thought I told you to go, Master Bailiff. You may remain today as it’s the Sabbath, but tomorrow, at sunrise, I shall expect you to be on your way. Master Chapman is also leaving us. His ankle, it seems, is mended. So you can bear one another company on the first leg of your respective journeys.’ He raised his beaker of ale. ‘To you, Mistress Micheldever.’

He then proceeded to complain about the beef and boiled mutton that had been served up, declaring one to be too tough and the other tasteless, and ended by throwing plate and all at the head of a luckless server. He then sent for the cook, and when she came, hot and breathless from the kitchen, gave her a dressing down in front of the assembled company on the poor quality of the food.

‘Now I’m back, things will have to change,’ he declared. ‘I’m used to better.’

The assembled company looked embarrassed, shuffling their feet and muttering uncomfortably. Nor was anyone surprised when the incensed cook tossed her ladle on the floor and told Dame Audrea that she, too, would be off the following day, at first light.

‘I’ve been a loyal servant to you, Mistress, as you well know, and I’m sorry to go. But I’ll not stay to be insulted by your son. Lady Chauntermerle has offered me a place at Kewstoke Hall whenever I want it. Someone else can cook your food from now on.’

We were all relieved when the dreadful meal was over and we were able to escape out of doors. The Bignells looked appalled by the scene they had just witnessed, and I saw them standing by the moat, conferring in agitated whispers with Edward Micheldever.

I joined them just in time to overhear the receiver say loudly and clearly, ‘It’s a pity he ever returned. We all thought he was dead. It’s a great pity he isn’t.’

Thomas Bignell saw me out of the corner of one eye and hushed his son-in-law imperatively.

‘You don’t mean that, Edward.’

The receiver had noted my approach at almost the same moment, but refused to be silenced.

‘I mean it all right,’ he answered truculently. ‘The man’s a menace.’

I joined the group, trying to look as though I had not the slightest idea of what they had been talking about, but it was no use, not with Rose there. She immediately clutched my arm and begged, ‘Roger, you won’t repeat what Ned’s been saying, will you? Promise me.’

‘In the name of God, Rose,’ her husband hissed under his breath, ‘leave it!’

I judged it best to be frank. ‘I won’t pretend not to know who you were discussing, but Anthony Bellknapp will not be told of it by me. In any case, I’m returning to Bristol tomorrow morning, as you heard.’ Edward Micheldever looked as if he didn’t believe my protestation of silence, but that was up to him. I was sincere. I turned to the butcher. ‘Master Bignell, I understand that the night Jenny Applegarth was murdered, you saw a stranger, a horseman, riding near the manor. Is there anything you can recall about him that might give even the slightest clue to his identity?’

‘Dear God, it was six years and more ago,’ Thomas Bignell spluttered. ‘And what’s it to you, anyway? Why bring that up?’

To my relief, for I was sick of repeating the story, Ronan gave his father a brief history of my interest in the affair; but, unfortunately, this was the first Master Bignell and his wife had been told about the arrest of my half-brother, and the next ten minutes or so were spent in unprofitable exclamations, demands for further details, reproaches to their son-in-law for not informing them of the part that he had played in the drama and speculation as to whether John Wedmore was indeed the missing page. By the time the butcher was ready to give me his attention and answer my question, we had been joined by Anthony Bellknapp, seeking his errant guests.

‘What’s this little conclave about?’ he demanded, not unpleasantly, but with an underlying aggression.

Rose sent me such a pleading glance that she might as well have told Anthony straight out that he had been the subject under discussion, and that nothing good was being said of him. I saw his eyes flicker in the receiver’s direction, but Edward Micheldever was muttering something in a low voice to Ronan Bignell and failed to notice either Rose’s look at me or Anthony’s reaction.

I said quickly, ‘We were talking about Jenny Applegarth. Master Bignell, here, saw someone in the vicinity of Croxcombe Manor on the night of her murder and I wondered if he could tell me anything he noticed about the man. But he says it’s all too long ago.’

Anthony smiled. ‘Ah, yes, of course. You’re trying to prove that this John Jericho and the man in gaol in Bristol are two different people. Master Receiver, you, I believe, were with my mother when she had the man apprehended. What do you think? Is he this missing page?’

I challenged Edward Micheldever with an enquiring stare, and he shifted uncomfortably. But he had already made up his mind where his interests lay and nodded vigorously.

‘There’s no doubt in my mind that he’s John Jericho.’

‘Master Steward doesn’t agree with you,’ I snapped.

The receiver shrugged. ‘It’s two against one,’ he pointed out.

‘A fair enough argument, you must admit, Chapman.’ Anthony clapped me on the back. ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t offer an opinion even if I saw this man who claims to be your half-brother. I never set eyes on the murderous page. But if they are one and the same,’ he added viciously, ‘I’d not lift a finger to save the man who killed my darling Jenny. She’s the only woman who was ever a mother to me. But why are we all standing out of doors? Master Bignell, you and your wife and son will dine with us, I hope, before setting out again for Wells. I’ve done penitence to the cook. Grovelled, in fact, and she’s agreed to stay. Meantime, let’s go inside. It’s getting hot again. We’ll have some wine to refresh ourselves. Mistress Bignell, allow me to offer you my arm.’

Edward and Rose followed them into the cool of the house, with the butcher and myself bringing up the rear. My mind was in turmoil. If the receiver was determined to back Dame Audrea in her accusation against John Wedmore, it was very unlikely that George Applegarth’s disagreement would carry much weight. Two to one, as Anthony had said, would probably be sufficient to condemn him in the minds of a jury. Perhaps I should have to go to Ireland after all. If it did come to a trial, there would have to be some witnesses in his defence, however partial they might be. And what I had discovered was useless. I had failed completely to prove that my half-brother was not John Jericho …

I became aware that the butcher was speaking.

‘I’m sorry, Master Bignell,’ I apologized. ‘I didn’t quite hear what you said.’

‘It was nothing of much consequence,’ he answered. ‘It’s just that now you’ve mentioned it — about the night of the murder, I mean — you’ve got me thinking. Haven’t given it so much as a passing thought for years. By the way, who told you I’d seen someone near here that night? Oh, well, never mind. But the fact is …’ He paused, screwing up his face in a great effort of concentration. ‘The fact is, I get the oddest feeling that there was something vaguely familiar about that horseman.’