The Prodigal Son (14 page)

‘Well … yes.'

He laughed. ‘We'll see. And now I must get up or my mother will have usurped my position at the breakfast table and my prerogative of speeding our overnight visitors on their way. The brothers at least will have enough gossip to take back to Glastonbury to keep the entire abbey agog for a month.' He yelled, ‘Humphrey!' and threw a pillow at his still snoring henchman. ‘Clothes, razor, man! Quickly!'

While the servant, half asleep, pulled on shirt and hose, and went off to the kitchen to fetch hot water and soap, I took the opportunity to ask my host if I might stay a few more days until my ankle had completely mended.

‘Stay as long as you like,' was the careless answer. ‘You have my permission and that's all that need concern you. I shall give instructions that you are to be treated like any other guest. You can continue to share my bed at night. In fact, I think I shall feel safer if you do.' He eyed me shrewdly. ‘I have a suspicion that you're not here just because you've hurt yourself; that you've some purpose in mind. No, no! Don't bother denying it. I'm not accusing you of anything. You don't worry me. I've told you. You can remain at Croxcombe as long as you wish.' As Humphrey reappeared, weighed down by a pail of steaming water, he repeated with even greater emphasis, ‘I'm the master here now.'

It was several hours later, when the departing travellers had been sped on their various ways, when not only breakfast, but dinner also had been eaten, and after the chaplain had led us in morning prayers and the household officers had been summoned to Anthony's presence to receive their instructions for the day, that Rose Micheldever sought me out to remind me about our visit to Wells. Not that I needed any reminding, my one reservation again being that I might not be able to walk the three miles there and back without proving a drag on my companion.

‘That's all right,' Rose said, smiling. ‘Dame Audrea keeps two donkeys for jogging about the countryside, and she's said that I may borrow them. She sometimes does so when I go into Wells. Your dog can run alongside.'

‘Does she or your husband know that I'm going with you?'

Rose was evasive. ‘They know somebody's going with me, naturally. It wouldn't do for me to ride about on my own.' Her underlip protruded defiantly. ‘Edward thinks it's one of the grooms,' she admitted. ‘I expect the mistress thinks the same.'

I hesitated, but only briefly. I had no desire to cause trouble either for myself or Rose. On the other hand, I urgently wished to meet her brother and she seemed to have no qualms about the consequences of her invitation. So I went.

As readers of these chronicles already know, beasts of burden and I do not get on well together, but a donkey was a great deal easier to manage than a horse, although its plodding gait meant a slower journey and therefore protracted discomfort. By the time we reached Wells, I was thankful to dismount and stretch my aching legs.

It was many years since I had been in the city itself, and I had forgotten how awe-inspiringly the cathedral's domineering presence diminished the buildings round about. Wells was, as it had always been – and for all I know, always will be – first and foremost the great Church of Saint Andrew. Everything else huddled in its shadow and paled into insignificance. The conduit still brought water into the marketplace from the wells, bubbling up from beneath the earth, that gave the city its name and where, as a young boy, I had gathered with my friends to play fivestones and catch-as-catch-can or to sail stick and leaf ‘boats' in the water. The usual clutch of beggars had congregated beneath the porch, where they had taken shelter ever since it was completed earlier in the century, under the auspices of Bishop Beckington. That indefatigable builder had also overseen the row of houses and shops adjacent to the porch, one of which displayed an open counter on which reposed a butcher's block, knife and saw, with joints of meat swinging on metal hooks beneath an awning. Two men, in bloodstained leather aprons, were attending to a regular supply of customers, the sure sign of a prosperous community.

The elder of the pair glanced in our direction with a delighted smile as Rose, without waiting for my assistance, slid from the back of her donkey with a cry of ‘Father!'

I have frequently noticed throughout my life that butchers are big, jolly men (well, I suppose you need a sense of humour if you're cutting animals into collops all day long), and Master Bignell was no exception. He had a round, red face with twinkling blue eyes, a mouth that curled upwards at the corners in a perpetual smile, and even his nose seemed to be nothing more than a circular dab in the middle of his other features. I could recognize a certain likeness between father and daughter, and suspected that, later in life, when her present prettiness had faded, Rose would probably grow plump and matronly with only an echo of her former good looks.

The second man, whom I assumed – rightly, as it turned out – to be Ronan Bignell, the person I had come to see, was taller and somewhat leaner than either his father or sister, but with the same friendly, happy disposition; a fact that made him an obvious favourite among the women, and went some way to explaining the popularity of this particular butcher's stall. He greeted Rose affectionately, leaning across to plant a smacking kiss on her cheek, while his sire, abandoning a customer in the middle of serving her, came out from behind the counter to wrap his daughter in an all-embracing hug.

‘You're looking well, my girl.' He patted her belly. ‘Not increasing yet?' But when she shook her head, he seemed less disappointed than resigned. ‘Well, well! These things won't be hurried. Where's Edward? Not with you? And who's this?'

He eyed me with a certain amount of suspicion, and I guessed that he was under no illusion as to his daughter's predilection for men. She had made a good marriage both for herself and her family, and Butcher Bignell wanted nothing to spoil it.

Fortunately, at that precise moment, both men's attention was claimed by Hercules's investigation of one of the carcasses hanging up behind the counter; and by the time I had thwarted the dog's ambition to consume a whole pig for his dinner, smacked him, scolded him – much to his outraged fury – and tucked him safely under one arm, Rose had her answer ready.

‘This is Master Chapman, Father. He's a guest of our new master, Anthony Bellknapp.'

If she had expected to create a sensation, she was not disappointed. The news of Anthony's return had not previously reached the city, and the reaction of everyone within earshot was most gratifying. The elder Bignell staggered back a pace or two and supported himself against the counter, the younger's mouth fell open in amazement, the woman he had been in the process of serving screamed and dropped a basket containing half a dozen eggs, which shattered all over the cobbles, several other customers flatly refused to believe what they were hearing, while yet another went haring off around the marketplace, determined to be first with these wholly unexpected and unlooked-for tidings. Before she knew what was happening, Rose found herself at the centre of an eager and excited crowd clamouring for details; so, still clutching a highly indignant Hercules, I eased my way free of the ever-increasing throng – which I could see already included a number of beggars and pickpockets, intent on seizing this golden opportunity to relieve respectable citizens of their pouches and purses – and edged around to where Ronan Bignell was standing behind the counter. I touched him on the shoulder.

I had great difficulty in prising his attention away from his sister even after he became aware of my presence, but finally he demanded irritably, ‘What?'

‘I'd like to speak to you,' I said apologetically, and was bracing myself for the furious refusal I could see hovering on the tip of his tongue, when he suddenly realized who I was.

‘You're the man who came with Rose. You must be staying at Croxcombe Manor.' He took hold of my arm and shook it excitedly. Hercules growled but was ignored. ‘You must know all about it.'

It was no use pretending not to know what ‘it' referred to, so I admitted reluctantly, ‘I – er – yes. I suppose I know something.'

Seeing me as a source of private information which could lead to his being wiser than his neighbours, Ronan Bignell, keeping his grip on my free arm, propelled me out from behind the counter and away from the crowd in the direction of the cathedral. It was not until we were within sight of the Bishop's palace, surrounded by its moat, that he paused and turned to face me. For a moment, I thought he might recognize me from childhood days, then realized that he was too young. I reckoned he couldn't be much more than twenty or twenty-one, which left a gap of seven or eight years between us. He wouldn't remember Roger Stonecarver, although there had to be others in Wells who could.

We sat down beside the moat while Hercules went off about his own business – I wasn't worried: he would always return at my whistle – and I submitted to Ronan's eager questioning. I had made up my mind during our short walk to be perfectly honest with him, so as soon as he fell silent, I told him the truth; my history, or such of it as was relevant, who and what I really was, how and for what reason I came to be at Croxcombe just at the time of Anthony Bellknapp's return, the meeting with my previously unknown half-brother and his imprisonment on Dame Audrea's charge that he was the missing murderer, John Jericho and, finally, my mission to clear his name. As a bonus, I also told him the little I knew of Anthony's history, although I omitted the events of the previous night.

Ronan Bignell listened, fascinated, but when I'd finished, he asked, ‘Why, though, do you want to talk to me?'

I explained what Rose had told me and he groaned.

‘Women!' he exclaimed bitterly. ‘You can't trust 'em, not even your own sister.' He shrugged resignedly. ‘But to do her justice, she's never breathed a word to my father, and I don't suppose she ever would. It's true, a couple of my friends and I have always been fond of a bit of poaching. We just like the excitement, and the Croxcombe woods are full of rabbits and hares. Doesn't do any harm to anyone that I can see. We've been doing it for years, ever since we were lads. I let Rob and Dick take whatever we snare. Their parents aren't such law-abiding citizens as mine.'

‘And can you remember what you saw the night of Jenny Applegarth's murder?' I prompted him.

He puckered his lips thoughtfully. ‘Clearly. What happened after stamped it on my memory for ever. When we heard of the robbery, that poor Jenny Applegarth had been murdered and that the page was missing, along with a fair amount of the family's valuables, well of course I remembered what I'd seen the night before.'

‘And that was?'

Ronan Bignell shifted uncomfortably. ‘Look, this is a secret,' he said. ‘Neither Rob nor Dick nor I have ever told anyone. Well, I told Rose, which I can see now was a mistake, because I ought to have known that sooner or later she'd be bound to tell someone. Mind you, I suppose I can't complain. She has managed to keep silent for six years – as far as I know, that is,' he added with a sudden spurt of anxiety.

‘Surely if she had confided in anyone else,' I soothed him, curbing my impatience, ‘someone or other would have said something to you by now. Six years ago, Mistress Micheldever was a child, and children, although they have long memories, are interested more in their own affairs. And in fact, she told me very little, merely that you thought you'd seen both John Jericho and another man abroad in the woods on the night of the murder.'

‘And how did I come to see them?' he asked, answering his own question. ‘Because I was poaching. She told you that.'

‘Master Bignell,' I said patiently (or as patiently as I could), ‘I don't care about your poaching. It's nothing to me and I certainly have no intention of disclosing the fact to anyone. I've been frank with you about what has brought me to Croxcombe, and I should be very grateful for equal frankness on your part.'

He was still reluctant. ‘I don't see how it will prove that this man – this half-brother of yours – isn't John Jericho. In fact, I can't see it will be of any value to you at all, can you?'

I clenched my fists to stop myself from striking him and answered as reasonably as I could, ‘Maybe not. But I have no idea what might prove to be of value and what might not just at this moment, so I should appreciate an account of what you and your two friends saw on the night of the murder.'

He fought against telling me for another few seconds, then suddenly gave in.

‘I don't know what hour of the night it was. Time didn't worry me in those days. I'd discovered a way of getting in and out of my parents' house without them being any the wiser. Sometimes, when it was summer, as it was then, I didn't get home till dawn. But thinking back, it could have been around midnight. We'd had time enough to snare a couple of good fat rabbits and were on the trail of another, if I remember rightly, somewhere around Hangman's Oak. Do you know the Croxcombe woods, Master Chapman?' I shook my head and he went on, ‘There's a sort of clearing there, where the trees thin out towards the edge of the woodland. A young fellow was staggering about, moaning and clutching his head, and then he was sick. One of us, I forget which, said, “He's drunk,” and then Dick said, “It's Dame Bellknapp's page, that one with the funny name.” And I said, “John Jericho.” And the other two agreed.'

‘Did you go to his assistance?' I asked, and was answered with an incredulous snort.

‘Of course we didn't. We weren't supposed to be there. Naturally, we didn't know anything about the murder then, or we might've tried to apprehend him.'

‘What did you think?' I enquired curiously. ‘I don't suppose you see many people reeling around the woods drunk, at midnight.'