The Prodigal Son (16 page)

There was a sudden gap in the surging crowd, and I saw Anthony and Rose standing at a little distance beside a stall that sold jewellery. While I watched, Rose slipped a necklace over her head and admired her reflection in the mirror of polished steel that the stallholder held up to her. Anthony passed some coins across the counter and I inched closer, curious to know what price he was prepared to pay for the possible future pleasure of laying his receiver's wife. For there was no doubt in my mind that that was what he was after; and judging by the smile that Rose bestowed on him, he was already more than halfway to achieving his goal.

Another woman, who until that minute had been just a part of the milling crowd, suddenly stopped in front of Anthony, blocking his progress. Her back view, which was as much as I could see at that moment, in its plain blue gown and linen coif suggested a well-fed, well-built country girl, and her hands, roughened by work and weather, upheld this impression. Her left was on her hip, in that stance a woman adopts just before giving you a piece of her mind (and heaven help you when she does); the right one clasped that of a young boy, some nine or ten years old, who was half turned towards me, and who bore a striking resemblance to the Bellknapp family, particularly to Anthony. I saw the latter's eyes flicker as he, too, recognized it.

I edged closer, easing myself unobtrusively around the woman to stand next to Rose.

‘Anthony!' the woman exclaimed, looking him up and down. ‘So, it's true. You've returned at last.' She glanced down at the boy. ‘Lucas, this is Master Bellknapp. Anthony, this is my son, Lucas Slye.'

Anthony bowed. ‘Dorcas, it's good to see you again. You … You haven't married, then?'

‘No.' She gave him a challenging smile. ‘I resisted all attempts of family and clergy to make a respectable woman of me. My son and I live at home with my parents.'

‘A fine lad. He's a credit to you.' Anthony was making a brave effort to return the smile, but I could see he wasn't finding it easy. It was more of a rictus grin.

‘Dorcas!' Rose greeted the other woman with a kiss. Then, becoming aware of my presence, she said, ‘Master Chapman, this is the sister of Croxcombe's chamberlain, Mistress Slye. And this is her son, Lucas.'

Dorcas Slye, as I had already surmised, had the round, healthy looks of the country girl, with the same blue eyes and short neck of her brother, Jonathan. Her skin was like the bloom on a ripe plum and was completely innocent of the white lead that fashionable women would have considered necessary to tone down its high colour. She was very pretty if you have a taste for the bucolic, which, at some time or another, Anthony Bellknapp plainly had had. There could be no doubt that Lucas was his son, even though Dorcas Slye, if I remembered correctly, had refused to name him as the father. Whether or not the resemblance had struck Rose, I had no idea: somehow I doubted it. There was an underlying innocence about her that belied the sharp, acquisitive gaze and predatory smile. But there could be little question that other people would remark on the similarity now that Anthony, whose features must have grown dim in their recollections over the past eight years, was once more before them. The gossip would flare up again; and although it seemed to be of little moment to Dorcas herself, her family would be bound to resent it. Jonathan Slye, the chamberlain, had probably recognized the danger as soon as he clapped eyes on the prodigal. Anthony Bellknapp's tally of enemies was mounting fast. It was small wonder that George Applegarth had advised him to watch his back.

I became aware that Rose was inviting me to admire her new necklace. ‘Coral and jet,' she said happily. ‘Jet to ward off evil spirits.'

I wondered if it might also ward off a husband's jealousy, but saw that no such consideration had disturbed Rose's peace of mind. Dorcas Slye was regarding the necklace with a mocking smile, doubtless recalling similar gifts in the past and all too conscious of their consequences. Anthony, too, suddenly looked uncomfortable.

‘Master Chapman,' he said, ‘do you return with us to Croxcombe? I shall take up Mistress Micheldever behind me on my horse. Ronan Bignell will return the donkey to the manor when he brings the next delivery of meat.'

As I had no intention of following behind them like a humble retainer, I excused myself.

‘If you'll allow me continued use of my donkey, I'll ride in the direction of Wedmore and find my friends, the Actons. As I said, Master Bignell will give me more detailed directions.'

Anthony seemed a little taken aback, having quite correctly decided in his own mind that these friends of mine had been a hurried excuse to conceal whatever it was that Ronan and I had really been discussing. But my sudden decision to search out the Actons would both allay his suspicions and might also prove to be of some value to myself. Although what, I couldn't imagine.

Half an hour later, I was jogging along the Wedmore track, on my own at last. Judging by the sun, it was now past noon, and here and there the silver trunks of birch trees rippled like water in the afternoon light. The countryside was looking beautiful. The feathered gold of ragwort caught my eye, white trumpets of bindweed were being crushed beneath the donkey's hooves, and buttercups and golden-eyed daisies spangled the molehills. (The day's eye, how well that little plant is named.) Altogether, it was a brilliant scene, the colours glowing jewel-bright under the sun, and making me glad to be alive.

According to Ronan Bignell, Edgar and Avice Acton scraped a living from a smallholding somewhere to the east of Wedmore, watered by a little tributary of the meandering River Axe. Greatly to my surprise, they weren't difficult to find. Everyone of whom I sought directions seemed to be familiar with their names even if he or she was not acquainted with the couple in person. I gathered that they were an elderly pair who were probably either my half-brother's grandparents or a great-uncle and great-aunt. As it turned out, the latter surmise was correct.

When I eventually came across them, the two were sitting contentedly outside their cottage, enjoying the sunshine and drinking small beer from horn beakers which were obviously home-made. As I approached, I saw the man take a handful of grain from a bag beside him and throw it into the dirt. With a great clucking and squawking and much flapping of wings, two hens, a goose and a duck went running after it, the duck being at a decided disadvantage because it had to lumber up from the stream that all but encircled the property. In a nearby sty a couple of pigs rootled and snorted; one a heavy-bodied, stumpy-legged creature with drooping, floppy ears, obviously a descendant of the wild boars that had roamed the woodlands for centuries; the other lighter-skinned, longer-limbed, with a pointed snout and bright, intelligent eyes. A Tantony pig as country people called it (or a Saint Anthony pig, if you wanted to give it its full name), the sort of porker most often seen for sale in town and city marketplaces. There were also a sheep, a goat and a cow, turned loose to graze the adjoining meadow.

I approached quietly, the donkey's hooves making no sound on the lush grass, and was about to alert the Actons to my presence when Hercules did it for me, making a headlong rush at the poultry and scattering them in all directions. I slid from Neddy's back, yelling ferociously at him to come to heel and startling the rest of the livestock in the process. After such an entrance, I could hardly have been surprised if the Actions had requested me to leave forthwith, but both husband and wife roared with laughter and Hercules, recognizing a couple of well-wishers, went to sit between them, daring me to touch him.

‘Nice li'l dog,' the man said, tickling the miscreant's ears.

‘Sometimes,' I agreed, still advancing threateningly. Hercules barked at me and licked his new friend's hand. (That animal can be such a sycophant!) ‘Master and Mistress Acton?' I enquired.

They laughed again.

‘Don' know about Maister,' the man answered. ‘But I'm Edgar Acton and this here is my Goody. What can we do for you, young fellow?'

When you are less than two months off your twenty-eighth birthday, it's not often you're called a young fellow. I beamed and forgot to be cross with Hercules, stooping myself to tickle his ears. He allowed himself to be placated and condescended to lick my hand as well. Meantime, Goody Acton had gone into the cottage and fetched out another stool and beaker of ale, and before I was allowed to explain the reason for my visit, I was pressed to sit down and refresh myself.

‘It's a danged hot day!' her husband exclaimed. ‘Better fetch some water for that there donkey, my old sweetheart. And for this here dog.'

So it was not until the needs of Hercules and Neddy had been supplied that I was at last able to tell my story. I began by asking the couple if they were indeed kin to the Anne Acton who had married first her cousin, Ralph Wedmore, and then an Irishman, Matthew O'Neill.

The old man nodded. ‘Aye, Anne were my niece. My brother's daughter. Bright, pretty lass, she were. Never could make out why she married Ralph. He were my sister's son, but took after his father's family. Miserable lot the Wedmores. Never had much to do with 'em after Jeanne died.'

‘Nor with your great-nephews, Anne's sons?'

‘We did try once or twice,' Avice Acton said defensively. ‘But it was soon plain we weren't welcome. Anne only had the one lad then. John I think she'd named him. After her father, Edgar's brother.'

‘That's right.' The man nodded. ‘I believe there were another lad later on, but we never saw him. Both of us had a feeling there was something not quite right about Anne's marriage to Ralph. Something being hidden, if you know what I mean. Ralph and his parents didn't seem to treat the boy like one of their own. Me and Avice, we wondered …'

‘Aye, we did wonder.' His wife looked at me, suddenly expectant.

‘You were quite right to wonder,' I affirmed, and proceeded to recount the whole story, leaving as little out as possible.

When I had finished, there was a long silence while the couple digested what I had told them. Finally, Goody Acton heaved a great sigh and Edgar nodded his head.

‘That makes sense,' Avice said at last.

Her husband added, ‘It do that. Don't get the pig by the tail, mind! Anne weren't a flighty piece. Reckon she must've been uncommon fond o' your father to let herself bear his child.'

‘I think my father was probably very fond of her,' I answered in a low voice. ‘Looking back, I can see now that it caused my mother a lot of grief. He never knew about the child, of course. I think he must have been killed before your niece could tell him.'

Edgar nodded. ‘And now you say John's in gaol, accused o' murder?'

‘Wrongly, I feel certain.' And I went again over the circumstances that had landed John Wedmore in the Bristol bridewell. ‘He insists that he was in Ireland six years ago, living with his family. His mother and younger brother and stepfather.'

‘Do you believe him?' Goody Acton asked, her shrewd old eyes regarding me thoughtfully.

‘I have no reason not to. Moreover, he'd be foolish to return to this country, to this part of the world in particular, if he was wanted for murder.'

‘Bristol ain't 'xactly this part o' the world,' Edgar objected. ‘'Tis miles away, over other side o' Mendip. Up country.'

‘No great distance to Dame Audrea,' I pointed out, ‘with her carriage and her horses. And it was the time of Saint James's fair. If John had ever been in her employ, he'd have remembered that she always visited the city for that, and to see her kinsman in Small Street. He'd surely have calculated there was a chance of meeting her. He'd have waited.'

‘Not if he were worried about his brother,' Avice argued. ‘All the same, I think you'm most likely right. This Dame Audrea's mistaken him for somebody else. They'm not a violent lot, the Actons.'

‘No, we'm allus been reasonable folk,' her husband agreed. ‘But the Wedmores! They're a different bucket o' shit.'

‘But if the pedlar's telling us the truth,' his wife demurred, ‘Anne's eldest ain't a Wedmore. He's a bastard of this young fellow's father.' She turned to me. ‘Any history o' violence on your side the family?' I shook my head. ‘There you are then. There's been a mistake made, no doubt about it.'

‘Maybe! Maybe!' Edgar pursed his lips and sucked at his few remaining teeth. ‘But what we can do about it, I dunno. Don' like t' think of Anne's boy wrongfully accused, but like I say, there ain't nothing we can do.'

‘You couldn't swear to the fact that six years ago John was in Ireland?' I asked, but without much hope of a positive answer.

They both sighed regretfully.

‘We told you,' Avice Acton said, ‘we never had much to do with Anne and her family, not when the boys were young. And we got out o' the habit of asking after them when strangers stopped by. We did hear Ralph had died, but not for a year nor more afterwards, by which time Anne had got herself married again to some Irishman or other and gone to live across the water. 'Spect we heard both things together, though after all this while I can't be sure.'

‘Do either of you remember anything about the murder at Croxcombe Manor, six years ago?' I enquired desperately. (I had guessed this was a wasted journey before I started out.) ‘Did you ever set eyes on the page, John Jericho, during the time he was in Dame Audrea's employ? When you went to Wells, perhaps?'

‘Lord love you, I ain't been to Wells since I can't tell when,' Edgar chuckled. ‘What do we want to go jauntering around the countryside for? We got everything we need right here. If they want to see us, people come to us.'

‘Six years is a great time to remember anything,' his wife said. ‘Although, now I come to think of it, something do stir in my mind. Someone – can't rightly recollect who – did tell us there'd been some trouble over to Mendip way. Robbery or some such thing. But whether that were six year or six month ago, I couldn't swear to. One day's pretty much like another, and time don't mean much here, like it does to city folks. We just follow the seasons round.'