The Prodigal Son (19 page)

‘Get out of this house now, tonight,' she ordered, ‘or be prepared to take the consequences.'

Anthony, putting up a hand to staunch the blood trickling down his face, grinned insolently at her.

‘What consequences, Mother? I'm the master here and you know it.'

I could tell by her expression of frustrated rage that Dame Audrea did indeed know it. She had spoken at random, so angry, in spite of her display of self-control, that she was barely aware of what she was saying. She clenched her hand as though she would strike again, but then thought better of it and descended from the dais to attend to her afflicted younger son.

Mistress Wychbold, the housekeeper, was before her, sending a couple of maids scurrying to the medicine chest for a bag of powdered comfrey, splints and bandages, while a page was despatched to the kitchen for a bowl of warm water and with a request that someone make up a strong draught of lettuce and poppy juice to ease the patient's pain. The rest of us, supper and our hunger forgotten, stood around quietly while the housekeeper and Dame Audrea skilfully made a poultice of the powdered comfrey and warm water and packed it inside two splints of oak wood, holding everything in place with bandages torn from what looked like an old white counterpane. Simon, who had lost consciousness during part of this procedure, revived enough to swallow the lettuce and poppy juice potion and to allow himself to be led away to his bedchamber, supported by his mother on one side and George Applegarth on the other. He had also recovered sufficiently to turn and hiss at Anthony as he passed him, ‘You'll pay for this. Just see if you don't. Even if I have to kill you with my own two hands.'

Dame Audrea said sharply, ‘That's enough of such talk, Simon. You must rest for a week or so and your arm will soon be as good as new. I'd trust Matilda Wychbold's skills with a lot more than a broken limb.'

Anthony suddenly stepped forward, blocking his brother's slow progress.

‘Look, Sim' – I guessed this to be a childhood shortening of Simon's name, rusty from lack of use, judging by the awkward way it sat on the older man's tongue – ‘I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. I'd forgotten the dais. It was stupid, I admit it. But you shouldn't have usurped my place. You won't be able to alter Father's will, and if it's legal, which it is, the King won't help you to overset it.'

He might as well not have spoken. ‘I'll get you for it,' Simon panted, ‘and that man of yours. I'll kill you both.'

‘That will do!' his mother snapped and urged him forward, she and the steward half carrying, half dragging the injured boy from the hall. As the door closed behind them, there was another silence before Anthony gave a loud, forced laugh.

‘Well, where's the food, then? Humphrey, find me another chair. Back to your places everyone, the entertainment's over.' He picked up a half-full goblet of wine that Simon had been drinking. ‘Mistress Micheldever, your very good health!'

Rose gave a frightened sob and ran out of the hall. Her husband, after giving one murderous glance at Anthony, followed her.

I saw the prodigal's eyes narrow furiously. The Devil had him by the tail now and he was in a dangerous mood.

‘Then here's to another fair lady.' He raised the goblet higher. ‘The lovely Dorcas Slye and her handsome son.' And he grinned at the outraged chamberlain. But the fool hadn't finished yet. ‘T-t-t-to you, Sir Henry, my s-s-stuttering f-f-friend.' He sat down abruptly as Humphrey brought another chair, looking round for further mischief, as though he was unable to stop himself. He wiped away a further trickle of blood from his cheek and looked at the bailiff. ‘By the way, Master Kilsby, tomorrow, you may take whatever money is owing to you and go. I no longer need you here. I'll not have you as a stepfather. In fact,' he added loudly, as Dame Audrea came back into the hall, ‘I'll not stand for a stepfather at all. Widows should stay widows and honour their husbands' memories. Now, everyone fall to. Your supper's getting cold.'

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 …