The Prodigal Son (25 page)

‘I – I don't think that's – that's what she wants,' Humphrey faltered, confirming my own suspicions in the matter. But then his eyes blazed with righteous indignation. ‘But I do! I want to know who murdered Master Bellknapp! Whatever others may think of him, he's been a good master to me. Never a blow, let alone a whipping, and barely a harsh word in all the time I've been with him. I'll see he gets justice!'

I pursed my lips. ‘I'd be careful, if I were you, lad, about going against Dame Audrea's wishes. You could end up in the moat as easily as your master. Your late master,' I added significantly.

Humphrey eyed me apprehensively, but said nothing. His silence worried me more than any protestations as to his future intentions would have done, but there were more important things to think about.

‘Dinner,' I said, turning to the landlord and his wife. ‘It must be getting close to the dinner hour and I've eaten nothing since breakfast. Master Attleborough here probably hasn't eaten at all this morning.' Humphrey shook his head dolefully and I patted his shoulder. ‘There you are, then. Food, Master Litton, is what we both need to sustain us before our journey back to Croxcombe Manor.'

Humphrey and I ate our oatcakes, coddled eggs and slices of boiled beef in a secluded corner of the aleroom, which was now filling up fast as workers from the surrounding fields and woodlands ambled in to refresh themselves after an hour or two's hard work. (Foreigners are always complaining that the English don't take work seriously enough, and that we could feed half Europe if only we would put our backs and hearts into our respective jobs instead of lolling about drinking ale and stuffing our faces. But like most of my countrymen, I feel that is the rest of Europe's problem, not ours. Our first duty is to look after ourselves.)

‘What happened when you reported finding Master Bellknapp's body?' I asked Humphrey in a low voice. ‘What was the reaction of the manor's other inmates?'

‘Well, to begin with, only general consternation and wonderment as to how it could have happened, until George Applegarth – he and the receiver had pulled the body free of the weeds and on to the bank – turned him over and we discovered the great bloody contusion on the back of his head. Then, of course, there was uproar. Rose Micheldever had hysterics and even Mistress Bignell screamed. The men, well, I didn't notice them too much, but Master Bignell, he looked sick and scared. I do remember that.'

‘And Dame Audrea?'

Humphrey shrugged, but his eyes narrowed malevolently. ‘Oh, she behaved as you would expect. She just stood looking at the body for a long time without a flicker of emotion, and then she said, “So! Somebody's taken their revenge at last. I wondered how much longer we would have to wait.”'

I nodded, unsurprised. There was something implacable about Dame Audrea. Whatever she felt, whether it was elation or horror – and I suspected that in this case, dismay and fear would also play their part – she would never let it show.

‘What happened next?'

‘My master's body was carried into the hall and laid on one of the trestles while the dame called all the officers of the household to the top table to consult them. There was a lot of talking and arguing, and while that was going on, I overheard Ronan Bignell telling someone that he and his parents thought they should leave the family to its grief – ha! – and would be on their way. As it's Monday, the butcher's stall should have opened long since: they would be losing precious custom. Unfortunately for them – the Bignells, I mean – Dame Audrea also heard what Ronan was saying and forbade them to go. Then she asked where you were, and seemed astonished to learn that you had already started on your way home. She said you were to be brought back immediately and that I was to ride after you; that you probably couldn't have got far. I said wouldn't it be better if I rode to Wells and fetched the sheriff's officer? But she said no, she didn't wish to involve the law unless it was absolutely necessary; and as we didn't as yet know what had really happened, we didn't know whether it was necessary or not. She thought you might be able to find out the truth.'

‘And did the others agree to this proposal?'

‘Most of them. They none of them wanted a lawman poking his long snout into the manor's affairs. And with good reason. There was hardly one of 'em that hadn't uttered threats against my master or wished him dead. Or something of the sort.'

‘Mind you, there's safety in numbers,' I remarked thoughtfully. ‘Whoever tries to discover the truth about Anthony Bellknapp's death is going to have his pick of suspects.' I added, ‘You said most of them were willing to accept Dame Audrea's proposition that I should be fetched back to Croxcombe. Who disagreed?'

Humphrey suddenly looked uncomfortable. ‘No one disagreed exactly.'

‘What then? Exactly?'

‘We-ell, Simon, he thought you ought to be brought back, but only because—'

‘Because?'

Humphrey squirmed uneasily on his stool and refused to meet my eyes. ‘Because,' he admitted at last, ‘Simon suggested you might be the murderer yourself.'

I was astounded. ‘And what does Master Simon suggest is my motive?'

‘I don't think he'd thought about that. He was just out to make mischief.'

‘Or,' I said slowly, ‘it was an attempt to discredit me because he has more to hide than the rest of them.'

‘He does have one arm in a sling,' Humphrey reminded me, finishing his ale.

‘His left arm, and he's right-handed.' I leaned my elbows on the table and chewed one of my thumbnails. ‘This contusion on the back of Master Bellknapp's head, would it have needed two hands to inflict it?'

Humphrey devoted at least half a minute's consideration to the question before answering.

‘No, probably not. It could have been done one-handed with a sufficiently heavy cudgel or stick.' He pushed aside his plate, sighing regretfully. ‘I can't eat any more. I haven't the heart. You can finish my beef if you want to.'

I took him at his word – I hate to see good food wasted – and suggested that he go and bring his horse around to the front of the inn while I settled up with the landlord. As we rose to our feet and emerged from our shadowy corner, it was obvious from the sudden hiatus in the general buzz of conversation that Josiah Litton had not been slow to spread the news of Anthony Bellknapp's murder. I wondered how Dame Audrea imagined she could keep the matter quiet when it would be common knowledge in half the surrounding countryside by nightfall. But that was before I recollected the countryman's deeply ingrained suspicion and avoidance of anyone in authority; his ability to clam up closer than an oyster and play the moonstruck fool in the presence of the law. Her elder son's death might be the topic under discussion in many a wayside hovel by this evening, but Dame Audrea need have no fear that any word would reach the ears of those likely to view the matter in a serious light. I realized that after years of living in a city, I had almost stopped thinking like the country boy I really was.

By the time I had paid for our breakfast, Humphrey had returned to the aleroom, ready to leave. He had lost his initial pallor and was looking more like his normal cocky self, so I told him to ride on ahead and announce my return at the manor. (There are few things more undignified than loping along either beside or behind a horse, and being in the inferior position of having to look up at the rider.)

Once I had seen Humphrey on his way, I paused long enough to swallow another beaker of Josiah Litton's excellent ale and to promise him that I would do my best to keep him informed of any developments, before gathering up my pack and winkling out Hercules from the Littons' kitchen, where he was gnawing on a large mutton bone, given to him by Janet. Finally, I took my cudgel from the corner, where I had propped it on entering the inn, and emerged into the sunlight, directing my footsteps back the way I had come.

I had gone only a few paces, when I realized that I was holding my trusty ‘Plymouth Cloak' upside down. (Now, you might think that there's not much difference between one end of a stick and the other, but I had done what many people do; the old trick of splitting one end lengthwise for a matter of six inches or so, forcing the wood apart and filling the gap with melted lead. When this hardens, it makes the cudgel a more lethal weapon than before, but it also makes it top-heavy. The end with the lead in it is the end that you have to put to the ground, or the stick takes on a life of its own and bruises you in the chest and shoulder. I had had several one-sided struggles with mine after I had first performed the operation, but forgotten that I'd done it.) With a muttered curse, I reversed the cudgel, but as the weighted end swung in an arc towards the ground, I noticed a dark discolouration near its tip. I arrested its progress and pulled it back to eye level, my heart beating uncomfortably fast. And with good reason. A closer examination of the wood around the leaded end convinced me that it was stained with blood.

I must have covered the next mile in a daze, unaware of my surroundings or where I was going. It was more by luck than judgement that when I did finally pause to take stock of my surroundings, I found myself in a small clearing that I recognized from my outward journey as being not far from the main Wells to Bristol track. With a sense of relief, I sat down on a fallen tree trunk and thought seriously about what my unwelcome discovery might mean.

For a start, it could implicate me in Anthony's murder. Indeed, if I looked at the evidence dispassionately, and if I didn't know better, even I might be inclined to suspect myself. But that, of course, was nonsense. Apart from the fact that I had no motive, I knew I had slept soundly all the previous night, not waking until early this morning to a sensation of feeling sick and more than a little unwell.

So, could anyone have entered our bedchamber during the night, taken the cudgel, used it to kill Anthony and returned it without disturbing Humphrey or myself? And at that point, another idea presented itself. The longer I thought about it, the more it became an absolute certainty. The wine I had drunk before getting into bed had been drugged. It explained the drowsiness that had gripped me almost as soon as my head had touched the pillow; the nausea, headache and pain behind the eyes that had afflicted me for several hours this morning after waking; the heavy, dreamless slumber. I tried to picture again the previous night's scene when I had joined Anthony and Humphrey after saying goodnight to the cook and the kitchen maids. The all-night tray was on the chest beneath the bedroom window. Humphrey was eating, but not drinking. My host, on the other hand, was doing both. So had he, too, been drugged? But what would have been the point of that? If he had slept as soundly as I did he would never have been lured from his bed on whatever pretext the murderer had used.

The next question seemed to be, had Humphrey drunk the wine? He had certainly been snoring away when I quit the bedchamber this morning and had looked white enough when he caught me up at the alehouse to have been suffering the effects of sickness. But that could simply have been shock: he was the person, he claimed, who had discovered Anthony's body.

Or was he the killer? On the face of it, like me, he appeared to have no reason to do away with his master, but there might be some hidden resentment that I didn't know about. He could well have been lying when he sang Anthony's praises as a good and tolerant employer, his apparent desire to see the murderer brought to justice just empty protestations to throw me off the scent …

But why should I suspect Humphrey when there were so many other people at Croxcombe Manor with far more cogent reasons for wishing Anthony Bellknapp dead? The receiver, consumed with jealousy over Rose; the bailiff, dismissed from his post and robbed of his dream of marrying Dame Audrea; the chaplain, mocked and aped and made to look a fool (for even the worm will eventually turn if goaded too far); Simon, stripped of an inheritance he had thought most certainly his; the Dame herself, who had never liked her elder son and who had no influence over him as she had with her younger; all these people must surely be considered as culprits ahead of Humphrey.

But when could the all-night wine have been drugged? And what with? The latter question was more easily answered than the first. I remembered Mistress Wychbold, the housekeeper, sending one of the maids to make up a lettuce and poppy juice potion when Simon broke his arm. No doubt there was still some of the draught left, standing around in the medicine closet. But who had put it in the wine? Humphrey had fetched the all-night tray from the kitchen and could have done it on his way back to the bedchamber. But that meant that Anthony would have suffered the effects of the drug as well as myself. Dragging him from his bed, through the house and out to the water's edge would almost certainly have created enough disturbance to rouse someone. Besides, if Anthony was unconscious already, there would have been little point in hitting him on the head before tipping him into the moat. No, it was more probable that my host had arranged an assignation with someone – in which case, might he not also have been responsible for drugging the wine?

The longer I considered the idea, the surer I became that this was what had happened. Anthony could easily have hidden a flask of the lettuce and poppy juice somewhere in the bedchamber, and, as it turned out, he had had plenty of time to put it in the all-night jug before I went to bed. But why? Because he had this nocturnal meeting and wanted to make certain that I didn't wake up to note the length of time that he was absent? Probably. He had taken my cudgel with him for protection, which indicated a suspicion that there might be trouble. Not Mistress Micheldever then; he had not had a rendezvous with the lovely Rose. But, whoever else it was, there had been an argument, a quarrel of some kind, during which my cudgel had been wrested from Anthony's grasp and used to club him on the back of the head …