The Prodigal Son (32 page)

Humphrey was awake on the instant. ‘What's up? What's happened?' he demanded fretfully.

I whispered, ‘I think someone may be in the room.'

I could hear his teeth chattering as I crept out of bed and groped my way across the bedchamber to the candle and my tinder box, which I had left beside it. After a few fumblings the flame blazed into life, searing the darkness, and the wick caught. I held the candlestick aloft, the light sending shadows scattering to the four corners of the room. Apart from Humphrey and myself there was no one else present.

But I saw, with a shock that jolted me from head to foot, that another person had indeed been there.

‘What is it?' queried Humphrey's voice at my elbow. I could feel him shaking even though our bodies weren't touching.

Silently, I pointed to the bed and the curled-up shape of the pillows. Protruding from one of them, just about where my chest and heart would have been, was the handle of a long-bladed kitchen knife.

There was little sleep for either of us after that. I bolted the bedchamber door on the inside and closed the shutters, but even those precautions failed to reassure us until the first intimations of daylight began to seep into the room. By that time, stifled for air, our heads aching from bolstering our courage with the rest of the all-night ale, we were only too glad to put aside our fears and reopen the casement on a brightening world, where the stars were paling fast before being quite snuffed out. Birds, who had been cheeping gently on a sleepy, questioning note, suddenly shrilled into a full-throated chorus; and on the grass near the moat, I could see a cluster of astonished young rabbits, caught in the act of sitting up and washing their faces with front paws, wet with dew. I breathed in deeply. Normality had returned.

Well, for the time being, at least: I still had to face up to the fact that someone had tried to kill me during the night. And there was no clue as to the would-be murderer's identity to be gained from the knife.

‘Taken from the kitchen,' I said to Humphrey as we examined it together.

‘Do you think whoever it was realized that he hadn't killed you?' Humphrey asked in a nervous, unhappy voice.

‘Bound to,' I said. ‘There's no comparison between the feel of a blade slicing through flesh and one stabbing through feathers.'

‘So' – my companion swallowed noisily – ‘do you think he'll try again?'

Having thought about it, I shook my head. ‘Not like that, at any rate. He'll know I'll be on my guard. It'll have to be something a good deal more subtle. A carefully arranged accident, perhaps.'

‘Aren't you frightened?'

‘Scared out of my wits,' I answered as cheerfully as I could. ‘But I shall make sure, at breakfast this morning, that everyone knows what's happened. That way, if anything untoward does befall me, they'll all know it's murder.'

‘Do you suspect anyone?' Humphrey asked, but I refused to say.

‘I might do. Then again, I might not,' was my deliberately ambiguous answer.

The truth was that I didn't know what I really thought myself. The worm of suspicion that had been wriggling around in my mind for a little while now, but largely ignored by me, was beginning to assume snake-like proportions. This was partly due to a dream that had troubled one of those brief interludes of sleep which had punctuated my almost continuous state of wakefulness since the discovery of the knife stuck in the pillow. In this dream, I had returned to the day of my arrival at Croxcombe, the previous Friday. Anthony Bellknapp and I were in George Applegarth's room and the former was questioning the steward about his wife's murder. It was all quite sane and sensible, without any of the inanities that normally distinguish a dream from reality, but I had woken with a sense of something missing; a conviction that something had not been asked that should have been asked in the light of what had happened later … But then, I had not been constantly in Anthony Bellknapp's company, and the vital missing question could have been put during my absence.

Piqued by my refusal to say more, Humphrey dressed and, taking his razor, went off to hold his head under the pump before repairing to the kitchen to get hot water to shave in. I followed his example but at a slower pace, my thoughts making me pause every few moments while I tried to make coherent sense of what I knew and what I suspected. As a result, I was late for the start of breakfast and earned myself a pained look from Dame Audrea.

We were a reduced number at table, the Bignells having already departed, leaving the manor – or so I was informed by the chaplain – at first light, anxious to be home as early as possible. They had missed a whole day's trading and were keen to open their stall before the good women of Wells decided to take their custom elsewhere. The pilgrims who had sought shelter the preceding night had also gone on their way at a very early hour, and had charged George Applegarth with rendering thanks to their hostess.

I took a seat at one of the lower boards and waited for everyone present to finish their poached eel and oatmeal cakes before marching up to the dais and slapping down the kitchen knife under Dame Audrea's astonished gaze.

‘Someone,' I announced baldly, ‘tried to kill me with that last night. If you don't believe me, ask Master Attleborough there. He'll confirm what I say.'

There was silence, broken only by the shuffle of feet as people left their places to crowd around the dais and stare with ghoulish fascination at the wicked, pointed blade, set in its black bone handle. Finally, Dame Audrea said, ‘Someone tried to kill you, Master Chapman? This isn't some sort of jest?'

‘Someone tried to kill me,' I repeated, ignoring the second question as being nothing more than a ploy on her part to stall for time. ‘I've told you, Master Attleborough will back me up.' Humphrey nodded vigorously. ‘We have a murderer in our midst, Madam, who doesn't want you to discover the identity of your elder son's killer.' I raised my voice slightly so that everyone present could hear. ‘I tell you all this so that should any of you find me dead, however innocent-looking the circumstances, you will be on your guard against assuming that my death is natural. I would advise you most strongly, Dame Audrea, to make known the manner of Master Anthony's death to the proper authorities and let them instigate a hunt for his killer.'

‘No.' The dame's answer was blunt and allowed of no argument. ‘Croxcombe will keep its affairs to itself as it always has done. And if anyone here thinks of disobeying my orders, let me warn you that I have many friends and kinsmen in high places. I shall be believed, not you, and you might find life in the future very uncomfortable. So get on and exert these wonderful powers of yours, Master Chapman, that you have seen fit to boast about, and find the murderer. I shall know how to deal with him when you do.' She gave a curt nod as she rose from her seat and prepared to leave the dais. ‘Anthony's funeral will take place at noon,' she added, ‘in the chapel. I shall expect all of you to be present. Sir Henry, you have the key to the family vault. Please see that it is open and ready to receive my son's body by the appointed hour. That's all for now.' But as she turned to go, she flung at me over her shoulder, ‘Remember our bargain!'

I wasn't likely to forget. She had the upper hand, and knew it. Now that Anthony was dead, Dame Audrea was once more sole ruler of her little kingdom. Whatever rumours and gossip might abound in the countryside at large concerning Master Bellknapp's death, no one would ever know the truth for certain. It would join the ever-increasing mythology of the district; just another of those stories endlessly discussed in taverns and alehouses, especially on winter nights when smoke from the fires wrapped the various taprooms in a ghostly pall, and the wind shrieked like a banshee through the hole in the roof.

After a short interval, I followed Sir Henry to the chapel and waited at the back, unnoticed, while he unlocked the door to the vault and disappeared inside, the pale flame of his lantern bobbing around like a ship on a stormy sea as he descended the flight of steps into its depths.

‘Ah! Master Chaplain!' I said. At the sound of my voice, he jumped like a startled fawn and dropped the lantern from nerveless fingers. With great dexterity, I caught it before it hit the floor. ‘I'm sorry. Did I frighten you?'

‘I-I didn't know you were there,' he stammered. Recovering himself, he went on petulantly, ‘What do you want? I'm busy.'

The place smelled mustily of death and decay, of damp stone walls and mouldering bones. It was about twelve feet square and, by my reckoning, took up most of the space beneath the altar and the front half of the chapel. Each wall had three stone shelves, one above the other, on which were ranged the coffins of long-dead Bellknapps, including the pathetically small ones of children who had not survived infancy. Sudden tears sprang to my eyes as I remembered my own little daughter who had known less than four days of life. Angrily, I blinked them away and stepped back into the shadows so that the chaplain shouldn't be a witness to my unmanly emotion.

‘I apologize for interrupting you,' I said, putting the lantern on a shelf. ‘I simply want to ask you some questions.'

He had seized a besom from a corner of the vault and was busily sweeping the floor, the long broom twigs tied to their handle raising a great cloud of dust (making us both cough and sneeze) which then settled anew over everything. I forbore to point out what a singularly fruitless activity this was, and waited for his response. After a moment or two, curiosity overcame annoyance and Sir Henry replaced the besom.

‘What about?' he demanded, before adding hurriedly, ‘If it concerns poor Anthony's death, I know nothing of that. Nor about the attack on you last night.'

‘What do you recall about Jenny Applegarth's murder?' I asked.

His nervousness gave way to testiness. ‘Jenny Applegarth's murder? Why, nothing! I wasn't here. I was at Kewstoke Hall along with the mistress and Master Simon.'

‘I was thinking more of what happened when you all returned.'

‘I don't understand. We were all deeply upset, naturally.'

‘Naturally. But did you ever think it strange that this John Jericho should have done such a thing? Had you ever thought of him as a possible thief and murderer?'

‘No, of course not! I'm a man of God. It's my duty to think the best of people.'

I found myself suppressing a smile at this ingenuous statement. It was not a belief shared by many priests of my acquaintance. (But then, I'm a cynic. Take no notice of my opinions.)

‘George Applegarth,' I said. ‘You must have had to minister to him. He must have been in an extremely distressed state of mind.'

‘We-ell, yes,' the chaplain agreed doubtfully. ‘But it was a couple of days before we came home that the murder had occurred. George had despatched one of the stable lads to Kewstoke with a message the same morning as he discovered what had happened, but by the time Dame Audrea and the master had recovered from the shock, and by the time that the baggage waggons had been loaded, it was late the next evening before anyone arrived here. Master Steward had had time to overcome the worst of his grief, and he has never been a man who wears his heart on his sleeve.'

‘You're saying he didn't seem as grief-stricken as you thought he should be?'

‘No, no!' Sir Henry was flustered. ‘He loved his wife. Of course he was upset. He blamed himself, I think, for not waking up when Jenny tried to rouse him.'

‘Did he tell you so?' I asked.

‘Yes. Yes, he did. I know it's a long time ago, six years, but I distinctly recollect him saying so.'

‘You're implying that Master Applegarth was not in need of your comfort?'

‘I've told you, George keeps his feelings to himself. And sorrow affects different people in different ways. He seemed numbed by what had happened. Everyone was saying dreadful things about the page, terrible things as you can imagine, but not George. The master rode into Wells and organized a posse, but George wasn't interested. Master Simon, as I recall, was urging him to ride with them, and I think we all expected him to go. Even I joined one of the bands, and I'm no horseman. But he just wouldn't bestir himself.'

‘Did you ever hear him vilify the page later on?'

The chaplain scratched one ear. ‘I've heard him swear a solemn oath to revenge himself on the person who did it.'

‘But never on John Jericho by name?'

‘Yes … No … Oh, really, I can't be certain after all this while. But of course everyone who heard him knew who he meant.'

I nodded. ‘Well, thank you, Master Chaplain, you've been most helpful. I'll leave you in peace.'

He looked faintly surprised. ‘If I've been of assistance, I'm glad, but I don't see how. Never mind! Never mind! I daresay you know what you're about. Will you attend the funeral Mass at noon?'

‘Perhaps. Do you happen to know where I can find Master Bailiff?'

‘At this time of day, he'll be around the demesne lands somewhere, talking to one of the stockmen. Try the swineherd. I think I heard him mention that a sow was almost ready to farrow.'

I thanked him again and took myself off to the pig sties, where Reginald Kilsby was indeed in consultation with the swineherd, a large, bald man with smooth, porcine features that made him appear almost like one of his charges.

As I approached, I heard him grunt, ‘She ain't ready to drop 'em yet awhile, I reckon. No point in you stopping, Bailiff.'

‘In that case,' I said, butting into the conversation and making them both jump, ‘can I impose on your time, Master Kilsby? What I want to ask you won't take long, and Dame Audrea, as you know, has empowered me to ask what questions I deem necessary.'

I could tell that it was on the tip of the bailiff's tongue to refuse, but the mention of Dame Audrea's name changed his mind. In spite of anything the lady might have said to the contrary, he still hadn't given up all hope of marrying her now that the chief obstacle to his ambition had been removed.