‘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 …
I became conscious of the fact that Hamo Gough, still resting on his spade, was regarding me suspiciously.
‘What’s going on in that head o’ thine, Maister?’ he enquired. ‘Eh? Eh?’
‘Nothing,’ I lied, wishing that I could make some sense of the muddled thoughts crowding my brain. I grinned weakly at him.
He threw down the spade and asked, ‘Hast eaten?’
‘I’ve not yet breakfasted,’ I admitted. ‘It’s very early, and my hosts weren’t stirring when I left the manor. I mean to return there now.’
‘I’ll give thee summat,’ he offered, much to my astonishment. ‘A bacon collop and a beaker of ale. That do thee? Thee looks like a young fellow who could eat two breakfasts.’
I guessed that this sudden burst of generosity was just a ploy to distract my attention from his digging, but I accepted nonetheless. I was indeed a fellow who could eat two breakfasts, and always had been; although I was aware, as Adela had lately pointed out more than once, that I was heavier than I had been a year or so previously. Fortunately, my height concealed the unwelcome fact.