‘What plot is that bastard hatching now? Look how busily he’s talking to Thomas. He’s made a dead set at Rose ever since he clapped eyes on her. I wish to God he’d never come back. I’d like to see him dead!’
‘Be quiet,’ George Applegarth’s voice answered him sternly. ‘That’s no way to speak of your master. And, whether you like it or not, Ned, by the terms of his father’s will, he is the master here. You’d do as well not to forget it. Besides, nothing he can say to your detriment can alter the fact that you’re Rose’s husband in the sight of God and the Church. Thomas Bignell’s a pious man. He won’t be swayed by any inducements Anthony Bellknapp offers him. Good God! He isn’t the sort to encourage his daughter to become another man’s mistress, however rich that man might be. And in any case, Anthony’s not as rich as all that. He has a mother and brother to support, even though he might hope to disregard the fact, land to maintain, a large household to run, hospitality to dispense. He’s more likely to be on the lookout for a wealthy wife than saddle himself with a demanding mistress. And in the end, Rose’s morals are her own, not her father’s.’
‘Rose doesn’t have any morals where men are concerned,’ snarled the receiver. ‘Haven’t you realized that by now, George? A word of encouragement from Thomas and she’d have no qualms whatsoever at becoming Bellknapp’s whore. I knew what she was like when I agreed to marry her, but I thought she was safe from temptation here. Apart from Kilsby, there’s no one to take a girl’s fancy, and Reginald’s been too occupied trying to snare Dame Audrea’s affections to look elsewhere.’
‘I tell you, Thomas wouldn’t-’
‘My father-in-law has ambitions above his station in life,’ was the snapped rejoinder before the steward could finish. ‘And if the chapman’s story is true — and I’m willing to hazard my last groat that it is — then Anthony has arranged this whole thing. He needs more time to talk the old man round, for I don’t deny Thomas would have some qualms about persuading Rose to sell herself for money. I tell you, at some time during today, Anthony has paid Hamo Gough to find a way of keeping the family here overnight. And that’s what he’s doing now; persuading Thomas to talk Rose into becoming his paramour!’
‘I’ve never heard such arrant nonsense!’ the steward spluttered. ‘It’s midsummer madness with you, my lad, and that’s the truth.’
‘It’s not midsummer and it’s not madness, just you wait and see,’ the receiver retorted furiously. ‘Look how earnestly the pair of them are talking to each other! Linked arms, heads close together … And as for Anthony not being a rich man, pah! You’ve seen his clothes, his horse. His damn servant’s better attired than I am. Whatever Master Anthony’s been doing over in the eastern counties all these years — and I’d be willing to wager my life it’s been nothing honest — it’s made him money all right.’
A third voice was added to those of the two men already standing by the open hall window.
‘Are you talking about that cursed ruffian out there?’ demanded the bailiff. ‘May he rot in Hell!’
‘That’s enough!’ George Applegarth declared. ‘I’ll not stay to listen to more of this. I’ll admit he’s treated you shabbily, Reginald, but God’s brought him home to be master over us and we must put up with the consequences. Besides, you’ll not lack employment for very long. Sir Damien and Lady Chauntermerle will take you in and give you an honoured place. You’ve always been a favourite of theirs.’
‘I’d rather rule as master here,’ was the terse reply. There was a short pause during which the steward must have moved away, for Reginald Kilsby’s next remarks were a scathing attack on him. ‘That man’s lower than a snake the way he crawls on his belly to whichever Bellknapp’s king of the dunghill. Until that loathsome creature out there reappeared, it was Simon, as future master of the house, whose word was Holy Writ. Even Audrea’ — the lack of title claimed a familiarity with the dame that it was impossible to mistake — ‘grows tired of it now and again, but he’s such an old and loyal servant and friend that, until now, she’d never have dreamed of dismissing him. But this loyalty of his to Anthony could well be the undoing of him …’
The conversation faded as the bailiff and receiver retreated further into the hall, and then ceased altogether as they went about their business. The figures by the moat also vanished and did not return, so I was left to my thoughts in a gathering dusk that was thick with the scent of meadow flowers and yesterday’s scythed grass. Mulling over the receiver’s surmise that Anthony had been in touch with Hamo Gough, I recalled my own meeting with the charcoal burner that same morning and the impression I had had of someone following us. I remembered the way in which Hamo had paused, head to one side, listening, and I had myself heard the occasional snap and crack of a twig as though something, or somebody, was lurking in the undergrowth. Could that have been Anthony, waiting for me to be on my way so that he could speak to my companion in private? He would have known the previous day that the Bignells had been invited to spend the Sabbath at Croxcombe Manor.
But speculation was fruitless. I could make a reasonable guess, but that was all. And I was tired. It had been a long day, and I had an even longer one ahead of me on the morrow as I began my journey homewards. Although I was looking forward to seeing Adela (and — yes! — even the children) again more than I could say, I nevertheless felt a sense of defeat that I had failed to discover anything that could clear my half-brother of the charge Dame Audrea had brought against him. He was still locked up in the Bristol bridewell facing an accusation of murder. It crossed my mind that the one thing I hadn’t done was to speak to Dame Audrea herself and try to convince her that she was mistaken. But where were my arguments that would demolish her case? What in fact did I know for certain about this man who had suddenly burst into my life, claiming kinship? I had nothing to go on except an innate conviction that he was indeed my father’s son, and honest. Certainly not enough to convince a person as sure of herself as Audrea Bellknapp. With such a woman, my intervention might well make her all the more determined to prove herself right at any cost. No, it was best to leave well alone where my hostess was concerned and put my trust in George Applegarth.
I sat on the bench for a while longer, going over the murder of Jenny Applegarth in my mind, wondering what had become of the real John Jericho after he had fled from Croxcombe on that fatal night, where he had gone, what he had done with his spoils; wondering, too, what it was that Hamo Gough had seen — or thought he had seen — to make him dig around Hangman’s Oak in search of something he seemed convinced was buried there. But the problem refused to resolve itself. No sudden flash of inspiration illumined my mind.
I stood up, realizing that the air had grown damp and that my joints were quite stiff with having sat still so long. I went round to the kitchens to say goodnight to Hercules, who was being so pampered by the maids and cook that he could barely condescend to wag his tail at the sight of me. Well, every dog was entitled to his day and his would be over very shortly. The first time Adam tweaked his tail and bawled deafeningly in his ear, he would know that he was home. I told him as much, making his adoring female admirers laugh, and the cook promised me breakfast at whatever hour I decided to set out, even if it were the crack of dawn. I thanked her and she turned back to her preparation of the ‘all-night’ trays, with their jugs of wine and half loaves of bread, which the servers were busy fetching and carrying round to the various bedchambers, including the one shared by Anthony, Humphrey Attleborough and me. Indeed, Humphrey had been sent to collect our tray, his master, as he explained, being already in bed and impatient for his evening snack.
‘You’d better get on in, Chapman,’ he advised. ‘Master Bellknapp’s not in the best of humours.’