A silence fell between us, broken suddenly by a high-pitched, scolding voice.
‘What are you doing there, Josiah, sitting around, swilling ale, like the lazy great lump that you are?’ Mistress Litton had arrived, brandishing her broom.
My companion jumped to his feet, looking guilty. ‘Just answering a few questions of the chapman’s, my dear. He was enquiring about the Bellknapps and the murder.’
The goodwife sniffed, but as it seemed her policy was not to upset a paying customer, she held her temper in check.
‘Oh, that!’ she said. ‘Everyone remembers that.’ She nodded at her husband. ‘It was the year George Applegarth broke his arm when he fell down the undercroft stairs. It was why he and poor Jenny hadn’t accompanied Master and Mistress Bellknapp to Kewstoke Hall.’
‘There you are!’ the landlord exclaimed. ‘That’s your answer, Chapman. That’s why they’d remained behind.’ He regarded his goodwife fondly. ‘My Janet has a better memory than I have.’
‘Oh, get along with you,’ she answered, but her attitude softened towards him. Nevertheless, she glanced significantly at my pack and then at Hercules, indicating that it was high time we were on our way.
I took the hint. It was, in any case, necessary to stir myself if I were to reach Croxcombe Manor at a reasonable hour. I checked with the landlord the directions I had been given yesterday by various people I had met along the road, and he was able to correct some of the misinformation and set my feet on the right track across the Mendips.
‘If you follow the main path due south from here, it’ll bring you down east o’ Wells, which is where you want to be, but the foothills in those parts, around Dinder, are pretty thickly wooded. You might lose your way a bit, but there are plenty of charcoal burners who’ll direct you. Not a bad lot if you speak ’em fair, and their womenfolk may be glad of a trifle or two from your pack.’
I paid him and thanked him for all the gossip.
‘Well, you can repay me, lad,’ he said, ‘by calling in on your return journey and letting me know what’s happening at the manor, and how matters stand between Anthony and Simon. Will you do that?’
I promised most willingly, but did not add that it might be a few days, perhaps even a week or more, before I came back, depending on how quickly I was able to make any progress in my quest for information concerning the real John Jericho.
I stirred a somnolent Hercules with my toe. ‘Come on, boy! Time we were off.’
He was on his feet immediately, shaking himself free of whatever doggy paradise he had been inhabiting in his dreams and barking excitedly. The landlord took my hand warmly in both of his and, to my astonishment, his goodwife kissed me soundly on both cheeks, then blushed a fiery red.
‘We’ll look for you the day after tomorrow,’ she said, ‘or maybe the day after that.’
‘Maybe.’ It was possible, if I could find no excuse to remain longer at Croxcombe Manor. ‘God be with you both.’
Because of my late start and the fact that I had stopped at a charcoal burner’s cottage for food and drink when my stomach began to rumble, the sun, glimpsed now and then between the canopy of trees, was already westering as I plunged deeper into the woods cloaking the lower slopes of Mendip.
I still had not solved the problem of how I could extend my visit to Croxcombe without arousing Dame Audrea’s suspicions concerning my true intentions. She was the sort who wouldn’t thank a common pedlar for interfering in her affairs, and if she were convinced that my half-brother was indeed this long lost page of hers, then any attempt on my part to persuade her otherwise would be likely to make her even more pig-headed on the subject. Any slight doubt she might entertain would be banished immediately. Therefore, I needed to find a reason to delay my departure until I had ‘poked around’, as my nearest and dearest would call it, and made some enquiries of my own.
I stopped and looked cautiously all round me. There was no one about. The distant grunting of a wild pig, rooting for truffles, and the twittering of the birds overhead were the only sounds disturbing the afternoon peace.
‘All right, Lord,’ I said, speaking out loud. ‘If You want my assistance in this matter, perhaps You could give me a helping hand.’
Naturally, there was no reply, but I was used to that and proceeded on my way.
Five minutes later, I caught my left foot in a rabbit hole and sprawled my length on the ground. When I tried to get up, I let out a yelp of pain. I had badly twisted my left ankle.
Five
I swore fluently, while Hercules licked my face and stared at me with wide, questioning eyes full of doggy devotion.
‘It’s all right, lad,’ I assured him, reaching for my cudgel and levering myself to my feet. ‘The pain will pass in a minute or two.’
I spoke with more optimism than I felt, but even as I did so, I realized that, whatever damage I had done, here was the answer to my prayer. Whether true or feigned, I could plead a twisted ankle as an excuse to beg shelter for at least a night or two — perhaps more — at Croxcombe Manor.
To begin with, the pain was excruciating, particularly traversing rough, heavily wooded ground. Twice, I had to sit down on a fallen log and put my head between my knees to prevent myself from losing consciousness; but after a while the initial agony subsided into a dull, throbbing ache and I was able to hobble along without resting too often. Eventually I staggered into a clearing where yet another charcoal burner was tending his turf-covered fire of coppiced wood. His hut inevitably stood nearby, for the fire has to be kept smouldering for four or five days and needs constant attention every hour or two, both day and night, when charcoal is being formed. (I was enough of a country boy to be familiar with the process.)
He glanced up as I approached, alerted to my presence by the inquisitive sniffing of Hercules around his knees, and rose slowly and stiffly to greet me.
‘Thou’s hurt thee leg, Chapman,’ he observed, not without a modicum of satisfaction; for, from the way he rubbed the small of his back, he seemed to be no stranger to pain himself.
It was difficult to guess his age, his face was so weather-beaten. Yet in spite of its leathery appearance, there was an underlying pallor from his being continuously in the shade of the trees. Somehow, at some time, he had broken his rather prominent nose (or someone had broken it for him) and the rheumy eyes were grey, like the smoke from one of his fires. In spite of the August heat, he wore a woollen hood close about his face, with a badly scorched liripipe, a heavy frieze tunic, and breeches cross-gartered in the ancient Saxon fashion. There was a rough and ready air about him, but he appeared friendly enough.
‘I caught my foot in a rabbit hole,’ I explained, and nodded towards his hut. ‘Could you spare me a drink of water?’
‘I c’n do better nor that,’ he grunted. ‘Does thee fancy some ale?’
I did, of course, and said so, thankfully; whereupon he relieved me of my pack and beckoned me towards his hut. The sparsely furnished interior — a table, a lamp, a stool and a rough grey blanket covering a bed of bracken — suggested a bachelor existence, for most women will make an effort to soften Spartan surroundings (a jug of wild flowers or a few scraps of brightly coloured fabric of their own weaving).
‘You live alone,’ I said, not bothering to make it a question.
‘Always have done, always will. Sit thee down, then.’ And my new acquaintance indicated the stool, adding, ‘Don’t believe in women. They bugger things up for a man. Th’art married, I can tell.’
‘So people keep saying,’ I snapped, bending down to rub my afflicted ankle, while Hercules went snuffling after rats, which he seemed to think were making their home among the charcoal burner’s bedding.