‘All alone, Mistress, on such a lovely evening?’
As openings go, it was trite and definitely not up to my usual standard. I need not have worried, however. It was the sort of coy banality that she was used to, judging by her answering, provocative giggle.
‘Oh, Edward’s working,’ she said, closing the gap between us as we again rubbed shoulders. (And more than shoulders. I could feel her soft little posterior nestling into mine.) ‘He’s in the counting-house. He has to enter up his ledger; the number of people entertained today, the extra food consumed, the fodder and stabling for their horses. Tomorrow, he’ll record the tally of candles used in the guest-chamber overnight, damage to bedding, if any, what they eat for breakfast. The receiver is a very important member of the household,’ she added on a note of pride, before concluding with a sigh, ‘but he always seems to be busy.’
I gave my most sympathetic smile. ‘That’s hard on a bride. I’m assuming you and Master Micheldever haven’t long been married?’
‘About six months, I think.’ She continued with apparent artlessness, ‘It seems much longer.’
I say ‘apparent’ because, with another little squirm, our posteriors seemed to be making firmer friends than ever. I moved further along the bench again, but I was running out of space.
‘Do you come from around here?’ I asked, stretching out my legs and supporting myself on my hands, thus managing to keep an arm’s width between us.
She giggled. ‘Of course. My father, Thomas Bignell, keeps the butcher’s stall in Wells.’
That explained her husband’s attitude. Rose Micheldever was not only very pretty, but she had probably brought a substantial dowry with her as well. But as an illiterate tradesman’s daughter, she wasn’t of the same social standing as the man she had married. It might have been a good match for the receiver, but it was an even better one for her and her family, who could now boast a connection, however tenuous, with the Bellknapps of Croxcombe.
‘Have you known your husband long?’ I probed.
She considered this. ‘Since I was about ten years old.’ There was a pause, while she did certain calculations on her fingers. ‘I think he must have been twenty or thereabouts when he first arrived here. My father always reckons Edward came to Croxcombe Manor the same year as Master Anthony quarrelled with the old master and left home.’ She gave a little shiver of excitement. ‘Fancy him turning up again after all this time. I can’t really believe it. Wait until my parents hear about it. My mother and her friends won’t be able to talk about anything else. And fancy you being a friend of his!’
So that was my attraction for her. And there had I been imagining that it was my physical charms.
‘Hardly a friend,’ I admitted with foolhardy honesty. ‘To be truthful, we only met for the first time last night, in the Litton alehouse. But tell me,’ I went on, ‘if you were ten in the year that Anthony Bellknapp left home, you must remember the murder, here at Croxcombe, two years later.’
‘Of course I do. Nobody talked of anything else for weeks. My mother wouldn’t allow me out on my own for months afterwards. Although that was silly. John Jericho was long gone by that time, along with all his plunder.’
‘Do you recollect this John Jericho?’ I asked.
She pursed her little rosebud mouth. ‘I can’t say I ever took much notice of him. He used to accompany Dame Audrea to the market and to the cathedral on occasions, but otherwise I didn’t see much of him. In those days I never came to the manor. Never dreamed that one day I’d be living here.’
‘Can you recall what he looked like?’
Rose shrugged prettily. (Everything she did was pretty. Her mother had trained her well.)
‘Not really. I think he was small and dark, but I certainly wouldn’t know him again, if I saw him.’ She looked round and fixed me with those great blue eyes. ‘Edward — that’s my husband — says he’s turned up again after all these years. Dame Audrea recognized him when she was at Saint James’s fair, in Bristol. He’s changed his name, of course. Well, he would have done, wouldn’t he? And he speaks with an Irish accent. But Edward says that’s just to throw people off the scent. He’s sure it’s John Jericho.’
‘I know all about it,’ I said. ‘People in Bristol are very incensed about the arrest’ — well, I was — ‘because he hasn’t been charged with this crime. There seems to be some doubt about his identity. Neither your husband nor Master Applegarth, who were with Dame Audrea at the fair, seem prepared to back her up.’
‘Oh, Edward’s sure,’ Rose asserted. ‘It’s just George who isn’t. He persuaded Ned at the time not to make a positive what-d’you-call-it? Thingummy …’
‘Identification?’ I suggested. She nodded. ‘Why not? Do you know?’
‘George declares this man isn’t him. John Jericho, that is. But my Ned’s thought it over and he says it is. Two against one. He’s going to Bristol again with Dame Audrea next week. At least, he was. I don’t know how this business of Master Anthony’s return will affect their plans.’
This was bad news. But Rose could be right; the confusion and upheaval attendant upon the prodigal’s reappearance was bound to upset even the most fixed of intentions. I wondered cynically what bribe Edward Micheldever had been offered to make him ready to support his mistress’s allegations against my brother. By contrast, my respect for the steward grew even greater. Here was that rare man whose integrity and probity were not to be compromised.
Rose had been prattling on while my thoughts wandered, wrapped up as I was in my feelings of contempt for her husband. But something she suddenly blurted out caught my attention.
‘What was that? Somebody you know saw John Jericho and someone else abroad the night of the murder? In the woods around here?’
She looked stricken. ‘I shouldn’t have told you. I don’t know what made me say it. I’ve never uttered a word to anyone else before, not even to Edward.’
‘You mentioned a name, Ronan.’
‘My brother,’ she admitted. ‘Ronan’s always been fond of a bit of poaching with his mates. Still is. Nothing much,’ she added hurriedly. ‘A rabbit or two. Maybe a pheasant now and then. It’s just for the thrill of it. He gives what he snares to his ackers. His friends,’ she corrected herself as she fell into the local vernacular. ‘He daren’t bring anything home. Father would half kill him. Ronan’s been doing it for years and so far he’s never been found out.’ She clasped her hands together in real perturbation. ‘I don’t know why I’ve said anything now. Promise me, please promise me that you won’t tell anyone. That you won’t mention it to my husband!’
I saw my chance and, meanly, took it. ‘I won’t say a word if you’ll undertake to introduce me to your brother.’
Seven
I was taking advantage of her, and I knew it. Talking to a stranger, she had been betrayed into making a confidence which, with someone she knew, she would have guarded against. She had had no idea of any personal interest on my part in Jenny Applegarth’s murder, although I had admitted to Bristol’s general concern over the fate of John Wedmore and the lack of a charge against him.
She turned to look at me, her little face sharp with suspicion. ‘Why do you want to meet Ronan?’
I searched for a reasonable explanation.
‘I like mysteries,’ I offered at last, rather lamely. ‘I’m curious to know if this young man at present in the Bristol bridewell is truly the John Jericho who disappeared six years ago, or if Dame Audrea and your husband could possibly be mistaken. If your brother did indeed see John Jericho in flight on the night of his escape, there might be something he could tell me, some small piece of information, that could give me a clue to the truth.’