‘Is something bothering you?’ the steward asked.
I hesitated, deliberating whether or not to share my doubts with a man whose opinion and judgement I valued; but in the end, I decided against it. It was better to keep my own counsel for the present at least. But I felt in my bones that there was something wrong with Master Bignell’s version of events; not in itself, for I was convinced that he had told the truth as far as he knew it. But his wife had unerringly put her finger on the story’s weakness when she asked why Anthony Bellknapp had needed to arrange a meeting with Thomas after everyone else was in bed. Whatever he had had to say regarding Rose’s marriage to the receiver, could as well have been said during the day, when they had been walking together beside the moat. It didn’t make sense. And I felt sure that only when it did, would I be able to discover the identity of the murderer.
Sixteen
It was by now mid-afternoon and I set off to see Hamo Gough without wasting any more time. George Applegarth seemed unaffected by my decision not to confide in him; in fact, if anything, he appeared relieved by my departure, merely remarking that he would get Reginald Kilsby to help him carry Anthony’s body into the chapel and place it before the altar, as Dame Audrea had requested. I said I hoped to be back by suppertime, and would he inform the rest of the household members that I would want to speak to them that evening.
I took my cudgel and Hercules and set off, past the huddled shapes of the cottages in the nearby hamlet towards the darker, shapeless mass of Croxcombe woods. A sudden, brief shower of rain, over almost before it had begun, left water droplets sparkling everywhere and the sun gilding the edges of the leaves with haloes of soft, wet light. A few cottagers and coppicers gave me good-day as I passed; and a young man in a green velvet hunting coat and white leather boots, a hawk on his gloved wrist and silver bells on its jesses, raised his riding crop in salutation. A couple of good hounds pranced at his heels, to whose proudly waving tails and mincing ways Hercules took immediate exception, but I managed to grab him before his annoyance blossomed into a full-blown confrontation.
I had not expected Hamo Gough to be at home, and had been prepared to wait until his return, but he was there, crouched over his fire in the act of replacing the squares of turf over the smouldering wood. He straightened up at the sound of my approach — Hercules had spied the scut of a rabbit disappearing into the long grass that fringed the edge of the clearing and was barking like a fiend — and gave me a long, hard look.
‘I thought thee’d be round,’ he remarked, unsurprised.
‘As a matter of fact I was on my way home to Bristol when Dame Audrea sent after me. You’ve heard the news of Master Bellknapp’s death, then?’
The charcoal burner grunted, indicating the pit at his feet. ‘This lot’s nearly ready, I reckon. Another day should do it.’ He reverted to the subject of Anthony’s murder. ‘Thee can’t keep a thing like that secret.’
‘Dame Audrea’s hoping to,’ I pointed out. ‘That’s why she’s called me back. I have her blessing to ask questions of whomsoever I please.’
He gave a short bark of laughter. ‘I weren’t meaning the law, Maister. Thee can keep anything from those fools if thee’s a mind to. So, hast come to question me?’
‘If you’re willing.’
‘What dost want to know?’
‘Well, I know, for instance, that you arranged for someone to call at the manor yesterday and tell Thomas Bignell, his wife and son that they couldn’t get home to Wells last night because of a footbridge washed away in the afternoon’s storm, so forcing them to remain at Croxcombe. I was in the woods later in the day and overheard your conversation with your fellow conspirator. What I want to know is the name of the person who put you up to it. Was it Anthony Bellknapp?’ I wondered if he would tell me the truth, which I already knew.
Hamo Gough pondered for a moment or two, sucking his blackened stumps of teeth, then he shrugged.
‘No reason not to tell thee now, I s’pose. Ay, it were him. Appeared just after thee’d left, yesterday morning. Thought I’d heard someone prowling about while we were talking. Said ’e wanted to keep Master Bignell at the manor overnight. Could I do summat to make sure it happened.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why he wanted the butcher to stay at the manor for the night,’ I answered impatiently.
‘No.’
‘Didn’t you ask him?’
‘No. None o’ my business. Besides, if thee doesn’t ask, thee doesn’t get told, and if it’s anything to do with the Bellknapps, it’s best not to know. Leastways, I’ve always found so.’
I sighed. I could tell that there was no more to be got out of Hamo on that score. But I was still curious about his digging activities.
‘The night Jenny Applegarth was murdered,’ I said, ‘did you see anything?’
He was at once on his guard. I could see the wariness in his narrowed eyes and the tensing of his body, like an animal scenting danger.
‘What would I have seen?’ His tone was belligerent.
‘I’m asking you.’
‘Then thee can ask away. I’m saying nowt.’
‘Does that mean you could tell me something, but won’t?’
He shrugged. ‘Think what thee likes. No odds to me.’
He compressed his lips and folded his arms across his chest with a finality that said more than words. But I gave it one more try.
‘You keep looking for something around Hangman’s Oak. Ronan Bignell and his two friends saw you surveying the ground there the night following the murder, and a few days or so afterwards, Ronan met you carrying a spade.’
‘I digs for truffles, don’ I?’ Hamo spat angrily. ‘I told thee. Besides, thee doesn’t want t’ believe anything those three thieving monkeys tell thee.’
‘I’ve seen you digging near the oak, myself.’
He fairly bounced up and down with rage.
‘Truffles! Truffles!’ he shouted. ‘I digs for truffles!’ Hercules, who, up to then, had been minding his own business, objected to the charcoal burner’s tone and growled menacingly. Hamo recoiled. ‘Keep him off me, dost hear?’
I admonished the dog, who then started barking at me, just to let me know what sort of a lily-livered milksop he thought I was before suddenly spotting a rat scurrying inside the hut through the open doorway. He shot after his quarry like an arrow speeding from a bow and, a moment later, the air was rent by a medley of shrill canine screams and yaps as he attempted to come to grips with his enemy.
I raised my voice a little in order to make myself heard.
‘The night of Jenny Applegarth’s murder, did you see the page, this John Jericho, reeling around as if he were drunk and being sick?’
‘That were six year gone. Why art askin’ me about Jenny Applegarth’s murder? I thought it were Anthony Bellknapp thou’rt interested in.’
I hesitated. I didn’t really know why myself, except for a growing conviction that the two were somehow connected. Yet I didn’t see how they could be. But a memory niggled at the back of my mind; there was something I knew I ought to remember.
But the crescendo of noise from within the hut had now reached a pitch it was impossible to ignore and, abandoning our game of question and answer, Hamo and I, by mutual consent, rushed inside just in time to witness the kill as Hercules seized the rat and bit it clean through the neck with his sharp little teeth. He then laid his trophy at my feet with a proud wave of his tail.
Normally, I would have commended his efforts, but on this occasion he had completely demolished the charcoal burner’s bed in pursuit of his opponent. The layers of dried bracken and leaves and parched summer grasses that had been carefully built up over the years to make a decent mattress lay scattered over the floor. The smell of mould and decay and long dead seasons, together with the dust of ages, filled the little room. A number of small, bleached-white skeletons indicated that various woodland animals had lived out their lives and met their deaths within the bed, while a nest of baby rats, waiting for the mother who would now never return, was receiving Hercules’s best attentions.