I wasn’t likely to forget. She had the upper hand, and knew it. Now that Anthony was dead, Dame Audrea was once more sole ruler of her little kingdom. Whatever rumours and gossip might abound in the countryside at large concerning Master Bellknapp’s death, no one would ever know the truth for certain. It would join the ever-increasing mythology of the district; just another of those stories endlessly discussed in taverns and alehouses, especially on winter nights when smoke from the fires wrapped the various taprooms in a ghostly pall, and the wind shrieked like a banshee through the hole in the roof.
After a short interval, I followed Sir Henry to the chapel and waited at the back, unnoticed, while he unlocked the door to the vault and disappeared inside, the pale flame of his lantern bobbing around like a ship on a stormy sea as he descended the flight of steps into its depths.
‘Ah! Master Chaplain!’ I said. At the sound of my voice, he jumped like a startled fawn and dropped the lantern from nerveless fingers. With great dexterity, I caught it before it hit the floor. ‘I’m sorry. Did I frighten you?’
‘I–I didn’t know you were there,’ he stammered. Recovering himself, he went on petulantly, ‘What do you want? I’m busy.’
The place smelled mustily of death and decay, of damp stone walls and mouldering bones. It was about twelve feet square and, by my reckoning, took up most of the space beneath the altar and the front half of the chapel. Each wall had three stone shelves, one above the other, on which were ranged the coffins of long-dead Bellknapps, including the pathetically small ones of children who had not survived infancy. Sudden tears sprang to my eyes as I remembered my own little daughter who had known less than four days of life. Angrily, I blinked them away and stepped back into the shadows so that the chaplain shouldn’t be a witness to my unmanly emotion.
‘I apologize for interrupting you,’ I said, putting the lantern on a shelf. ‘I simply want to ask you some questions.’
He had seized a besom from a corner of the vault and was busily sweeping the floor, the long broom twigs tied to their handle raising a great cloud of dust (making us both cough and sneeze) which then settled anew over everything. I forbore to point out what a singularly fruitless activity this was, and waited for his response. After a moment or two, curiosity overcame annoyance and Sir Henry replaced the besom.
‘What about?’ he demanded, before adding hurriedly, ‘If it concerns poor Anthony’s death, I know nothing of that. Nor about the attack on you last night.’
‘What do you recall about Jenny Applegarth’s murder?’ I asked.
His nervousness gave way to testiness. ‘Jenny Applegarth’s murder? Why, nothing! I wasn’t here. I was at Kewstoke Hall along with the mistress and Master Simon.’
‘I was thinking more of what happened when you all returned.’
‘I don’t understand. We were all deeply upset, naturally.’
‘Naturally. But did you ever think it strange that this John Jericho should have done such a thing? Had you ever thought of him as a possible thief and murderer?’
‘No, of course not! I’m a man of God. It’s my duty to think the best of people.’
I found myself suppressing a smile at this ingenuous statement. It was not a belief shared by many priests of my acquaintance. (But then, I’m a cynic. Take no notice of my opinions.)
‘George Applegarth,’ I said. ‘You must have had to minister to him. He must have been in an extremely distressed state of mind.’
‘We-ell, yes,’ the chaplain agreed doubtfully. ‘But it was a couple of days before we came home that the murder had occurred. George had despatched one of the stable lads to Kewstoke with a message the same morning as he discovered what had happened, but by the time Dame Audrea and the master had recovered from the shock, and by the time that the baggage waggons had been loaded, it was late the next evening before anyone arrived here. Master Steward had had time to overcome the worst of his grief, and he has never been a man who wears his heart on his sleeve.’
‘You’re saying he didn’t seem as grief-stricken as you thought he should be?’
‘No, no!’ Sir Henry was flustered. ‘He loved his wife. Of course he was upset. He blamed himself, I think, for not waking up when Jenny tried to rouse him.’
‘Did he tell you so?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Yes, he did. I know it’s a long time ago, six years, but I distinctly recollect him saying so.’
‘You’re implying that Master Applegarth was not in need of your comfort?’
‘I’ve told you, George keeps his feelings to himself. And sorrow affects different people in different ways. He seemed numbed by what had happened. Everyone was saying dreadful things about the page, terrible things as you can imagine, but not George. The master rode into Wells and organized a posse, but George wasn’t interested. Master Simon, as I recall, was urging him to ride with them, and I think we all expected him to go. Even I joined one of the bands, and I’m no horseman. But he just wouldn’t bestir himself.’
‘Did you ever hear him vilify the page later on?’
The chaplain scratched one ear. ‘I’ve heard him swear a solemn oath to revenge himself on the person who did it.’
‘But never on John Jericho by name?’
‘Yes … No … Oh, really, I can’t be certain after all this while. But of course everyone who heard him knew who he meant.’
I nodded. ‘Well, thank you, Master Chaplain, you’ve been most helpful. I’ll leave you in peace.’
He looked faintly surprised. ‘If I’ve been of assistance, I’m glad, but I don’t see how. Never mind! Never mind! I daresay you know what you’re about. Will you attend the funeral Mass at noon?’
‘Perhaps. Do you happen to know where I can find Master Bailiff?’
‘At this time of day, he’ll be around the demesne lands somewhere, talking to one of the stockmen. Try the swineherd. I think I heard him mention that a sow was almost ready to farrow.’
I thanked him again and took myself off to the pig sties, where Reginald Kilsby was indeed in consultation with the swineherd, a large, bald man with smooth, porcine features that made him appear almost like one of his charges.
As I approached, I heard him grunt, ‘She ain’t ready to drop ’em yet awhile, I reckon. No point in you stopping, Bailiff.’
‘In that case,’ I said, butting into the conversation and making them both jump, ‘can I impose on your time, Master Kilsby? What I want to ask you won’t take long, and Dame Audrea, as you know, has empowered me to ask what questions I deem necessary.’
I could tell that it was on the tip of the bailiff’s tongue to refuse, but the mention of Dame Audrea’s name changed his mind. In spite of anything the lady might have said to the contrary, he still hadn’t given up all hope of marrying her now that the chief obstacle to his ambition had been removed.
‘Very well,’ he agreed brusquely. ‘Make it short.’ But he was nervous.
‘I want to ask you about Jenny Applegarth’s murder,’ I said, watching with interest the expressions of astonishment and relief that chased one another across his handsome face.
‘Jenny Applegarth? That was six years ago!’ Then, making up his mind that I was serious, he laughed and replied, as the chaplain had done, ‘I wasn’t here. I was at Kewstoke Hall with the master and Dame Audrea.’
‘Yes, I know,’ I answered patiently. ‘But did George Applegarth hold himself responsible, do you remember, for what had happened to his wife?’
‘Of course not! How could he, when it was obvious that that evil little shit, John Jericho, had killed her?’
‘Sir Henry seems to think that Master Steward blamed himself for not waking up when Jenny tried to rouse him. Did you ever hear him say so?’