‘Oh, that nonsense! We all told him not to be so foolish.’
‘Who are “we”?’
The bailiff made an exasperated gesture. ‘I don’t know. It’s all a long time ago. Ned Micheldever might have been present. What’s this about? I thought you were investigating Master Anthony’s death.’
I gave him a long, straight look and asked if the receiver was likely to be found in the counting-house at this time in the morning. He hesitated for a moment before giving an affirmative nod which sent me hurrying away to seek out Edward Micheldever.
I discovered Dame Audrea closeted with him, going through long columns of figures of various expenses incurred during the past four weeks; the number of meals supplied to guests and unexpected visitors, and the amount of hay consumed by their horses, flicking the beads on an abacus to and fro as they made their calculations.
‘Well enough,’ the dame announced when they had finished. ‘Although I think we need to curb our hospitality a trifle. A little less generous with the animals’ feed perhaps. And I’ll tell them in the kitchens to serve slightly smaller portions. But that’s nothing to do with you, Ned. Your work is meticulous, as always. I’m very pleased with you.’ At last she deigned to notice my presence in the counting-house. ‘Did you wish to speak to me, Master Chapman? Have you anything to tell me?’
‘I came to put a question to Master Receiver,’ I answered, ‘but now that you’re here, Lady, I can ask you as well.’
I put to them, almost word for word, the same query as I had put to the bailiff. Dame Audrea shook her head.
‘I don’t recall much that anyone said. The place was in such turmoil and we were all so horrified by what had happened. If anyone blamed herself for anything, I did. I was the person who had been taken in by that rogue’s pretty ways and flattering speeches. I was the one who, against all sane advice, had employed him to be my page. He had a golden tongue, that one. He had some Irish in him.’ She nodded significantly at me. ‘He still has.’
I took no notice of this. She had heard the faint Irish lilt in my half-brother’s speech and memory had now transferred it to John Jericho.
I looked at the receiver.
‘Do you have any recollection,’ I asked him, ‘of Master Steward blaming himself for his wife’s death?’
‘Why should I tell you?’ The pugnacious jaw was thrust forward, the red hair seemed to catch fire in a shaft of sunlight that penetrated the dusty window panes.
‘It’s important.’ I sounded equally belligerent.
‘That’ll do,’ Dame Audrea intervened. ‘Tell him what he wants to know, Ned.’
The receiver shrugged, but obeyed.
‘Since you mention it, I do recall something of the sort being said,’ he admitted.
‘By Master Applegarth?’
‘Of course! Who else could have said it? Most of us had accompanied Master Cornelius and Dame Audrea to Kewstoke Hall on a visit to Sir Damien and Lady Chauntermerle.’
‘Let me understand this,’ I said slowly. ‘You, Master Micheldever, Sir Henry and Master Kilsby, all three tell the same tale. You all heard George Applegarth blame himself for not waking up when his wife tried to rouse him, presumably to inform him that the page, John Jericho, was stealing the silver. Am I right?’
The receiver frowned, puzzled.
‘Yes. Well, I heard him and if the others say so, then they did, too. I must admit I’d forgotten the incident, but now you’ve jogged my memory, it comes back to me.’
‘And, at the time, not one of you thought it a strange remark for Master Applegarth to make?’
‘No. Should we have done?’
I didn’t answer. I was looking at Dame Audrea, whose hand had stolen up to her mouth, her eyes, above it, narrowed in pain and shock.
‘Oh, sweet Mother of God!’ she murmured.
Nineteen
The receiver was still looking confused when a shaken Dame Audrea rose from her stool and bade me accompany her to her private solar. The boy who worked alongside Edward Micheldever in the counting-house was sent for the steward.
‘Tell Master Applegarth to come to my chamber,’ she instructed. ‘Tell him it’s urgent. Whatever he’s doing, he must come at once.’
The upstairs room was just beginning to be warmed by the morning sun, but there was still a slight chill in the air and I couldn’t help wishing that my hostess had decided to postpone this interview for at least another hour until after dinner had been served. Although I had eaten my usual hearty breakfast, my belly was already starting to grumble that it was in need of more sustenance.
The solar was a pleasant room with a deep window embrasure, two handsomely carved armchairs, a footstool covered in the same tapestry as adorned a luxurious day-bed and a number of velvet-covered cushions, which were scattered around with a liberal hand.
‘Sit down,’ Dame Audrea ordered brusquely, and waved a hand at the window-seat. She herself took one of the armchairs, drawing the footstool towards her and arranging her feet on it in a precise fashion, side by side. The scarlet leather of her expensive, half-revealed shoes looked like smears of blood against the dark green of the tapestry. She glanced at me again. ‘Say nothing until I give you a sign.’
‘Very well,’ I nodded.
After that, we sat in silence. We did not, however, have long to wait before we heard footsteps in the passageway outside. There was a light, respectful tap on the door and, in answer to Dame Audrea’s, ‘Come in!’ George Applegarth entered, his wand of office in his hand, looking mildly curious, but no more, at this unexpected summons. Then he noticed me, and I saw the first faint flicker of apprehension in those remarkable slate-grey eyes.
‘You sent for me, Madam?’ His voice was perfectly steady.
Dame Audrea kept him standing.
‘Master Steward,’ she said, her tone formal and without any of the warmth she normally employed when speaking to him, ‘as you know, Master Chapman here has been authorized by me to make enquiries concerning the circumstances of Anthony’s death. He has spoken to a number of people including, this morning, Sir Henry, Master Kilsby and Ned Micheldever. All three men have told him the same, rather curious tale concerning yourself.’
I watched the steward’s apprehension deepen, then the eyes go blank, their colour intensifying and making him appear almost blind.
‘About me, Dame Audrea? And what would that be?’
She fixed him with her own gimlet stare.
‘I want you to think back, George’ — the sudden, more intimate use of his given name took him off guard and he blinked several times in rapid succession — ‘to the morning, six years ago, when Master Cornelius and I and the rest of the household returned from Kewstoke Hall to find Jenny murdered and the silver stolen. You told me and everyone else that you had been unaware of the events of the night until you got up in the morning to find Jenny dead, lying in her own blood, and the cupboards containing the family valuables ransacked. Was that true?’
There was no sign of confusion in his face; no indication that he found this reversion to an old murder at odds with my investigation into Anthony’s death. He had missed an opportunity to be wily and did not realize it.
‘Perfectly true.’ His voice was even more expressionless than hitherto.
‘You are saying,’ Dame Audrea emphasized, ‘that you knew nothing at all of what had happened until you discovered Jenny’s body?’
The steward gave a little bow of assent. ‘I had, most reprehensibly, drunk far more than I should have the previous evening. I was in a drunken stupor.’
‘Which is no doubt why your wife was unable to rouse you when she came to you for help, to tell you that John Jericho was stealing the plate and my jewels.’
There was a sudden stillness about him, a wariness that meant he had scented a trap but could not yet see it.
‘I don’t know that Jenny tried to rouse me. I couldn’t have.’