The Prodigal Son (17 page)

I could well believe that. The peace of the place was profound. There was a kind of enchantment in its silence and isolation. Cares and worries were slipping from me; Adela, the children, the need to earn a living suddenly seemed nothing more than a distant dream. I could stay here for the rest of my life, just myself and Hercules, and no one would ever know what had become of me …

I pulled myself together. It was time I was going before the witches and hobgoblins and woodland sprites that inhabit the wilder corners of this land had me in their thrall. I got to my feet and held out my hand to the dog. ‘Come along, lad!'

‘You're not going!' Avice Acton exclaimed, sounding disappointed. ‘We see so few strangers and it's always a pleasure to hear about the outside world.'

‘Aye, it is that,' Edgar agreed. ‘And once, it seems someone come asking after us in Wedmore. Or, at least, so we were told, though he never turned up here. Lost his way, I s'pose, or was given the wrong directions.'

‘Some o' them over t' Wedmore's got turnips for heads!' Avice was scathing of her nearest neighbours. ‘We were that gutted when we heard. Nice young lad, too, by all accounts. Asked in the alehouse, and some fool told him we'd moved away. Danged idiot! Others said no and told him how to find us, but like Edgar says, he never came.'

‘How long ago was this?' I asked, but neither had the slightest idea, Edgar Acton hazarding anything from one year to ten, his wife offering six weeks, eight months, four years.

Time past; time present; time future; it was all one to the Actons who, within a very short time, would confuse this visit of mine with somebody else's. I thanked them profusely for their hospitality, remounted the donkey, whistled up Hercules and rode back by twisting paths and barely visible, dried-up tracks to the main highway leading from Wells to Wedmore. I was about to turn eastwards to return to Croxcombe, when, on a sudden whim, I decided to continue in a westward direction, looking out, as I did so, for any alehouse that stood near the road.

This wasn't hard to find, and beside Wedmore's market cross I noticed a promising small tavern that looked a likely place for anyone needing directions from the local population. But I was unlucky. In a crowded taproom, no one recalled a stranger enquiring after Edgar and Avice Acton for the past ten years or more. Yes, of course they would remember! Well, someone would, I could be sure of that. In Wedmore the old people prided themselves on their memories. Why, they could recall when …

The landlord touched me on the arm. ‘Try the alehouse a mile or so back, on the Cheddar road,' he advised. ‘Little, out o' the way place. No one much goes there, but you never know. If you stay here, you'll end up buying 'em all free ale while you listen to their life histories.'

I thanked him, paid twice the price for the stoup of ale I'd had, and departed while the storm of reminiscence that my question had provoked was at its height.

The afternoon was by now some way advanced, and the distant hills were slabbed with purple and gold as the sun continued its slow descent towards the horizon. It took me a while to locate this second alehouse, so distant did it seem from any haunt of man. And when at last I found it, it was nothing more than a single-storey daub-and-wattle building devoid of human life except for the surly landlord, standing outside his door surveying the glimmering landscape, and a potboy asleep in the sunshine on a rough-hewn bench. I nearly didn't bother to dismount. There was certainly nothing to be learned here.

I was mistaken. For a start, the landlord was not as surly as he looked, and, when approached, seemed glad of the opportunity to chat to a stranger. He woke the potboy, shifted him off the bench with instructions to bring us both some cider and water for Hercules, and invited me to sit down.

‘Come far?' he grunted.

‘Today, from Wells, but I live in Bristol.'

‘Powerful big place, Bristol. I went there once,' he added proudly.

‘Big enough,' I acknowledged, ‘though not so big as London.'

My companion regarded me with respect. ‘You been to Lunnon?'

‘Several times. I was there earlier this year.' I didn't admit to being on friendly terms with the Duke of Gloucester. There was no point. It would serve no purpose and he probably wouldn't believe me anyway.

‘Cor!' was all he said as the potboy returned with two beakers of cider. ‘So what brings you here? Not many folk comes this road. A few local shepherds and cowherds. But me and the boy – 'e's my grandson – we scrape a living o' sorts. I've thought o' movin' on, but where'd we go? No, so long as we'm happy, I reckon that's all that matters.'

‘I imagine you don't see many strangers?'

‘No. Too far from the beaten track.' He turned his head and gave me a curious stare. ‘How d'you come to be here?'

‘It was suggested to me by some people in Wedmore. I'm trying to find someone who might remember a young man in these parts some time ago who was looking for Edgar and Avice Acton. I don't suppose you have any such recollection? I can't even tell you exactly when it was.'

I was in for my second surprise.

‘Yes, I remember,' the landlord said. ‘Mind you, I couldn't say how many years agone it were, but I do recollect 'im.'

‘Can you remember what he looked like?'

‘Oh, aye. Small, dark lad. Thought 'e were a Welshman to begin with. 'E had that look about 'im. Told 'im where the Actons could be found. What's your interest in 'im?'

‘I've been visiting the Actons today. They'd heard about the young man enquiring for them, but it seems he never turned up. They wondered why not.'

The landlord shrugged. ‘Must've lost his way. Easy enough done, I reckon.' Like all country folk, he saw no absurdity in discussing events of the past as if they had happened last week.

‘You … You didn't discover the young man's name?' I asked, and he nodded. ‘What was it? Can you recall?'

I found myself holding my breath. If the answer was John Wedmore, then it might well be that my half-brother was lying and he had returned to Somerset since his mother's remarriage. In which case, I could go home to Bristol forthwith.

‘What was it?' I repeated.

The landlord grunted. ‘A queer name. Something out the Bible. Let me see now. Ar. Got it! John Jericho, that were it.'

A
t his words, I felt a sudden surge of relief, but it was short-lived, because I immediately wondered why I should feel that way. It didn't really alter a thing. At least, not what I desperately needed to prove; that John Jericho and my half-brother were two different people. Indeed, in some ways it suggested the opposite, for why would the page have been making enquiries about the Actons?

His description, too, that the landlord had given me – small and dark, like a Welshman – tallied with John Wedmore's appearance. My father, whom he so closely resembled, had often been mistaken, so my mother had told me, for one of our neighbours across the Severn.

I swallowed what was left of my cider, then asked my companion, ‘I suppose there's no chance that you can recall more exactly when this was? What year?'

He shook his head. ‘Long time agone, I know that.' He puckered his brow and thought hard for several seconds before indicating his grandson, who was asleep again, curled up on the far end of the bench. ‘'E weren't that old, but 'e were walkin', I do remember that.'

‘How old is he now?'

The landlord shrugged. ‘Don' rightly know. His parents – my daughter and her husband – left him with me when 'e were just months old and never came back. I never did know what became o' them. Made what enquiries I could, but never got no answers. They just vanished. Somebody did for 'em, I reckon. Outlaws or some such.' He sighed. ‘It's a common enough story.'

I nodded sympathetically. Many English roads were still not safe to travel unless you were well armed or were part of a company. I was all right. I was big and strong and always carried a stout cudgel. But even so, as a family man, I wondered sometimes if I took too many risks. I should stick to the highways rather than the byways, as Adela was constantly telling me.

I glanced at the boy, trying to assess for myself how old he was, but failed. He could be anywhere from nine to eleven or even twelve years old, depending on his size in relation to his age.

Regretfully, I rose to my feet and once again whistled to Hercules.

‘I must be going,' I said, ‘if I'm to get back to Croxcombe in time for supper. Thank you for all your help.'

He seemed disappointed that I was leaving so soon and offered me food, which I politely declined. I mounted the donkey and said my farewells.

Hercules was beginning to flag so I rode slowly. I didn't have much option, in any case. Neddy, too, was showing signs of mutiny at being worked so hard. I don't suppose he had ever previously been asked to go any further than Wells and then return to the manor.

So what, I asked myself, as I once more jogged eastward towards Croxcombe, had I learned? And the honest answer had to be nothing of any moment. I was still unable to prove that Dame Audrea's accusation against my half-brother was a case of mistaken identity, although I had received confirmation of his former history from the Actons. That was something, as up until then, I had had to take his story on trust. But I had nothing that would clear his name. What I needed to discover urgently, if I could, was what had become of the real John Jericho after his murderous spree. And so far, the only sighting of him had been by Ronan Bignell and his friends in Croxcombe woods on the night of the killing, staggering drunkenly around and being sick. After which, he had vanished into thin air.

The donkey had by now slowed to a reluctant amble, allowing me plenty of time to think. So I started where I should have begun, instead of dashing off to Wells with my usual impetuosity, and with no more plan of action than my two-year-old son, Adam, had when he climbed on top of a cupboard without any thought as to how to get down. If I had been John Jericho, carrying a sack of stolen goods, what would I have done? More importantly, where would I have made for?

The obvious answer to the first question, as Ronan Bignell had suggested, was that I would have laid up by day and travelled by night, using the most untrodden paths and least known tracks and risking the chance of being waylaid by robbers and outlaws. But just suppose he had been waylaid, in possession of his spoils! His body might well have been rotting in some unmarked forest grave for the past six years and would never be found … It was more than a possibility, but I couldn't afford to think like that, not if I were to save my half-brother's neck from a hangman's noose. So, on to the second question. Where would he have made for?

The nearest city where he wasn't known seemed to be the only sensible answer; a place where he could dispose of his spoils to those who could turn plate and jewels into money. But there was a snag to that reasoning. John Jericho had been a young boy and, as far as I could gather, unversed in the ways of crime until he succumbed to a momentary temptation while his master and mistress were away from home. In a strange city, he would have had no idea whom to contact in order to make a clandestine sale. There would have been posses of sheriff's men out looking for him in all directions, and the last thing he would have wished to do would have been to attract attention to himself. A boy with a sack might have been just a lad trying to run away to sea, carrying his belongings, whereas people would have remembered instantly a boy trying to sell what to any discerning person looked like stolen goods …

Run away to sea! Of course! John Jericho would surely have made for the nearest port and made his escape … to where? To Ireland was the most probable answer. And that meant Bristol, with its undercover slave trade that was supposed to have been wiped out centuries ago, but still throve with the connivance of both Bristolians and Dubliners.

I was in the wrong place. I should be at home making my enquiries. And yet it was highly unlikely that anyone would remember anything after six years. And there were always so many other ships from all parts of the trading world anchored along the Backs or the banks of the Frome that John Jericho could be anywhere. I had to face it. There was as much hope of finding him now as there was of man learning to fly (although some mad fools had tried even that).

I suddenly felt deeply depressed as I realized I was up against an almost insoluble problem. And yet I had to try to find an answer to it. If I could avoid it, I wouldn't let any innocent man go to the gallows, let alone my own flesh and blood, and as I skirted Wells and rode towards Croxcombe, I debated what was the best course to take next. Should I return to Bristol on the offchance that I might pick up a clue to the missing page's whereabouts? Or should I remain where I was as long as I could in the hope of persuading Dame Audrea that she was mistaken in her identification? Perhaps, after all, persuading the steward to persuade
her
might be the better way. Maybe it was time to declare my interest and tell George Applegarth the truth. He was my natural ally. I nodded to myself. I had made up my mind.

‘Gee up, Ned,' I adjured the donkey. He rightly ignored me and proceeded at his own stately pace.

As we ambled across the bridge spanning the moat, it was apparent that something was amiss. I could hear a woman crying, loud, noisy sobs bordering on hysteria. Someone else was shouting and there was a flurry of activity that had nothing to do with domestic matters like the laying and serving of supper. (And I was starving.)

Hercules made straight for the kitchens with all the ease and assurance of one certain of his welcome. (That dog had a talent for ingratiating himself with almost anyone.) I conducted Neddy back to the stables and handed him over to a groom, who intimated that it was not his job to look after donkeys and suggested I take the animal to the paddock. I did my idiot's smile and ignored him.