The Prodigal Son (2 page)

He smiled. ‘No. My name's John Wedmore, and that's where I was born, like my – my father, Ralph, before me.' He gave me a quick, sideways glance, as though afraid I might have noticed that slight hesitation, but I played the innocent and smiled blandly. ‘I grew up on my grandparents' sheep farm. But I'm boring you.'

‘Not at all,' I protested politely, far more interested than I was prepared to let on. ‘Your own father died?' I made it a question.

‘Ten years ago this month. I was thirteen, Colin nearly eleven. The following year, my mother met and married Matthew O'Neill while he was on pilgrimage to Glastonbury, and we went to live with him in Ireland. He's a farmer, like my mother's first husband, except he doesn't raise sheep. Cattle, horses, pigs … Southern Ireland's pasture is as rich as that of Somerset and Devon. Richer, probably.' He spoke with simple pride, a man happy in his adopted land.

Hercules jogged my right knee with his cold, wet nose, leaving a dirty damp patch on my breeches and reminding me that we had been stationary long enough. Outside, the sun was shining and it was time to be on our way again. But I was reluctant to leave. Two things intrigued me. First, why had this stranger, this John Wedmore, thought it worthwhile to give me his life's history? With no one else in the Lattis had he exchanged more than a few words. He had asked his question, received an answer and moved on, ignoring any attempt to detain him in idle chatter. But with me, he had sat himself down and plunged into conversation. All right, I know I'm nosy. Enough people have told me so for me to accept that it must be true (even if I prefer to call it being interested in my fellow men. And women, of course. That goes without saying).

Second, I had noted – without, however, showing any sign of doing so – his curious reference to ‘my mother's first husband'. An odd way, to say the least, of referring to his father.

Hercules gave me another prod, then tried to scramble into my lap, thus ensuring that he could no longer be ignored. If I wasn't careful, he would perform his favourite trick and cock his leg against one of mine; and I had no desire to stink of dog pee for the rest of the day. I rose and offered the stranger my hand.

‘I must go,' I said, adding truthfully, ‘I've enjoyed our talk. I hope you soon get news of your brother.'

He clasped my hand, holding it for perhaps a little too long, and I had the distinct impression that he was on the verge of telling me something important. But if he had been, he suddenly changed his mind.

‘Of the ship and all its crew,' he amended, adding with a slight smile, ‘You're not from Bristol, are you? At a guess, I'd say you were born in or around Wells.' My surprise must have been obvious and he laughed. ‘Not all west country people speak alike, whatever foreigners might think. My mother comes from there, and I recognize the accent. Her name before her marriage was Ann Acton. Perhaps you might have heard of her? Or of the family?'

Regretfully, I shook my head. Cudgel my brains as I might, I could recall no one of the name of Acton.

‘No, I'm sorry.'

He grimaced wryly. ‘There's no need to be. I doubt that there's anyone of the name left nowadays. To be honest, Mother never talks of her family, and I've never met a single member of it … You'd better go. That hound of yours is giving you the evil eye. I don't think his intentions towards you are honourable.'

I grinned. ‘You're right. He has a very obnoxious habit when annoyed.' I held out my hand for the second time. ‘I'll wish you good-day, then, Master Wedmore.'

If I didn't exactly forget the stranger, there was enough going on during the next few days for me to push him to the back of my mind.

I was at last managing to get more sleep at nights as Saint James's fair drew to a close; but by day, all roads leading from the city were choked with the carts and pack horses of the departing merchants and stallholders. I pleaded the impossibility of selling anything in the countryside at present given such competition; for none of the travellers was averse to making detours into the villages and communities they passed, in order to make a little extra money. (Although, heaven knew, they must have made sufficient money to tide themselves and their families through the harshest of winters and the bleakest of springs in the greatest comfort imaginable, in spite of the depredations of cut-purses and pickpockets, who must also now be looking forward to a life of unparalleled luxury.)

Adela, however, woman-like, refused to accept this eminently sound piece of reasoning and accused me, point-blank, of laziness. Me! A hard-working husband and father ever striving to do his best for his nearest and dearest. I was hurt, and said so. She told me not to be such a hypocrite; and what started as a half-friendly spat might easily have turned into a full-scale domestic war had Adam not chosen that particular moment to tumble downstairs. He wasn't really hurt, but throughout his life, Adam has always been able to turn a very small molehill into a very large mountain by making the greatest possible noise about everything. And this occasion was no exception. His shrieks, cries and groans brought everyone, including Hercules, to his assistance, and it was some time before he could be mollified. And of course it was just my luck that he was still sobbing pathetically on Adela's lap when Margaret Walker, my quondam mother-in-law and Adela's cousin, decided to pay us a visit from her home in Redcliffe.

‘That child is allowed too much freedom,' she opined, at the same time eyeing up and down a rather bedraggled Nicholas and Elizabeth. ‘They all are, if you want my opinion. Those two look as if they've been playing on the Avon mud-banks.'

They probably had, but both Adela and I denied the accusation hotly, once more close and united in defence of our offspring. I even went so far as to pat Adam's curly head, and was promptly thumped for my pains by the ungrateful little sweetheart.

Margaret turned on me. ‘Why aren't you working on such a fine day?'

I repeated my excuses, which were dismissed with even more scorn than that shown by my wife, but Adela was always loyal – one of her many virtues – and would allow no one to criticize me except herself.

‘Why have you come, cousin?' she asked quietly.

Margaret bridled with indignation at the suggestion that her visit might have any other motive than to see her granddaughter, Elizabeth, and how we all went on. But she obviously had various titbits of news she was anxious to impart, amongst others that there was growing anxiety and unease in the city concerning the disappearance of John Jay's ship somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean.

‘There's been no positive sighting of it for some time now. And to make matters worse, Maria Watkins informs me that John Jay has died during this past week.'

‘John Jay?' I queried, bemused. ‘How can anyone know that if he's at sea?'

Margaret sighed, as one dealing with an ignoramus.

‘Not that John Jay. His half-brother. The one who married the Botoner girl. They're both sons of John Jay the elder.' I frowned. It seemed to me that the Jay family had singularly little imagination when it came to naming children. Margaret went on, ‘I suppose your ignorance is forgivable. You weren't born in the city, after all.'

But mention of the missing carvel had recalled the stranger to mind and set me off on my own train of thought, so that I missed the beginning of her second item of news.

‘… insists he's called John Wedmore and comes from Ireland. It leaves poor Dick Manifold in a dilemma, not knowing who to believe.'

‘John Wedmore?' I interrupted, startled by what seemed like thought reading on Margaret's part. ‘What's happened to him?'

Adam had stopped crying and was falling asleep in Adela's arms, snuffling and dribbling in a most unattractive manner. The other two had grown bored with adult conversation and vanished about their own secret business.

‘What … Who are we talking about, Mother-in-law?' She still liked me to call her that from time to time, even though it was getting on for six years since Lillis, my first wife and her daughter, had died giving birth to Elizabeth.

On this occasion, however, it failed to propitiate her or to improve her temper.

‘If you'd pay more attention to what I'm saying, instead of going off into some reverie of your own, you would know that I'm speaking of a young Irishman called John Wedmore – at least, he claims his name is John Wedmore, and he certainly sounds Irish – who's apparently here to make enquiries about his brother, who joined the crew of Jay's carvel in Waterford.'

‘Yes. I met him in the Green Lattis a few days ago. He was asking everyone in the alehouse about the ship then. So, what has he to do with Sergeant Manifold? Has he been arrested? It's not a crime, is it, to ask after a missing vessel?'

Margaret turned triumphantly to my wife. ‘There you are! I said he was in a dream world of his own. I wonder sometimes how you put up with him.'

‘Oh, he has his good points.' Adela gave me a slow, intimate smile that brought me out in goose bumps. Unfortunately, Margaret saw it too.

‘That'll do,' she said sharply. ‘Keep that sort of thing for where it belongs.' She slewed round on her stool to face me more directly. ‘Yesterday, a woman arrived at the fair …'

‘But everyone's packing up and going home now,' I objected crassly.

‘There are still plenty of traders who haven't left yet,' Margaret snapped. ‘Don't interrupt. Her name's Audrea Bellknapp and she's lady of some manor or another, near Wells. It appears she suddenly decided to restock her supply of woollen cloth for the winter, and swears by that stuff they weave up north … Though why good Bristol red cloth isn't good enough for her is beyond my comprehension.'

I didn't reply. I was too busy marvelling, as I always do, at my former mother-in-law's knowledge of anything and everything that goes on in this city almost before it happens. Nothing is ever kept secret for long from Margaret and her two cronies, Maria Watkins and Bess Simnel. The good God alone knows how they obtain their information in so short a time (and I doubt if even He really understands it). Furthermore, they're very rarely wrong about anything, and I'd believe their version of events rather than anyone else's.

‘Go on,' I urged.

Seeing that she had at last captured my undivided attention, Margaret mellowed slightly and became more confidential, leaning forward on her stool and tapping my knee in a significant manner.

‘Well, while she was haggling over some rolls of cloth with one of the stallholders from Yorkshire, together with her steward and her receiver …'

‘Her what?'

‘Just what I said when Bess Simnel told me, but Bess has a third cousin who was once a tiring woman to a lady of means. In rich houses, it seems the officer who looks after the control of expenditure is called the receiver.' An odd title, I reflected, for someone regulating the household finances. One could only trust it wasn't prophetic. Margaret continued, ‘Where was I? Oh, yes! This Dame Bellknapp was just about to strike a bargain with this fellow from up north, when she suddenly cries out, “Stop that man! That's John Jericho!”'

‘John Jericho?'

‘The Irishman! The one calling himself John Wedmore. “He's a thief and a murderer!” she says. And sends the receiver to make sure the fellow doesn't get away while the steward goes to find an officer of the law – in this case, as luck would have it, Sergeant Manifold.'

Margaret gave me a sidelong glance, knowing that there was no love lost between the sergeant and myself, Richard Manifold having once had aspirations to Adela's hand. But on this occasion, I simply commented, ‘So what happened next?'

‘Well, the Irishman denied the accusation, of course. Any man of sense would. But this woman, this Dame Bellknapp, was adamant that some years ago, he had been her page. She claimed that he had robbed her and murdered the wife of her steward, who had disturbed him during the robbery. Indeed, according to Dick Manifold, she called on both her receiver and, in particular, her steward to uphold her accusation. But neither man was prepared to say more than that there was a likeness – a pronounced likeness, the receiver said – to the page, John Jericho.'

‘So what was the outcome?' asked Adela, shifting Adam's weight from one arm to the other. He was now sound asleep and making soft plopping noises. His nose was running. His mother wiped it clean on the edge of her apron.

‘I believe the Irishman is at present in custody in the bridewell while those in authority try to sort out the rights and wrongs of the matter.'

‘Typical!' I ranted bitterly. ‘If some poor sod of a butcher or baker had made an accusation like that, with so little evidence to support it, he'd have been sent on his way with a boot up his arse.'

Margaret's skinny bosom swelled. ‘There is no need for offensive language, Roger, especially in front of the child.' The child snorted in his sleep and blew two bubbles down his nostrils. Charming! ‘Nevertheless,' my former mother-in-law admitted, ‘you're probably correct. Maria Watkins informs me that this Dame Bellknapp has some sort of kinship with the mayor, and His Worship feels the young man should be held in custody until the matter is satisfactorily cleared up.'

‘And how is that going to happen?' Adela asked in her quiet way. ‘If it's just this woman's word against the Irishman's, how can anything be proved one way or the other? If her servants don't back her up …'

‘Oh, they will, given enough time and sufficient inducement,' I declared viciously. ‘Either this poor wretch will be left to rot in prison, or he'll find himself dangling from the end of a rope. And all because this Dame Whatever-her-name is, is second cousin four times removed to our mayor.'

‘Calm down, Roger,' my wife advised me. ‘All this bile will upset your digestion.' She regarded me anxiously as I began pulling on my boots. ‘Where are you going?'