Kate Sedley: The Prodigal Son

‘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?’

‘To the bridewell to have a word with Richard Manifold.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Margaret snapped. ‘This is none of your business.’

Adela added her mite. ‘Margaret’s right, sweetheart. Leave well alone. Don’t get involved with what doesn’t concern you. To please me,’ she added.

I met her large, dark eyes, so full of love and concern, and experienced the same familiar shock at how much I loved her. I always did whenever I paused long enough to give the matter serious thought; which wasn’t as often as it should have been, I have to admit.