The Prodigal Son Read Online Free PDF

against mine with no one really prepared to back her up – had she not claimed kinship with a certain John Foster, who lives in Small Street. Apparently, he was once sheriff of Bristol and is thought almost certain to be the next mayor.’
    Not the present holder of the office, then. Margaret Walker’s information had at least proved faulty on that score, which pleased me. Everything else she had told me had proved to be distressingly accurate.
    â€˜I know Alderman Foster,’ I said. ‘Well, not to speak to, but he’s a neighbour of mine. A salt merchant, and although he doesn’t live in one of the bigger houses in Small Street, he’s reputed to be a very wealthy man. A man of considerable influence, too, among the city fathers.’
    â€˜Oh, I can confirm that,’ my half-brother told me bitterly. ‘As soon as his name was mentioned, Sergeant Manifold’s attitude towards me underwent a change. He instructed those two henchmen of his—’
    â€˜Jack Gload and Pete Littleman,’ I interrupted with an involuntary laugh. ‘That pair of incompetents.’
    â€˜I don’t know what they’re called, and I don’t care,’ my companion snapped. ‘I only know I found myself clapped up here, in the bridewell, while the sergeant went off to consult with his superiors. And the result is that I seem destined to be imprisoned here indefinitely while those in authority try to decide which one of us – this woman or me – is telling the truth. And in the end, of course, they’ll take her word against mine, because she’s bound to bribe or blackmail her servants into supporting her.’
    If he was waiting for me to contradict him, he was doomed to disappointment, because he was right. That’s the way the world turns, always has done, always will do, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. Well … maybe. Sometimes.
    â€˜What do you know about the crime you’re being accused of?’ I asked after a moment’s silence.
    My companion shrugged. ‘Six years ago, there was a robbery at this woman’s house … near Wells.’ He added defiantly, ‘I was in Ireland six years ago. I explained that. We went there very shortly after my mother married my stepfather.’
    â€˜And you never came back?’
    â€˜No. Never. Not until last week. And I shan’t be returning, either, if I get out of here alive.’ He shivered suddenly, and his voice broke.
    â€˜Oh, we’ll get you out of here,’ I said bracingly, and, had he but known it, with far more confidence than I was actually feeling.
    He turned to me eagerly. ‘You’ll help me, then?’
    I regarded him mockingly. ‘Isn’t that why you wanted to see me? To ask for my assistance?’
    â€˜Are you angry?’
    â€˜No, of course not.’ Was I being quite truthful? But he was my father’s son. I was sure about that. And if I couldn’t help my own kith and kin, what right had I to be helping other people? Besides, any mystery intrigued me. Moreover, I could see as plainly as John could – and it was time to start thinking of him by his baptismal name – that there would most likely be a miscarriage of justice unless someone did something to prove his story true. Of course, I could go to Ireland, seek out his mother and anyone else willing to swear that he had been at home there at the time of this murder. But what good would it do? It was the truth that was needed, and what mother isn’t prepared to perjure herself in the cause of her son’s life? As for other witnesses, could their memories be relied upon after such a length of time? And in my experience, most communities, particularly rural ones, will close ranks to protect one of their own. Matthew O’Neill was undoubtedly that, and his stepsons would therefore be regarded in much the same light.
    So, if I ruled out crossing the sea to