The Saint John's fern

Chapter Nineteen

For a moment I was too bewildered to know where I was or what I was doing. I must have stared at Mistress Fettiplace like a veritable fool, for she shook my arm again, but harder this time.

‘Your friend, Jack Golightly,’ she repeated, ‘has been arrested and charged with the murder of Bartholomew Champernowne. One of my neighbours has this minute brought me word.’ And she pointed to a woman standing just behind her, in the open doorway of the cottage.

My mind was beginning to clear, although I was still somewhat bemused. I had been sleeping deeply and the dream had seemed very real. I had had no time to interpret it, and was conscious that its message was already fading, lost in this more pressing anxiety.

I heaved myself out of the chair. ‘Are you certain of this?’ I demanded.

Anne Fettiplace clicked her tongue in exasperation. ‘This is Mistress Cordwainer. Ask her yourself.’ And once again she waved her hand towards the other woman, who had now ventured a few paces into the room.

‘It’s true enough,’ the neighbour confirmed. ‘I saw Sergeant Warren come back not a quarter of an hour since, and he had a prisoner in tow. Tethered to the horse, the poor soul was, and forced to walk alongside it. His wrists were bound and he had a gash above one eye. Someone who knew him said that it was Jack Golightly.’

‘He’s been brought back here, then?’ I asked unnecessarily. ‘He’s not been taken to Plymouth?’

‘Seemingly not. He’s locked in the roundhouse.’

‘I must speak to him at once.’ I pulled on my leather jerkin. ‘Where can I find Sergeant Warren?’

‘He’s gone off to seek out Sir Walter and Lady Champernowne to inform them of the arrest. He’s left Nick Brown on guard.’

‘Well, Master Warren won’t find Sir Walter at home,’ I said. ‘I passed him an hour or more ago, presumably on his way to Valletort Manor. Indeed, I feel sure that he could have been going nowhere else. What sort of a man is this Nick Brown? Could he be persuaded to let me have a word with the prisoner, do you think?’

‘Don’t you worry your head about that,’ Mistress Cordwainer told me. ‘Nick’s my husband’s cousin’s son. He’ll oblige me, if I ask him.’ She gave me a gap-toothed grin. ‘And I’d do more than that for a big handsome lad such as you.’

I thanked her and stooped to kiss her cheek. She coloured up fierily and giggled, as self-conscious as a young girl. ‘That’ll be enough of that,’ she protested. ‘Come along with me.’

Ten minutes later, after a mere token resistance to his kinswoman’s demands — for it was plain that in this closely knit community family bonds were paramount — Nick Brown, a smiling, tousle-headed youth, unlocked the roundhouse door and let me inside.

‘But don’t be too long,’ he urged.

I gave him my promise and then stood still as the door closed, letting my eyes grow accustomed to the darkness.

‘Who is it?’ asked Jack Golightly’s voice as, at the same moment, I stumbled over his knees. He swore fluently. ‘I hope you’re not a prisoner, too. This hole isn’t big enough for more than one.’

I made myself known to him, and he eagerly seized my hand, the chains that shackled his wrist to the wall making a dismal rattle as he did so.

‘Is it really you, chapman? What are you doing here? How did you get in? Sergeant Warren hasn’t arrested you as well, has he?’

‘No, no!’ I assured him, before embarking on my explanation. When I had finished, I added, ‘Was there no way in which you could convince that fool of a sergeant that you had nothing to do with Bartholomew Champernowne’s death?’

I had by now grown used to the gloom and I saw Jack shake his head.

‘I was alone all that night, as I am most nights. Who was there to vouch for me?’ He went on bitterly, ‘As you say, Warren is a fool. A blind, bigoted fool! I had the feeling that it wouldn’t have mattered what I’d said in my own defence, he’d still have taken me in charge.’

‘It should have been me,’ I admitted, ‘sitting here in your place. I was the intended victim, not you.’

‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘You’re talking in riddles.’

So, as briefly as possible, I told him all that I knew and all that I guessed. When I had finished, he drew in a sharp, hissing breath.

‘Of course!’ he exclaimed. ‘You must be right. The murderer has to be Beric Gifford. But why? Why would he want to kill his future brother-in-law?’

‘That’s what I don’t know,’ I said. ‘That’s what I have to find out.’

‘Then you’ve no time to lose, for I’m to be taken to Plymouth tomorrow.’ He added with a sudden spurt of anger, ‘And since, on your own admission, it was you who brought me and my hatred of the Champernownes to Berenice Gifford’s attention, I think you owe me something.’

I placed a hand on his shoulder and pressed it. ‘I pledge you my solemn word that whatever I can do shall be done. Rest easy. God won’t permit an innocent man to be punished for the crime of another.’

I only wished that I could have felt as confident as I sounded but I took heart from the fact that God had surely sent me on this mission to find Beric Gifford, just as he had used me to bring villains to justice in the past.

‘But You’ll have to show me the way, and quickly,’ I told Him as I left the roundhouse, thankfully breathing in fresh air once more.

In my heart of hearts, however, I knew that God must already have shown me the way, and that I was just being slow at interpreting His signs and signals. I was about to make my way to the nearest inn to drink a cup of ale and ruminate quietly, when I recollected having given my word to Mistress Fettiplace that I would allow her to parade me before her neighbours as someone who had been present at Valletort Manor that morning. I was reluctant to fulfil my promise, but she had been very kind to me and I owed her some sort of return for all her hospitality. The brief delay was a small price to pay for the satisfaction she would derive from showing me off, and something that would cost me very little effort.

Consequently, I retraced my steps to her cottage where her surprise at seeing me again was mingled with delight once I had explained my purpose.

‘That’s good of you, Roger,’ she said, pausing in her task of chopping apples for the water-cider she was making. ‘Wait while I wash my hands, and then I’ll take you to meet three of my closest friends. I’ll make certain they don’t detain you long, for I can see you’re champing at the bit and want to be about more important business. Leave your pack here, with me. I’ll take good care of it until you come back to collect it again.’

She was as good as her word, calling on only those three of her neighbours with whom she appeared to be on terms of the greatest intimacy. I was persuaded to repeat my story to each one in turn, and did my best to answer all their questions in so far as I was able. But I said nothing concerning my thoughts on Beric Gifford; and Anne Fettiplace, sensible woman that she was, gave no hint of them, either.

We had just left the last of the three cottages, and I was about to take my leave of my hostess yet again, when a woman came out of a dwelling on the opposite side of the alleyway and called across, ‘You’re Roger Chapman, aren’t you?’

My heart sank at the prospect of further delay, but I could hardly deny the charge with Mistress Fettiplace’s friend standing not two feet distant, in her doorway.

‘I am,’ I acknowledged.

The woman nodded. ‘I’m Eulalia Trim. And this — ’ she half turned to indicate the young woman behind her — ‘is my daughter, Constance. She was maid to Mistress Gifford before she was dismissed to make room for that Katherine Glover. Rumour has it that you were at Valletort Manor this morning when Master Champernowne’s body was discovered. She’d be interested to hear the tale.’

My reluctance vanished, and I’m ashamed to say that I muttered a rather hurried farewell to Anne Fettiplace before following the two women into their cottage. In spite of the swineherd’s conviction that the Widow Trim was more than capable of looking after herself without any help from her daughter, there was, nevertheless, an air of poverty, a hint of straitened circumstances about the interior that I had not encountered in the other dwellings I had visited that morning. And both women made it plain that they harboured an understandable grudge at Constance’s loss of a place that had provided her with food and lodging at no cost either to herself or to her widowed parent.

I decided to stir up their animosity even further to see what result it produced. ‘I heard that you begged leave from Mistress Gifford to come here to look after your mother,’ I said, addressing Constance.

‘Nonsense!’ she replied angrily. ‘Whoever told you that was either lying or has been misinformed. I was sent packing to make way for Katherine Glover! That’s the truth of it!’

‘At Beric Gifford’s insistence?’

The younger woman shook her head emphatically. ‘Oh no! He may have grown besotted with Katherine in time, but that was after she became Mistress Berenice’s maid. In any case, he would never have thrown me off the manor. He wasn’t like that. But no doubt he believed what his sister told him, as he always did.’

I frowned. ‘Why is it that everyone who knows Beric speaks well of him? This is the man who murdered his great-uncle in cold blood.’

‘Oh, he has a temper when he’s roused,’ the widow cut in. ‘But he’s very loyal and could never bear to hear any of his family or friends spoken of unjustly. He would never have let the old man belittle the woman he was in love with.’

I shrugged. ‘I can understand that and applaud him for it. I can even understand why he attacked his great-uncle in the heat of the moment when, by all accounts, Master Capstick insulted Mistress Glover and tried to force Beric into marriage with another woman. But to return the following morning, when a night’s sleep must have cooled his temper, to set out for Plymouth with the sole purpose of bludgeoning an old, defenceless man to death while he slept, that I can neither understand nor excuse.’

‘Perhaps he didn’t,’ Constance Trim said with a defiant obstinacy. ‘Perhaps, after all, somebody else committed the murder.’

I said impatiently, ‘You know that’s foolishness. The housekeeper saw and recognized Beric. Besides — ’ I fished in my pouch and brought out the hat-brooch — ‘he dropped this on the floor of Master Capstick’s bedchamber. I found it there, amongst the rushes.’

The Widow Trim was more interested in how I had gained access to Oliver Capstick’s house than in the ornament, and was already asking eager questions to that effect when her daughter abruptly waved her into silence.

‘This doesn’t belong to Beric,’ she said. ‘He never wears a jewel in his hat. But Berenice does. This brooch is hers. She has a black velvet cap exactly like her brother’s. She used to borrow his clothes sometimes to go riding in, when she wanted to be very daring. They’re much of a size, except for their heads. His is smaller than hers. She could never wear his hats.’

I stared at her in stupefaction. At last, ‘Are you absolutely certain,’ I asked, ‘that Beric has never worn this ornament?’

‘I’m positive,’ was the answer. ‘I recognize it. It’s Berenice’s.’

Against all reason, I found myself believing her. Why, however, when confronted with the jewel, had Mistress Trenowth identified it as belonging to Beric? Yet even as I silently asked myself the question, I recalled the way in which the housekeeper had hesitated as she looked at the brooch, and the constraint in her voice as she made her reply. But why should she lie? Why should she wish to protect her late master’s murderer? Then I remembered the Widow Cooper’s words. ‘Over fifteen years Mathilda looked after that man … and then to be left nothing in his will! It’s disgraceful and so I told her, although she pretends she doesn’t care. But, of course, she does. She’s bound to!’ And she had. Mistress Trenowth must deliberately have misled me out of resentment.

Had she guessed that the murderer might be Berenice dressed in her brother’s clothes right from the beginning? Or was I letting my imagination run away with me again? Maybe there was another explanation. Maybe Beric had been unable to find his hat that fateful morning and had borrowed his sister’s instead …

But another memory was surfacing in my mind. Robert Steward had told me that the black velvet cap he wore in bed had been given to him by Berenice soon after her brother’s disappearance. Yet the person I had seen outside the Bird of Passage Inn had been wearing just such a piece of headgear! A flat, dark cap that fitted its owner perfectly. But Beric’s cap had been for some months in the possession of the former steward. It followed, therefore — it had to — that it was not Beric whom I’d seen.

* * *

To this day, I cannot remember bidding farewell to Mistress Trim and her daughter. I suppose I must have done so, and also taken my cudgel from where I’d propped it against the wall, before I quit the cottage. But my next recollection is of sitting beside a stream, staring into the depths of the clear running water as it purled over its rocky bed. I can still remember the delicate, opalescent colours of the pebbles.

Gradually, my rioting thoughts began to steady, to form a pattern that was at last beginning to make some sense of the story of Beric Gifford. I recalled, as I had done once before, Mistress Trenowth telling me how happy Berenice had been when she told her great-uncle of her betrothal. ‘She was obviously very much in love,’ the housekeeper had said. But this had not been my impression when I had seen Berenice and Bartholomew Champernowne together. Indeed, my feeling had been that she rather despised him. So who was really the object of her affections?

I dipped one hand in the stream, letting the water run like satin between my fingers. An idea was forming uneasily at the back of my mind and for a while I tried to repulse it. But it would not be kept at bay, the unwelcome facts relentlessly pushing their way forward. It was Berenice, not her brother, who had taken such a fancy to Katherine Glover that she had dismissed her own maid in order to create a place for the girl, not merely in the household, but as her close companion. Beric, that young man of whom most people had something good to say, had only fallen in love with Katherine after she had gone to live at Valletort Manor. Moreover, he was spoken of as the one who was the most in love of the two. But was Katherine Glover the beloved not only of Beric, but also of Berenice?

My mind jibbed at the idea, for such a liaison was against all the teachings of the Church and punishable by death. Yet I knew that these relationships did exist between both men and women, (and had, indeed, sensed something of them whilst I was a novice at Glastonbury Abbey). The young girl with whom I had spoken yesterday, on my way to Valletort Manor, claimed to have seen Katherine Glover and Beric on the day of the murder ‘All over one another, they were, pawing each other and kissing until it made me feel sick.’ But supposing the person she had seen dressed in male clothing, with blood stains on the front of the tunic, had not been Beric, but Berenice!

A horse and rider clopped by on the path behind me, the man nodding a perfunctory greeting. I barely acknowledged it, however, for the sight of them had set up yet another train of thought in my mind. All those people who had seen Beric on the morning of the murder had mentioned that he was not entirely in control of his mount; but Simon and Ivo Fettiplace had spoken of him as the perfect horseman. ‘There’s never been the horse foaled that he couldn’t ride. Never a second’s trouble with any of them that I’ve ever seen.’ Until now, I had, like everyone else, concluded that Beric’s excited and agitated state had somehow conveyed itself to the animal, or made him less able than usual to master the creature. But might there not be a simpler explanation? If it had been Berenice riding Flavius that morning, she might well have found a little difficulty in handling him. Mistress Fettiplace gave her the credit of being a fine horsewoman, but had admitted that she was not quite as good a rider as her brother. ‘Very nearly,’ had been her reply when I had put that question to her.

And then there was the thumb ring worn by Bevis Godsey. He had lied about how it came into his possession, and when he realized that he must have given himself away by his own stupidity, he had sheered off in a hurry, before I was awake, leaving me to wonder why Beric would have given him such a valuable jewel, or what the latter might have done to earn it. But I now knew Bevis to be a kinsman of Katherine Glover, one with the same initials as Beric. Perhaps, when he had called at Valletort Manor, she had given it to him. But why? More importantly, why would Beric allow her to make such a gift? And where had he really been ever since the murder?

I withdrew my almost numbed hand from the stream and dried it on the grass before settling down to consider what might have happened on the morning that Oliver Capstick was murdered; but I soon realized that, in order to get a true picture, I must go back in time to the previous day. On that occasion, Beric, incensed beyond measure by his great-uncle’s criticism of his intended bride, and also by his attempt to coerce him into marrying Jenny Haygarth, had attacked Master Capstick in a fury of red-hot rage by trying to throttle him. But his own better nature, as much, I suspected, as Mistress Trenowth’s intervention, had prevented him from committing murder. He had told the old man to alter his will and be damned to him, and had ridden home to Valletort Manor, safe, as he thought, in the knowledge of Katherine’s affection.

So far I was reasonably sure of my ground. But what had followed? Had he discovered that Berenice and Katherine were really lovers? Had he gone searching for them, anxious to tell them what had taken place, only to find them locked in one another’s embrace? I remembered the tree-tent in the woods. Was that where they had lain together, out of the sight of prying eyes? And if my surmise proved to be correct, what would have been Beric’s reaction? Disbelief, horror, the sense of betrayal — surely he would have felt all these things? And when he had recovered from the first awful shock, when the truth had finally sunk in, would he not, in his anger and humiliation, have revealed all that he had been prepared to sacrifice for Katherine Glover, even consenting to his sister becoming their great-uncle’s sole heir? And would he not then have threatened to return at once to Plymouth, to tell Oliver Capstick the truth and to reinstate himself in his kinsman’s regard by consenting to marry Jenny Haygarth?

Or might he, in his bitter rage, have attacked the women, so that they were forced to defend themselves? Two to one, they could well have overpowered him. But then, of course, they must have begun to realize what a danger this furiously angry man was to them and their forbidden love. There was only one way to make sure of his silence, and that was to kill him! It was possible that Beric’s death had been accidental, but in the light of what must have happened next, I doubted it.

For what happened had surely been Berenice’s decision to murder her great-uncle and enter into her inheritance without delay. The next morning, therefore, early, dressed, except for the hat, in her brother’s clothes and mounted on Flavius, she had ridden to Plymouth, bludgeoned the old man to death while he slept and ridden home again. She had no hope of escaping notice but to be seen from a distance was an essential part of her plan. Beric would be blamed for Oliver’s murder while she and Katherine played the parts of horrified, but still devoted, sister and betrothed.

But why had Bartholomew Champernowne had to be killed? Was it possible that he had found out about Berenice’s love for Katherine, or was on the verge of suspecting the truth? In that case, where would this murderous course end? For the two women must stand in constant danger of discovery, the more so because Berenice took foolish and unnecessary risks, like dressing in her brother’s clothes and riding to a midnight rendezvous with Katherine at the Bird of Passage Inn.

And yet they had a sort of protection so long as it was widely believed that Beric had not fled abroad, but was eating Saint John’s fern in order to gain invisibility and stay close to his betrothed. And that, I saw with sudden clarity, was perhaps the real reason why it had been necessary to remove Bartholomew Champernowne. I had told Berenice that he had been going about the countryside trying to force witnesses to change their testimony; to say that it was not Beric whom they had seen on the day of Oliver Capstick’s murder. And if Beric was exonerated, the finger of suspicion would inevitably begin to point at the person who had benefited most from Oliver Capstick’s death: Berenice, herself.