The Saint John's fern

Chapter Five

I saw at once that this could not be Berenice Gifford. The woman’s garments were too plain and too sober for one who had recently acquired a fortune and who, by reputation, had a liking for finery. The clothes were more suited to those of a lady’s maid, so I felt justified in my assumption that this was Katherine Glover. And who would be more trusted with the key of the house than a future sister-in-law?

And I could see that the girl did have the key, for, having closed the front door behind her, she inserted it in the lock; but her subsequent vain attempts to turn it gave me my opportunity.

I lengthened my stride. ‘Can I be of help?’ I asked, pausing beside her. ‘You seem to be having trouble.’

She turned a delicate, flower-like face towards me, a strand of pale golden brown hair escaping from beneath her linen hood. Startled grey eyes, widely spaced on either side of a small straight nose, regarded me with a certain amount of apprehension while a softly bowed red mouth completed an enchanting picture. It was easy to see why Beric Gifford had been unwilling to give her up, even for a wife with a substantial dowry.

‘Thank you. You’re most kind,’ she answered in tones that were deeper and stronger than I had expected from so fragile-looking a creature. ‘The lock’s rusty and the wards are stiff. Sometimes the key fails to do its job properly and the house remains open to any passing thief. If you would be good enough to make sure that the door is indeed secure, I should be very grateful.’

I checked, but this time, the key had behaved satisfactorily, so I smiled, withdrew it and handed it to the girl, noting as I did so that her fingers and nails were none too clean. I remarked as casually as I could, ‘I was told that the person who lived here was murdered.’

Her whole body stiffened and the delicate features grew rigid with anger and disdain.

‘This town is a hotbed of gossip. Every passing traveller is made free of all its scandals. No doubt you have been told the name of the murderer, too.’ And she turned away abruptly, mounted the patiently waiting palfrey and rode off through Martyn’s Gate.

A woman’s voice said, ‘That was Katherine Glover.’

I glanced round to see Joanna Cobbold, who had come out of her cottage and was now standing inside the paling that fenced its surrounding plot of ground. I retraced a few steps so that we could speak more comfortably.

‘I guessed as much,’ I nodded. ‘I’ve seen Mistress Trenowth so I know who she is. Did you have any conversation with her?’

‘A little. I saw her arrive half an hour since and pretended to be suspicious, particularly when she had a struggle to unlock the front door. It turned out, by the way, that it was already open. Whoever visited the house last hadn’t managed to fasten it properly on leaving.’

I made no comment on this, merely asking, ‘What did she have to say?’

‘She told me her name when I asked her, and when I pressed for further information, I learnt that Mistress Gifford is at last thinking of selling the house. Before she does so, however, she needs to know what condition it’s in after remaining empty these past five months. But that was all. When I would have put more questions, the girl ignored me and went inside and shut the door.’

‘You say you asked her her name. Have you never previously seen Katherine Glover, then? Did she never accompany Berenice on any of her visits to Oliver Capstick?’

Joanna shook her head. ‘Not that I recall. If she did, she made no impression on me. Berenice usually rode alone, and I remember Mistress Trenowth once telling me that she — Berenice that is — is a headstrong, fearless sort of girl, not much given to regarding the womanly conventions. So, making a journey of some twelve miles, from Modbury to Plymouth, unaccompanied, wouldn’t worry her unduly, I imagine.’

I ventured another question on the subject of Oliver Capstick’s murder, neither of the Cobbold boys being within earshot as far as I could tell.

‘Were there many sightings of Beric on the morning that he killed his great-uncle? Or did the identity of the murderer rest simply on the testimony of yourself and of Mistress Trenowth?’

‘It most certainly did not,’ Joanna retorted, incensed. ‘My neighbour, Bessie Hannaford, also caught a glimpse of Beric on his arrival. And as my husband told you yesterday at supper, quite a few people recognized him, both on his ride from Modbury to Plymouth, and again on his journey home. I know for a fact that a husband and wife, who live on the far side of the White Friars, beyond Martyn’s Gate, saw him pass by on both occasions. And there was a smallholder who lives near Yealmpton. He was on his way to Plymouth market when he met Beric returning. Oh, and he was seen earlier by a woman near Brixton church, travelling westwards; so, on that occasion, he must have been on his way here. And a friend of his — whose name I’ve forgotten, if I ever knew it — recognized him in the distance, close to Sequers Bridge, but whether coming or going back I’ve no idea. So you see, the Sheriff’s men had no need to rely only on the word of Mistress Trenowth or myself. But even if they had, can you doubt for a moment that either of us could have failed to recognize Beric when we were as near to him as I am now to that hitching-post?’

I assured her that I had never seriously entertained the notion that she and the housekeeper had been mistaken. I was just making certain in order to satisfy my own curiosity. ‘But I have one further question,’ I added. ‘I should have asked it of Mistress Trenowth, but unfortunately her sister came in and I forgot. Although I have to admit that I wouldn’t expect her to have known the answer any more than I expect you to know it now. Nevertheless, you might have some idea, some opinion of your own.’

Joanna Cobbold raised her eyebrows. ‘And what is this question? I must say that you seem very interested in this murder, Master Chapman.’

I ignored her last remark and continued, ‘I’m assuming that you know all the circumstances leading up to the killing. Mistress Trenowth, I feel sure, confided in you as she has since done in me.’ When Joanna nodded, I went on, ‘In that case, you must be aware that the day prior to the murder, Beric Gifford had made it clear to Master Capstick that nothing, neither blandishments nor threats, would persuade him to marry any girl but Katherine Glover. He was very angry with his great-uncle, and, according to Mistress Trenowth, physically attacked the old man. But, in the end, not much harm was done and he rode home to Modbury.’

Joanna shifted her position and leant against the outer wall of the cottage, as though her back was hurting. ‘Well?’ she demanded curtly.

‘I was only thinking,’ I said, ‘that anger arising out of a quarrel usually cools with time and distance, especially if a person is conscious of having won the argument. But in this particular instance, even though he had had a night’s sleep to calm him, Beric got up at first light the following morning and, without making the smallest attempt at secrecy, rode back to Plymouth with the fell intent of murdering his great-uncle in cold blood. Now, what could possibly have happened between his arrival home the previous day and his departure some ten or twelve hours later, to make him act in such a way?’

Mistress Cobbold was interested in spite of herself. A few moments ago, her growing impatience had been palpable, but now she pushed herself away from the cottage wall and came to stand by the paling again, so that we were once more directly facing one another.

‘Perhaps,’ she said at last, after careful consideration of the matter, ‘Beric didn’t really believe that Master Capstick would carry out his threat to change his will that very afternoon. He knew that if he continued to defy him, his great-uncle would indeed alter his will, but didn’t think he would do so immediately. He thought it an idle boast and not one to be taken seriously. And as far as I can recall Mistress Trenowth’s story, she had not left the house to fetch the lawyer before Beric quit it.

‘No,’ I agreed. ‘My recollection is the same. So, your theory is that Master Gifford determined to kill his great-uncle before, as he thought, Oliver Capstick actually carried out his threat to change his will. But if that is so, why did Beric commit the murder so openly? Surely, secrecy was vital to such a plan. All the money in the world was no good to him once he had put a noose around his neck.’

Joanna looked crestfallen as she was forced to confront this new problem, but after a little consideration, she perked up again.

‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I take your point. In that case, he killed Master Capstick so that his sister could inherit the money straight away. Valletort Manor — so I understand — is falling down around their ears, and he wants to marry Katherine Glover. But she won’t bring him any dowry. He decided that if he ate Saint John’s fern, he could become invisible at will and so escape the consequences of his crime. Later, in a year or so, maybe, when the hue and cry has died down and people have more than half-forgotten about the murder, he and Katherine Glover can escape to France or Brittany or maybe even further — perhaps as far as Scotland — where no one knows them or their history, and they can live comfortably on the money that Berenice has shared with them.’

‘That is, if she is willing to share her inheritance with her brother. And you’re forgetting that by then she might well be married to this Bartholomew Champernowne, to whom she claims to be betrothed. He might not be willing for his wife to divide her fortune.’

Nevertheless, this particular argument would have had a certain merit had I for one moment truly believed in the magic properties of Saint John’s fern. But, I thought suddenly, supposing there was a secret hiding place somewhere on Valletort Manor itself or in the surrounding countryside; a place known only to the Gifford family, the knowledge of its whereabouts passed on under oath of secrecy from father to son. Such a theory would by no means answer all the questions that needed to be asked about Oliver Capstick’s murder, but it seemed to me to be as close an answer to the riddle as I was going to get at present.

I leant across the paling and lightly kissed Joanna Cobbold’s cheek. ‘Thank you,’ I said.

She flushed with pleasure, but looked bewildered. ‘What for?’ she wanted to know.

‘I think your second idea might contain some seeds of truth,’ I told her. ‘And without you, I shouldn’t have seen the possibilities.’

Her face turned an even deeper shade of pink and she grew flustered. ‘I must go and find out what my two young limbs of Satan are up to,’ she said hurriedly, holding out her hand. ‘Goodbye, chapman. Don’t forget to visit my father if ever you’re Tavistock way. He would be most disappointed if you didn’t.’ And she disappeared into the cottage.

I smiled to myself, hitched up my pack, grasped my cudgel firmly in my right hand and made my way out of Plymouth by Martyn’s Gate.

* * *

I crossed Bilbury Bridge and took the road eastwards. Noticing the Carmelite Friary on my left, I remembered Joanna Cobbold’s words concerning a husband and wife who lived nearby, and who claimed to have recognized Beric Gifford as he passed their door, both going towards, and, later, returning from Martyn’s Gate.

I glanced around me, but there was only one dwelling anywhere near the friary, and that was a single-storey, stone-tiled cottage some hundred yards further on, on the opposite side of the track, close to the shoreline. It was surrounded by a small garden in which grew a plentiful supply of samphire and sea beet, both good for the cooking pot, and, I guessed, the occupants’ means of livelihood, sold by them either in Plymouth market or door to door.

While I hesitated, wary of intruding, the goodwife emerged from her cottage carrying a knife, and began to cut the now flowerless plants, stripping them of their fleshy leaves which she packed, layer upon layer, into a basket. She glanced up briefly as I approached, then, finding me of no great interest, stooped once more to her task.

I coughed in order to attract her attention, and when she again looked up, I asked politely, ‘Do you need anything today, Mistress? Needles, thread? Silks, laces? Knives or spoons?’ I slid my pack from my back and shook it enticingly.

It was her turn to hesitate while she considered. Then, reaching a decision, she jerked her head towards the cottage door and said, ‘Come inside.’

After the brightness of the afternoon sun, the interior of the little house was very gloomy, and all I could see for several moments was a galaxy of stars and whirling orange circles. When my sight cleared, however, the first thing I noticed was a table ranged against one wall, and a man sitting at it, having a meal and, at the same time, counting a pile of coins. The latter he quickly whisked out of sight, into his pocket, as soon as he saw me.

‘A pedlar, Jacob,’ the woman said, ‘come to show us his wares. Clear the table, now, so he can spread them out.’ And, with a single movement of her arm, she swept aside the tin plate and mug from which her husband was eating and drinking. The man seemed used to this sort of treatment and made no demur, except to grimace at me when he thought his wife wasn’t looking. I smiled at him sympathetically.

‘I haven’t all day,’ the woman admonished me sharply. ‘I’ve more harvesting to do before sundown, so just let me see what you’re selling.’

I unbuckled the straps of my pack and laid out its contents for her inspection. Whilst I did so, I cudgelled my brains for the most natural way in which to introduce the subject of Oliver Capstick’s murder and their sighting of Beric Gifford. In the end, though, I need not have worried. It was the man, Jacob, who mentioned the subject without any prompting from me.

‘You’ve been hawking your goods around Plymouth, have you? Not much joy to be had there, I’ll be bound. Tight-fisted lot! Never want to pay a fair price for anything. Which way have you come? By Martyn’s Gate and Bilbury Bridge?’ I grunted assent and he went on, ‘Did you happen to notice a house just inside the gate, painted red and gold? There was a very nasty murder there, five months back. At the very beginning of May it was. The owner, Oliver Capstick by name, was bludgeoned to death by one of his own kinfolk; by his own great-nephew, Beric Gifford.’

‘I did hear something of the story,’ I said, keeping a close eye upon the goodwife who, I felt, was not above slipping one or two of the smaller items into her apron pocket while my attention was engaged elsewhere. ‘There seems to be no doubt in anyone’s mind that the killer was this young man you’ve mentioned. And yet surely it would be too foolhardy for anyone to commit such a crime so openly. Perhaps people are mistaken as to his identity.’

‘There’s no mistake,’ the goodwife said tartly, picking up and putting down a length of cream silk ribbon on which she left earthy fingermarks. ‘Jacob and I both saw him that very morning, the first time on his way to do the deed, and the second time on his way back.’

‘And you’re certain that it was Master Capstick’s great-nephew? You know him well enough, do you, to recognize him? You weren’t persuaded into thinking it was him, after others has named him as the culprit?’

The goodwife swelled up like a frog and almost burst with indignation.

‘How dare you question my judgement?’ she cried. ‘Why, I’ve known Beric Gifford since he was in his cradle, even if my husband hasn’t. Before I wed Jacob, I was laundress to Mistress Gifford, who died, poor thing, when Beric was born. And since my marriage, many and many’s the time I’ve seen him and his sister pass by on their way to visit Master Capstick. They both knew us by sight as well as we knew them, and Beric would always wave to us if we were outside the cottage. Not recognize him, indeed! What would you know about it?’

‘And did you ever think him capable of murder?’

The goodwife took a sudden, deep breath and looked unhappy. ‘Of course I didn’t! You can’t imagine someone you know — ’ she did not add the words ‘and like’ although I could tell that they were on the tip of her tongue — ‘doing something as … as horrible as that.’

‘So why do think he did it?’

She shrugged. ‘There’s talk in the town of a family quarrel. Something to do with his great-uncle wanting him to marry money and Beric wanting to marry his sister’s maid.’

‘Money’s really at the bottom of it, you can be certain of that,’ the man, Jacob, said, patting his pocket and making the coins in it jingle. ‘There are more murders committed for money than love.’

His wife snorted. ‘And what would you know about love, pray? Answer me that!’

I decided it was time I left before a family dispute erupted and entangled me in its coils. ‘Have you found anything you wish to buy?’ I asked the goodwife.

She shrugged. ‘No. Put your stuff away. There’s nothing there that tempts me.’

In normal circumstances, I should have been irritated by this contemptuous dismissal of my wares, especially after so much careless handling of them. But I had not come to sell and had learnt what I wanted to know. The goodwife and her husband were both as sure that they had seen Beric Gifford on the day of Master Capstick’s murder as were Mistress Trenowth and Joanna Cobbold.

As I gathered my goods together and restored them to my pack, I asked, ‘You say that this young man always waved to you as he passed your cottage. Did he do so on the morning of the murder?’

The couple looked at me in some surprise, and then at one another.

‘Yes, I fancy that he did, now that you remind me of it,’ the woman said at last. She laughed. ‘Odd, when you come to think of it, considering what he must have had on his mind.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Can you remember, Jacob? You were with me in the garden when he rode by. Did Master Gifford wave to us? Your memory’s better than mine.’

Jacob thoughtfully scratched one side of his nose. ‘I believe you’re right,’ he finally agreed. ‘He did wave, the first time, same as he always does. Force of habit, I suppose. But not on the way back.’ He slewed round on his stool, repeating Joanna Cobbold’s observation almost word for word. ‘You seem very interested in this murder, chapman.’

I fastened the straps on my pack. ‘It’s an intriguing case,’ I said. ‘From what I learnt in Bilbury Street, the young man has never been brought to justice, although everyone believes him to be responsible for the crime. He has, it seems, disappeared without trace, in spite of the posse being after him before his great-uncle’s body was cold. Some people reckon that he’s eaten Saint John’s fern.’

The goodwife gave another of her raucous laughs. ‘Gone abroad more like. France, perhaps. Or Brittany, to join that troublemaker, Henry Tudor.’

Her husband said nothing, but crossed himself.

‘I’m sorry there was nothing here to your liking, Mistress,’ I said as I shouldered my pack. ‘Another day you could be luckier. If I’m ever this way again, I’ll knock on your door.’ But privately, I vowed never to go near them if I could help it. They had not even offered me a cup of water, let alone a stoup of ale. They might be down on their luck, but most poor people observed the laws of hospitality.

‘We shall be pleased to have your company,’ the goodwife said with a small, secretive smile of satisfaction. And I guessed then that she had managed to pocket some item from amongst my stock while I wasn’t looking. I should discover later what was missing.

At the cottage door, I paused and looked back at the husband, who had taken the coins from his pocket and was once more counting them.

‘You say Beric waved to you when you first saw him, riding into Plymouth, but not on the return journey. On that occasion, did either of you call to him, or try to attract his attention?’

Jacob looked up and frowned. ‘Are you still here?’ He laid a protective hand over his pile of money. ‘There wouldn’t have been any point calling out to him. He was riding as though all the devils in Hell were at his heels.’

The goodwife nodded in corroboration. ‘He was riding so fast that he was having difficulty in controlling that great brute of a horse of his. Just for a minute, I thought he was going to be thrown.’

‘But other than that, there was nothing suspicious in his appearance? You didn’t notice any blood on his clothes, for instance?’

‘We’ve told you,’ the man said crossly, reaching for his tin cup and draining the dregs, ‘he was riding so fast there wasn’t time to notice anything.’ And with that, he hunched the shoulder nearest to me, indicating that I should get no more from him. I had outstayed my welcome.

I said my farewells and, a few minutes later, was back on the road and once again walking eastwards.