The Saint John's fern

Chapter Six

It was, by now, late afternoon, and the golden-blue haze of the middle distance had lost its radiance. A fine mist was moving in from the sea, and it would soon be time to find shelter for the night.

On the advice of a passing cowherd, whose instruction I sought, I struck out in a south-easterly direction across the Cattedown peninsula that divides Sutton Pool from the mouth of the River Plym.

‘Ferry’ll take you over the Cattewater,’ the man told me, ‘to Oreston, on the other side. There’s a decent inn there, if you’re able to pay your board.’ He looked me up and down, while his cows, anxious to be milked, pushed and jostled one another along the homeward track, leaving him behind. ‘On the other hand, a strapping, good-looking young fellow like you could well get free lodgings if he’s civil to the landlord’s wife. She’s an eye for a handsome youth.’ And with a nod and a wink, he set off in pursuit of his cattle.

I called my thanks after his rapidly retreating back and continued along the path he had indicated. There had been a time, and what an age ago it seemed now — although, in truth, it was far more recent than I imagined — when I might have been excited by the prospect of an older woman’s admiration, but no longer. Nowadays, I was a happily married man, in love with my wife; and at the memory of Adela, I found myself striding out, grinning like an idiot. Then, as there was no one to hear me, I pursed my lips and began to whistle happily, if tunelessly. (For as I have said somewhere before in these chronicles, I’ve absolutely no ear for music, and my pitiful attempts at it can drive listeners into a frenzy.)

After a while, however, I fell silent and my pace slowed as my thoughts again reverted to the murder of Oliver Capstick. I was by now thoroughly convinced that Beric Gifford had not rendered himself invisible by eating the leaves of Saint John’s fern. Only the previous year, I had proved to my own satisfaction, as well as to that of others, that there could be a logical explanation for the disappearance of a young man, as if by magic. No, for me the most probable answer to the mystery was still that Beric had escaped to France or joined Henry Tudor in Brittany, and that he would presently send for Katherine Glover to join him. As for money, Berenice would see to it that her young brother and his future wife did not starve.

Yet the problem remained, why had Beric put himself in such an untenable position? He had gained nothing but a lifetime of exile and financial dependence upon his sister; a sister who was shortly to marry a high-stomached Champernowne. Of course, if it should prove necessary, there were plenty of ways in which a young man, in possession of his health and strength, could earn his living abroad, but why had Beric chosen to give up a pleasurable, leisured existence for one of constant hard work and insecurity? The simple answer, I supposed, was anger; that instant, uncontrollable rage which has caused many a man and — though far less frequently — woman to put a noose around his or her neck for the satisfaction of a single, brief moment of revenge.

But although Beric Gifford’s instant rage had resulted in his almost choking the life out of Oliver Capstick, he had been prevented from killing his great-uncle partly by Mistress Trenowth’s intervention, and partly, surely, by his own good sense and better judgement. ‘Suddenly, he dropped his hands to his sides and stood back,’ the housekeeper had told me. So why had he gone away, only to return the next morning in order to resume his murderous business? Something must have happened that last day of April, after he reached Valletort Manor, to rekindle his anger and make him determined to complete the deed; something that had so inflamed him that he had grown careless of all normal precautions to conceal his identity, causing him to ride out there and then to finish what he had failed to do the previous afternoon.

Following this line of reasoning, it was possible to assume that Beric, filled with an all-consuming hatred, had not paused to consider the consequences of his action until he was on his way home again. The realization that he had been seen and recognized beyond the slightest shadow of a doubt, and the knowledge that, in the circumstances, it would not be long before a Sheriff’s posse was hard on his heels, must have hit him like a thunderbolt, making him urge his mount forward at breakneck speed. Small wonder, then, if the resentful animal had tried to throw him, for the horse was probably unused to such harsh treatment from his master.

But however much panic Beric was in, he must have decided on his course of action by the time he reached Valletort Manor, where Berenice and Katherine Glover would presumably have been awaiting his return in great anxiety. (It seemed to me unthinkable that they could have been ignorant of his intention towards Master Capstick, or of the reasons for it.) And whatever instructions had been issued by Beric had been carried out quickly and efficiently — perhaps even anticipated? — by his sister and her maid. Certainly, there was no sign of him by the time his pursuers arrived not long afterwards.

But this was as far, at present, as I was prepared to speculate. I must rein in my imagination for a while, until I had accumulated some facts to support my theory. And there were more important things to think about just at the moment, for while I had been descending Cattedown towards the stretch of shore where the ferry boat was beached, the sea mist had thickened and was now turning to a persistent drizzle. The breeze had freshened, too, and the daylight grown murky, presaging an evening of wind and rain. It never ceases to astonish me how swiftly the weather of that south-western coast can change, as happened on that October afternoon. It was less than an hour since it had been warm and sunny, but now, although the day was not greatly advanced, I was eager to seek out food and shelter and be under cover as soon as possible.

The ferryman, fetched from his cottage, was none too pleased to be called out in such inclement conditions, particularly as I was the only person in need of his services. But I promised to pay him double his usual fare if he would row me to the Oreston side, whereupon, although still muttering grumpily under his breath, he returned to his cottage, reappearing a few moments later in a thick, hooded frieze cloak. I had in the meantime wrapped my own cloak about me, and together we dragged the boat into the choppy water.

It was not a pleasant crossing, the wind and rain getting stronger and heavier with every minute, the waves lapping over the sides of the little vessel and drenching our feet. But, thanks to the ferryman’s skill, we arrived safely on the opposite shore, where I paid him his promised fee before waving him off on his journey homewards, silently thanking Heaven that I had not to endure it a second time. Then I turned and walked towards the inn, whose outline I could just make out, looming through the mist.

* * *

The Bird of Passage Inn stood in the lee of some arthritic, wind-blasted trees, whose remaining leaves were floating sadly to the ground to add to the piles already there. In sunlight, no doubt the place had a welcoming enough appearance, but in the murky dankness of a late, wet and misty autumn afternoon, its granite exterior looked somewhat cheerless. I approached it with no great enthusiasm, but a night’s lodging was all I required and it would probably prove sufficiently comfortable for that.

The inn was of modest proportions, but there was a stable to the left of the building; a row of three stalls that, I suspected, were rarely occupied, the Bird of Passage being primarily frequented by travellers on foot, using the ferry. But even as the thought entered my head, and just to prove how fallible my deductions could be, I heard the whinny of a horse coming from the stall closest to the inn. So, unless the animal belonged to the innkeeper, I was confident of having company at supper.

Sure enough, as I ducked my head beneath the lintel, I could see a woman sitting at a bench near the fire holding her slender hands to the blaze, the skirts of her coarse, woollen gown steaming gently in the heat. She looked around as I entered, and I was surprised to see again the person I had encountered an hour or so earlier, outside Oliver Capstick’s house. My fellow guest was none other than Katherine Glover.

For a moment or two, I was nonplussed as to why she was not much further ahead of me on the road to Modbury, until I realized that, travelling on horseback, she must have ridden some way northwards after passing through Martyn’s Gate, in order to cross the Plym. But, having done so, why she had returned to Oreston instead of striking out across country, I had no idea.

I took off my cloak and shook it, the raindrops iridescent in the firelight, before advancing to warm my own hands at the leaping flames.

‘We meet once more,’ I said, smiling.

Katherine Glover frowned. ‘I’m not aware that we have met before, sir,’ she answered.

This was a severe blow to my self-esteem, for most people remember me, if only because of my height. I should have to remember, when I got home, to tell Adela, who would laugh and say that I needed to be shorn of some of my conceit.

‘Outside Master Capstick’s house, in Bilbury Street,’ I reminded my companion. ‘You were having trouble turning the key in the lock of the front door, and I was able to do it for you.’ She inclined her head slightly, but made no response, so I continued with an assumed ignorance, ‘I imagined you to be well ahead of me by this time.’

‘You no doubt came by the ferry,’ she said. ‘I had to ride northwards a way, in order to cross the river by the Ebb Ford, at Crabtree.’

Curiosity made me impolite. ‘And you returned to Oreston?’ I frowned. ‘Surely there are easier ways of reaching Valletort Manor?’ I was half-hoping that she might reveal in which direction the manor lay.

Her face flushed a deep crimson, that had nothing to do with the heat of the fire.

‘You seem to have learnt a great deal about me, chapman. How do you know where I live?’

‘I spent last night with Mistress Cobbold, Master Capstick’s neighbour.’

Katherine Glover curled her lip. ‘That explains everything,’ she sneered.

‘I also have a passing acquaintance with Mistress Trenowth,’ I added.

The sneer became more pronounced. ‘Then you probably know as much about my affairs as I know myself.’ Katherine Glover, whose wide, grey eyes had been raised to mine, now looked away, staring into the heart of the fire. ‘As to why I didn’t ride straight home after crossing the ford, the answer is simple. It’s obvious that a storm is brewing. It was growing dusk early and those cross-country tracks are rough and lonely. It would be easy enough for the horse to stumble in the dark, and there are footpads and outlaws about to add to the danger. A woman on her own is never really safe. So I decided to ride here, to Oreston.’

I recalled my own crossing of the Ebb Ford the previous day, travelling in the opposite direction in the company of Peter Threadgold. ‘There’s an inn at Crabtree,’ I said, ‘to the best of my recollection.’

‘Well, I prefer this one,’ she snapped. ‘The owners are my uncle — my father’s brother — and his wife.’ She was angry now, as she had every right to be at my unwarranted questioning of her arrangements. ‘I’ll thank you to mind your own business and leave me to manage mine.’

At that moment, the landlord entered the taproom and, hearing Katherine’s raised voice, looked at me with hostility.

‘This pedlar annoying you, Kate?’ he demanded.

She hesitated, then shook her head. ‘It’s all right, Uncle. He’s come from Plymouth, and has been listening to gossip about Master Capstick’s death, with the result that he regards me as being under suspicion for harbouring a murderer. And he thinks this gives him the right to quiz me on all my movements. He’s not the first, however, nor will he be the last to make such an impertinent assumption.’

‘No, no!’ I protested feebly, knowing that she was right, and guessing that she had probably suffered from public calumny and intrusion into her affairs ever since the killing and Beric’s subsequent disappearance.

‘Well, if that’s the case, you can be on your way, chapman,’ the landlord informed me belligerently. ‘My niece has had enough to put up with from neighbours and folks in these parts generally, without perfect strangers giving her offence.’

‘Now, now, Maurice, let’s not be too hasty,’ said a voice behind him, and the goodwife of the establishment glided into view. A pair of very bright, almost black eyes looked me up and down, and the full, sensuous mouth curved into an approving smile. ‘Let’s not be turning good money away from the door. The lad didn’t mean to be inquisitive or rude, I’m certain. People’s interest is always aroused by a murder, and there’s no denying that Katherine’s name will be bandied about in connection with it, whether she likes it or not.’ She moved forward and laid a bony hand on my arm. ‘But whatever you’ve been told by the Plymouth gossips, our niece knows nothing of Beric Gifford’s present whereabouts, nor does she wish to. Her betrothal to him is at an end. Is that not correct, my dear?’ she added, glancing towards Katherine with raised eyebrows.

‘If you say so, Aunt Theresa,’ the girl answered, but did not turn her head.

‘I tender my apologies, Mistress,’ I said. ‘There is no possible justification for my prying into your affairs, or for questioning you as I did. I hope you’ll forgive me.’

‘Of course she will,’ the goodwife, whose name I now knew to be Theresa Glover, assured me before Katherine had a chance to reply. ‘That’s settled, then.’ She smiled at me. ‘Are you looking for a bed for the night, chapman? You’d be wise to stop here if you can afford it. The weather’s getting worse by the sound of it.’

At her words, we all paused to listen. Great gusts of wind, smelling of the sea, were hurling themselves against the shutters, which rattled dismally, like the loose teeth in an old man’s head. The rain drummed on the roof of the inn in a steady, relentless rhythm, and the quiet firelit taproom seemed a haven of warmth and security in the surrounding stormy darkness.

‘I’m hoping for supper as well as a bed, Mistress,’ I answered. ‘I can pay for both.’ And I patted the pouch at my belt.

Mistress Glover nodded briskly, not doubting my word. ‘In that case, I’ll go and prepare your room. As for food, there’s fish broth, half a cold capon, a pigeon pie, and some apple pasties that I baked myself only this morning.’

She hurried away, leaving me facing the still antagonistic landlord.

‘What do you say, Kate?’ Maurice Glover asked his niece after a moment or two. ‘Do you want him to stay? Because if you don’t out he goes, storm or no storm.’

‘Oh, let him stay,’ Katherine Glover answered indifferently. ‘He’s harmless enough. I can stand up for myself. Here, chapman, sit down and get dry.’

Her uncle grunted. ‘Oh well, if you’re happy … Do as she says, my lad. Sit down and I’ll fetch you a cup of ale.’ He took a wooden beaker from a shelf and went across to a row of barrels ranged against a wall of the room. Turning the tap of one of them, he filled the beaker with a flow of dark golden brown liquid, which he handed to me with the encouragement, ‘Drink up!’ and went away, presumably to help his wife.

‘I’m sorry I was so rude just now,’ I said, feeling the need to apologise yet again. ‘And, of course, had I realized from the outset that this inn belonged to your aunt and uncle, I should never have thought it strange that you chose to make your way here rather than remain at Crabtree.’

Katherine Glover shrugged, but made no answer, continuing to stare into the fire where the logs, shifting every now and again, revealed caverns of ruddy gold and sea-green-blue. She made it perfectly clear that she had no wish to indulge in further conversation, so I respected her silence, sitting down at the opposite end of the bench and stretching my long legs towards the flames. It was a silence that she maintained throughout supper, a meal shared with the landlord and his wife, there being no guests other than our two selves staying that night at the inn.

When we had finished eating, Katherine announced that she was ready for her bed, and, with a kiss for her uncle and aunt and a brief ‘Good night’ to me, went upstairs.

‘Your usual chamber,’ her aunt called after her, but there was no response.

Theresa Glover sighed. ‘This has been a bad business,’ she said. ‘Five months on, it’s still the talk of Plymouth, and the gossip shows no sign of dying down yet. Well!’ She rose to her feet and began collecting the dirty dishes together. ‘I told my brother-in-law and his wife at the time that no good would come of allowing Katherine’s betrothal to Beric Gifford. There was bound to be trouble over the inequality of the match. It stood to reason that old Oliver Capstick wouldn’t tolerate it, and he held the purse strings. Oh, it’s no good you frowning at me, Maurice, and shaking your head. The chapman’ll hear worse than that from other people, if he’s interested enough to listen. You go and make certain that all the shutters are secured against this wind. There’s one with a loose catch in the corner chamber, where I’ve put Roger.’ For she had prised my name out of me while we were having supper, and now used it, relishing the familiarity.

The landlord reluctantly departed to obey his wife’s instructions, grumbling to himself, but plainly used to doing as he was bidden.

When he had followed his niece upstairs and disappeared from view, I asked Theresa Glover, ‘What do you think has happened to Beric Gifford? The talk in Plymouth is that he’s eaten the leaves of Saint John’s fern and made himself invisible.’

I had expected her to deride this idea with all the contempt of which a strong-minded woman was capable. But, instead, she crossed herself and her eyes assumed a wary expression. ‘I suppose it is possible,’ she answered. She was silent for a moment, then said slowly, ‘The truth is, that there are some people in these parts — sensible people, not given to extravagant fancies — who are ready to swear that they’ve seen Beric. Not close to, perhaps, but recognizable, even though he was in the distance.’

‘I’d heard as much myself,’ I answered, ‘but was inclined to dismiss the possibility. But if these people are speaking the truth, then he must be in hiding somewhere, succoured by his sister and your niece.’

Theresa Glover shook her head emphatically. ‘Katherine has assured both her uncle and myself, as well as her parents, that she has done with Beric and never wants to see him again.’

‘Isn’t that what she would tell you?’ I asked sceptically. ‘Especially if she’s protecting herself and him.’

Mistress Glover looked uneasy, but said, ‘Katherine has always been very truthful, even as a child. Far too truthful on occasions, to my way of thinking.’

‘Everyone’s capable of lying,’ I argued, ‘particularly if he or she is guarding something or someone precious.’

My companion was loath to agree, but eventually admitted, ‘You could be right, I suppose.’

Her husband came back into the room, a disapproving look souring his face. ‘Still gossiping?’ he snapped. ‘I thought you’d have had these dishes cleared away and washed by now.’

If he had hoped to discomfit his wife, he was mistaken. ‘Are you certain that everything is secured upstairs?’ she countered waspishly. ‘Have you repaired that catch in the corner bedchamber?’

‘I’ve done my best,’ he answered sulkily. ‘It shouldn’t give you any trouble, chapman.’

I thanked him and said that, with his and Mistress Glover’s permission, I would retire. ‘It’s been a long day,’ I added: and indeed it seemed an age since my talk with Mistress Trenowth that morning. Moreover, my previous night’s sleep had been disturbed.

I was given a candle to light my way upstairs, and Theresa Glover insisted on accompanying me in order to show me my room. But when she would have entered with me to assure herself, as she said, that all was well, I bade her a firm good night and shut the door behind me.

As far as I could see, the Bird of Passage boasted only three bedchambers, and I guessed that the one at the front of the inn was used by the Glovers themselves. Its door stood wide open, showing an empty bed, whilst that of the chamber next to mine was tightly closed. Doubtless, the room was occupied by Katherine Glover, already sound asleep. There was little furniture in my own room, but the bed looked clean and comfortable and there was an iron chamber pot in one corner. Having relieved myself, I divested myself of most of my clothes and climbed thankfully between the sheets, tucking the coarse woollen blanket well up under my chin.

I lay for a little while, listening to the wind buffeting the house, soughing through the branches of the trees and rattling the shutters of my window. But I was too tired to stay awake for long, and with thoughts of Adela uppermost in my mind, I, too, was soon lost to the world.