The Saint John's fern

Chapter Ten

I awoke the following morning with aching limbs that felt as heavy as lead and an incipient headache that nagged behind my eyes.

It was as much as I could do to sit upright on the mattress, and my first thought was that I was suffering from an ague, contracted since coming into Devon. Then the truth dawned on me: I had had three disturbed nights, one after the other. Last night, Bartholomew Champernowne’s groom had tried to break into Jack Golightly’s cottage in order to kill me; the previous night, I had witnessed the nocturnal meeting between Katherine Glover and Beric Gifford at the Bird of Passage Inn; and the night before that again, I had paid a visit to Oliver Capstick’s house in Bilbury Street. Lack of rest was no good for either my wits or my strength, and I decided that when I said my morning prayers I should have to have a word with God about it. It was all very well for Him to give me these signs and show me the path that I must follow, but if I were to be of any use in doing His will, He really would have to allow me to get some sleep.

Jack was already up, frying thick, fatty slabs of bacon in a pan over the now brightly burning fire and, at the same time, stirring porridge which was bubbling away merrily in an iron pot.

‘You’ve slept a fair while,’ he remarked, as I yawned and stretched my arms until the bones cracked. ‘But you were so dead to the world that I didn’t like to wake you. Not that you look much better now, with those dark circles under your eyes. Go and stick your head in a bucket of water; it might revive you. There’s a stream that runs close to the animals’ pen. Breakfast’ll be ready when you get back.’

He was as good as his word, and by the time that I had washed and cleaned ny teeth with my willow bark, a bowl of gruel and a plate of bacon collops awaited me on the table. My host, seated opposite, had already started on his meal and greeted my return with a grunt, too busy eating to talk yet awhile. At last, however, he had cleared both plate and bowl, and patted his stomach with a sigh of repletion.

‘Are you still of the same mind today as you were yesterday?’ he asked. ‘Do you intend calling upon Master Sherford?’

I nodded. ‘And you? I can only hope you’re not of the same mind as you were yesterday as regards Bartholomew Champernowne. You’ve been kind to me and I like you. I’d hate to see you dangling at the end of a rope.’

‘That’s up to him,’ Jack replied grimly. ‘Don’t worry! I shan’t go searching him out, but if either he or that groom of his comes bothering me again, I might not be answerable for my actions.’

‘I doubt if he will come bothering you again,’ I said. ‘He’ll guess that I’ve gone on my way this morning, and I’m the one he’s after, not you.’

‘Take care, then,’ Jack warned. ‘Watch your back. Live by this maxim: never trust a Champernowne.’

‘Will he warn this Stephen Sherford, do you think, of my probable arrival? For he seems to know the name of everyone hereabouts who gave evidence to the Sheriff’s officers after Oliver Capstick’s murder. But even if he does, I fancy he’ll hardly try to buy Sherford’s silence, as he did yours and Gueda Beeman’s.’

Jack grimaced and picked his teeth with a rusty nail that he kept handy for the purpose. ‘He might go to see Master Sherford,’ he conceded, ‘but as you say, it’s unlikely he’d attempt to bribe him. That might be regarded as too insulting. But it’s likely he’d try to persuade young Sherford to have nothing to do with you for the sake of Mistress Gifford. Champernowne would appeal to his sense of chivalry in protecting a lady’s name from further calumny.’ Jack hesitated before adding, ‘If Master Sherford is the man you’re looking for, of course. We don’t know for certain that he’s the one. It could possibly be some other.’

I finished my bacon and swallowed a mouthful or two of ale. ‘But according to you there’s no one else in these parts who could have been a friend of Beric’s, so, in those circumstances, it’s worth paying Stephen Sherford a visit. And even if he proves not to be my man, it’s possible he can tell me who is.’ I stood up, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand, and gathered up my pack and cudgel. ‘I have to be on my way now. Many thanks for your hospitality. I shan’t forget you.’

Jack Golightly warmly clasped my proffered hand.

‘Take care,’ he urged again. ‘You’re a good man, even if you do support that usurper Edward of Rouen, and all the tribe of the House of York.’ He grinned. ‘Tread carefully, and I hope you bring Beric Gifford to justice. You’re right. There’s no excuse for killing an old, defenceless man, whatever he may have done. God be with you, chapman, and I trust we’ll meet again one day.’

He accompanied me to the door of the cottage, where he once more shook my hand before giving me instructions how to reach Edmeston and the home of Sir Anthony Sherford.

* * *

I crossed the River Erme by Sequers Bridge and then followed a track that wound its way between the trees in a slightly northerly direction. I had gone less than half a mile when, as Jack Golightly had predicted, I came upon Sir Anthony Sherford’s dwelling.

Sir Anthony was obviously a man of some substance, for a great many new buildings, a few of very recent construction judging by the rawness of the timber and the cleanliness of the stonework, had been added to the original house. This latter I guessed to be several centuries old and was built foursquare around a central courtyard and above an undercroft well stocked with provisions for the coming winter. There were also a number of servants in evidence, one of whom came forward briskly at my approach.

‘Take yourself off to the kitchen, chapman. Either the cook or the housekeeper may have need of your goods. And if you have anything they think Lady Sherford might want, Dame Isabelle, the housekeeper, will let her know.’

‘I was hoping,’ I said, standing my ground, ‘to have a word with young Master Sherford.’

The man was truculent. ‘What do you want with him? He’ll not be interested in your fripperies or your knives and spoons. Get away to the kitchen with you!’

‘I’d like to speak to Master Sherford, none the less,’ I repeated and, diving my hand into the pouch at my waist, I produced a coin, turning it over suggestively between my fingers.

The man, who had once more opened his mouth to refuse me, stood, suddenly irresolute, but with avarice winking in his dark brown eyes.

‘What do you want with Master Stephen?’ he demanded.

‘That’s my affair.’ I handed over the coin, but then it struck me that I might be making a fool of myself and I added, ‘If, that is, he’s a friend of Beric Gifford.’

The servant’s eyes widened abruptly, then one of them half closed in what might or might not have been a wink. At the same time, he slid the coin into his pocket. ‘Got a message from Master Gifford, have you?’ he asked in a carefully lowered voice. ‘D’you know where he is?’

I made no reply, pressing my lips firmly together as an indication that I was not prepared to say more. The man still hesitated, and I realized that I had probably been foolish to hand over the money before I had achieved my object. But after a moment or two, he indicated an upturned barrel just inside the courtyard entrance and said, ‘Sit there, and I’ll see if I can find the young master for you. Mind you,’ he added, swinging on his heel, ‘even if I do, I can’t guarantee he’ll be willing to speak to you.’

He went away and, ignoring his offer of a seat, I withdrew into the shadows of the courtyard archway. No one else seemed to evince any interest in me, for which I was thankful. I had no desire to be hauled off to the kitchen to display my wares to the cook and housekeeper, or to have to explain my business over again.

The day, as days in early autumn often do, had turned suddenly warm, although it was not yet ten o’clock. I began to sweat, but whether as a result of the unexpected heat or because I was feeling the effects of my three nights of broken sleep, I was uncertain. Or was it simply that the events of the small hours of this morning had shaken me more than I cared to admit, even to myself? I suddenly had a great yearning for my home, for Adela, for my children, but I put the longing from me. There was work for me to do here, or God would never have given me that inexplicable urge to come to Devon.

There was a slight bustle in the main doorway of the house, which stood immediately opposite the archway where I was sheltering. A young man appeared, following the servant to whom I had already spoken, and, after what were obviously a few words of dismissal to his attendant, walked towards me across the courtyard. As he drew near, I could see that he was about eighteen or nineteen years of age, tall and slender, with hair so fair that it was almost silver in colour, and eyes that were of such an intense dark blue that in some lights they looked nearly purple. He was dressed for riding, and I surmised that he had been fetched from the stables, his expression suggesting that he was none too pleased at the interruption to his morning’s plans.

I stepped out from the shadows and respectfully tugged at my forelock. Obsequiousness costs nothing and, in my experience often obtains me what I want with less effort than I should otherwise have to expend.

‘Master Sherford, I’m sorry to intrude upon your time in this fashion. It’s generous of you to take the trouble to speak to me.’

His annoyance was tempered with nervousness. ‘Matthew said you have a message for me from Beric Gifford.’ The eyes widened giving them the appearance of rain-drenched pansies. ‘I–I haven’t seen him, you know, not since the day he vanished, the … the day of … of the murder.’

I shook my head. ‘Your man got it wrong, sir. He assumed too much. I have no message for you from Beric Gifford. But from what you’ve just said, I’m right, am I not, in thinking that you were at one time his friend? You are the person who told the Sheriff’s officers that you saw Master Gifford near Sequers Bridge?’

Stephen Sherford nodded, now thoroughly bewildered. ‘I am. But what of it?’ The pale eyebrows arched themselves over those extraordinarily deep blue eyes.

Quite unexpectedly, I felt awkward and at something of a loss, for what possible reason could I give this young man for my interest in the murder of Oliver Capstick? I should have approached him sideways, like a crab, instead of tackling him face to face. I should have followed my usual course and gone to the kitchens, as the servant, Matthew, had instructed me to do, and while displaying the contents of my pack tried to discover what, if anything, was known by the cook and her helpers, or by the housekeeper, Dame Isabelle. I reflected wryly that I might also have made some money had I done so. The trouble was, I doubted if anyone but Stephen Sherford would be able to provide the answers to my questions.

‘I — er — I’m a — a friend of Master Capstick’s neighbours, John and Joanna Cobbold,’ I floundered. Stretching the truth a little further, I added, ‘They — er — they were fond of the old man. They — they’re anxious to see his murderer brought to justice. I–I promised them I would make such enquiries as I could on my travels.’

‘I don’t know where Beric is,’ my companion said sharply. ‘And I don’t want to, either. I want nothing to do with him. He was my friend, yes. But what he’s done is inexcusable. If he’s ever caught, he’ll hang.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t think what got into him. Oh, he has a temper when he’s roused, but I should never have thought him capable of murder! At least not that sort of murder. He might have killed someone in a fit of uncontrollable anger, but never in cold blood. It just shows that you never really know other people, not even when you’ve been friends with them for years.’

Master Sherford’s sudden outburst began to put me at my ease. I realized that he probably needed to talk about his erstwhile friend in an effort to make sense to himself of what had happened; so I withdrew a few more steps into the shadows of the archway where it was more difficult to be seen, hoping that he would follow me, which he did. His initial irritation had vanished and he seemed as eager now to chat as he had been reluctant hitherto.

‘That morning,’ I said, ‘the morning of May Day, when you saw him in the distance, near Sequers Bridge, do you remember if Beric was riding towards Plymouth or in the direction of Valletort Manor? Did you notice anything strange or odd about him?’

Stephen Sherford frowned and his eyes focused on me as though he had not really seen me before. He repeated the questions I was always being asked, had always been asked from my childhood onwards: ‘Why are you so interested? What has it got to do with you?’

‘I told you,’ I answered smoothly. ‘I promised John and Joanna Cobbold, who are Master Capstick’s neighbours, that I’d try to find out anything I could that might lead to Beric Gifford’s arrest.’ (One thing seemed plain enough at any rate, and that was that Bartholomew Champernowne had not warned Stephen Sherford of my advent, nor tried to persuade him not to speak to me.)

Fortunately, my new acquaintance seemed happy to accept this explanation without further questioning on that particular score and merely nodded his head.

‘What did you mean,’ he queried, ‘when you asked if I’d noticed anything strange or odd about Beric?’

I countered this with the question he had not yet answered. ‘In which direction was he riding?’

‘Towards Plymouth. It was very early. The dew was still thick on the grass, I remember, but I had been out maying with some of my father’s tenants. We were coming up from the woods below Sequers Bridge when I saw Beric in the distance. I called out to him but he must have been too far away to hear.’

‘You’re certain it was your friend?’

‘Of course! I recognized both Beric and his horse.’

‘And there was nothing different about either of them that you can recollect?’

‘No. I was a bit surprised that he didn’t hear my shout, but perhaps it was because Flavius — that’s his horse — was being especially mettlesome and it needed all Beric’s skill and attention to quieten him.’

‘Was there a particular reason for the horse’s behaviour, do you think?’

The delicate eyebrows rose once again. ‘Why should there have been? He’s always been a difficult brute, and it’s only Beric who can manage him. Moreover, he doesn’t take kindly to crossing bridges. Never has done. I remember on more than one occasion, Beric cursing the fellow who sold him Flavius for not mentioning the fact before he parted with him. Said he wouldn’t have bought him if he’d known.’

‘But on that morning of the first of May, was the horse being more difficult than usual?’ It had occurred to me that if Beric himself were jumpy and nervous because of his purpose when he reached his journey’s end, then that edginess might have conveyed itself to his mount, making the animal more recalcitrant than was customary.

Stephen Sherford considered my question. ‘Perhaps a little,’ he conceded at length. ‘Why do you ask? It can’t possibly have any bearing on what happened subsequently, can it?’ When I did not answer immediately, his irritation returned in full force. ‘Why are you wasting my time with this stupid interrogation? What’s the point of it?’

I nearly repeated to him what I had said to Jack Golightly about the dross and the diamond, but instead, I answered his query with one of my own.

‘What do you think has happened to Beric Gifford in these months since the murder of his great-uncle? Where do you believe he’s hiding?’

‘He’s escaped, of course. To France, if he’s any sense.’ The answer came all too pat.

‘Without Katherine Glover?’

Stephen shrugged. ‘Oh, I expect she’ll join him, sooner or later. That’s if he still fancies her after he’s met all those attractive Frenchwomen.’

It was on the tip of my tongue to point out that Katherine Glover was a very pretty girl, but I didn’t want to antagonize him further. Something in his tone, made me ask, ‘Don’t you like her?’

‘She’s his sister’s maid, for heaven’s sake!’ he retorted impatiently. ‘All right for a tumble in the hay, but not to marry!’

‘Did you tell him so?’

‘No, of course not! I wasn’t such a fool. I’ve told you, he has the devil of a temper when roused, and he believes himself very much in love with Katherine Glover.’

‘Is her lowly status the only charge you have against her, or is there some other reason?’

Stephen Sherford pursed his lips. ‘I’ve only seen her twice, each time in Beric’s company. But on both occasions it seemed to me that he was more in love with her than she with him. Oh, she was affectionate enough, kissing him and hanging round his neck, so I can’t really tell you what gave me that idea. It just crossed my mind that she might be using him for some purpose of her own.’

‘Such as?’

Again the irritation spurted. ‘How in God’s name should I know?’

I leant my back against the wall of the archway and waited while a carter with a full load of hay passed through. Once he was safely in the courtyard, with Sir Anthony’s servants swarming about him, I said, ‘Well, if you’re right, whatever purpose she may have had in view must now lie in ruins. She can hardly have expected him to become a permanent fugitive from justice. And from all that I can gather, she seems, so far at least, to have remained true to her lover.’ I did not add that I had received positive proof of Katherine Glover’s affection for Beric Gifford only the night before last.

There was another interruption as a couple of kitchenmaids hurried past on their way indoors, vegetables from the garden held up before them, cradled in their aprons. The pair of them glanced sidelong at us, then broke into giggles once they thought themselves safely out of earshot.

My companion flushed and said angrily, ‘I must be going. I’ve wasted enough of the morning as it is, talking to you.’

I remembered to be obsequious again, an objective I had almost lost sight of. ‘You have been most kind. I can’t thank you enough.’

He was mollified. ‘Have I been of any use to you?’ he queried.

‘I’m sure it will prove so,’ I assured him, ‘when I’ve had a chance to sort through all you’ve told me in my mind.’ As he turned to go, however, I laid a hand on his arm. ‘Forgive me, but there’s just one thing I haven’t asked on which I should be grateful to have your opinion. There are rumours, I’ve been told, that people claim to have seen Beric Gifford in this neighbourhood within the last few months. So could he, do you think, have eaten of Saint John’s fern?’

Stephen Sherford blinked at me for a second or two, then gave a shout of laughter. But it had, I thought, rather a hollow ring.

‘I don’t believe in any of that nonsense, do you?’

I smiled. ‘I have to admit that I’ve never met anyone who’s actually known anyone who’s eaten the hart’s-tongue fern and become invisible. But is that proof positive that it hasn’t happened to someone, somewhere, at sometime?’

‘I should say so, yes.’

‘Then where is Beric Gifford hiding? For he’s still in the neighbourhood, you can take my word for it. I saw him the night before last.’

My companion gave me so incredulous a glance that I was forced for the sake of my own plausibility to explain the circumstances to him. When I had finished my story of Beric’s encounter with Katherine Glover, he slowly shook his head.

‘If what you say is true, then I have no idea where he can be. I thought him safe in France. Or in Brittany with Henry Tudor.’

It was the same answer that I had received from so many others. No one seemed able to suggest a hiding place close at hand where for months on end a man might defy all the forces of the law to find him. Stephen Sherford was plainly shaken by my revelation, and I exonerated him from any suspicion of pretence.

‘I must tell my father what you have told me,’ he said in trembling accents. ‘I have sisters. My parents would prefer them not to walk abroad unattended with a murderer loose in the vicinity.’ Friendship had obviously not survived the killing of an old man; nor, on reflection, did it deserve to. ‘Where will you go now?’ he added.

‘To Modbury first, to glean what I can there, and then to Valletort Manor.’ I picked up my pack and settled it on my shoulders. ‘That, after all, is where the answers must finally lie. I shall have to see what Mistress Gifford and Katherine Glover are able to tell me.’

‘You’ll get nothing from either of them,’ Stephen Sherford said as he began to move in the direction of the house. ‘His sister dotes on Beric. He can do no wrong in her eyes. And Katherine Glover knows how to keep her mouth shut. Ah, well! God be with you, chapman!’

I called after him, ‘You haven’t received a visit from Bartholomew Champernowne today, I presume? At least, if you have, you haven’t mentioned it.’

He paused, looking puzzled. ‘He wouldn’t dare to show his face here. My father and I dislike the fellow, and he knows it.’

‘Then I’ll wish you good day, Master Sherford.’

And I set out on the last leg of my journey.