The Saint John's fern

Chapter Fourteen

I walked back across the slowly widening causeway of sand that linked Burrow Island to the mainland at ebb tide. Above me, the gulls wheeled and called, or floated aimlessly like scraps of torn parchment, while oystercatchers and redshanks waded in the shallows, pecking hungrily at whatever flotsam had been thrown up by the sea. Ahead of me, thin grasses crested dunes that gave shelter to a cluster of slate-roofed cottages, built just above the high-water line. Boats lay upturned on rocks veined with yellow seaweed, fishing nets stretched across them to dry. And I knew that on the far side of the headland was another fishing community, larger, because more protected, than the one directly in my line of vision, where I could already see and hear signs of life. Smoke rose into the still air through the holes in the cottage roofs and early morning sounds threaded the silence.

I had been in no hurry to reach the mainland, my feet dragging as my thoughts raced, trying to assess the significance of what Brother Anselm had told me. Bevis Godsey was related to Katherine Glover, which solved the problem of how he was acquainted, or had come into contact, with Beric Gifford. It also explained why he would be willing to do some service or favour for a man whom he must know to be wanted for cold-blooded murder. What was less clear was why he had been paid with Beric’s thumb ring rather than with money from Berenice Gifford’s purse.

Enlightenment dawned with the realization that Bevis himself might well have chosen this method of recompense. Such a possession would give him status, confer on him an aura of that prosperity which had, in fact, eluded him. At the same time, he could not admit how he came by the ring without revealing Beric’s presence close at hand, so a story had to be concocted for friends and neighbours that would satisfy their curiosity. But the story with which I, a nosy stranger, had been regaled had been a spur-of-the-moment tale, neither well thought out nor well rehearsed, fading from his memory almost as soon as it was told. This strongly suggested to me that Bevis had not owned the ring for very long, and that he had done the favour for Beric Gifford only that previous day, probably sometime within the last twenty-four hours. Beric, therefore, was not very far away, possibly skulking within the pale of Valletort Manor, which, in itself, would have sparked Bevis Godsey’s emphatic denial of having been there yesterday.

I recalled the strange feeling of lurking evil that I had experienced on waking up in the clearing. Had Beric been close to me then, observing me from some concealed vantage point amongst the trees? And later, when, from the bluff above the manor house, I had seen Katherine Glover crossing the courtyard, had he been hiding in one of the outbuildings? Was it possible that she had actually been on her way to visit him then? At the thought, the hairs rose on the nape of my neck and I shivered.

It was now fully daylight, and a fisherman had emerged from one of the cottages to mend his net, which clearly showed two gaping holes. I hailed him as I approached.

‘Good morning! Do either you or your goodwife need anything from my pack, I wonder?’

He jumped when he heard my voice and demanded belligerently, ‘Where have you sprung from?’

‘The island. I spent the night as a guest of the monks.’

‘It was you, then.’ His tone was surly. ‘I was told that a stranger had crossed the causeway late yesterday afternoon. One who was nearly caught by the tide.’

There was very little, probably nothing, that passed unnoticed, or that was not immediately made common knowledge, in this tiny, tightly knit community of fishermen.

‘I got wet feet, certainly,’ I admitted. ‘But the brothers were hospitable, as always. I was soon fed and made comfortable again.’

The man peered at me suspiciously. ‘Been here before, have you?’

‘Once. A long time ago. Now, would your goody be interested in my wares, do you think, or shall I try elsewhere?’

He gave a nod of his head towards the nearest cottage. ‘You can ask her,’ he conceded grudgingly, and returned to mending his nets.

The goodwife, a plain, almost ugly woman, proved far friendlier and more loquacious than her husband, a fact that was explained within the first few minutes of our acquaintance, when she volunteered the information that she was a ‘foreigner’ from Plymouth.

‘You must find this existence extremely lonely, then,’ I said, drawing up a stool and opening my pack. I spread out its contents on the rough wooden table.

‘I do,’ she sighed, before adding frankly, ‘but when God has given you my looks, and you’ve no money either, you can’t pick and choose a husband. You take what’s on offer and are thankful for it.’

Not for the first time, I reflected how unfairly the dice were loaded against women in the game of life; how brutally their fate was governed by chance. (This is true of men also, I suppose, but to a far lesser degree. Far less.)

I watched while she lovingly fingered some lengths of damask ribbon before sadly abandoning them in favour of more practical considerations, like needles and thread. While she examined the rest of the items, I glanced around the single, sparsely furnished room in search of some means of pushing our conversation in the direction in which I wished it to go, and found inspiration in a row of apples set out to finish ripening on a shelf.

‘Fine fruit! You’ve had Master Godsey here, I can see. He certainly gives value for money.

The goodwife glanced up. ‘Do you know Bevis?’ she asked in some surprise.

‘We spent the night together in the guesthouse on the island. He was caught by the tide because he stayed talking too long with Brother Anselm.’

She laughed. ‘That makes good sense. He’s a great talker, is Bevis.’

‘And a member, or so I’m told, of the Glover family. Are they among your neighbours hereabouts?’

The woman shook her head. ‘They live in the cove on the western side of the headland.’ She looked sideways at me, a furtive gleam in her dark eyes. ‘You know the history of Katherine Glover, I suppose? Nowadays, there aren’t many folk from these parts who don’t.’

I didn’t enlighten her as to my origins. ‘You mean since the murder of Master Capstick,’ I suggested, ‘and the subsequent disappearance of Beric Gifford?’

My companion crossed herself hurriedly and whispered, ‘The Sheriff’s men won’t find him, you know. He’s eaten Saint John’s fern.’

‘So I’ve heard it said.’ I rested my elbows on the table and cupped my chin in my hands. ‘A fisherman’s daughter seems a strange choice of a wife for a young man such as Master Gifford.’

‘Everyone predicted that no good would come of it. But it was really her fault. Berenice Gifford’s, I mean. She was the one who took a fancy to Katherine in the first place, and insisted that she go to live at the manor as her maid.’

‘How did she come to notice the girl?’ I enquired.

‘The Glovers have always supplied Valletort Manor with fresh fish every Friday, and on fast days in general. Whenever it’s been safe for the boats to put to sea, that is. Jonas Glover or his wife used to carry part of the night’s catch up to the house themselves until about a year ago, when Katherine started doing it for them. And not long afterwards, Berenice Gifford asked her to be her personal maid. It was a recipe for trouble, everybody said so. Katherine’s a very beautiful girl. It was inevitable that Beric would be attracted to her, although no one expected that he would want to make her his wife.’

‘Why was Berenice Gifford in need of a maid?’ I wondered. ‘What happened to her previous attendant? She must have had one, surely?’

‘Oh, yes! A woman who had been at the manor in her father’s lifetime. Constance Trim. But Constance’s own father died and his widow was left with very little money to live on. Constance felt it her duty to go back to Modbury and look after her mother. She’s an excellent seamstress, I believe, and can earn enough to support them both.’

‘Have you ever seen Beric Gifford and Katherine Glover together?’

‘Three or four times,’ the goodwife admitted. ‘Maybe oftener. The last occasion was a couple days before the murder. I’d been picking mushrooms in the meadows and woods near Valletort Manor.’ She broke off, eyeing me askance, guessing that I knew as well as she did that it was against the law then, as it is now, to gather field mushrooms, because the death cap can so easily be slipped in among the rest; a simple way to poison someone and make it seem an accident.

I returned her gaze blandly. ‘Beric and Katherine must be very much in love,’ I prompted, ignoring the latter part of what she had just told me.

‘He certainly is with her,’ the goodwife agreed, smiling gratefully. ‘On each occasion that I saw them together, it seemed to me that he couldn’t make enough fuss of her. I reckon he dotes on her, and that’s a fact.’

‘And would you say that she is as affectionate as he is?’

My companion hesitated. After a moment’s reflection, she said, ‘Perhaps not. But then, there’s always one of every twosome who’s more loving than the other.’ The touch of bitterness in her voice suggested that she spoke from personal experience. ‘Don’t misunderstand me, though,’ she went on quickly. ‘She appears fond enough of him. But I suspect that she was even fonder of the prospect of being mistress of Valletort Manor. It was something she would never have believed possible, not in her wildest dreams. But, of course, that’s all over now.’

I suddenly recalled Stephen Sherford’s words. ‘It seemed to me that he was more in love with her than she with him.’ And now here was corroboration of his suspicions. But he had also implied, in contradiction, that Beric would tire of his betrothed before she did of him, although that, I was sure, had been mere wishful thinking. Stephen Sherford had made it plain that he did not like Katherine Glover, and I had a feeling that the goodwife, if pressed, would agree with him. If it came to that, I was uncertain whether or not my own impression of her had been favourable, but was unable to make up my mind.

‘What do you think they will do?’ I asked. ‘As you’ve just pointed out, there’s no prospect of their ever being master and mistress of Valletort Manor now.’

My companion shrugged. ‘Who can say? There’s only one thing certain: Beric Gifford’s thrown away his uncle’s fortune, his home and his safety all for the sake of a moment’s revenge, a momentary satisfaction. But he’ll live to rue it. He’s bound to. No man could let all that slip through his fingers and not go mad with regret. In time, he’ll probably grow to hate Katherine Glover, and then I wouldn’t give a fig for her life. A man who’s committed one murder won’t balk at a second.’

‘Don’t you think he might have gone abroad?’ I said. ‘Don’t you think he might be in France or Brittany?’

‘No,’ was the positive reply. ‘He’s eaten Saint John’s fern and made himself invisible.’

‘You seem very sure of that.’

The goodwife hesitated, obviously debating with herself whether or not to say more. Then she took a deep breath and, lowering her voice, confided, ‘My husband doesn’t like me to talk about the murder because it involves one of our community. One of their community,’ she amended wryly. ‘I’m not one of them, and never have been. One day, I’ll run away, back to Plymouth, and they’ll never see me again.’

‘Go on,’ I urged, when she seemed inclined to fall into a reverie of escape and freedom. ‘What is it that you were going to say?’

‘Say? Oh, yes! Well, I go for walks. Long walks, inland, picking berries and … and mushrooms,’ she added defiantly. ‘They help eke out our diet of fish, and more fish, in between Bevis Godsey’s visits. A week or so gone, near Valletort Manor, I saw Beric Gifford’s cloak hanging on the broken branch of a tree. It scared me almost witless. He could have been standing right next to me, invisible, and I shouldn’t have known so I took to my heels as fast as I could. But then, when I’d gone a little distance, curiosity got the better of me, although I can hardly believe now that I was such a fool. But I was. I crept back, scarcely able to breathe because I was so frightened, to see if he’d materialized once I was out of the way.’

‘And had he?’ I asked, carried along on the tide of her credulity.

‘No,’ she was forced to admit. ‘But his cloak had gone!’ Her eyes glistened with excitement. ‘He’d been there all right, visible or not, and taken it away with him when he left.’

‘And you’re sure that the cloak belonged to Beric Gifford?’

‘I’ve seen him wearing it. Brown velvet, lined with pale blue sarcenet. A bit shabby and rubbed around the neck, but otherwise smart enough.’

At that moment, the cottage door opened and her husband came in, his leathery features puckered in suspicion.

‘You’ve been a fair while, chapman. What’s going on? There can’t be that much that my goody’s needing.’ He eyed the woman sharply. ‘You’ve not been gossiping, I hope! I’ve told you! We keep ourselves to ourselves here. We don’t want every passing traveller knowing all our business.’

The goodwife picked up a reel of coarse thread. ‘I’ll take this,’ she said, looking at me imploringly, begging me to reveal nothing of our conversation.

I thanked her and began putting the rest of the things back into my pack.

‘We’ve been talking about London,’ I lied cheerfully. ‘I was there a few months ago and your wife wanted to know all about the latest fashions.’

The fisherman snorted in derision, but made no further comment. He was determined, however, not to leave us alone together any longer, and waited doggedly for me to quit the cottage, following me outside and closing the door behind us. I wished him good day and, as the tide had not yet receded far enough for me to walk round the headland, I scrambled up the rocky, boulder-strewn path to the top of the cliff and made my way across the promontory until I could look down into the cove on its other side.

A similar, but larger, huddle of slate-roofed cottages nestled against the rising ground at its back, and now that the sun was beginning to mount in the sky, there was greater activity amongst the fishermen and their families. This was a slightly more prosperous community than its neighbour because a little less exposed to the elements. And in one of those cottages Katherine Glover had been raised.

I hitched up my pack and started on the rocky descent to the shore.

* * *

Of the dozen or so dwellings that straggled around the cove and a little way up the hill behind it, I discovered, in the course of the next hour, that no less than seven were occupied by Glovers and their kinsfolk, all related to one another by either blood or marriage. And it was rapidly made plain to me that any mention of the murder, or the Giffords, and especially of Katherine herself, would be met with instant expulsion from whichever cottage I happened to be in. Indeed, by the time I reached the seventh one, I was met on the threshold by an angry deputation, led by a middle-aged couple, whom I guessed to be Katherine’s parents.

‘Get out! Go on! Leave us alone! We don’t want you here!’ the man said, in a voice that was all the more threatening for being quiet and restrained.

There was a muttered assent from the score of people gathered at his back, and I noticed uneasily that several of the men were brandishing some evil-looking clubs, three or four of them exactly like the one described to me by Mathilda Trenowth as being the murder weapon.

‘Be off with you!’ exclaimed the woman, whom I felt sure was Katherine’s mother; a fact that she confirmed a moment later. ‘My daughter warned us about you. She said that some nose-twitching pedlar might be around, asking questions about things that are none of his business. So we suggest that you go now, before we do something that you might live to regret.’

‘Or not live to regret,’ her husband added softly.

Once more, I felt the hairs rise on the nape of my neck. Years ago, I had had experience of the ruthlessness of these people, and I had no wish to be the victim of their prejudice and hatred.

‘Very well!’ I said, with as much bravado as I could muster. ‘If that’s how you feel, I shall leave at once. I’ve no desire to stay where I’m unwelcome.’

‘Good,’ replied Katherine Glover’s father. ‘And don’t let any of us catch you round here again.’

I moved off, walking, I hoped, with dignity, but conscious all the while of those menacing figures behind me, and of those itchy fingers lovingly caressing their sticks. The rocky path led me upwards through a narrow ravine to the cliff top, and from there a track ran across the headland to disappear eventually into a belt of wind-blasted trees. Once within their shelter, I allowed my pace to slacken and then, feeling tired or, to be honest, somewhat weak-kneed from fright, I sat down on the damp, sandy ground, bracing my back against the trunk of an oak.

I was just recovering my composure and a little of my self-esteem, and wondering if the track I was on would eventually lead me to Valletort Manor, when I became aware of someone standing beside me. I glanced up to see a young girl, perhaps twelve or thirteen years of age, whom I had noticed a quarter of an hour earlier, on the edge of the crowd on the beach, and whose hazel eyes were now regarding me thoughtfully through a tangled mass of dark brown hair.

‘Do you want to know about Beric Gifford?’ she demanded baldly. ‘Well, I’ll let you into a secret. He’s invisible. He’s eaten Saint John’s fern.’

I sighed deeply. ‘So everyone keeps telling me.’

‘Oh.’ She sounded disappointed. She had obviously hoped that she was apprising me of something that I did not already know. She frowned, obviously cudgelling her brains for other information with which to capture my attention, and succeeded when she said, ‘I saw him. Beric Gifford, that is. On the day of the murder, it must have been, because the front of his tunic was stained with blood.’

‘You’re sure?’ I demanded excitedly, scrambling to my feet. ‘Are you positive that this was on the day of the murder?’

‘It was May Day.’ She smiled, delighted at having achieved her object. ‘He didn’t see me. He was with that Katherine Glover. All over one another, they were, pawing each other and kissing until it made me feel sick. I hate the Glovers,’ she added confidentially, thereby revealing the reason for her willingness to talk.

‘Where was this?’ I asked. ‘Where did you see Katherine and Beric Gifford?’

‘In the woods above Valletort Manor.’ Her frown returned and she thrust out her lower lip. ‘They were covered in dirt. They must have been rolling about on the ground. I can just imagine what they’d been up to!’

She spoke with the self-righteous disapproval of love-making that I have frequently noted in girls shortly before they blossom into womanhood. I reflected that given another year, or maybe even less than that, my young lady would have discovered for herself the pleasures of rolling about on the ground with a boy.

‘Why are you smiling?’ she demanded crossly.

I stooped and, parting the tangle of hair, kissed her gently on the forehead.

‘No reason,’ I lied. ‘Are you certain that the front of Beric Gifford’s tunic was stained with blood? Could you see it properly? How far away from him were you?’

‘I hid behind a tree when I saw them coming. They didn’t notice me, though they passed as close as I am to you now. They were too busy whispering and laughing together. I could see dark stains on the front of Beric’s tunic. At the time, I thought they were just more dirt, but later, when everyone was talking about the murder, I guessed what they must be.’

Here was confirmation of what Mathilda Trenowth claimed to have seen.

I asked, ‘Was Master Gifford wearing a hat?’

The girl nodded. ‘That black velvet one he always wore. Why do you want to know?’

I ignored her question and put another of my own. ‘And was this cap ornamented in any way?’

She thought for a moment or two before shaking her head. ‘No. I’m sure I should have noticed, because he’d pulled the cap right down over his head, almost covering the tips of his ears.’

‘What time of day was this?’

The girl laughed. ‘Jonas Glover was right about you. You’re a nosy one, aren’t you?’

‘What time of day?’ I persisted.

‘Nearly noon, I reckon. Most people had gone to the May Day feasting in Modbury, but my mother was angry with me about something or the other. I forget what. So I had been left behind.’

I sensed that she was beginning to lose interest, and felt that I had tested her patience long enough with my catechism. So, having ascertained from her that I was on the right track for Valletort Manor, I wished her good day and set off along the path.