The Saint John's fern

Chapter Fifteen

Once, Valletort had undoubtedly been one of the most important manors of the district; but the great disaster of the previous century, the terrible outbreak of bubonic plague that had ravaged the whole of Europe and decimated its population, in some instances wiping out entire villages, had led, as in so many other cases, to its decline. Many of the fields surrounding it stood fallow, or, having ceased to be tilled altogether for lack of manpower, were reverting rapidly to wasteland, being reclaimed by the encroaching woods. For, like many another family, the Giffords had of necessity stopped farming their demesnes because of soaring labour costs and the plunging market prices of crops and livestock.

Much of this I could see and guess for myself as the track from the cove brought me directly into the heart of the manor lands. A number of dwellings and smallholdings at which I halted in order to sell my dwindling supply of goods were occupied by tenants who, with practically no encouragement, delighted in admitting that their forefathers had been villeins, owing feudal allegiance and manorial service to the Giffords, and contrasting their own lot favourably with that of their ancestors. They were also eager to boast about the many shifts and ploys used by them to thwart the rent collectors; and it took very little imagination on my part to see how a lazy, self-indulgent landlord, such as Cornelius Gifford seemed to have been, would have preferred to live on his wife’s money rather than incur the expense and inconvenience of imposing a distraint upon his tenants’ goods.

I was urged to rest, eat and gossip so often that it was late afternoon, and the light already fading, before the manor house itself came into view, sheltered by its wooded bluff, its approach overgrown with scrub and thickly crowding trees. The entrance was through an archway, beneath a gatehouse showing dangerous signs of crumbling masonry. Beyond that lay the courtyard that I had observed the previous day. This was bounded on three sides by outbuildings and on the fourth by the house itself, the latter, in places, in almost as parlous a condition as the lodge.

I walked into the centre of this cobbled square and waited to be challenged, but for a while, nothing stirred. The silence was so intense that I could almost hear it, and even the birds seemed to have stopped singing. The wind, which had been blowing strongly across the open ground of the headland, barely ruffled my hair.

I remembered Jack Golightly telling me that there was a paucity of servants at Valletort Manor. His estimate had been only three, apart from Katherine Glover: an old nurse, an ancient, semi-blind steward and a groom who had been in the Giffords’ employ for many years. It was with considerable surprise, therefore, that, after what seemed like several minutes but was probably no more than one, I saw a woman approaching me across the courtyard, elderly, certainly, judging by the many lines on her face, but with an upright and vigorous carriage. At the waist of her dark grey homespun gown hung an imposing bunch of keys, indicating that she must hold the post of housekeeper.

‘Who are you? And what do you want?’ she demanded.

I explained my errand. ‘Mistress Gifford invited me here. She hoped, I think, to buy some of my goods if there was anything that took her fancy.’ I favoured the woman with my most ingratiating smile, but there was no lightening of her rather sour expression.

‘Indeed?’ she queried. ‘She has said nothing to me about it.’

‘Ask Mistress Glover,’ I suggested. ‘She knows. She was present when the invitation was given.’

The housekeeper’s features set in lines of rigid disapproval. ‘I ask Mistress Glover no more than I have to,’ was the uncompromising answer.

‘Thank you, Mistress Tuckett,’ said a quiet voice behind her, making the housekeeper jump and spin round. Neither of us had heard or noticed Katherine Glover’s approach.

The two women glared at one another with such naked hatred in their eyes that I wondered how Berenice Gifford could tolerate the presence of both under one roof. But it was the elder of the two who eventually backed down and moved away, proceeding at a stately pace towards one of the outbuildings and vanishing inside it.

‘Berenice has been expecting you,’ Katherine Glover said. ‘Follow me.’

I supposed the familiarity was natural since they were future sisters; but at the same time, I couldn’t help wondering what the relationship between them might be if the marriage of Beric and his betrothed never took place. Would Katherine Glover one day find herself returned to the poverty and squalor of her parents’ cottage, all her erstwhile hopes and dreams lying in ruins?

The main entrance to the house led straight into the great hall with its high-raftered roof and old-fashioned, central hearth. Large, tapestry-covered screens stood at either end of the room. The one inside the door by which Mistress Glover and I had just entered was, presumably, to keep out the courtyard draughts, whilst I supposed that the second helped lessen the smells of cooking that emanated from the kitchens. A minstrels’ gallery ran the length of one wall, above the high table on its carpeted dais. The remainder of the floor was rush-strewn, with a couple of chairs and stools providing the only alternative seating to a stone bench set beneath the windows. These latter displayed the hall’s only attempt at modernization, the upper halves having been glazed to let in more light. The lower, however, were still covered with the original oiled parchment.

I had seen a greater parade of wealth and material comfort in ordinary gentlemen’s homes in any town that I had ever visited; and there was little evidence to suggest that Berenice Gifford had so far spent much of her recently inherited wealth on Valletort Manor. But then, I reflected, she had not expected to be the recipient of her great-uncle’s fortune and would have made no plans what to do with the money when it was hers. She was probably still getting used to the idea of being a rich woman.

Berenice herself was sitting in the single armchair that the hall boasted, close to the spluttering fire. Some logs had just been added, temporarily smothering the flames, and the smoke, rising towards the louvre in the roof, was causing someone to cough. As I approached, I saw that this someone was none other than Bartholomew Champernowne, leaning nonchalantly over the back of Berenice’s chair. I was somewhat discomfited. I had not expected to meet him there.

‘Here’s the chapman,’ Katherine Glover announced. ‘Nurse was doing her best to prevent him entering.’

So, I reflected, the housekeeper and the nurse mentioned by Jack Golightly were one and the same person, although the lady was neither as old nor as decrepit as he had described her. She looked, in fact, rather formidable. I wondered if the groom and the steward had suffered similar slander from the tongues of the gossips.

‘Ah! Chapman!’ Berenice did not rise, but, again to my surprise, extended her hand, this time in greeting. ‘I expected you before this.’ Without giving me a chance to reply, or to point out that I had arrived earlier than promised, she continued, ‘And, as you can see, I have persuaded Master Champernowne to await your coming. He feels he owes you an apology.’ She slewed around to smile up into the scowling face of her future husband. ‘Don’t you, my heart’s dearest?’

There was something so mocking in her tone that it very nearly turned the endearment into an insult, and for the first time, it occurred to me that her acceptance of Bartholomew’s proposal might have been solely in order to win her great-uncle’s approval, and not because she was in love with the young man. But if that were the case, why should she have persisted with the betrothal after Oliver Capstick’s death and after she had inherited all his money? Moreover, I could not help but remember Mathilda Trenowth’s description of Berenice at the time when the girl announced her forthcoming marriage: ‘I don’t recall ever having seen her look so happy. She was obviously very much in love.’

So I must be misreading the signs, a fact that seemed to be confirmed a moment or two later when Berenice lifted her hand and stroked Bartholomew’s cheek. ‘Say you’re sorry, like a good little boy. You promised me you would.’

I heard Katherine Glover give an impatient snort, but her mistress ignored her.

Bartholomew Champernowne said sulkily, ‘I’m sorry I sent my man to try to kill you, chapman.’

Feeling that there was no adequate answer to this, I maintained my silence. I saw Katherine curl her lip, and even Berenice suddenly seemed to realize that attempted murder could hardly be brushed aside with an apology, even supposing it to be sincere. She rose abruptly to her feet and, once more patting her betrothed’s cheek, said, ‘Go home, now, dearest. We’ll meet again tomorrow.’

‘It’s nearly dark,’ he protested indignantly. ‘I thought I was to stay the night!’

‘You haven’t seen your parents now for two whole days,’ she reminded him. ‘You were to stay until the chapman arrived, that was our bargain. Go home, Bart! Please.’ She kissed his lips. ‘We’ll be married very soon, then we can be together all the time. Goodbye, my sweet.’

‘Sweet’ was hardly the right epithet for young Champernowne, who took his departure in a very acid frame of mind. At the door, he paused and flung over his shoulder, ‘You may not see me tomorrow! It will depend on how I feel!’ The hall door slammed shut behind him.

The two women looked at one another, then Katherine said, ‘You’ll see him. While he can sponge off you, he’ll never stay away long.’

Berenice frowned. ‘Hush, Kate! That will do! Go after him for me and make sure that he leaves the manor. He’s quite capable of sneaking back again in an effort to persuade me to change my mind.’ She waited until the other woman had left the hall before turning to me. ‘Now, chapman, draw up that stool and show me what you have to sell.’

* * *

An hour later, I was sitting in the kitchen in the company of the groom and housekeeper, eating a belated supper.

Greatly to my astonishment, after buying all my ribbons and a length of Italian silk that I had carried in my pack all the way from Bristol, Berenice Gifford had insisted that I spend the night at Valletort Manor.

‘It’s far too dark now to make your way back to Modbury,’ she had said. ‘You would never find the track. You can sleep in one of the outbuildings. There’s plenty of clean straw in the stables that will make an excellent bed and keep you warm, as well. But first,’ she had added, ‘you must have food. Kate, ask Nurse to come here, would you, please?’

Katherine Glover had returned from seeing Bartholomew Champernowne off the premises some time earlier. I had noted, without seeming to do so, Berenice’s raised eyebrows as her maid had re-entered the hall, and the curt nod with which Katherine had answered the unspoken query. She had been absent for well above half an hour, if not longer, and I wondered what she could have been doing to detain her all that while. I immediately suspected that Beric Gifford was somewhere on the manor, and that his betrothed had been with him. So the last thing I had expected was an invitation to stay for the night.

Now, as I ate my way steadily through two large pastry coffins filled with meat and gravy, followed first by savoury, and then by apple dumplings, I did my best to winkle some information out of Mistress Tuckett and the groom, but without success, as both were adept at parrying unwanted questions. The latter, who was indeed elderly and also extremely taciturn, was particularly good at it, and on more than one occasion cut the nurse-housekeeper short when her tongue showed an inclination to run away with her. Finally, I was forced to accept that there was nothing to be got from either of them.

My only consolation was the prospect of a night free to roam about the stables and other outbuildings in the hope of a glimpse of Beric Gifford. But, with an inward sigh, I had to admit to myself that even this was unlikely. I should hardly have been offered the freedom of the courtyard unless Berenice and Katherine were absolutely certain that Beric was safely within doors and away from my prying eyes.

I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand and stood up.

‘Thank you, Mistress Tuckett,’ I said, presuming, in the absence of anyone else, that she must also be the cook. ‘The pasties and dumplings were delicious.’

‘It’s good of you to say so. A word of appreciation never comes amiss. But it’s too much for one woman,’ she continued. ‘In the days when I was the nurse here, we had a cook and a housekeeper and maids besides. And it’s high time we had them again, if you want my opinion, now that my young lady can afford them. But we all know where her money goes!’ she added angrily.

‘That’ll do!’ the groom warned; and Mistress Tuckett, with a white-eyed look, pressed her lips together.

‘The apples,’ I went on, ‘were especially fine. You must have had a visit yesterday from Master Godsey.’

‘Oh, Bevis! Yes, he was here. Went away very pleased with himself, after talking with his cousin. I don’t know why.’

‘Do you mean Mistress Glover?’ I enquired. ‘I was told that she and Master Godsey were kinsfolk.’

But the housekeeper only tightened her lips still further and started to clear away the dirty dishes. So I stretched my arms above my head and gathered up my almost empty pack and my cudgel.

‘I’ll be off to the stables, then,’ I said. ‘Good night to you both.’

‘There’s no need to go through the hall.’ The groom detained me, indicating a door in one of the further corners of the kitchen. ‘There’s a passageway on the other side that leads out into the courtyard. You’ll find the stables easily enough, I reckon. They’re next to the laundry.’

The passageway, when located, I discovered to be dimly lit by a single cresset set high on the wall, close to the outside door. This was still unbolted, and I was about to lift the latch, when I was seized by the powerful conviction that someone was watching me. I stood for a moment, frozen into immobility, my heart pounding, my breathing all but suspended. Then, slowly, very slowly, my right hand curling convulsively about my stick, I turned my head first to the right, where there was nothing to be seen except the blank wall, then to the left, where I suddenly noticed a narrow arch and a flight of stairs, rising into the darkness beyond it …

My heart stopped its pounding; in fact it almost stopped beating altogether as I found myself staring straight into the eyes of someone lurking in the shadows.

* * *

Robert Steward, as he duly introduced himself, was, unlike the groom and Mistress Tuckett, as old and as frail as Jack Golightly had portrayed him. He claimed that he was almost ninety years of age, having been born, so his mother had told him, in that year when the Scots beat the English at the battle of Chevy Chase, somewhere in the north. But although his sight and hearing were both impaired, I found it possible to hold a perfectly rational conversation with him provided I faced him when talking and spoke with clarity and care.

To begin with, I have to admit, all was confusion and muddle until I established who he was and the fact that he wanted me to accompany him to his bedchamber.

‘Don’t know who you are,’ he mumbled, laying a withered hand on my shoulder, ‘but it’s good to see a new face. An honest one, too.’ He shivered, gathering the skirts of his patched and darned woollen robe about his emaciated ankles, and turned to lead the way upstairs. He shook his head so that the thinning grey locks became even more untidy. ‘I don’t know what’s going on in this house. There’s something evil abroad. I’m frightened.’

I was instantly intrigued by these words and followed him with alacrity to the top of the flight, where an iron-studded door opened into a tiny room under the eaves. A bed took up most of the floor space, and the only other object was a cedar wood chest, standing in one corner. The whole was illumined by a solitary rushlight, placed next to a tinderbox on a shelf.

My host invited me to sit on one side of the bed while he sat on the chest, facing me. ‘Now, tell me your name,’ he demanded, ‘and what you’re doing here.’

Once I had disposed of my pack and cudgel by the simple expedient of pushing them under the bed, I obliged on both counts, not disguising my interest in the murder of Oliver Capstick and the present whereabouts of Beric Gifford. When I had finished speaking, Robert crossed himself.

‘Something evil,’ he repeated. ‘Here, in this house.’

I leant forward, resting my forearms on my knees. ‘Beric’s still here, is that what you’re saying? He hasn’t gone abroad? He hasn’t run away? But are you sure about that? The Sheriff’s men couldn’t find him when they came looking, now could they?’

‘No, nor never will,’ he answered, staring at me with his rheumy, faded blue eyes.

‘Why not? Do you also believe that Beric’s eaten of Saint John’s fern?’

Robert’s gaze, which had been sharply focused on mine, now slid away from me, looking at some point beyond my right shoulder.

‘He was a sweet little lad,’ he said sadly. ‘Grew up into such a happy child. Everyone doted on him, especially his sister.’

‘So why do you think he bludgeoned his great-uncle to death?’ I asked. ‘What turned him into a murderer?’

The steward thought about this, sucking his toothless gums. ‘She did,’ he said at last. ‘Things were never the same after she came here to live.’

‘Do you mean Katherine Glover?’

‘Yes. Her! The fisherman’s daughter.’ His gaze returned to my face.

‘Why do you say that? Why were things never the same?’ I persisted.

He shrugged, the bony shoulders beneath his robe looking as brittle and as fragile as a bird’s. ‘They just weren’t. She became mistress of this place. We all had to do as she told us. All of us.’

If this were true, it explained Mistress Tuckett’s animosity.

‘But what about Mistress Berenice?’ I said. ‘She appears to me to be a strong-minded woman, one who would never tolerate such an untoward situation. And now, surely, there can be no question of Katherine Glover ever becoming mistress of Valletort Manor. Mistress Gifford’s position in the house has to be unassailable.’

Robert Steward shook his head dolefully. ‘The master’s disgrace doesn’t seem to have made any difference to that trollop’s position. It’s as though the mistress still regards her as the true chatelaine of the manor. Oh, don’t mistake me!’ He flapped his bony, brown-mottled hands in one of those displays of irritation that old people indulge in every now and then. ‘Katherine Glover would never presume to take liberties with the mistress. But the rest of us have to do as she says. She was the one who evicted me from my room next to the hall and pushed me away in this piddling little cupboard, and all because I’m too old now to carry out my duties properly.’ He added with a venom that sent the spittle flying from the corners of his mouth, ‘She’d have turned me out altogether if Mistress Berenice would have agreed to it.’

It crossed my mind that Robert might be exaggerating Katherine Glover’s part in his humiliation, but his story raised a more interesting question.

‘Why do you suppose a new steward has not been appointed in your place?’ I asked. ‘The omission seems strange to me, especially as you were made to vacate your old quarters. And why does Mistress Berenice not employ more servants in general? Money can no longer be an object with her. Mistress Tuckett was complaining about the lack of help while we were eating our supper.’

Robert considered the problem for a moment or two. ‘Maybe she can’t get people to come and work here,’ he said at last. ‘Maybe she never will until Beric’s caught and sent to the gallows. It’s lonely here.’ He shuddered suddenly and gave a whimpering cry. ‘And there’s a murderer loose.’

It was an explanation that I should have thought of for myself and I was ashamed that it hadn’t occurred to me. I prayed that my powers of deduction were not deserting me.

‘Of course. You must be right,’ I said, and rose to my feet. ‘Well, I’d best be off. Your mistress has offered me accommodation in the stables for the night. I’d hoped for a warmer berth, like the kitchen, but, alas, beggars can’t be choosers.’

‘You could stay here, with me,’ my new acquaintance suggested with a pathetic eagerness. ‘I’d be grateful for your company. You’re a big, stout lad. I’d feel safe. For this night, at least.’

‘What is it you’re afraid of?’ I asked gently.

But he didn’t seem able to say, simply repeating that there was something evil in the house. ‘You can share the bed with me,’ he added hopefully. ‘There’s room for two.’

I looked at the softness of the mattress, but regretfully shook my head. He followed me, shuffling and wheedling, as I descended the stairs to the outer door.

But this had now been securely bolted top and bottom. Furthermore, the key had been turned in the lock and then removed. While I had been upstairs, Valletort Manor had been secured for the night.

I smiled ruefully at my companion. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘it seems that I have no choice. Master Steward, you’ve got yourself a bedfellow.’