The Saint John's fern

Chapter Seventeen

It was Mistress Tuckett who gave the Sheriff’s officer directions, as she seemed to know Jack and where he lived. I could only watch in confusion as the man strode purposefully from the hall. Then I sat down on the edge of the dais while my companions dispersed, the two younger women presumably to get dressed, the housekeeper and groom about their daily business.

I felt as though I were trapped in the middle of some absurd nightmare. How had Jack Golightly suddenly become a suspect for the murder of Bartholomew Champernowne? It made no sense. It was as if a name had been plucked out of the air because a killer must, and would, be found.

I could understand why the Sheriff’s officer was so eager to make an arrest. Sir Walter and Lady Champernowne were most probably of some importance in the district, and for the wilful murder of their son they would undoubtedly demand that the perpetrator be brought to justice without delay. Woe betide the lawman who failed to catch the villain! But why were Berenice Gifford and Katherine Glover so anxious to identify the criminal that they must seize upon any possibility, however unlikely? Why must they try to make palpably implausible facts fit their theory? I was momentarily baffled …

Then the light that had been slowly dawning at the back of my mind burst into full and glorious radiance. Of course! I had been intended for the part of the murderer. Bartholomew had been detained here on the pretext that he owed me an apology and then I had been invited to pass the night in the stable. I was the one who would have been found there with the body this morning, but for the unwitting intervention of Robert Steward. Who, then, was the real villain? For me, there could only be one answer: Beric Gifford.

But if this were so, it meant that both Berenice and her maid must be party to Bartholomew’s murder; that they had had prior notice of Beric’s intention. Why he needed to dispose of his future brother-in-law I as yet had no idea, but that puzzle could wait. First, I had to work out the details of the deed itself, and my guess was that Bartholomew had never left the manor, but been stabbed to death within minutes of his arrival at the stables. Katherine had been dispatched by Berenice, under the pretence of making sure that he had quit the premises to establish that the killing had been successfully accomplished and the body concealed in one of the stalls, so that I should not accidentally stumble across it when I put in my expected appearance. I recalled Berenice’s raised eyebrows and Katherine’s answering nod, both of which now took on a new significance.

There had been an element of risk involved, it was true, for I might have chosen to sleep in the very stall where the corpse was hidden and, having discovered it, raised the alarm. But would that really have made any difference? Yesterday evening or this morning, I could still have been accused of the crime.

My appearance at Robert’s window, and the subsequent revelation that I had been locked in with him all night, must have been a great blow to the two women. It explained the expression of anger and frustration that I had glimpsed on Berenice’s face, and why another scapegoat for the murder had to be found, and quickly, before the suspicions of the Sheriff’s officer could begin to centre on Beric Gifford. Like manna from heaven must have come the memory of all that I had said in Modbury churchyard concerning Jack Golightly and his hatred of the Champernownes. Berenice gave me the impression of being an intelligent, perceptive woman, and no doubt she, too, had sensed that the Sheriff’s officer wanted a swift arrest; something with which he could confront Sir Walter and Lady Champernowne when he informed them of their son’s untimely death. Moreover, and of great importance to Berenice, who had been the object of their disapproval, the culprit would have no connection with Valletort Manor.

Which brought me back to the reason for Bartholomew’s murder. Assuming that I was right, that Beric Gifford was indeed the killer, why had his death been necessary? And why would Berenice concur? I recalled again Mistress Trenowth’s words when she told me how happy Berenice had seemed the day she announced her betrothal. So what could possibly have happened in the meantime to make it necessary for her to agree to his being killed? What threat had he posed to her beloved brother, or to Katherine Glover, that she accepted he must forfeit his life?

‘Are you still here, chapman?’ asked a voice behind me. ‘I thought you would be on your way by now.’

I glanced round, startled, to find Berenice standing just behind me, dressed from crown to toe in funereal black. I could see nothing of her face except as a pale oval behind her gauze veil, and there was something so sinister about her sudden appearance that a shiver of apprehension coursed down my spine. Nevertheless, nervous as I was, I felt compelled to say something in defence of Jack Golightly. I rose clumsily to my feet and turned to confront her.

‘Why have you sent the Sheriff’s officer on a fool’s errand?’ I asked accusingly. I drew a bow at a venture. ‘You know Master Golightly didn’t kill Master Champernowne. You know it was your brother.’

There was a moment’s silence, during which the air was charged with menace. Then Berenice laughed, a low, musical sound, and put back the veil from her face. I was struck anew by her unusual looks; the dark complexion, the deep brown eyes and the strong, almost mannish cast of countenance. No, she was not beautiful in any accepted sense of the word, but beside her, the small, flower-like features of Katherine Glover paled into insignificance.

‘I’ve told you before, Roger — ’ the use of my name was almost sensuous — ‘Beric’s long gone. Why should he stay? It would be madness. I assure you, he isn’t here. And even if he were, why would he want to kill Bartholomew? He has no reason to wish him dead.’ She moved closer to me as she spoke and laid a hand against my chest.

I recoiled from her touch as if stung. I could not explain my reaction, except that, just for a second, I had the impression that I was looking into the face of someone, or something, not quite human.

She laughed again, but this time it was a harsher, less pleasant sound.

‘Don’t worry, I have no wish to seduce you. Well? You haven’t answered my question yet. Why should my brother want to kill my betrothed, even if Beric was here, instead of far away, in Brittany or France?’

‘That’s not true,’ I blurted out. ‘He’s in neither of those places, and I think you know it. I don’t understand why he murdered Master Champernowne, but I do know that he hasn’t fled abroad.’

‘And what makes you so certain of that fact?’ Berenice demanded, descending the two steps of the dais, so that we now stood on a level.

‘Because,’ I answered recklessly, ‘I witnessed Mistress Glover’s meeting with your brother five nights ago, outside the Bird of Passage Inn at Oreston.’

The strong, well-marked eyebrows flew up in surprise and I heard her sharp intake of breath. ‘Did you, indeed?’ the lady asked softly. Her eyes shifted to a point beyond my right shoulder. ‘Ah! Kate! Your arrival is most opportune. The chapman here has just informed me that you met my brother at midnight, five nights ago, outside the inn at Oreston. What have you to say to that?’

I had turned as soon as she addressed her maid, in time to see Katherine emerge from a small door in the tapestry-covered wall behind the dais. This was the same entrance that Berenice must have used a few minutes earlier, and explained her abrupt, almost magical appearance behind me. But there was nothing supernatural about it, after all, and immediately I began to feel better. I had allowed myself to become the prey of foolish fancies.

Katherine Glover was also arrayed in unrelieved black, although she had released her hair from beneath its hood, letting it flow in a golden-brown mane across her shoulders. She was indeed a very pretty woman, and the luminous grey eyes that she turned on me were brimming with innocence.

‘I’m sorry, chapman, but you’re mistaken. I was tucked up in my bed and fast asleep from the moment that my head touched the pillow.’ The soft red lips curled into a smile. ‘My aunt and uncle will tell you that they heard and saw nothing. You dreamt it. There’s no other explanation.’

I opened my mouth to argue with her, then realized that to do so was pointless. It was Katherine’s word against mine, and in any case, Berenice would pretend to believe her, even though she knew the truth. There was nothing further I could do here for the present, and I needed to find out what had happened to Jack Golightly. Perhaps he could prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that he was miles from Valletort Manor the previous evening. But then again, perhaps he couldn’t. Suddenly it was imperative that I should leave as soon as possible in order to pursue my own enquiries.

‘I must go,’ I said. ‘With your permission, Mistress Gifford, I’ll retrieve my pack and stick from Robert Steward’s room and then be on my way. Thank you for your hospitality. I’m deeply sorry that my visit here should have ended in such a tragedy. You have my sympathy.’ I tried to sound sincere, but failed miserably.

Neither woman answered, but watched in silence as I disappeared from their sight around the kitchen screen. Once again, I shivered. I should be glad to shake the dust of Valletort Manor from my feet. But I should be back. I was sure of it. I felt it in my bones.

* * *

I paused, listening intently, then, slowly, turned my head and looked over my shoulder.

All was quiet except for the chirping of an occasional bird, but I could have sworn that, a moment earlier, I had heard a twig snap. Was someone following me? Had Berenice gone straight to her brother, wherever he was hiding, to inform him that I knew too much? That I was dangerous?

My departure from the manor had been delayed by Robert Steward, who not only wished to discuss the murder, but also to detain me for as long as possible.

‘I told you this place was evil,’ he kept muttering. ‘I don’t want to be left alone here. I don’t like it any more. It’s not the same since she came.’

In the end, I had to break free of the hands grasping my sleeve and escape down the stairs before he hit on the idea of locking me in again. But as I followed the track that led up to the high wooded ground behind the house, I was made uneasy by my late start, and wished fervently that I was at the end of my journey and safely back in Modbury.

I told myself not to be so foolish: no one would harm me. Another murder, especially one coming so soon on the heels of Bartholomew Champernowne’s, would divert suspicion back to Valletort Manor, and that was surely something that neither Beric nor his sister could tolerate. But then I reflected that only the two women need concern themselves with an alibi. Beric had eluded justice for so long, it seemed impossible that he should be caught now. And whether he could make himself invisible or not, he had certainly perfected the art of lying low. It was a talent that many a woodland creature would envy him.

I resumed my walk, my now almost empty pack allowing me to quicken my pace considerably. A piece of dry wood snapped under my feet; but then, like an echo, came the crack of another twig somewhere along the track behind me. My heart began to thump and I could feel the prickle of sweat all over my body. It was a coincidence I told myself; I was hearing things. There was no one following me. Nevertheless, I started walking faster still, my strides lengthening.

Without warning, I found myself in the little glade where stood the shelter made of pegged-down branches covered with tarred cloth. On a sudden impulse, I dropped to my knees and crawled inside, dragging my pack and cudgel after me. It appeared even danker and darker than it had seemed the day before yesterday, as I waited for I knew not what, hardly daring to breathe. Had I been mistaken? Was there really someone dogging my footsteps? Or was I letting an overripe imagination run away with me? I laid hold of my stick, gripping it tightly, and tucked my long legs more carefully underneath my body, making certain they couldn’t be seen …

Someone was in the glade. I knew it by the slight vibration of the ground and the rustle of feet in a drift of dried leaves. Then all noise and movement ceased, and I guessed that whoever was there had paused to glance around. Would he look inside the tent? But why should he? He had no cause to think I knew that I was being followed.

Suddenly, however, he was standing right outside. Through the narrow, triangular opening I could see his boots; soft brown leather that must have reached to his knees, for the tops were hidden from my view. The framework of branches, clearly visible from within, trembled slightly as he placed a hand on the outer covering. Any moment now, he would stoop and peer in … I withdrew as silently and as sinuously as I could until I came up against the trunk of the tree and found it impossible to retreat any further.

Then, abruptly, the owner of the boots moved away, but I wondered what he would do when it dawned on him that I was no longer travelling the path ahead. Would he come back? Would he realize where I was hiding? Probably. It behoved me, therefore, to abandon the shelter as soon as possible. I gave my pursuer a minute or so to get clear of the glade before wriggling out, shouldering my pack again and setting out after him.

Beric Gifford — for who else could this man be? — and I had now changed places. I was the one with all the advantage of pursuit and surprise. But still, I must be cautious. He had twice shown himself to be a ruthless killer, and I had no doubt that, if he could, he would rid himself of me. Once I had recklessly owned to seeing him and Katherine Glover together, five nights ago at Oreston, I had sealed my death warrant as far as Beric was concerned. I should have thought of that before making my admission; and perhaps I had in one corner of my mind. Perhaps, without fully realizing it, I had decided to flush my quarry into the open, for how else was Beric ever to be brought to justice?

Suddenly the trees drew back and I found myself in the clearing where, the day before yesterday, I had eaten my apple whilst sitting on the log, and where, afterwards, I had fallen asleep. On the opposite side of the grass circle was the path leading to the main track that stretched from Modbury to the sea. But where was Beric? I had walked quickly and should surely have caught up with him by now. Yet there seemed to be no sign of him.

Suppose he really was able to make himself invisible! Suppose the story about the Saint John’s fern were true! I had managed to convince myself that it was just an old wives’ tale, but I could be wrong. Beric could have discarded his clothes and be standing alongside me now, and, at any minute, I should feel his hands about my neck, squeezing the life from my body. Or, more likely, a knife would be plunged between my shoulder blades as had happened to Bartholomew Champernowne. I had been all kinds of a fool not to consider this possibility before setting out in pursuit of such a dangerous opponent. I had allowed what I thought was common sense to gain too firm a hold over my mind. All at once, I was afraid to move. My feet felt as if they were rooted to the ground.

Something moved on the edge of my vision. I whirled about, my stick clasped in both hands, ready for action, only to be brought up short by the sight of a swineherd, followed by three fat pigs, as they emerged from the trees where the animals had been rootling for mast.

‘Hey up!’ the man said, looking alarmed, as well he might. ‘No need to be so quick with that cudgel of yours, chapman. There’s no one about here as would wish to harm you. Especially not a great hulking lad like you.’

I heaved a sigh of relief and lowered the stick to my side.

‘I beg your pardon,’ I said. ‘But all the way here, between Plymouth and Modbury, I’ve been fed with stories about someone by the name of Beric Gifford, who’s committed a murder seemingly and has made himself invisible in order to escape justice, by eating the hart’s-tongue fern.’

The man’s face darkened. ‘Ay, that’s true enough,’ he agreed. ‘Battered his poor old uncle to death, so they say. And has been cheating the hangman ever since.’ He lunged at one of the swine who showed signs of wandering away in search of some more succulent morsel than he had yet managed to discover. ‘If you like, I’ll walk with you part of your way. It’ll be company for us both, and between us we should be able to tackle even an invisible man.’

‘I’d be grateful,’ I answered. ‘I’ve just come from Valletort Manor, and Bartholomew Champernowne was stabbed to death there, last night. The groom found his body, cold and stiff, this morning in one of the stalls in the stable.’

My companion looked aghast and let out an oath. Under his questioning, I told the story as far as I knew it; although I didn’t repeat my suspicion that I had been intended for the role of the murderer. Not only did I have no proof to support my theory, but it would have made the tale too long and too complicated, and needed too many explanations regarding my prior involvement. But I did add that the Sheriff’s officer had gone in pursuit of Jack Golightly, and also stated my own opinion concerning the identity of the killer; an opinion with which the swineherd wholeheartedly concurred.

‘Though why he should have wanted to do away with Master Champernowne, who was to be his brother-in-law, I’m sure I can’t fathom. But Beric Gifford’s proved himself to be an evil man. I’m sure he never showed any signs of it when he was young. A happy-go-lucky youth, I always thought him. A touch arrogant, maybe, considering he was so feckless and forever on his beam ends. But then, that’s normal for those who don’t have to earn their daily bread, and live on expectations from others. They’ve never heard the old rhyme, I suppose, “When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentleman?”.’

The woodland had now closed about us again as my new friend and I, followed by the pigs, still rootling and snuffling at the base of every promising tree-trunk, slowly progressed along the narrow path leading to the main track. I said, ‘I can’t imagine why the Sheriff’s officer didn’t immediately name Beric Gifford as the culprit as soon as the murder was discovered. It seems obvious to me. Instead, he allowed himself to be cozened by Mistress Gifford into believing that Jack Golightly was to blame, simply because the man is known to have a grudge against all Champernownes.’

‘Oh, I’m acquainted with that officer,’ the swineherd sneered. ‘He’s called Guy Warren. He’s a bit of a simpleton, easily persuadable, especially by a good-looking woman. And Berenice Gifford has always been that. Strong-willed, too. Used to protect the boy when they were young. Sometimes you’d have thought she was his mother, not his sister, although she was only two years the elder.’

‘Do you know the family well?’

He shook his greying head. ‘No. I’m swineherd to the Champernownes, like my father and grandfather before me.’ He yelled at the largest and fattest of the pigs, who had turned aside, deep into the trees, and was determinedly digging at the base of an oak, using both snout and feet. ‘Drat the animal. Come on, Jupiter! You can come back later and find whatever it is you think you’re looking for.’ He added, ‘My goody’s none too clever, so today I’m going home to see how she is.’

‘Nothing serious, God willing?’

‘No.’ He lowered his voice confidentially. ‘Women’s troubles. But your news’ll have her on her feet again, mark my words! A murder! And the victim a kinsman of the master’s! I’ll be very surprised if she doesn’t find that she can walk into Modbury as soon as we’ve eaten. She’ll want to visit her sister and find out what’s happening … Jupiter!’ He turned to yell once more at the recalcitrant pig, who, unnoticed by my companion, had now been joined by the other two. Cursing roundly, the swineherd went after his charges and, with much flailing of his arms and liberal use of his stick, drove the three animals out of the undergrowth and back on to the path. ‘Dratted, obstinate creatures,’ he complained, when he had again caught up with me. ‘Vicious, too. Never get on the wrong side of a pig. If they don’t like you, they’ll attack you. They’re partial to human flesh.’

I nodded and the conversation began to flag. ‘Your wife has kinfolk in Modbury, then,’ I said idly, in order to fill the breach.

‘Only the one sister and her daughter. Eulalia and Constance Trim.’

The latter name stirred a chord of memory. Where had I heard it mentioned, and recently? Constance Trim. Constance … Ah! Now I had it! The fisherman’s wife had told me that Berenice Gifford’s former maid had been called Constance Trim. I turned to glance at my companion.

‘I’ve heard tell of your niece,’ I said. ‘She was employed at Valletort Manor, but quit to return to Modbury, to look after and support her widowed mother.’

The swineherd snorted as loudly as any of his pigs. ‘Whoever told you that isn’t in possession of the true facts, that’s all I can say. Eulalia’s more than capable of taking care of herself. No, Constance didn’t leave Mistress Gifford’s service of her own free will. She was told to go. And for no good reason that she knew of, other than to bring that Katherine Glover into the house.’