The Saint John's fern

Chapter Two

Peter Threadgold flinched visibly, the shock of his son-in-law’s words hitting him with the force of a blow. He was not old, having, I guessed, seen some fifty winters, but old enough to fear the horrors of a brutal death; to identify with the vulnerability that the waning of physical strength brings in its wake.

For my own part, I was unsurprised by John Cobbold’s revelation. The suspicion that here, in Bilbury Street, was the reason for my presence in the town of Plymouth, had been growing steadily upon me ever since I had clapped eyes on the shuttered house next door. Consequently, I settled myself more comfortably on my stool, took another chive from the dish in the centre of the table and, chewing thoughtfully, prepared to listen while all was revealed.

‘What happened?’ Peter Threadgold asked, after a second or two’s horrified silence. ‘How — ’ he cleared his throat — ‘how did Master Capstick die?’

‘He was bludgeoned to death in his bed,’ Joanna answered, lowering her voice as though afraid that one of the children might have crept back into the cottage without her noticing. She added impressively, ‘I saw his body,’ and waited for a moment while her father and I looked suitably appalled. She then went on, ‘I was in the yard, spreading out my washing to dry, when I heard Mistress Trenowth start screaming, so naturally, I ran next door to discover what was wrong. I found her upstairs in Master Capstick’s bedchamber.’ Joanna gave an involuntary shudder. ‘It was horrible. Horrible! His head had been beaten to a pulp and the bedclothes were soaked in blood.’ She began to cry, making little whimpering sounds like those of a wounded animal.

John Cobbold got up from his place to walk round the table and sit on the bench beside her, putting a broad, workmanlike arm around her shoulders and giving them a squeeze.

‘We don’t discuss it in front of the boys,’ he said, ‘and most of the time Joanna forces herself to forget all about it. But then, when she does remember, everything comes back afresh, and upsets her.’

‘Who’s Mistress Trenowth?’ I asked, and was told that she had been the old man’s housekeeper.

‘She was with him a very long time,’ Joanna said, pulling herself together and dabbing at her eyes with a corner of her apron. ‘Ever since his wife died, which, I understand from neighbours, was some fifteen or sixteen years ago.’ She gave another sniff and wiped her nose on the back of one hand. ‘Mistress Trenowth was fond of him, I think, in spite of the fact that, when the mood took him, Master Capstick could be an old curmudgeon.’ She smiled tremulously. ‘In truth, we all found him a bit difficult now and then. He used to shout at the children if they made too much noise, playing in the street. But on other occasions, he’d thrown them sweetmeats out of his bedroom window.’

‘And he wasn’t proud,’ her husband added. ‘In spite of his wealth, he stayed here, in the house he’d been born in, instead of moving to Notte Street, where all the new buildings are going up, and where most of the people with money in this town are buying new properties. It didn’t seem to worry him that many of the houses in Bilbury Street are falling into a state of disrepair.’

‘But do they know who did this terrible deed, and why?’ Peter Threadgold demanded. ‘You say the murder happened last May, and here it is October and you don’t mention an arrest. Haven’t the Sheriff’s officers caught the murderer yet?’

‘Yes to your first question, and no to your second,’ John Cobbold answered. ‘The murderer was Master Capstick’s great-nephew, Beric Gifford of Modbury. We know that for certain because Mistress Trenowth met him at the foot of the stairs, as he was coming down, the front of his tunic all stained with blood — or at least, so she remembered later. She says she didn’t really take much notice at the time. It seems she’d just come from the kitchen with the old man’s breakfast, which she was carrying up to him on a tray, and wasn’t expecting to see anyone else at that hour of the morning, not having heard Beric enter the house. He didn’t return her greeting when she spoke to him, but let himself out of the front door without a word. Mistress Trenowth went on upstairs — and found Master Capstick lying there, in all his gore. That was when she started screaming.’

‘She’s sure that it was this — this what did you call him? — Beric Gifford?’ I asked John Cobbold.

He nodded emphatically. ‘Oh, yes! And she wasn’t the only person to see and recognize him, both on his journey from Modbury to Plymouth, and on his ride home again. Any number of people saw him — including Joanna.’

I turned to my hostess, who had by now recovered her poise and was sitting bolt upright on the bench, her hands tightly clasped together on the table in front of her. ‘You saw him? And you’d swear that it was this great-nephew of Master Capstick?’

‘Of course I’d swear! I know him well by sight. He and his sister have often visited their great-uncle in the past. Just before I went to spread out my washing, I’d been in the street, talking to Bessie Hannaford, my neighbour on the other side, and as I turned into the yard, Beric Gifford rode up on that big black horse of his.’

‘A huge, showy, very spirited animal,’ John Cobbold put in. ‘Master Capstick told me once that his great-nephew was the only person who could manage the brute. He was quite proud of the fact, even though he strongly disapproved of the boy spending so much on a horse that no one else on the manor could ride. A shocking waste of money he called it-’

Peter Threadgold broke in impatiently, ‘But if it’s known he killed Master Capstick, why hasn’t this Beric Gifford been arrested and hanged?’

His son-in-law shrugged. ‘No one can find him,’ he answered in a hushed voice. ‘Since last being seen on the morning of the murder, he’s seemingly disappeared off the face of the earth.’

There was silence for a moment, then I suggested, ‘He’s run away, do you mean?’

Joanna Cobbold stirred uneasily. ‘He would have had to run very fast,’ she said, ‘to outstrip the Sheriff’s men. On my and Mistress Trenowth’s evidence, there was a posse after him within the half-hour, and it seems that when they arrived at Valletort Manor, Beric Gifford’s horse was in the stables, still lathered after its ride. But there was no sign of Master Gifford himself, and he hasn’t been seen since. The general opinion is that his sister’s hiding him somewhere on the manor, for, by every account, the two of them have always been as thick as thieves.’

‘But surely that’s impossible,’ her father protested. ‘The Sheriff’s men must have searched every nook and cranny of both house and demesne. If he’s there, they’re bound to have found him.’

John Cobbold grimaced. ‘Well, they haven’t,’ he said, ‘although they’ve been looking, on and off, these past five months. And there’s also a reward offered for Beric’s capture, but that’s done no good, either. The countryside’s been scoured for miles around, in all directions, but no one’s ever found hair nor hide of him.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘The truth is that quite a few of the Sheriff’s officers, as well as a number of other people, are coming to the conclusion that Beric Gifford…’ He hesitated before continuing, ‘They’re saying … well, they’re saying that he must have eaten of Saint John’s fern.’

The carter stared for a moment, his blue eyes wide with dismay, then he shivered and made the sign of the Cross. ‘He’s made himself invisible,’ he whispered.

We all followed his example, crossing ourselves to ward off the evil spirits, for Saint John’s fern is part of the world of magic, practised by those hobgoblins, elves and other sprites who inhabit the nether regions between earth and hell. Perhaps in this modern age, people no longer give as much credence to the powers of spells and witchcraft as they once did — leastways not in the towns and cities — but when I was young, there was an implicit belief in such things, in spite of the contrary teachings of the Church. It was well known that the hart’s-tongue fern, which grows in damp, shady places such as woods and down wells and in fissures in the rocks, and is also called the fern of Saint John, can, taken in sufficient quantity, make people invisible. An infusion of its leaves is very good for hiccoughs, coughs and other winter chest complaints, but eat the leaves raw and the human body can melt into thin air for hours, or even days at a time, disappearing and reappearing at will.

I was not sure then, any more than I am now, that I really believed the tale; and even in those less enlightened days, there were many people, particularly in London and other big cities, who would have shared my doubts, while any self-respecting priest would have roundly denounced anything which smacked of magic as heresy. But at the same time, it is difficult to free ourselves of the beliefs of our ancestors; and those of us in whom the blood of the Saxon predominates over that of the Norman, accept from birth the powers of the gods of the trees; of Hodekin, the wood sprite, of Robin Goodfellow and of the terrible Green Man. All Nature is a mystery, and the properties of Saint John’s fern one of the greatest, for although the plant has leaves and spore, the flowers are never seen. They are invisible, and the belief is that they can pass on this attribute to humans.

There was a long silence after Peter Threadgold’s last words while we contemplated the unwelcome idea of a brutal murderer escaping the law, and his just deserts, by unnatural powers.

Then, ‘No,’ I objected, all the common sense that I inherited from my mother reasserting itself, ‘it can’t be possible.’

‘Why not?’ demanded Peter Threadgold. ‘And if Beric Gifford has made himself invisible, he could easily be many miles away by now.’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t believe it,’ I said loudly and firmly, in order to convince myself as much as my listeners. ‘I don’t believe that Saint John’s fern makes anyone invisible. It’s just a story. As for what really happened, if this Beric Gifford returned home barely ahead of his pursuers, then what Mistress Cobbold said is right. He had very little time to escape, even if he took a fresh horse. And if he has not been traced elsewhere, then he must still be hiding on the manor.’

John Cobbold looked and sounded irritated. ‘The house, outbuildings and lands have been searched from end to end, I tell you, and the Sheriff’s men have found nothing. Although,’ he added grudgingly, ‘there have been claims by some local people that Beric has been seen. But the sightings have always been late at night, or sometimes very early in the morning, and never near enough for them to say positively that it was him.’

‘Master Hannaford, next door,’ Joanna Cobbold broke in, ‘was one of the posse raised to go in pursuit of Beric Gifford. And he told Mistress Hannaford that the Giffords’ groom told the sergeant that no horse was missing from the Valletort stables. None had been taken out that morning save the black and he was safely back in his stall.’

John Cobbold frowned. ‘You haven’t mentioned this before.’ He sounded somewhat aggrieved that his wife had not kept him better informed.

‘I’d forgotten it until now,’ she answered simply, to which there was no satisfactory response.

‘The groom might have been lying,’ I suggested. ‘But if he wasn’t — and I suspect the number of the Giffords’ horses is well known to their neighbours, and the information easily checked — then it’s possible that, even if he is not within the manor pale, Beric is still somewhere close at hand. What of his parents? What do they say regarding the accusation against their son and his disappearance?’

‘The mother and father have been dead these many years, I believe,’ Joanna Cobbold said. ‘But I really know very little about the family. If you want to know more, you will have to consult Mistress Trenowth.’

‘Now why should the chapman wish to know more?’ her husband chided her. ‘If the Sheriff’s men can’t solve the mystery of Beric Gifford, I’m sure no one else can. Roger’s only here to sell his wares and then move on.’ He glanced anxiously at his father-in-law, who was still looking a little sick, and added hurriedly, ‘The best thing we can do is to put the unsavoury business out of our minds. There’s no need to trouble ourselves further. No random killer is on the loose. It was a family quarrel, obviously, and therefore nothing to do with anyone else. Whatever provoked Beric Gifford to murder his great-uncle is not our concern.’

Peter Threadgold nodded in agreement, a little of the colour creeping back into his cheeks beneath his tan. ‘You’re quite right, John,’ he said. ‘It’s a terrible thing to have happened, but you mustn’t dwell on it, either of you.’ He pushed back his stool and rose to his feet. ‘And now I must be going if I’m to reach Tavistock before midnight. Martha’s probably on the lookout for me already and will be in a fine state by the time I do get home. Where are those two young rascals? Call them in to kiss their old granddad goodbye.’

The boys, hauled in from the street, were inclined to be sullen at first at being taken away from their friends, but upset and tearful when they understood that their grandfather was going home.

‘Won’t you stay, Grandda?’ they begged, catching hold of his arms and attempting to detain him by sheer force.

By the time they had been detached, general farewells exchanged, fond messages for her mother relayed by Joanna Cobbold, and the cob, who had been put out to grass in the cottage yard, once more harnessed between the shafts of the cart, the day was on the wane. It would be another hour before it got dark, but Peter Threadgold was suddenly anxious to be off, and I noted how his eyes carefully avoided the shuttered house next door as he turned the cart about. He paused for one last kiss from his daughter and grandsons, punched his son-in-law playfully on the shoulder and raised a hand to me.

‘Good luck attend you, chapman, and if you’re ever near Tavistock don’t go on your way without paying a visit to my goodwife and me. I’m well known in those parts and anyone will direct you to our cottage. Joanna will make you comfortable tonight. God be with you, my friend!’

We all stood and watched him trundle the length of Bilbury Street and turn the corner. One final wave and he had vanished from sight. I went back into the cottage with my hosts.

* * *

I was finding it impossible to sleep, and part of the reason was sheer physical discomfort.

I was sharing a truckle bed with Thomas, the elder of the two boys, and although, unlike his younger brother, he was a fairly quiet sleeper, and did not perpetually toss and turn from side to side, the bed was far too short for my great limbs. By day, it was kept, with its fellow, beneath the larger bed that stood behind a curtain in one corner of the cottage, and was, of necessity, of only middling length. It was also narrow, and, in addition, I felt obliged to lie rigidly still for fear of disturbing my companion.

The other reason for my restlessness was the story of Master Capstick’s murder at the hands of his great-nephew, Beric Gifford. Once Peter Threadgold had departed, I should have liked to question my hosts further on the subject, but I suspected that my interest would be unwelcome. Moreover, the two boys had settled themselves by the fire for the evening, and I knew that neither John nor Joanna Cobbold wished to discuss the matter in front of them. And even when Thomas and Robin had gone to bed, they were still close enough at hand to hear every word that passed between their elders. So I had held my peace, and eventually retired, to fall into an uneasy slumber from which I had awakened an hour or so later, with no hope of going to sleep again for quite some time.

Bright moonlight filtered through the cracks in the window shutters, diffused by the inner screens of strong, oiled parchment. The fire had been banked with peat for the night and a few glowing embers were still visible between the turfs. I felt an urgent desire to get up and walk about, but for a long time I dared not, for fear of waking the others. But finally, in desperation, I pushed aside my share of the blanket and eased my feet to the floor, sitting quietly on the edge of the bed for a moment or two, my knees tucked almost beneath my chin. Then, stealthily, I reached for my tunic and boots, the only three items of clothing that I had shed, and put them on again, waiting with bated breath for someone to ask me what I thought I was doing, and where I was going, in the middle of the night.

But no one challenged me. Thomas rolled on to his stomach, reclaiming the half of the palliasse that I had abandoned; John Cobbold’s rhythmic snoring never faltered; Robin murmured in his sleep, but did not wake; and from my hostess there was neither sound nor movement. Cautiously, I edged my way to the door and drew back the bolts, grateful for Joanna Cobbold’s careful housewifery that kept them well oiled. With a swift, almost furtive glance over my shoulder, I stepped outside, gently shutting the door behind me.

The street was quiet: no one was abroad. A dog barked somewhere, once, twice, and then fell silent; an owl hooted in a distant barn. I could hear, not too far away, the hush and murmur of the sea. Oliver Capstick’s house rose up, gaunt and black, against a moonlit sky; and just beyond it, Martyn’s Gate was closed and locked until the porter’s arrival to open it at daybreak.

I stared up at the eyeless windows, wondering who the house belonged to now, and why, five months after the old man’s murder, it still remained shuttered and empty. Unlike the cottages in Bilbury Street, it had no fenced yard around it; outside it boasted only a well and an outside privy, but no stables, which was unusual in a gentleman’s residence. At the back was open ground where judging by the churned-up mud, the children played, and where a tenter had set up his drying frames. In the distance, I could just make out the shadow of the Old Town Gate. I returned to the front of the house, feeling that familiar shiver of anticipation that heralded the start of any new adventure; for I was more convinced than ever that Oliver Capstick’s murder was the reason God had brought me to Plymouth.

I walked up to the front door and, without the slightest expectation of it being unbolted, lifted the latch. To my utmost astonishment, it yielded to my touch and, trembling with excitement, I pushed it wide and stepped inside. Immediately, I was almost overpowered by the smell of dust and damp that permeates any house left unoccupied too long, and I stood unmoving for several minutes while my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. When I could see again, I realized that I was standing in a small, square hall from which the stairs rose steeply to the upper storey. Two doors opened off this hallway, one to the right, one to the left of me, and, upon investigation the rooms they served proved to be the counting-house and parlour. A narrow passage, cautiously trodden in case some of the flags should prove uneven, led me to the back door and also gave access to kitchen, pantry and wash-house.

Softly I padded back to the foot of the stairs and closed the street door, but not before I had lit a candle that stood in its holder on a nearby shelf, using the tinder-box that lay alongside it. Then I mounted to the upper storey, which, I discovered, boasted three bedchambers. Two of them were of middling size and showed no sign of occupancy, all the cupboards and chests, when I peered within, being empty of any personal belongings. I guessed that one must have been used as a guest chamber and that Mistress Trenowth had probably occupied the other; but there was no doubt whatsoever that the third and largest room had been Master Capstick’s.

A huge, canopied, four-poster bed stood in the middle of the floor, its curtains made of a heavy, richly woven damask silk. An elaborately carved chest, which I did not hesitate to open, still contained his clothes, now chill and damp to the touch and, in daylight, most likely showing traces of mildew. The rushes covering the boards, like the rushes in other parts of the house, stank to high heaven and had obviously not been removed or changed since the murder. But what eventually drew my eyes, and held them was the coverlet, roughly folded and placed in the middle of the mattress. It showed sinister dark marks which, at first, I tried to convince myself were merely a part of the pattern. However, the tips of my fingers assured me that the patches were stiff and brittle, the rusty stains of long-dried blood.

I drew back in disgust. Whoever was now the owner of Oliver Capstick’s property seemed to have shut up the house without making any attempt to clean it properly or set it to rights since that terrible morning when Beric Gifford had murdered his great-uncle and then disappeared. The sour stench of decay emanated from almost every room, making the bile rise in my throat. I made a bolt for the bedchamber door, sweat breaking out on my forehead, and as I did so, my foot kicked against something solid. I stooped and groped about, very reluctantly, amongst the flea-infested rushes until one hand closed over something hard and metallic that was lying on the floor, partially concealed by the base of the bed.

I dropped whatever it was into my pocket and rushed headlong down the stairs, blowing out the candle as I ran and returning the holder to its shelf, before dashing out into the chill night air, where, to my astonishment and shame, I was violently sick.