The Saint John's fern

Chapter Twenty

Even if I was right, and Beric was dead, what chance had I of proving it? His body could be buried anywhere in the acres of woodland that surrounded Valletort Manor. What hope did I have of locating the exact spot? But I had to try for Jack Golightly’s sake. I couldn’t let an innocent man go to the gallows for want of effort on my part.

I got to my feet and wandered a short way along the bank of the stream, lost in thought and unaware of the direction in which I was walking. I was only vaguely conscious that I was leaving Modbury behind me and plunging once more into the belt of trees that swathed the countryside between town and sea; and I failed to notice the all-embracing silence until it was broken by a voice, addressing me by name and returning me abruptly to my surroundings.

‘We meet again, Roger Chapman, but you’re a fair way off the main coastal track.’

It was the swineherd. ‘God’s Fingernails, but you startled me,’ I accused him breathlessly. The three pigs brushed past me, preoccupied with their never ceasing quest for food. ‘How did you find your goodwife?’ I added more calmly.

‘Fair! Fair!’ was the cheerful response. ‘She’s well enough, at all events, to get up from her sickbed and leave the house in order to catch up with the latest gossip. As a matter of fact,’ he went on, lunging with his stick after one of the pigs that showed a tendency to stray too far into the trees, ‘she’d already heard rumours of the murder. One of the local woodsmen had called at the cottage to tell her what he knew.’ He regarded me curiously. ‘Are you feeling all right? I don’t believe you’ve heard a word I’ve said.’

‘I was remembering a dream I had about you and your pigs,’ I said slowly, ‘while I was dozing today, after my dinner. The animals were digging under a tree and … and … Yes, I can see it clearly now!’ My excitement began to mount. ‘That’s what they were doing this morning, just before we parted company, all three of them rootling around under an oak as though their lives depended upon it. And you said … Let me see … You said what vicious creatures pigs are. You said never get on the wrong side of them or they’ll attack you. They’re partial to human flesh.’

‘Well, so I might have done,’ the swineherd admitted, puzzled. ‘I don’t recollect saying anything of the sort, mind you, but if I did, it’s nothing but the truth. Nothing to get worked up about.’

‘Do you recall the whereabouts of that oak tree?’ I demanded, laying an urgent hand on his arm. ‘Think, man! Think! I know it’s a lot to ask, but-’

‘I dare say I could find it again if I had to,’ he replied, freeing himself somewhat peevishly from my grip. ‘You’re right. It is close to where we said goodbye, and that was within fifty yards or so west of the main track to the sea. But why? What’s the purpose of all this?’

‘I’m not certain yet,’ I answered. ‘It’s just that … Well, it’s just that I believe something may be buried there. Are we any distance from your cottage? Do you have a spade that I could borrow?’

‘I might.’ He paused, frowning, reluctant to retrace his steps, but consumed by the curiosity that my words had aroused in him. ‘You’ll have to keep your eye on the pigs, though, while I fetch it. And don’t let ’em stray too deep into the woods, or we’ll never see hide nor hair of them again, dratted creatures! Here,’ he added, ‘you’ll need my stick. I’ll be as quick as I can.’

He was as good as his word, returning with a stout spade after less than ten minutes, plainly relieved to see all three of his charges still within view. He handed me the implement to carry, retrieved his stick and, with words of encouragement to the animals, continued along the track that we were on, myself close at his heels.

He was obviously familiar with all the woodland paths for, within a very short space of time, and after taking a number of extremely narrow, tortuous and occasionally almost nonexistent trails, we emerged on to the main road leading from Modbury to the sea. Some thirty or so yards further on, we turned at a right angle along another track, and I recognised the spot where I had taken leave of my companion earlier in the day. We proceeded a little further in a westerly direction and then, like a small miracle, the largest of the pigs, the one my companion referred to as Jupiter, left the path and trotted off into the trees towards an ancient oak. Here, after only a few seconds, he began snuffling and digging at its base, the other two pigs lending him their assistance in a great state of excitement.

‘What is it?’ the swineherd asked uneasily. ‘What is it they’ve found?’

‘I think,’ I replied cautiously, ‘that it could be a body — or what remains of one after nearly half a year.’

My companion swallowed noisily. ‘Who … Whose body?’ he stammered.

I did not answer at once, except to request him to move the pigs away from the tree if he could. This was no easy task, but he finally managed to drive them off, and while he kept them under his eye, some few yards distant, I peered closer to inspect what had already been uncovered. I could see little at that stage, but there was something there for I could smell the stench of putrefaction, and although it made my flesh creep, I resolutely began to dig with the spade.

The grave was quite shallow as, had I stopped to think about it, I might have expected. It was doubtful if even two women, digging alternately, would have had the strength to make it deeper. A hand, with tatters of flesh still clinging to the bones, was the first thing to emerge, and then an arm, partly concealed by the rags of a disintegrating shirt. I fell to my knees and manually scraped away the final thin blanket of earth and leaves to reveal a now almost fleshless corpse. The shirt had been its shroud, for there was no sign of any other clothing. The women must have stripped Beric nearly naked before putting him in the ground, Berenice probably having reasoned that she would be more likely to be mistaken for her brother if she were wearing the same garments that Beric had had on the previous day.

But it was the corpse’s head, once I had overcome my revulsion that interested me most. The skull on the left-hand side was shattered into fragments, and had obviously received a very heavy blow. I wondered which of the two women had administered it, and with what. Then I noticed some fragments of bark embedded in the wound, and I remembered the broken branch that I had found in the little glade, lying on the ground. Had they intended to kill Beric? Or had it been merely a fortuitous accident? Either way, it had not taken them long to perceive the advantage of his death to themselves.

I realized that the swineherd had approached and was looking over my shoulder. Just at that moment, some maggots crawled out of the undamaged eye-socket and he had to turn aside in a hurry to be sick.

‘God in heaven!’ he exclaimed as soon as he could speak, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. ‘You might have warned me. Who is it, do you know?’

I sat back on my heels. ‘Not for certain, but I believe it to be Beric Gifford.’

‘What? You mean him that murdered his uncle?’

‘Was thought to have done so, yes. But I’m pretty sure now that he was innocent of the crime.’

‘Then who did kill the old man?’

‘His sister and Katherine Glover,’ I answered. ‘Beric was also their victim.’ I added, ‘I think Berenice and Katherine are lovers.’

It took a moment or two for my words to sink in, then a look of horror spread across his weather-beaten features. ‘They could be put to death for that,’ he whispered.

‘A fact of which I suspect they are fully aware,’ I said. ‘I believe Beric discovered their secret and threatened them with exposure. Exposure, if not to the law, at least to Oliver Capstick.’

The swineherd was still looking ill, a fact for which I was grateful as it prevented him from asking too many questions. But the pigs were beginning to show an interest in the corpse, and I had to beg his help in covering it up again. When it was once more decently shrouded in earth, I had another favour to ask him.

‘Will you stay here with your animals and keep guard over the grave? I’m going to Valletort Manor to confront Mistress Berenice with her crimes.’

He agreed, albeit reluctantly, once I had convinced him that I now knew where I was, and that I could find my way to the house without the necessity of a guide.

‘Keep close to the edge of the track,’ I instructed him, ‘and if Sergeant Warren should pass this way in pursuit of Sir Walter Champernowne, whom I believe to be at the manor, you may tell him what you know and invite him to take a look at the body himself.’

‘And if he doesn’t pass this way?’

‘I shall meet up with him eventually and bring him here. Now I have to be off. We must put our trust in God to make all right.’ And I waved my hand in farewell before setting out along the track that led to Valletort Manor.

* * *

As I passed through the little glade, I looked at the tree-tent with new eyes, now that I knew its true purpose. It also occurred to me to wonder why I wished to confront Berenice Gifford and Katherine Glover before first going in search of Sergeant Warren. Was it because I was not absolutely certain that my version of what had happened last spring was the correct one? Or was it because they were women and, heinous as I believed their crimes to be, I wanted to give them a chance of escaping the full rigour of the law? The more I thought about it, the less I was able to decide.

When I reached Valletort Manor, the courtyard was full of those riders, together with their horses, whom I had met on the road from Modbury earlier in the day. The men looked bored and the animals fretful, as they might well be after several hours of enforced inactivity. There was no sign however of the man I believed to be Sir Walter, and I presumed him to be indoors, comforting the bereaved Berenice.

The Champernowne servants looked at me with indifference as I threaded my way amongst them and entered the great hall by the main door. The remains of a meal stood on the table on the dais, but the participants were now gathered together in the middle of the room, seated beside the fire. At least, Sir Walter and Berenice were seated, with Katherine Glover standing behind her mistress’s chair. Sir Walter’s stern countenance had mellowed a little since I had last seen it, and his head was inclined towards Berenice, whose cheeks were becomingly tear-stained, although her eyes, I noticed, were not in the least swollen or red.

The knight was in the middle of uttering some consolatory remark, in a low, grief-stricken voice, when he happened to glance up and see me.

‘Who’s this?’ he demanded in quite another tone.

Berenice and Katherine Glover both stared in astonishment, but then I saw something very like a gleam of fear in both pairs of eyes.

‘Roger Chapman, what are you doing back here again?’ Berenice asked, rising slowly to her feet. ‘We thought we’d seen the last of you.’

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you. I’ve come to tell you that I’ve found your brother,’ I announced baldly. ‘That is, I’ve discovered Beric’s grave.’

I think Berenice would have faced me down and poured ridicule on my story, but at my words, Katherine Glover gave a scream and clapped both hands over her mouth. She began to sob hysterically.

‘Stop that at once, Kate, d’you hear me?’ her mistress shouted slapping her hard across the face.

But the admonition was useless and the other woman sank to the floor, clutching her reddened cheek.

‘I told you we’d be found out in the end,’ she moaned. ‘You always took such risks.’

By this time, Sir Walter Champernowne was also on his feet, looking dazed and bewildered. ‘What’s going on? What’s this all about?’ he entreated.

As briefly and succinctly as I could, I told him of my suspicions and of my gruesome discovery in the woods. ‘And I think you’ll find that one of these two women also killed your son,’ I added. ‘I suspect Mistress Glover of being responsible for that particular murder. As pretty a pair of cold-hearted killers as you’re likely to find anywhere in England.’

Berenice, who had been bending over her friend, suddenly straightened up and flew at me, her mourning draperies billowing out around her, giving her the appearance of a great black crow. I prepared to defend myself, but it was only when Sir Walter shouted a warning, that I realized she had a knife in her hand. Where it had come from I had no idea, but it must have been concealed somewhere about her person.

Fortunately, there was a stool close by and I grabbed it, holding its seat in front of me as a shield. The blade stuck fast in the wood, and with a curse Berenice let go the handle. Sir Walter Champernowne, recovering his wits and convinced by her actions of the truth of my accusations, lunged at her in an effort to seize her by the skirt, but she whirled out of his reach. Gripping Katherine Glover’s arm, she hauled her to her feet and literally dragged her friend across the floor and through the door at the back of the dais. Sir Walter and I, both still shocked by the speed and turn of events, were slow to move in pursuit. The door was slammed in our faces, and we heard the rasp of bolts being shot home on the other side.

‘Where does it lead?’ the knight demanded, breathing heavily. ‘To what part of the house?’

‘I don’t know,’ I admitted, turning in the direction of the kitchen. ‘We must ask Mistress Tuckett.’

But the housekeeper, disturbed by the sudden noise, had already emerged from the kitchen to discover the cause. At the same moment, Sergeant Warren burst in through the main door of the hall, followed by several of Sir Walter’s servants who had also been alarmed by the uproar within. I left the knight to put the Sheriff’s officer in possession of all the facts, while I dealt with Mistress Tuckett, pointing to the door at the back of the dais.

‘Where does that go?’ I demanded, explaining that it had been bolted on the other side. And when I was told that, behind it, a flight of steps led up to the mistress’s bedchamber, I insisted on being taken there at once.

The astonished housekeeper was inclined to jib at this, until Sergeant Warren added the weight of his commands to my request. So, leading us through the kitchen to the passageway beyond, and from thence ascending a flight of stairs to an upper corridor, Mistress Tuckett pointed out the door to Berenice’s bedchamber, situated halfway along.

‘There’s her room, and there, at the other end, is the staircase that leads down again to the great hall. But before anyone of you goes another step, I’d like to know what all this is about.’

Sergeant Warren and Sir Walter Champernowne ignored her and strode forward to hammer at the bedchamber door. When there was no response, the former tried the latch, but although it lifted, the door refused to yield.

‘Bolted from within,’ Sergeant Warren announced unnecessarily. ‘We must break it down. Somebody fetch an axe.’

‘No need for that,’ said Sir Walter brusquely. ‘Here we are, you, myself and the chapman, not to mention three or four of my men. We’re all big enough and strong enough. Surely we ought to be able to break it down between us, if we all rush at it together.’

It was not quite as easy as he made it sound, but in the end two panels of the wood splintered under our combined assault and we were able, one at a time, to squeeze through the gap that we had made …

We were too late, as I had feared we might be. Both women were already dead, sprawled across the bed yet still, in death, enfolded in one another’s arms. After the first, shocked stillness, Sergeant Warren stooped and picked up a small glass bottle from the floor.

‘Poison,’ he said, pouring the few remaining drops into the palm of his left hand. He sniffed it warily. ‘Probably an infusion of deadly nightshade berries.’ He sighed heavily, then added with a venomous snarl, ‘I hate to see a murderer cheat the gallows.’

But his words were almost lost as Mistress Tuckett, finally penetrating the room through the gap in the splintered door, let out an ear-piercing scream.

* * *

Jack Golightly embraced me with the tears coursing down his cheeks.

He had been released from the roundhouse an hour or so earlier and had immediately sought me out at the Fettiplaces’ cottage, where I had been made more than welcome for yet another night. Indeed, I had the feeling that neither Anne Fettiplace nor her husband would ever have forgiven me had I not accepted their offer of hospitality, for they and Simon were basking in the reflected glory of my exploits. Everyone in Modbury wanted to hear the story and have the mystery explained, as well as to congratulate Jack on his freedom. Besides which, the sensation of the day’s events at Valletort Manor would probably never again be repeated: a murder in the morning and a double suicide in the evening was more than anybody felt that he or she had a right to expect in a lifetime. I was the hero of the hour.

The swineherd, too, his pigs now safely penned in their sty for the night, merited his share of interest. He had been able to waylay Sergeant Warren, riding to seek out Sir Walter at Valletort Manor, there to boast vaingloriously of his swift arrest of Jack Golightly.

‘He didn’t believe me, you know,’ the swineherd confided later when all the Fettiplaces’ neighbours had at last gone home to sleep off the excitement and a generous quantity of good, home-brewed ale. He himself was just setting off for his own cottage within the manor pale. ‘At least, put it this way: Sergeant Warren didn’t want that body to be Beric Gifford’s, for he knew that if it were, Jack’s arrest was going to make him look an almighty fool.’

I smiled and clapped the swineherd on the back. ‘Well, in the end he had no choice but to believe it. And thank you, my friend, for all your help, for without you and your pigs I doubt if I’d have guessed the truth.’

He looked pleased, but reluctantly disclaimed the honour. ‘God would surely have illuminated your mind by some other means,’ he said.

He left the cottage, nevertheless, with a jaunty gait and whistling a tune under his breath.

‘You’ve given him something to tell his children and grandchildren,’ Anne Fettiplace remarked, closing and bolting the cottage door for the night.

‘And his goody and her kinswomen, the Trims, will treat him with a new respect,’ Ivo Fettiplace observed as he began damping down the fire.

‘Are you set on beginning your homeward journey tomorrow?’ his wife asked wistfully.

‘I am,’ I answered. ‘I’m sorry, but there’s nothing to keep me here any longer. I’m more than happy for Sergeant Warren to take the credit with the Sheriff for what has been discovered concerning these dreadful crimes. Moreover, it will be a long journey back to Bristol, for I must visit both Plymouth and Tavistock on my way home to let some friends know the outcome of my labours. And I’ve a family, a wife and son and daughter, whom I’ve not seen for very many weeks. They’ll be looking for me. And I miss them.’

‘Of course you do.’ Mistress Fettiplace planted an affectionate kiss on my cheek. ‘And don’t forget, while you’re in Plymouth, to seek out my sisters and let them know what has happened, as well.’

I nodded. I had said nothing to anyone of my suspicions that Mathilda Trenowth might have guessed that the murderer was really Berenice, and not Beric. After all, I couldn’t prove it. She would deny it if challenged, and in the event it hadn’t prevented the truth from being discovered.

I had to share Simon’s bed that night, and as I picked up my candle to join him upstairs, my hostess tapped me on the shoulder.

‘By the way,’ she said, ‘there’s talk that Bevis Godsey’s come forward to volunteer evidence to Sergeant Warren. He’s been frightened, I dare say, by the news of another murder and the two women’s suicide. It seems he’s confessed to catching Berenice and Katherine together in an unguarded moment and guessing the truth. He was given a valuable thumb ring belonging to Beric Gifford in order to buy his silence.’ Anne Fettiplace gave a mirthless snort of laughter. ‘A good job for him, I reckon, that things have turned out as they have. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have bet a fig on him living to a ripe old age.’

I lay awake for a long time that night, listening to my bedfellow snoring, unable to fall asleep myself. My longing to see Adela again, and to hold her in my arms, was overwhelming. I wished that God had not picked on me as the fittest person to solve these mysteries for Him and bring those responsible to book, but at least He had provided me with a loving wife and children as the calm, constant centre of my occasionally dangerous life.

But then, not for the first time, I found myself admitting that I shouldn’t really like to lead a simple chapman’s life. I should miss the excitement and the thrill of foiling evil and righting wrongs. In three or four weeks, with luck and lifts from friendly carters, I should be home, surrounded by every domestic happiness and comfort that Adela could provide. But I knew very well that after a few days I should begin to grow restless, all my senses alert, waiting to hear God’s next call. And, secretly, I should be only too eager to obey.