The Saint John's Fern (13 page)

‘I can’t tell you that,’ he answered, his face brooding and dark. ‘But I will say this: I can understand Beric Gifford’s feelings. Maybe the hatred for old Capstick had been building up inside him for many a long year, and to be informed that he must give up Katherine Glover for a woman of his uncle’s choosing was the final insult.’ My companion leant forward across the table to tap the back of my hand, and the pale blue eyes were suddenly as hard as flint. ‘I tell you, chapman, that I could barely keep my hands from grabbing young Champernowne by his scrawny neck this morning and throttling the life out of him. Instead, I had to content myself with taking his money, knowing that I’d no intention of doing his bidding should you show up, as he prophesied you would, asking questions. But it was touch and go. And I have no especial dislike of Bartholomew Champernowne, except that he is a member of that family I abhor above all others. The passage of the years hasn’t cured my detestation of them. My mother’s death is as fresh in my mind as if it had happened yesterday, and I loathe every member of their race. One day, maybe, I shall do one of them a mischief and end up like Beric Gifford, a hunted criminal.’

I was a little taken aback by the vehemence of this speech, but I had to admit that Jack Golightly’s interpretation of the events leading to the death of Oliver Capstick might have something to be said for it. Slow-burning rage can, on occasions, suddenly burst into flames. Nevertheless, I was unable to rid myself of the notion that there was more to Beric Gifford’s actions than a simple explosion of anger could account for. I had no rational explanation for this conviction – it was purely intuition – but I had learnt over the years to trust my instincts.

‘I must be getting on my way,’ I said, rising to my feet. I paused, resting my hands on the tabletop. ‘I was told that there was yet another witness in these parts, who saw Beric Gifford on May Day morning, either going towards, or returning from, Bilbury Street. My informant didn’t know his name, but said the man concerned was a friend of Beric’s, who recognized him in the distance, close to Sequers Bridge. You don’t happen to know who that could be, or where he might be found?’

Jack Golightly shook his head. ‘I’ve probably misled you into believing that I know a great deal more about Valletort Manor and its inhabitants than I really do. My knowledge is confined to such gossip as I pick up when I go to Modbury to sell my goods. You may have noticed that I grow comfrey and coltsfoot and coriander, all plants necessary to people’s health, and I do a fair trade both there and in Plymouth. But as to being able to name any of Beric Gifford’s particular friends, I’m afraid I can’t help you. You’ll have to enquire of those who know him better than I do.’

‘Maybe not,’ I argued. ‘Try to think of any young men in this vicinity of whom you’ve heard mention, who could possibly be friends of Beric. Young men of birth, of about the same age, who follow the same pursuits. There can’t be that many of them, I’ll warrant. Above all, is there such a one living in the neighbourhood of Sequers Bridge? Wherever that may be. Is it far from here?’

‘Some two to two and a half miles,’ Jack Golightly answered slowly. ‘It crosses the Erme about a mile or so this side of Modbury.’ Once again he puckered his brow. ‘Now you jog my memory, there is a young man of about Beric’s age, Stephen Sherford, who lives near Edmeston, not far from the bridge. He’s the son of Sir Anthony Sherford and probably the only youth hereabouts who would answer your requirements.’

‘Can you direct me to Sir Anthony’s house?’ I asked eagerly. ‘I should like a word, if I’m allowed it, with young Master Sherford.’

‘Yes, I can put you on the right path,’ my host replied. ‘But what do you hope to gain from asking all these questions? Why do you suppose that you can run Beric Gifford to earth when the Sheriff and his officers have failed?’

‘Because,’ I said, answering his last query first, ‘in the past, I have had some success in bringing to justice felons who would otherwise have escaped the rigours of the law. As to what I hope to gain from all my questioning, I don’t always know that until I hear it. It’s like searching through a pile of dross for a diamond that I’m not even sure is there in the first place.’

Jack Golightly didn’t look as though he really understood, but he smiled politely and nodded his head. ‘I’ll set you on your way to the Sherfords’ house,’ he added, moving towards the door.

But when he opened it and we stepped outside, we found that a steady rain had begun to fall, and that black clouds were piling up in the western sky, threatening a further downpour. My host glanced dubiously at them.

‘You’d do well to stay with me tonight, chapman,’ he advised, ‘and continue with your journey in the morning. Otherwise, you’re going to get uncomfortably wet.’

I was bound to agree with him, for the rain was increasing in volume with every succeeding minute. If I insisted on going further that evening and could find no shelter for the night – and who could guarantee that Sir Anthony Sherford or his steward would offer me a place to sleep? – I should be forced to take refuge in a barn, or even beneath a hedge, a foolish thing to do when I had the chance of warmth and a roof over my head.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘You’re very kind. I gratefully accept your offer.’

So we went back inside the cottage, and in return for Jack Golightly’s hospitality I entertained him for the remaining hours of daylight with accounts of my past adventures, although I felt obliged to omit some of the details. But he was happy enough with what I told him and, apart from deploring my unswerving loyalty to the reigning House of York, enjoyed the stories and thanked me for enlivening what would otherwise have been his usual dull and dreary evening. Then, after we had consumed another cup of ale and braved the rain in order to relieve ourselves, he offered me a share of the palliasse and blankets, which he unrolled and laid before the dying embers of the fire. Once more, I accepted with gratitude, and minutes after shedding my boots and tunic, I was curled up beside my host and fast asleep.

*   *   *

I was suddenly wide awake, staring into the still-warm ashes of the fire, a few inches distant from my nose. At my side, Jack Golightly lay on his back, snoring loudly.

I wasn’t sure what had disturbed me – apart from the fact that, as I said before, I so often wake in the early hours of the morning – until I heard a faint scratching sound coming from the direction of the cottage door. I raised myself on one elbow, peering through the darkness and trying to free myself from the coils of sleep that still wreathed about me. All was quiet. I strained my ears, waiting for the sound to come again, which, eventually, it did. I rose quietly to my feet and padded across the room, trying to make sense of what it was that I was hearing.

I realized after a second or two, during which the last vestiges of sleep deserted me, that it was the scrape of metal against metal; and it came to me suddenly that someone on the other side of the door was trying to pick its lock. Earlier, before we went to bed, I had watched Jack Golightly withdraw a key and hang it on a nail protruding from the cottage wall; a key I now lifted down, replacing it in its wards. (I understand enough about locks to know that it is almost impossible to open them from one side while the key remains in the other, for I had been taught the art of lock-picking by a fellow novice at Glastonbury, one, Nicholas Fletcher, who had spent his youth among rogues and vagabonds before hearing God’s call.)

Continuing to tread softly, I returned to the mattress to wake my host, who was still oblivious to the world, shaking him gently by the shoulder. At the same time, I placed a hand across his mouth to prevent him from crying out.

‘Hush,’ I hissed in his ear, as he showed signs of struggling. ‘There’s someone trying to break into the cottage.’

Immediately Jack lay quiet, his eyes growing at first wide and questioning, then narrowing to angry slits as he, too, became conscious of the metallic scraping noises. I removed my hand, feeling it now safe to do so, and sat back on my haunches.

‘I’ve put the key in the lock,’ I whispered, and explained my reason for doing so. ‘But whoever it is trying to force an entry may realize what I’ve done at any moment if he looks through the keyhole and finds it blocked. Unless he’s a complete fool, he must have checked it first, so he will be alerted to the fact that he’s discovered and that will probably be sufficient to frighten him off. If we want to find out who our would-be intruder is, we’ll have to move at once, and quietly.’

Jack Golightly nodded, and I could tell from the direction of his glance that our minds were working in unison. The cottage was unusual in that, although it had only a single door, it boasted a brace of windows, one set alongside the entrance, the other in the wall opposite, overlooking the beds of comfrey and coriander and the pen where the animals were kept. Before Jack was even on his feet, I was lifting the bar from the shutters of this second window, laying it on the floor and pushing the wooden slats outwards. The chill night air rushed in to greet me, for there were no horned panes here to keep out the cold when the windows were open. I had one leg across the sill when I was joined by my host, who, considering his years, showed unexpected agility in following close on my heels and actually overtaking me on our dash around the outside of the cottage to apprehend the burglar.

In spite of the fact that we must have made some noise, the man crouched in front of the door was so intent upon his task that we were on him before he knew that we were there. He gave one strangled cry of fear as Jack wrestled him to the ground, but was unable to utter more because my companion was sitting athwart his chest, and his splayed arms were pinioned by the wrists.

‘Who is it?’ I asked, bending down to take a closer look at our captive. ‘Do you recognize him, or is he a stranger?’

‘Go and light a lamp and bring it here,’ Jack ordered. ‘And while you’re about it, unlock the door.’

I was a little annoyed by his peremptory tone, but did as I was bidden, climbing back through the window and re-emerging through the door a minute or so later, a lighted rush-lantern in one hand. I held it up, and by its feeble glow managed to make out the features of the man on the ground. I had seen them once before, early yesterday afternoon.

‘It’s Bartholomew Champernowne’s groom,’ I said. ‘He was with his master at Gueda Beeman’s cottage.’

‘Is it indeed?’ asked Jack grimly, increasing his weight on his victim’s chest. ‘I knew Bartholomew had a man with him when he came here, but he left him outside with the horses and I didn’t get to see his face.’ He leant forward, releasing the man’s wrists and placing both his hands about the other’s throat. ‘Tell me why you were trying to break into my cottage. If you don’t, I’ll squeeze the life out of you and leave your corpse for the carrion crows to mangle.’

Jack and I must have looked wild enough for anything, partially dressed as we were, our hair unkempt and standing on end, eyes still dark-rimmed and hollow from interrupted sleep. At any rate, our captive seemed to think us capable of carrying out Jack’s threats, for he made another gurgling sound and, instead of trying to beat off his attacker, flapped his arms to indicate surrender. Jack eased his pressure on the man’s windpipe just enough to let him speak.

‘My master sent me,’ the groom croaked, drawing a long and painful breath. ‘My horse is tethered over there, amongst the trees.’

‘Never mind your horse,’ Jack answered roughly. ‘Just tell us why Master Champernowne sent you here. If you’d managed to enter the cottage without waking either one of us, what were your instructions?’

There was a pause of perhaps a minute while our prisoner plainly debated in his mind whether to admit the truth or not. But now that we knew his identity, there was small hope of his pretending to be a common or garden thief, and what other purpose could he claim that would be believed, except the true one? He turned his head and looked at me.

‘Young master wanted him silenced.’

‘Bartholomew Champernowne sent you to kill me?’ I asked incredulously. ‘In God’s name, why? What wrong have I ever done him?’

There was another pause, then an agonized gasp as Jack, first raising himself slightly, let his whole weight drop again on to the groom’s chest and tightened his grasp about his captive’s throat. This time the man did make some attempt to defend himself, lifting his arms and clenching his fists; but before he could use them on Jack, I knelt down behind his head and once more pinioned him to the ground.

‘Why?’ I repeated.

The groom made one last, desperate effort to squirm free of our restraining hands, but he knew it to be hopeless before he tried.

‘Why?’ I asked for a third time, and, emulating Jack’s example, applied extra pressure to the groom’s wrists.

The man yelped. ‘All right! All right!’ he panted. ‘Young Master wants you dead because you’re asking too many questions about Beric Gifford’s disappearance and raking over the matter of the old man’s killing, just when everyone’s beginning to forget about it. He’s betrothed to Beric’s sister, Mistress Berenice, and he doesn’t want her made unhappy.’

‘And how did your master know I was here, in Master Golightly’s cottage?’

There was another silence, then Jack said softly, but in a voice charged with menace, ‘I, too, would wish to hear the answer to that question.’

‘My master didn’t trust you,’ the groom told him savagely. ‘He set me to watch you and see what happened when the chapman did turn up. Well, it was plain, when you let him inside the cottage, that you hadn’t sent him away with a dusty answer, so I went home and told Master Bartholomew what you’d done. He rode back here with me, and just as we arrived, you both came to the door. It was raining steadily by then, and you went back inside. When you –’ he nodded at Jack – ‘began closing the shutters, Master guessed that the chapman had been invited to stay for the night. That’s when he had the idea that I should force my way in while you were both asleep and – and—’

‘And murder me,’ I finished scornfully. ‘Did he really believe that you could do it? Do
you
really believe you could have done it? Killing a man in cold blood is more difficult than you and your master might think.’