The Saint John's Fern (21 page)

There was a muttered assent from the score of people gathered at his back, and I noticed uneasily that several of the men were brandishing some evil-looking clubs, three or four of them exactly like the one described to me by Mathilda Trenowth as being the murder weapon.

‘Be off with you!’ exclaimed the woman, whom I felt sure was Katherine’s mother; a fact that she confirmed a moment later. ‘My daughter warned us about you. She said that some nose-twitching pedlar might be around, asking questions about things that are none of his business. So we suggest that you go now, before we do something that you might live to regret.’

‘Or not live to regret,’ her husband added softly.

Once more, I felt the hairs rise on the nape of my neck. Years ago, I had had experience of the ruthlessness of these people, and I had no wish to be the victim of their prejudice and hatred.

‘Very well!’ I said, with as much bravado as I could muster. ‘If that’s how you feel, I shall leave at once. I’ve no desire to stay where I’m unwelcome.’

‘Good,’ replied Katherine Glover’s father. ‘And don’t let any of us catch you round here again.’

I moved off, walking, I hoped, with dignity, but conscious all the while of those menacing figures behind me, and of those itchy fingers lovingly caressing their sticks. The rocky path led me upwards through a narrow ravine to the cliff top, and from there a track ran across the headland to disappear eventually into a belt of wind-blasted trees. Once within their shelter, I allowed my pace to slacken and then, feeling tired or, to be honest, somewhat weak-kneed from fright, I sat down on the damp, sandy ground, bracing my back against the trunk of an oak.

I was just recovering my composure and a little of my self-esteem, and wondering if the track I was on would eventually lead me to Valletort Manor, when I became aware of someone standing beside me. I glanced up to see a young girl, perhaps twelve or thirteen years of age, whom I had noticed a quarter of an hour earlier, on the edge of the crowd on the beach, and whose hazel eyes were now regarding me thoughtfully through a tangled mass of dark brown hair.

‘Do you want to know about Beric Gifford?’ she demanded baldly. ‘Well, I’ll let you into a secret. He’s invisible. He’s eaten Saint John’s fern.’

I sighed deeply. ‘So everyone keeps telling me.’

‘Oh.’ She sounded disappointed. She had obviously hoped that she was apprising me of something that I did not already know. She frowned, obviously cudgelling her brains for other information with which to capture my attention, and succeeded when she said, ‘I saw him. Beric Gifford, that is. On the day of the murder, it must have been, because the front of his tunic was stained with blood.’

‘You’re sure?’ I demanded excitedly, scrambling to my feet. ‘Are you positive that this was on the day of the murder?’

‘It was May Day.’ She smiled, delighted at having achieved her object. ‘He didn’t see me. He was with that Katherine Glover. All over one another, they were, pawing each other and kissing until it made me feel sick. I hate the Glovers,’ she added confidentially, thereby revealing the reason for her willingness to talk.

‘Where was this?’ I asked. ‘Where did you see Katherine and Beric Gifford?’

‘In the woods above Valletort Manor.’ Her frown returned and she thrust out her lower lip. ‘They were covered in dirt. They must have been rolling about on the ground. I can just imagine what they’d been up to!’

She spoke with the self-righteous disapproval of love-making that I have frequently noted in girls shortly before they blossom into womanhood. I reflected that given another year, or maybe even less than that, my young lady would have discovered for herself the pleasures of rolling about on the ground with a boy.

‘Why are you smiling?’ she demanded crossly.

I stooped and, parting the tangle of hair, kissed her gently on the forehead.

‘No reason,’ I lied. ‘Are you certain that the front of Beric Gifford’s tunic was stained with blood? Could you see it properly? How far away from him were you?’

‘I hid behind a tree when I saw them coming. They didn’t notice me, though they passed as close as I am to you now. They were too busy whispering and laughing together. I could see dark stains on the front of Beric’s tunic. At the time, I thought they were just more dirt, but later, when everyone was talking about the murder, I guessed what they must be.’

Here was confirmation of what Mathilda Trenowth claimed to have seen.

I asked, ‘Was Master Gifford wearing a hat?’

The girl nodded. ‘That black velvet one he always wore. Why do you want to know?’

I ignored her question and put another of my own. ‘And was this cap ornamented in any way?’

She thought for a moment or two before shaking her head. ‘No. I’m sure I should have noticed, because he’d pulled the cap right down over his head, almost covering the tips of his ears.’

‘What time of day was this?’

The girl laughed. ‘Jonas Glover was right about you. You’re a nosy one, aren’t you?’

‘What time of day?’ I persisted.

‘Nearly noon, I reckon. Most people had gone to the May Day feasting in Modbury, but my mother was angry with me about something or the other. I forget what. So I had been left behind.’

I sensed that she was beginning to lose interest, and felt that I had tested her patience long enough with my catechism. So, having ascertained from her that I was on the right track for Valletort Manor, I wished her good day and set off along the path.

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.’