The Saint John's Fern (25 page)

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.’

Chapter Eighteen

Shortly after imparting this interesting piece of information, the swineherd bade me farewell and proceeded, together with his animals, along a tributary path that, he said, led to his cottage and his ailing wife.

‘I hope you find your goody well on the road to recovery,’ I shouted at his retreating back, and he raised a hand to show that he had heard me. But he was too much occupied with his pigs to spare more of his attention. They were all soon lost to view amongst the trees, and I continued onwards for the remaining two hundred yards or so before emerging on to the main track to Modbury.

I suddenly realized that for the last quarter of an hour I had forgotten about Beric Gifford and his pursuit of me, and I paused, glancing around warily, my heart beginning to thump against my ribs.

He was no figment of my imagination. Those legs and feet, encased in their long leather boots, that I had glimpsed through the opening of the tree-tent, had been real enough. Beric had followed me from Valletort Manor, with what fell purpose in mind I could only hazard a guess; but I was convinced that I had been saved from a violent confrontation solely because of my encounter with the swineherd. Beric must have been ahead of us at that point, but our voices, raised in conversation, would have given him ample warning of our approach, and he could easily have stepped aside into the shelter of the trees. The question remained, had he decided to tail the pair of us and bide his time until the swineherd and I parted company? Or had he given up and returned, balked of his prey, to Valletort Manor?

Somehow, knowing Beric’s ruthlessness, the ease with which he killed for seemingly very little reason, and the enjoyment that he appeared to derive from it, I thought the former option the more likely of the two; and fear slithered across my skin like water as I took stock of my present situation. I was not far from safety. If memory served me aright, this belt of woodland would soon give way to open ground; the heath and meadows used by the people of Modbury to graze their sheep and cattle. But I was not yet clear of the trees, and although they were beginning to thin, there was still sufficient cover from which Beric could launch a surprise assault. But then again, he would have no need of cover if he were invisible.

I moved slowly forward, my cudgel at the ready, but it was impossible to guard both front and rear, however many times I swung around in circles. Finally, I backed up against an ancient, broad-trunked oak, dropped my pack to the ground and waited. And once more, from somewhere not too far away, came a sound like the snapping of a twig, but whether from the opposite side of the track or from my own, it was difficult to judge. All I could say for certain was that I was once more gripped by that sense of an all-pervasive evil, and the conviction that Beric must be very close at hand. I braced myself for an assault.