The Saint John's Fern (6 page)

‘But I’m getting ahead of myself. I went into the kitchen and cooked the Master’s breakfast. He was very partial to a herring fried in oatmeal, and I’d bought some nice fresh, plump ones only the day before. When they were ready, I put them on a plate and the plate on a tray, along with a mazer of ale and the heel of a loaf, and carried it all along the passageway, ready to go upstairs. Imagine my astonishment when I met Beric coming down. I nearly jumped out of my shoes, for I hadn’t heard anyone come in.’

‘How did Beric enter the house?’ I asked. ‘Wasn’t the street door still bolted at that hour of the morning? You said that it was early.’

‘I’d unbolted it as soon as I got downstairs. I always did.’ She shrugged. ‘There was nothing worth stealing in that house. All Master Capstick’s money and bonds and papers and things were kept in a padlocked chest in Lawyer Horner’s cellar. The Master told me so himself.’ She added indignantly, ‘I don’t think anyone in Bilbury Street keeps their door bolted much after sunrise.’

Her manner had grown hostile. Mistress Trenowth obviously thought that I was accusing her of dereliction of duty, and so I hastened to reassure her.

‘Of course!’ I said. ‘Of course! I wasn’t reproaching you; you mustn’t think that. Beric, then, wouldn’t have expected to find the street door locked?’

‘Probably not.’ She was still a trifle antagonistic, so I gave her my most ingratiating smile and she visibly thawed. ‘I don’t really know. Perhaps if he had found it bolted, he would have thought better of his intentions and gone away again, and this terrible murder would never have happened. But trying the latch and finding it open, he just went in and ran upstairs to his uncle’s bedchamber, where … where…’ Her voice began to quaver, then faltered and died.

‘Where he killed him,’ I finished gently. She nodded mutely, her eyes full of tears, and I went on, ‘Do you think Master Capstick was awake when his nephew entered his room?’

‘If he was, he didn’t cry out. Of course, he may not have had time before Beric was on him.’

‘What weapon did his great-nephew use?’

My companion shivered. ‘A weighted cudgel. The head had been split open and molten lead poured in before the crack was resealed with wax and resin.’

I nodded. I had often seen this done to make a truly lethal weapon.

She continued, ‘Beric had made no attempt to conceal it, or carry it away with him, but left it on the bed beside Master Capstick’s body. One of the Sheriff’s men took it.’

‘Joanna Cobbold said that when you met Master Gifford at the bottom of the stairs, you noticed that his tunic was stained with blood.’

‘Not at the time,’ Mistress Trenowth amended, confirming Joanna’s actual words. ‘Well, that is to say I suppose I
must
have noticed it, mustn’t I, or I shouldn’t have remembered it later on? But at that particular moment, I didn’t realize just what it was. I was so surprised to see Beric, that I couldn’t really take in anything else.’

‘But afterwards, after you’d found the body, it dawned on you that Beric must have been covered in blood?’

She blinked at me, suspicious, without quite knowing why, of my form of words. ‘The front of Beric’s tunic was badly stained,’ she answered. ‘When I thought about it, I knew what it must have been.’

At that moment, the parlour door opened and a woman who might have been Mistress Trenowth’s twin came in.

‘Ah, good!’ exclaimed the Widow Cooper, for it could not possibly have been anybody else. ‘A pedlar! Just the man I’m wanting. I need some laces, if you have any, to replace those in the back of this gown.’

*   *   *

There was small chance of questioning Mistress Trenowth further after the arrival of the Widow Cooper, who was a voluble woman with a constant flow of small talk that required little more than the occasional nod or murmur of assent. In her favour, it must be said that she not only bought my entire stock of laces, but also invited me to share their dinner; an offer that I accepted readily enough, for I was by then extremely hungry. But although on two or three occasions during the meal I made an attempt to reintroduce the topic of Master Capstick’s murder, I was unsuccessful, the widow seeming to have far more interest in the gossip she had heard along the quayside that morning, and which she wished, in her turn, to impart to her sister.

When we had finished eating, however, Mistress Trenowth accompanied me to the street door and asked in a low voice if I thought there was any chance of catching Beric Gifford and bringing him to justice.

‘I shall do my best,’ I said, ‘but I can’t promise to succeed in finding him where so many others have failed. You’re sure that he won’t have gone far while this Katherine Glover is still living at Valletort Manor? He might, after all, be planning to send for her once he has settled in some other part of the country, where he’s unknown.’

She shook her head decidedly. ‘What would they live on? They have to rely on Berenice for money, and she won’t leave her home, especially not now she’s betrothed to Bartholomew Champernowne.’

We both heard Mistress Cooper’s voice upraised, calling to her sister, and Mathilda Trenowth turned to go. I shot out a hand to detain her, at the same time fishing in my pocket with the other. ‘I have something to confess,’ I said, and told her about my trespass of the previous night. ‘I found this,’ I went on, ‘buried under the rushes in Master Capstick’s bedchamber.’ And I held out the brooch with its entwined initials, B and G, and its pendant, teardrop pearl.

Mistress Trenowth stared at it for a moment or two in silence. Then, ‘Yes, that’s Beric’s,’ she confirmed at last, speaking with difficulty as though the sight of the jewel had brought back too many memories that she would prefer to forget. ‘He … he used to wear it in his hat.’ She seemed upset and drew back against the wall as if for support, her plump fingers knotted together.

Mistress Cooper appeared from the parlour, anxious to join in the conversation and curious to discover what we were talking about.

‘I was telling the chapman,’ Mistress Trenowth said quickly, motioning me almost furtively to put the brooch back in my pocket, ‘that if he should find himself Modbury way, he must visit our sister. She’ll give him a warm welcome and a bed for the night if he needs one.’ She turned to smile tremulously at me. ‘Just ask for Anne Fettiplace. Anyone will direct you to her cottage, won’t they, Ursula?’

‘She’s well known in Modbury, certainly,’ Mistress Cooper cheerfully agreed. ‘Where are you off to now, chapman? I should try Notte Street if I were you. Plenty of money to be made there.’ I thanked her for the advice and was about to take my leave when she added, ‘Wait! I’ll come with you and show you the way.’

‘But you’ve not long come home,’ said Mistress Trenowth, plaintively.

‘Well, and now I want to go out again,’ laughed her sister. ‘We can’t let the chapman get lost, now can we?’ She winked at me. ‘You can wash the dirty dishes if you want something to do while I’m gone.’

The widow, ignoring her sister’s indignant protests, took her cloak from a peg near the door, flung it around her shoulder and preceded me into the street. When we were out of earshot, she asked accusingly, ‘Have you been talking to Mathilda about Master Capstick’s murder?’

I admitted that I had. ‘But it was with her permission,’ I urged. ‘Mistress Cobbold of Bilbury Street gave me the history of the case, but there were certain details I wished to know that I felt only Mistress Trenowth could supply. It didn’t seem,’ I went on in extenuation of my actions, ‘that speaking of the murder at all distressed your sister. Naturally, I shouldn’t have continued if it had.’

‘Yet it does upset her,’ Mistress Cooper insisted. ‘She still gets nightmares and wakes up crying. I tell you this because, having overheard part of your conversation when I came in earlier, I guessed what you had been talking about. And you strike me as the sort of persistent youth who might well return to plague my sister again.’

‘I don’t think Mistress Trenowth would mind if I did,’ I retorted, my temper beginning to rise. ‘It appeared to me that she wanted to discuss what had happened.’

‘So she may, but it doesn’t do her any good,’ the widow replied, with the know-it-all air of someone supremely confident of her own perspicacity and judgement. ‘The sooner she forgets all about the Giffords, brother and sister, and everything that happened in Bilbury Street, the better it will be.’

I didn’t protest that I thought it highly unlikely Mistress Trenowth ever would forget, because I didn’t have time.

Mistress Cooper continued, almost without drawing breath, ‘Not, mind you, that Capstick, the old skinflint, deserves to be remembered by her. Over fifteen years Mathilda looked after that man – and no wife could have looked after a husband better – and then to be left nothing at all in his will! It’s disgraceful, and so I told her, although she pretends she doesn’t care. But, of course, she does. She’s bound to! She has every right to feel resentful, that’s what I say!’

‘Are you acquainted with Beric and Berenice Gifford?’ I asked.

‘I’ve met them on occasions at Master Capstick’s house, when I’ve been visiting Mathilda. And I’ve seen them often enough around the town when they’ve come to Plymouth for other reasons; mostly to buy things here that they can’t obtain in Modbury. They’re both of them fond of fine clothes. Not two groats to rub together, mark you, but decked out like peacocks, the pair of them. But then, that’s typical of such people.’

We had by this time reached the entrance to Notte Street, close by the Dominican Friary. Two rows of houses, rising gently over the headland, faced each other, not one of them then more than twenty years old, their brightly painted façades not yet seriously weathered by the salt-laden wind and rain from the sea. The widow was right. There was money here for the taking, and I could put up my prices without compunction if I had a mind to.

‘Well here we are,’ Ursula Cooper said. ‘This is where I must leave you. I trust I can rely on you, chapman, not to pester Mathilda again, simply in order to satisfy your ghoulish curiosity.’

I did not answer her directly, but asked instead, ‘Do you believe that Beric Gifford has eaten Saint John’s fern?’

She snorted contemptuously. ‘No, I don’t! If he’s any sense, he’s escaped and is miles away by now. Ireland, perhaps, or Scotland! Although France is much nearer, and it wouldn’t be all that difficult to find a boat whose master was willing to take him across the Channel – for a price.’

‘But what about this Katherine Glover? Mistress Trenowth is certain that he wouldn’t stir anywhere without her.’

‘Nonsense!’ The widow was dismissive. ‘He’s only to wait awhile and then send for her when the time is ripe.’

I sighed, thanked her, and stood looking after her as she walked away. A domineering woman, but one whose sole concern was for Mistress Trenowth’s welfare, however mistaken she might be in that sister’s needs. I wondered how long they would be able to tolerate one another before parting company. It was already over five months since the murder, a fair time for two women to share the same house.

As I climbed the gentle incline of Notte Street, I wondered if the Widow Cooper was not indeed correct in her assumption that Beric Gifford had fled to France. And yet, as Mistress Trenowth had pointed out, money would have proved a stumbling block, particularly before Berenice had come into possession of her uncle’s fortune. Later, however, when the money was hers, had he gone then? Yet, according to Mathilda Trenowth, he would never have stirred without Katherine Glover, and she was still at Valletort Manor … Nothing seemed to make sense.

At least I knew now that the house in Bilbury Street belonged to Berenice Gifford. But why had she left it and its furnishings to rot? Before long, once people had overcome their horror of the killing, and when some curious person discovered, as I had done, that the street door was unlocked, the contents would gradually be stolen. If she wished to preserve her property, she would do well to look to it before it was too late.

I paused, my hand, upraised to knock on one of the Notte Street doors, arrested in midair. Perhaps I ought to return to Bilbury Street immediately and alert Mistress Cobbold to the fact that the neighbouring house was wide open to thieves and vagabonds. I should have to admit to how I knew this fact, but I felt that she had a right to be told. Consequently, I abandoned all thought of rich pickings in Notte Street and made my way back to Old Town Ward. But as I approached Martyn’s Gate, I saw that there was a horse, a light-coloured palfrey, tied to the hitching-post outside Master Capstick’s former dwelling.

I was still some few yards distant, when the door of the house opened and a young woman emerged.

Chapter Five

I saw at once that this could not be Berenice Gifford. The woman’s garments were too plain and too sober for one who had recently acquired a fortune and who, by reputation, had a liking for finery. The clothes were more suited to those of a lady’s maid, so I felt justified in my assumption that this was Katherine Glover. And who would be more trusted with the key of the house than a future sister-in-law?

And I could see that the girl
did
have the key, for, having closed the front door behind her, she inserted it in the lock; but her subsequent vain attempts to turn it gave me my opportunity.

I lengthened my stride. ‘Can I be of help?’ I asked, pausing beside her. ‘You seem to be having trouble.’

She turned a delicate, flower-like face towards me, a strand of pale golden brown hair escaping from beneath her linen hood. Startled grey eyes, widely spaced on either side of a small straight nose, regarded me with a certain amount of apprehension while a softly bowed red mouth completed an enchanting picture. It was easy to see why Beric Gifford had been unwilling to give her up, even for a wife with a substantial dowry.

‘Thank you. You’re most kind,’ she answered in tones that were deeper and stronger than I had expected from so fragile-looking a creature. ‘The lock’s rusty and the wards are stiff. Sometimes the key fails to do its job properly and the house remains open to any passing thief. If you would be good enough to make sure that the door is indeed secure, I should be very grateful.’