The Saint John's Fern (11 page)

‘Of course you are,’ the goodwife agreed, and turned to glance suspiciously at her husband. ‘What do you want to go prancing about the countryside for? You’re up to something. You’re trying to get out of chopping that wood. I know you, you lazy good-for-nothing!’

‘I’ll have the scold’s bridle on you, woman,’ he retorted, ‘if you don’t watch your tongue.’ But it was said without any great venom, and the snort of wifely scorn that greeted the remark made it plain that Wilfred’s bark was far worse than his bite.

Nevertheless, he carried the day, and when I finally left the cottage, he went with me. But first, I had managed to persuade the goodwife to provide me with bread and cheese and ale, having given her a heart-rending tale of how I had come to miss my dinner, and of the poor breakfast I had received at the Bird of Passage Inn.

‘Aye,’ she had sniffed, ‘they’re a grasping lot, those Glovers. That Katherine, now, the one who’s mixed up in the murder of this Master Capstick, she set her sights on marrying Beric Gifford as soon as his sister took her into the household as her maid. And how she wangled herself into Mistress Berenice’s employ in the beginning, nobody knows, for her parents are common fisherfolk, down in the bay, close to Burrow Island.’

‘You don’t want to take too much notice of my goody,’ Wilfred said as, thanks given and farewells taken, he and I set out along the track to Wollaton. ‘It’s nigh on seven miles to Modbury, and another mile or so south to Valletort Manor, and news loses its freshness over such a distance.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I always swallow everything I’m told with a grain of salt.’ I turned my head and looked curiously at him. ‘Why did you insist on accompanying me? I don’t somehow think that it had anything to do with a reluctance on your part to chop wood.’

He laughed and admitted that I was right. ‘I was afraid that once you’d found Gueda’s cottage, you might go blundering straight in, for the door to the place has been off its hinges for months. I’ve noticed it the last twice I’ve had occasion to pass that way.’

‘So?’ I queried, puzzled.

Wilfred took my arm, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, although there was no one to overhear him.

‘Gueda Beeman isn’t just the local witch or wise woman,’ he said. ‘She’s the local whore, as well. Mind you, she never charges for her services. She likes men, so what she does, she does out of the goodness of her heart. In short, men might be said to take advantage of her, although I don’t think she looks at it that way. But it’s a fact not generally known by the womenfolk of these parts. If they did discover the truth, they’d run her out of the neighbourhood, if nothing worse. So the men keep quiet about it. That’s why I thought I’d better come with you and explain, otherwise there could have been an embarrassing misunderstanding between you and her.’

I was grateful for the warning, and said so.

Gueda Beeman’s dwelling was barely a mile north of Brixton, in a woodland clearing a few yards from the main track. It was, as I had been told, a ramshackle place with a hole torn in its roof of twigs and moss, and a rotten door fallen in on its hinges. Drifts of dead leaves lay scattered over the grass, and the swaying, sighing trees crowded all around us. Every now and then, a stray shaft of sunlight penetrated the latticed branches overhead, but for the most part, the surroundings were as dismal as the cottage.

‘Here we are then,’ my guide informed me unnecessarily. ‘Do you want me to stay while you ask her these questions of yours? Everything’s quiet, so it doesn’t look like she’s got anyone with her.’

But even as he spoke, we noticed two horses tethered close at hand: a dark bay gelding and a sturdy cob. Attending them was a sullen-faced youth wearing dark green livery, a hawk, with silver bells on its jesses, perched on one gloved wrist. A moment later, a young man, richly dressed, strode out of Gueda Beeman’s cottage, pulling up short at the sight of Wilfred and myself.

He ignored my companion, but gave me a long, hard stare, almost as though he recognized me, before turning away and mounting his horse. He made no reply to my courteous ‘Good day!’ and rode off, his man following astride the cob.

‘That was Bartholomew Champernowne,’ Wilfred said.

Chapter Eight

Before I had properly assimilated the information, a tall, fair-haired woman came out of the cottage, and, much as Bartholomew Champernowne himself had done, paused to look me up and down. Again, Wilfred was accorded the most cursory of glances.

If this was Gueda Beeman, as I supposed it must be, she was not at all what I had expected. When the wise woman had originally been mentioned, along with the fact that many people thought her a witch, I had imagined an old crone, wizened and repulsive. Later, when Wilfred had told me that she was also the local whore, I had amended this picture, although I don’t know why, to that of a somewhat younger woman, but one still well past the first flush of youth.

Instead, Gueda was not only young but also beautiful, in spite of the layers of dirt that grained her skin, and the filthy, tattered gown that she was wearing. She had huge, grey-green eyes, thickly fringed with lashes the colour of ripe corn, the same shade as her hair – or the shade her hair would have been had it been washed. Her figure, too, was one to make the angels jealous, and her bare feet were as small and delicate as her hands. But when she spoke, the illusion of some fairy princess fallen upon hard times was rudely shattered. Her voice was harsh, her speech coarse, thickly larded with its Devonshire burr.

‘What do you want, then, chapman?’

I noticed that she was jingling some coins in her right hand, and I muttered in Wilfred’s ear, ‘I thought you said she gave her favours free.’

‘So she does usually,’ he muttered back. ‘But perhaps Master Champernowne insisted on paying.’

‘What are you two whispering to one another about?’ Gueda demanded sulkily. ‘If you have anything to say to me, pedlar, say it out loud.’

It was true that I was carrying my pack on my back, but I had the feeling that this was not the only reason that she had so readily divined my calling. I smiled placatingly before replying, ‘I’d be grateful for a few words with you, Mistress, if I may.’

‘Very well.’ She stared at me belligerently, but made no attempt to invite me inside the cottage, for which I was truly thankful.

So I put my question regarding her sighting of Beric Gifford on the morning of the murder, without anticipating any reply but a confident affirmation. I was therefore astonished when she shook her head and answered with an emphatic, ‘I saw nothing.’

‘You mean it wasn’t you who told the Sheriff’s officer that you’d seen Master Gifford riding towards Plymouth on May Day morning?’ I demanded, disappointed.

‘I’ve told you so, haven’t I?’ she spat at me. ‘I never said any such thing. And besides, I don’t know this … this Beric Gifford.’

‘Are you certain of that?’ I queried angrily.

She tossed her head. ‘Yes. I’m certain.’

But I could see by the way her eyes refused to meet mine that she was lying, and I was suddenly struck by the significance of the coins she was still jingling in her hand. Bartholomew Champernowne had not been enjoying the lady’s favours; he had been bribing her to deny her evidence concerning his future brother-in-law in the event of a tall, far too nosy pedlar finding his way to her door and asking questions. But how had he known of me? The answer, of course, was simple: Katherine Glover. He must have been at Valletort Manor when she returned home that morning, and had heard enough of my curiosity concerning Oliver Capstick’s murder to make him determined to try to silence the local witnesses. He no doubt felt that interest in the killing was on the wane after all those months, and the last thing he wanted was for a stranger to revive it with his unwelcome meddling.

Master Champernowne’s interference, however, only stiffened my resolve to seek out the other two who claimed to have seen Beric on the fateful morning: the smallholder who lived near Yealmpton and the friend who had sighted him close to Sequers Bridge. And even if Bartholomew got to them before I did, and was able to command, or pay for, their silence, I hoped I could judge for myself whether or not they were telling the truth, just as I had done with Gueda Beeman.

I thanked the wise woman, (witch, whore, however she preferred to be known) with elaborate courtesy.

‘Please forgive me, Mistress, for wasting your time.’ I added with heavy sarcasm, ‘I can see now that the information I was given concerning you was false. I shall therefore not inflict myself upon you any further.’

She regarded me with deep distrust, for she was not used to such talk and, guessing that she was being mocked, rightly resented it.

‘I didn’t see Beric Gifford!’ she bawled after me as, grasping Wilfred’s arm, I turned to go.

‘She was lying,’ my companion said positively as we made our way along the path leading from the clearing to the Wollaton track.

‘Undoubtedly,’ I agreed. ‘Master Champernowne has paid her to deny her story. That’s why she has money.’

‘Of course!’ Wilfred’s honest face shone with sudden enlightenment. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. What will you do next?’

‘Carry on about my business,’ I answered truthfully, even if I was being less than candid. ‘I have a wife and children to support, and although I love a mystery, this one is already over five months old and I fear the trail has gone cold. It’s time for me to be moving on.’ But I was careful not to say where to. There seemed no point in involving Wilfred and his goodwife in my plans.

I walked with him the short distance back to Brixton and the main east-bound track, where, with some regret, we took our leave of one another.

‘God be with you, then.’ My new acquaintance reached up and patted me on the shoulder in a gesture that was affectionate as well as valedictory. ‘You’re wise not to try to cross a Champernowne. They’re a family who make good friends but implacable enemies.’

‘Give my regards to your goody and thank her for the dinner,’ I said. ‘If ever I’m this way again, I’ll look you up.’

‘Do, lad! Do! We’ll be pleased to see you.’ And with that, he smote me again on the shoulder before turning and walking in the direction of his cottage where his wife was waiting for him, woodchopper in hand. I saw her gesture towards the pile of logs, and, smiling to myself, I set out once more on the next stage of my journey to Yealmpton.

*   *   *

It was little more than an hour’s walk from Brixton to the neighbouring village, and I could have done it in less time had the track not led through some dense woodland, where the afternoon sun could barely penetrate the cathedral-like vaulting of the trees. The going was slow there, and twice I stumbled and almost fell over roots that snaked across the path. It was not easy trotting for horses, either, although the several riders I encountered, travelling in both directions, guided their mounts over the obstacles with all the confidence that familiarity with the ground inspires.

Eventually, however, the trees began to thin and give way to more open pasture. A spiral of smoke in the distance told me that I was nearing a homestead or outlying farm, and that Yealmpton could not be far away. I judged from the position of the sun that it was now about mid-afternoon, and my stomach was telling me that it would soon be suppertime. It was a few hours now since my belated dinner at the home of the goodman and his wife, so I decided to stop at the first dwelling place I came to, where I would try to buy or beg something to eat. I might also, if I were lucky, learn the name of that smallholder who had been on his way to market when he had encountered Beric Gifford returning from Plymouth and his murderous mission. Then I recollected Bartholomew Champernowne, and wondered if he would have been before me, suborning yet another witness into denying his former evidence.

Ten minutes more brought me to the cottage with smoke spiralling through the hole in its roof. It was surrounded by an expanse of comfrey, that useful plant whose root, pulped, strained and packed inside a splint, is invaluable for setting broken bones, and whose juice cleanses wounds, helping them to heal. There was also a bed of coltsfoot, which makes a soothing decoction for all ailments of the chest, and another of coriander, whose seeds disguise the unpleasant taste of physic. Undoubtedly, the owner of this holding sold his produce to the physicians and druggists of Plymouth and other nearby towns; everything was grown in too great a profusion to be merely for his own use or for that of his immediate neighbours.

At the back of the cottage was a small enclosure containing several geese and chickens, and a nanny goat tethered in one corner. A tall, very thin man, with sparse straw-coloured hair and pale blue eyes, was scattering corn from a bucket hooked over one arm. Assuming him to be the cottager, I did not bother to knock at the door, but approached him directly. Before I even had time to hail him, however, he glanced up, saw me and said, ‘Ah! You must be the pedlar I was warned about. I’ve been expecting you.’

I smiled grimly. ‘In that case, you must be the man who encountered Beric Gifford on the morning of his great-uncle’s murder.’ He looked disappointed at my lack of surprise, and I went on, ‘Bartholomew Champernowne has already bribed Gueda Beeman to deny the evidence she gave to the Sheriff’s officer five months ago, as I discovered this afternoon when I went to see her.’

The man upended the bucket to get rid of the last of the corn, then walked across to join me at the fence. He frowned, sucking his yellow teeth consideringly. ‘So, what’s your interest in stirring the matter up again, just when the Law is beginning to lose interest in the killing?’

‘I don’t like villains who get away with murder,’ I answered promptly. ‘Do you?’

He regarded me speculatively for a moment or two before jerking his head in the direction of the cottage.

‘My name’s Jack Golightly. You’d better come in. You can share my supper, if you’re hungry,’ he offered.

I needed no second invitation, and when he had shut the enclosure gate behind him, I followed him indoors as fast as I could, before he changed his mind.