The Saint John's Fern (16 page)

‘Nothing would please me more,’ I answered, ‘if you’re certain you have enough for two.’

‘More than enough,’ was the reply; and in what seemed next to no time she had placed upon the table a large plate of meat pasties, a dish of damson tarts and another of oatcakes, some butter, still wrapped in its cooling dock leaves, and a big, round goat’s-milk cheese. Then she replenished my beaker with more ale and bade me draw my stool closer to the board. ‘You can tell me what you think I should know while we eat. But not just yet. Take the edge off your hunger first.’

I thanked her and pitched in, not realizing until I started eating just how ravenous I had been. Once my appetite was blunted, however, I wasted no more time and began my tale, commencing with my meeting, three days earlier, with Peter Threadgold and recounting faithfully most of what had happened since. There was something about Anne Fettiplace’s open, gentle countenance that inspired my trust.

She listened carefully, asking only the occasional question when my narrative became unclear to her, and nodding her head repeatedly to show that she understood.

‘So!’ she exclaimed, when at last I had finished. ‘The disappearance of Beric Gifford after his great-uncle’s murder is a strange tale, sure enough, and I can see why you might be intrigued by it. But to think that you can solve a puzzle that’s perplexed us all for so many months – well, I wouldn’t be too certain about that.’ She leant her plump elbows on the table, propped her several chins in her cupped hands and lowered her voice almost to a whisper. ‘There’s witchcraft at work here, or I’m very much mistaken. Beric Gifford has eaten of the Saint John’s fern.’

‘So I’ve already been told. But, Mistress Fettiplace,’ I protested, ‘do you
really
believe such a story? What I mean is, can the hart’s-tongue fern
really
make anyone invisible, or is it just a … a … an old wives’ tale? We all drink infusions of the leaves to ease our winter coughs and agues, and nothing happens to us. Nothing bad, that is. Why should
eating
the leaves make us disappear? Indeed, one of the people I met in the course of my journey here – I mentioned him just now, Jack Golightly – swore to me that he had once eaten a leaf without any ill effect whatsoever.’

‘Oh, it wouldn’t affect everyone who ate it,’ my hostess replied with confidence. ‘First, you have to make a pact with the Devil.’

‘I’ve never heard that before,’ I said, but found myself shivering, none the less, and hurriedly crossed myself to ward off evil. ‘And you think that’s what Beric Gifford has done? But why? Why didn’t he simply run away, to France or Brittany? Or go north, to Scotland?’

‘And become a penniless fugitive, having to shift for himself?’ Anne Fettiplace was scornful. ‘By staying here, by being able to make himself invisible at will, he can remain close to his home, to his doting sister and her newly inherited fortune and, most importantly, close to Katherine Glover.’

‘And for such a reward, you think he’d sell his soul?’

‘I think,’ my companion answered solemnly, ‘that Beric Gifford would do anything that that young woman told him to do. She has him in thrall.’

‘You mean Mistress Glover?’

‘I do indeed! He’s a handsome lad and had girls in plenty before his sister was seized by the fancy to take that fisher-girl into her employ as lady’s maid. Lady’s maid! I ask you! But as soon as Beric set eyes on Katherine, or so I’ve been told, no one else existed for him. It’s my belief she cast a spell on him, for the boy’s besotted and that’s a fact, as anyone around here who’s seen them together can testify. One arm always draped about her neck and barely able to keep from fondling her, even in public.’

I pushed away my empty plate and swallowed the dregs of my ale. ‘You said that he would do anything she asked of him. Are you suggesting, Mistress, that it was Katherine Glover who wanted Oliver Capstick dead, and that Beric Gifford was simply her instrument?’

Anne Fettiplace shrugged her ample shoulders. ‘I think it possible. She may come of humble stock, but she’s as proud as a peacock and thinks herself as good as the Queen, I dare say. She’d have been beside herself with rage when she learnt that Master Capstick thought her not good enough for his great-nephew. And according to my sister Trenowth, the old man spoke his mind in no uncertain terms, all of which I’m sure Beric would have reported to her.’

Here was a fresh view of the reason for the killing, one that I had not previously considered. And it might explain why Beric, having thought better of murdering his great-uncle one day, had returned the next in order to finish the job. So when my hostess had refilled my beaker and resumed her seat, I asked, ‘What do
you
think happened after Beric returned to Valletort Manor on that last day of April?’

Mistress Fettiplace pursed her lips and gave the matter serious consideration. Then she nodded two or three times to herself and took a deep breath.

‘I believe that when he returned home, he told Katherine and his sister all that had passed between him and Master Capstick; told them that his great-uncle wanted – or, rather, according to Mathilda,
demanded
– that he marry the granddaughter of some old friend of his, who had recently come back to Plymouth after years away; told them what he had said in reply, what the old man had answered and how, after that, there had very nearly been murder done.’

‘And then?’ I prompted.

‘And then,’ Mistress Fettiplace continued in a low and thrilling voice, her eyes widening in enjoyable alarm, ‘Katherine Glover was so angry with old Master Capstick for insulting her in such a fashion that she insisted he deserved to die. She told Beric that he must avenge her, that he must kill his uncle the very next day. And also,’ my hostess added in a far more practical tone, ‘if Master Capstick had indeed carried out his threat to alter his will, Berenice would inherit his fortune without delay. They would all three of them be rich instead of having to pinch and scrape for every penny.’

‘But,’ I argued, ‘could Katherine Glover have been so certain that Berenice Gifford would be prepared to share her great-uncle’s money? Her future husband might, after all, have something to say to that.’

‘Oh, yes!’ Anne Fettiplace answered firmly. ‘I told you, Berenice has always doted on her brother. Although she’s only two years older than he, she has looked after him from the time that she could toddle. Without a mother, and with a father who was in his cups as often as he was sober, the two children were thrown into each other’s company more than was customary for brother and sister. Neither was ever sent away from home; and since the death of Cornelius Gifford, the bond of affection between them seems to have tied them even closer. There were whispers at one time that the strength of their affection was abnormal.’ She flushed slightly and went on, ‘You know what I mean. But I never took any notice of such talk. And since Berenice announced her betrothal to young Champernowne, and since Beric became a slave to Katherine Glover’s every wish and whim, the rumours have died a natural death,’ she finished triumphantly.

‘But surely,’ I cavilled, ‘if Berenice’s affection for her brother is as great as you say it is, then she would never have allowed him to put his life in jeopardy by killing their uncle. Reflect a moment! This was not a murder carried out secretly, but in the full light of day with everyone looking on. There’s little doubt in my mind that Beric’s likely to end his life dangling at the end of a rope.’

‘Not,’ Anne Fettiplace urged excitedly, ‘if he’s never caught! And if he can make himself invisible at will, why should that happen? As for why his sister would let him do it, the money must have been an almost irresistible temptation. Here was a chance for Berenice to inherit all Master Capstick’s wealth, and quickly.’

I was still unconvinced. ‘But if one or the other of them had managed to murder Master Capstick by stealth, then both would have inherited his money and maybe no one would ever have been the wiser.’

My hostess considered this argument. ‘Perhaps,’ she suggested at last, ‘Master Capstick had never said how he intended to leave his money until he told Beric that afternoon. The Giffords may have suspected they were his heirs, but did not know for certain.’ She regarded me with bright, birdlike eyes. ‘Don’t you think that’s possible?’

‘Anything is possible,’ I conceded with a sigh. ‘Nothing about this murder seems to me to make sense.’

‘That’s because you’re tired and in need of sleep,’ Mistress Fettiplace smiled, rising to her feet. ‘By your own telling, you’ve had precious little for the past three nights. First, trespassing,’ she went on, not without a note of disapproval creeping into her voice. ‘Then being a witness to Beric and Katherine Glover’s midnight meeting. And, finally, someone trying to kill you while you slept.’ She frowned. ‘You know, I find it hard to believe that Master Champernowne would order his groom to do such a thing. And why?’

I shrugged. ‘The why is easy enough. He doesn’t want me making enquiries, jogging people’s memories just at a time when the murder is beginning to fade from their minds. If Beric remains untaken, a year from now, perhaps less, it will be all but forgotten. That, I should guess, is Master Bartholomew’s reasoning. And however fond he is of Berenice Gifford, he would prefer not to marry a woman so closely connected in the public consciousness with the murder of her uncle.’ I got up from the table, stretching my cramped limbs. ‘I must admit, I should be glad of an early rest. Tomorrow, I intend making my way to Valletort Manor, if you can give me directions how to get there.’

‘Of course.’ My hostess indicated the narrow stairway that twisted its way to the upper storey. ‘My husband and son are both away from home at present, so you can use my son’s chamber without the inconvenience of having to share it with him. It’s the one facing you at the top of the stairs.’

I was surprised into silence. This was the first mention there had been of a family; but, looking back, I realized that I had merely assumed that Mistress Fettiplace was either a spinster or a childless widow, like her two sisters. In order to conceal my astonishment, I asked, ‘Your husband and son, have they gone far?’

‘Only to Exeter,’ she answered cheerfully, ‘on business.’ She added, ‘You’ll find a chamber pot under the bed, and I’ll bring you up a pitcher of water in case you want to wash away the dust and grime of the day.’

‘I’ll take it with me,’ I said. ‘There’s no reason why you should wait on me. I’m grateful enough for your kindness as it is.’

She filled a large jug from the water barrel that stood just outside the cottage door and handed it to me. ‘Have a good night’s rest,’ she smiled, ‘and in the morning, I’d be glad to hear any news you might have gleaned on your travels.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I seem to have talked of nothing but Master Capstick’s murder. But, in truth, there’s little news of any interest abroad at the moment. The Duke of Clarence is still under arrest in the Tower, but nothing, it appears, has been decided as to his fate. Other than that, there are no current rumours of any great doings. For the time being, at least, the country is quiet.’

‘Well, we should thank God for that, I suppose,’ Mistress Fettiplace said devoutly, but not without a trace of regret. ‘There have been too many alarms and excursions during my lifetime, what with this noble at war with that one, and that one at war with the other. And kings coming and going and changing places like so many children playing at musical chairs. I’ll say good night to you then, chapman, and hope that I don’t disturb you when I come up to bed myself. I’ll try to be quiet.’

*   *   *

Whether she was quiet or not, I had no idea, for I was asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow and knew nothing further until the sun, forcing thin, probing fingers through the cracks of the shutters, stroked me gently awake.

I felt completely refreshed and, getting out of bed, opened the window to reveal a beautiful October morning, hazy with autumnal sunshine, houses and trees outlined in gold against the rapidly dispersing mist. Modbury was already awake. I could hear the lowing of cattle as they were driven to pasture, voices upraised in greeting as people went about their daily business, and the ringing of the church bell as it summoned its citizens to the first worship of the day.

My conscience nudged me. It was some time now since I had last confessed myself or sought out God’s House to ask His forgiveness for my sins. I decided, therefore, that I would visit the church after breakfast and rectify this omission. Over a plentiful meal of gruel and dried herrings, together with oatcakes warm from the oven, I asked Mistress Fettiplace if I might leave my pack and cudgel in her keeping until I returned, and was given her wholehearted blessing.

‘It’s nice to see young people mindful of their duty to God,’ she approved. ‘There’s too much free thinking nowadays, and much of it not short of heresy, if you ask my opinion. Lollards,’ she added darkly, nodding in a portentous way.

I have always been glad that God made our thoughts secret, kept them hidden from view, for I wouldn’t like others to see too often inside my head. What’s between God and me is a score only for Him to settle, but there are too many people in this world who think that they know His mind and have the right to speak for Him. Any poor soul who challenges their interpretation of His word risks his soul and maybe his life.

As I climbed the hill towards the church, I was greeted with the greatest friendliness by everyone I met; and by the time I had been stopped three or four times by locals anxious for news of the country in general and London in particular, the service was over and the worshippers beginning to disperse. Nevertheless, I pushed my way past them, determined to say a prayer for myself and my loved ones, and perhaps find a priest to hear my confession.

The interior of the church, which was dedicated to Saint George, was extremely dark, the more so because of the blinding sunshine out of doors. I stood at the back, just inside the porch, blinking at the distant chancel lights and waiting for my sight to clear. Above my head soared the arches of the nave. Slowly and carefully I inched my way forward into the gloom, pausing to bend my knee and cross myself as I approached the altar.