The Saint John's Fern (27 page)

I promised, although a little grudgingly, for I wanted everyone to know that I considered Jack Golightly innocent. Ivo and Simon Fettiplace both laughed and wished me well as they left the cottage, while Mistress Fettiplace bade me sit down again while she finished the dishes. She indicated a rough, wooden armchair that I guessed to be her husband’s seat, for it was not only swathed with a piece of red cloth, but also boasted a cushion, covered in the same material. I was conscious of the honour done to me and sat down carefully, at first bolt upright, but gradually slipping down until my legs were stretched at full length in front of me.

I was full of pasties and good ale, having overeaten as usual, not knowing when I might get my next meal. The food and, in addition, the warmth of the fire were making me drowsy, and I was aware that my eyelids were heavy. I made a valiant effort to stay awake, but could not. Within five minutes of sitting down, I was fast asleep.

Even as I closed my eyes, I knew I was going to dream. Since our meal, I had been suffering from one of the oppressive headaches that sometimes afflict me and are harbingers of those strange visions that crowd my unconscious mind. I was in a wood, shrouded by a clinging, rain-drummed mist, and I knew I must be near the sea, for in the distance, I could plainly hear the gentle sobbing of the waves. Suddenly the wind rose sharply, tearing aside the curtain of rain, tossing the spidery twigs of the trees and making them rattle so loudly that I was not at all surprised, on closer inspection, to discover that they were in fact dry, bleached bones.

Without warning, the swineherd was standing beside me, while his pigs rootled and snuffled at the base of one of the trees, showering us both with the earth from their digging. The muffled sound of hoofs made us look round, and there, riding towards us on his big black horse was Beric Gifford, his flat-crowned, black velvet cap pulled forward over his eyes, wrapped in a cloak and struggling to control his mount, which showed a strong tendency to unseat him. Beside him, holding the animal’s rein, walked Robert Steward, also wearing a flat, black velvet cap exactly like his master’s.

They had almost drawn level with us, where we stood at the side of the track, when I stepped full into their path to halt them. Then I reached into my pouch and pulled out the hat ornament with its entwined letters, B and G, and its pendant, teardrop pearl, handing it up to Beric to take from me. But he shook his head, pushing my hand aside with an impatient gesture. As he did so, I noticed on the middle finger of his right hand the ring that I had last seen adorning that of Bevis Godsey.

Just at that moment, Berenice Gifford and Katherine Glover came out of the trees, side by side, their heads close together and laughing. When they saw the rest of us, they laughed harder than ever until, somehow or other, we were all joining in. And yet, horribly, our gaping mouths made no sound, but from one corner of Beric’s there oozed a thin, dark trickle of blood …

Someone was shaking my arm violently and calling, ‘Wake up, chapman! Wake up!’ Blearily, I opened my eyes, uncertain of my surroundings, to find Mistress Fettiplace bending over me, her face puckered with concern.

‘What is it?’ I managed to ask at last.

‘It’s your friend, that Jack Golightly,’ she said. ‘He’s been arrested for Bartholomew Champernowne’s murder!’

Chapter Nineteen

For a moment I was too bewildered to know where I was or what I was doing. I must have stared at Mistress Fettiplace like a veritable fool, for she shook my arm again, but harder this time.

‘Your friend, Jack Golightly,’ she repeated, ‘has been arrested and charged with the murder of Bartholomew Champernowne. One of my neighbours has this minute brought me word.’ And she pointed to a woman standing just behind her, in the open doorway of the cottage.

My mind was beginning to clear, although I was still somewhat bemused. I had been sleeping deeply and the dream had seemed very real. I had had no time to interpret it, and was conscious that its message was already fading, lost in this more pressing anxiety.

I heaved myself out of the chair. ‘Are you certain of this?’ I demanded.

Anne Fettiplace clicked her tongue in exasperation. ‘This is Mistress Cordwainer. Ask her yourself.’ And once again she waved her hand towards the other woman, who had now ventured a few paces into the room.

‘It’s true enough,’ the neighbour confirmed. ‘I saw Sergeant Warren come back not a quarter of an hour since, and he had a prisoner in tow. Tethered to the horse, the poor soul was, and forced to walk alongside it. His wrists were bound and he had a gash above one eye. Someone who knew him said that it was Jack Golightly.’

‘He’s been brought back here, then?’ I asked unnecessarily. ‘He’s not been taken to Plymouth?’

‘Seemingly not. He’s locked in the roundhouse.’

‘I must speak to him at once.’ I pulled on my leather jerkin. ‘Where can I find Sergeant Warren?’

‘He’s gone off to seek out Sir Walter and Lady Champernowne to inform them of the arrest. He’s left Nick Brown on guard.’

‘Well, Master Warren won’t find Sir Walter at home,’ I said. ‘I passed him an hour or more ago, presumably on his way to Valletort Manor. Indeed, I feel sure that he could have been going nowhere else. What sort of a man is this Nick Brown? Could he be persuaded to let me have a word with the prisoner, do you think?’

‘Don’t you worry your head about that,’ Mistress Cordwainer told me. ‘Nick’s my husband’s cousin’s son. He’ll oblige me, if I ask him.’ She gave me a gap-toothed grin. ‘And I’d do more than that for a big handsome lad such as you.’

I thanked her and stooped to kiss her cheek. She coloured up fierily and giggled, as self-conscious as a young girl. ‘That’ll be enough of that,’ she protested. ‘Come along with me.’

Ten minutes later, after a mere token resistance to his kinswoman’s demands – for it was plain that in this closely knit community family bonds were paramount – Nick Brown, a smiling, tousle-headed youth, unlocked the roundhouse door and let me inside.

‘But don’t be too long,’ he urged.

I gave him my promise and then stood still as the door closed, letting my eyes grow accustomed to the darkness.

‘Who is it?’ asked Jack Golightly’s voice as, at the same moment, I stumbled over his knees. He swore fluently. ‘I hope you’re not a prisoner, too. This hole isn’t big enough for more than one.’

I made myself known to him, and he eagerly seized my hand, the chains that shackled his wrist to the wall making a dismal rattle as he did so.

‘Is it really you, chapman? What are you doing here? How did you get in? Sergeant Warren hasn’t arrested you as well, has he?’

‘No, no!’ I assured him, before embarking on my explanation. When I had finished, I added, ‘Was there no way in which you could convince that fool of a sergeant that you had nothing to do with Bartholomew Champernowne’s death?’

I had by now grown used to the gloom and I saw Jack shake his head.

‘I was alone all that night, as I am most nights. Who was there to vouch for me?’ He went on bitterly, ‘As you say, Warren is a fool. A blind, bigoted fool! I had the feeling that it wouldn’t have mattered what I’d said in my own defence, he’d still have taken me in charge.’

‘It should have been me,’ I admitted, ‘sitting here in your place. I was the intended victim, not you.’

‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘You’re talking in riddles.’

So, as briefly as possible, I told him all that I knew and all that I guessed. When I had finished, he drew in a sharp, hissing breath.

‘Of course!’ he exclaimed. ‘You must be right. The murderer has to be Beric Gifford. But why? Why would he want to kill his future brother-in-law?’

‘That’s what I don’t know,’ I said. ‘That’s what I have to find out.’

‘Then you’ve no time to lose, for I’m to be taken to Plymouth tomorrow.’ He added with a sudden spurt of anger, ‘And since, on your own admission, it was you who brought me and my hatred of the Champernownes to Berenice Gifford’s attention, I think you owe me something.’

I placed a hand on his shoulder and pressed it. ‘I pledge you my solemn word that whatever I can do shall be done. Rest easy. God won’t permit an innocent man to be punished for the crime of another.’

I only wished that I could have felt as confident as I sounded but I took heart from the fact that God had surely sent me on this mission to find Beric Gifford, just as he had used me to bring villains to justice in the past.

‘But You’ll have to show me the way, and quickly,’ I told Him as I left the roundhouse, thankfully breathing in fresh air once more.

In my heart of hearts, however, I knew that God must already have shown me the way, and that I was just being slow at interpreting His signs and signals. I was about to make my way to the nearest inn to drink a cup of ale and ruminate quietly, when I recollected having given my word to Mistress Fettiplace that I would allow her to parade me before her neighbours as someone who had been present at Valletort Manor that morning. I was reluctant to fulfil my promise, but she had been very kind to me and I owed her some sort of return for all her hospitality. The brief delay was a small price to pay for the satisfaction she would derive from showing me off, and something that would cost me very little effort.

Consequently, I retraced my steps to her cottage where her surprise at seeing me again was mingled with delight once I had explained my purpose.

‘That’s good of you, Roger,’ she said, pausing in her task of chopping apples for the water-cider she was making. ‘Wait while I wash my hands, and then I’ll take you to meet three of my closest friends. I’ll make certain they don’t detain you long, for I can see you’re champing at the bit and want to be about more important business. Leave your pack here, with me. I’ll take good care of it until you come back to collect it again.’

She was as good as her word, calling on only those three of her neighbours with whom she appeared to be on terms of the greatest intimacy. I was persuaded to repeat my story to each one in turn, and did my best to answer all their questions in so far as I was able. But I said nothing concerning my thoughts on Beric Gifford; and Anne Fettiplace, sensible woman that she was, gave no hint of them, either.

We had just left the last of the three cottages, and I was about to take my leave of my hostess yet again, when a woman came out of a dwelling on the opposite side of the alleyway and called across, ‘You’re Roger Chapman, aren’t you?’

My heart sank at the prospect of further delay, but I could hardly deny the charge with Mistress Fettiplace’s friend standing not two feet distant, in her doorway.

‘I am,’ I acknowledged.

The woman nodded. ‘I’m Eulalia Trim. And this –’ she half turned to indicate the young woman behind her – ‘is my daughter, Constance. She was maid to Mistress Gifford before she was dismissed to make room for that Katherine Glover. Rumour has it that you were at Valletort Manor this morning when Master Champernowne’s body was discovered. She’d be interested to hear the tale.’

My reluctance vanished, and I’m ashamed to say that I muttered a rather hurried farewell to Anne Fettiplace before following the two women into their cottage. In spite of the swineherd’s conviction that the Widow Trim was more than capable of looking after herself without any help from her daughter, there was, nevertheless, an air of poverty, a hint of straitened circumstances about the interior that I had not encountered in the other dwellings I had visited that morning. And both women made it plain that they harboured an understandable grudge at Constance’s loss of a place that had provided her with food and lodging at no cost either to herself or to her widowed parent.

I decided to stir up their animosity even further to see what result it produced. ‘I heard that you begged leave from Mistress Gifford to come here to look after your mother,’ I said, addressing Constance.

‘Nonsense!’ she replied angrily. ‘Whoever told you that was either lying or has been misinformed. I was sent packing to make way for Katherine Glover! That’s the truth of it!’

‘At Beric Gifford’s insistence?’

The younger woman shook her head emphatically. ‘Oh no! He may have grown besotted with Katherine in time, but that was after she became Mistress Berenice’s maid. In any case, he would never have thrown me off the manor. He wasn’t like that. But no doubt he believed what his sister told him, as he always did.’

I frowned. ‘Why is it that everyone who knows Beric speaks well of him? This is the man who murdered his great-uncle in cold blood.’

‘Oh, he has a temper when he’s roused,’ the widow cut in. ‘But he’s very loyal and could never bear to hear any of his family or friends spoken of unjustly. He would never have let the old man belittle the woman he was in love with.’

I shrugged. ‘I can understand that and applaud him for it. I can even understand why he attacked his great-uncle in the heat of the moment when, by all accounts, Master Capstick insulted Mistress Glover and tried to force Beric into marriage with another woman. But to return the following morning, when a night’s sleep must have cooled his temper, to set out for Plymouth with the sole purpose of bludgeoning an old, defenceless man to death while he slept, that I can neither understand nor excuse.’

‘Perhaps he didn’t,’ Constance Trim said with a defiant obstinacy. ‘Perhaps, after all, somebody else committed the murder.’

I said impatiently, ‘You know that’s foolishness. The housekeeper saw and recognized Beric. Besides –’ I fished in my pouch and brought out the hat-brooch – ‘he dropped this on the floor of Master Capstick’s bedchamber. I found it there, amongst the rushes.’

The Widow Trim was more interested in how I had gained access to Oliver Capstick’s house than in the ornament, and was already asking eager questions to that effect when her daughter abruptly waved her into silence.

‘This doesn’t belong to Beric,’ she said. ‘He never wears a jewel in his hat. But Berenice does. This brooch is hers. She has a black velvet cap exactly like her brother’s. She used to borrow his clothes sometimes to go riding in, when she wanted to be very daring. They’re much of a size, except for their heads. His is smaller than hers. She could never wear his hats.’