The Saint John's Fern (7 page)

I checked, but this time, the key had behaved satisfactorily, so I smiled, withdrew it and handed it to the girl, noting as I did so that her fingers and nails were none too clean. I remarked as casually as I could, ‘I was told that the person who lived here was murdered.’

Her whole body stiffened and the delicate features grew rigid with anger and disdain.

‘This town is a hotbed of gossip. Every passing traveller is made free of all its scandals. No doubt you have been told the name of the murderer, too.’ And she turned away abruptly, mounted the patiently waiting palfrey and rode off through Martyn’s Gate.

A woman’s voice said, ‘That was Katherine Glover.’

I glanced round to see Joanna Cobbold, who had come out of her cottage and was now standing inside the paling that fenced its surrounding plot of ground. I retraced a few steps so that we could speak more comfortably.

‘I guessed as much,’ I nodded. ‘I’ve seen Mistress Trenowth so I know who she is. Did you have any conversation with her?’

‘A little. I saw her arrive half an hour since and pretended to be suspicious, particularly when she had a struggle to unlock the front door. It turned out, by the way, that it was already open. Whoever visited the house last hadn’t managed to fasten it properly on leaving.’

I made no comment on this, merely asking, ‘What did she have to say?’

‘She told me her name when I asked her, and when I pressed for further information, I learnt that Mistress Gifford is at last thinking of selling the house. Before she does so, however, she needs to know what condition it’s in after remaining empty these past five months. But that was all. When I would have put more questions, the girl ignored me and went inside and shut the door.’

‘You say you asked her her name. Have you never previously seen Katherine Glover, then? Did she never accompany Berenice on any of her visits to Oliver Capstick?’

Joanna shook her head. ‘Not that I recall. If she did, she made no impression on me. Berenice usually rode alone, and I remember Mistress Trenowth once telling me that she – Berenice that is – is a headstrong, fearless sort of girl, not much given to regarding the womanly conventions. So, making a journey of some twelve miles, from Modbury to Plymouth, unaccompanied, wouldn’t worry her unduly, I imagine.’

I ventured another question on the subject of Oliver Capstick’s murder, neither of the Cobbold boys being within earshot as far as I could tell.

‘Were there many sightings of Beric on the morning that he killed his great-uncle? Or did the identity of the murderer rest simply on the testimony of yourself and of Mistress Trenowth?’

‘It most certainly did not,’ Joanna retorted, incensed. ‘My neighbour, Bessie Hannaford, also caught a glimpse of Beric on his arrival. And as my husband told you yesterday at supper, quite a few people recognized him, both on his ride from Modbury to Plymouth, and again on his journey home. I know for a fact that a husband and wife, who live on the far side of the White Friars, beyond Martyn’s Gate, saw him pass by on both occasions. And there was a smallholder who lives near Yealmpton. He was on his way to Plymouth market when he met Beric returning. Oh, and he was seen earlier by a woman near Brixton church, travelling westwards; so, on that occasion, he must have been on his way here. And a friend of his – whose name I’ve forgotten, if I ever knew it – recognized him in the distance, close to Sequers Bridge, but whether coming or going back I’ve no idea. So you see, the Sheriff’s men had no need to rely only on the word of Mistress Trenowth or myself. But even if they had, can you doubt for a moment that either of us could have failed to recognize Beric when we were as near to him as I am now to that hitching-post?’

I assured her that I had never seriously entertained the notion that she and the housekeeper had been mistaken. I was just making certain in order to satisfy my own curiosity. ‘But I have one further question,’ I added. ‘I should have asked it of Mistress Trenowth, but unfortunately her sister came in and I forgot. Although I have to admit that I wouldn’t expect her to have known the answer any more than I expect you to know it now. Nevertheless, you might have some idea, some opinion of your own.’

Joanna Cobbold raised her eyebrows. ‘And what is this question? I must say that you seem very interested in this murder, Master Chapman.’

I ignored her last remark and continued, ‘I’m assuming that you know all the circumstances leading up to the killing. Mistress Trenowth, I feel sure, confided in you as she has since done in me.’ When Joanna nodded, I went on, ‘In that case, you must be aware that the day prior to the murder, Beric Gifford had made it clear to Master Capstick that nothing, neither blandishments nor threats, would persuade him to marry any girl but Katherine Glover. He was very angry with his great-uncle, and, according to Mistress Trenowth, physically attacked the old man. But, in the end, not much harm was done and he rode home to Modbury.’

Joanna shifted her position and leant against the outer wall of the cottage, as though her back was hurting. ‘Well?’ she demanded curtly.

‘I was only thinking,’ I said, ‘that anger arising out of a quarrel usually cools with time and distance, especially if a person is conscious of having won the argument. But in this particular instance, even though he had had a night’s sleep to calm him, Beric got up at first light the following morning and, without making the smallest attempt at secrecy, rode back to Plymouth with the fell intent of murdering his great-uncle in cold blood. Now, what could possibly have happened between his arrival home the previous day and his departure some ten or twelve hours later, to make him act in such a way?’

Mistress Cobbold was interested in spite of herself. A few moments ago, her growing impatience had been palpable, but now she pushed herself away from the cottage wall and came to stand by the paling again, so that we were once more directly facing one another.

‘Perhaps,’ she said at last, after careful consideration of the matter, ‘Beric didn’t really believe that Master Capstick would carry out his threat to change his will that very afternoon. He knew that if he continued to defy him, his great-uncle would indeed alter his will, but didn’t think he would do so immediately. He thought it an idle boast and not one to be taken seriously. And as far as I can recall Mistress Trenowth’s story, she had not left the house to fetch the lawyer before Beric quit it.

‘No,’ I agreed. ‘My recollection is the same. So, your theory is that Master Gifford determined to kill his great-uncle before, as he thought, Oliver Capstick actually carried out his threat to change his will. But if that is so, why did Beric commit the murder so openly? Surely, secrecy was vital to such a plan. All the money in the world was no good to him once he had put a noose around his neck.’

Joanna looked crestfallen as she was forced to confront this new problem, but after a little consideration, she perked up again.

‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I take your point. In that case, he killed Master Capstick so that his sister could inherit the money straight away. Valletort Manor – so I understand – is falling down around their ears, and he wants to marry Katherine Glover. But she won’t bring him any dowry. He decided that if he ate Saint John’s fern, he could become invisible at will and so escape the consequences of his crime. Later, in a year or so, maybe, when the hue and cry has died down and people have more than half-forgotten about the murder, he and Katherine Glover can escape to France or Brittany or maybe even further – perhaps as far as Scotland – where no one knows them or their history, and they can live comfortably on the money that Berenice has shared with them.’

‘That is, if she
is
willing to share her inheritance with her brother. And you’re forgetting that by then she might well be married to this Bartholomew Champernowne, to whom she claims to be betrothed. He might not be willing for his wife to divide her fortune.’

Nevertheless, this particular argument would have had a certain merit had I for one moment truly believed in the magic properties of Saint John’s fern. But, I thought suddenly, supposing there was a secret hiding place somewhere on Valletort Manor itself or in the surrounding countryside; a place known only to the Gifford family, the knowledge of its whereabouts passed on under oath of secrecy from father to son. Such a theory would by no means answer all the questions that needed to be asked about Oliver Capstick’s murder, but it seemed to me to be as close an answer to the riddle as I was going to get at present.

I leant across the paling and lightly kissed Joanna Cobbold’s cheek. ‘Thank you,’ I said.

She flushed with pleasure, but looked bewildered. ‘What for?’ she wanted to know.

‘I think your second idea might contain some seeds of truth,’ I told her. ‘And without you, I shouldn’t have seen the possibilities.’

Her face turned an even deeper shade of pink and she grew flustered. ‘I must go and find out what my two young limbs of Satan are up to,’ she said hurriedly, holding out her hand. ‘Goodbye, chapman. Don’t forget to visit my father if ever you’re Tavistock way. He would be most disappointed if you didn’t.’ And she disappeared into the cottage.

I smiled to myself, hitched up my pack, grasped my cudgel firmly in my right hand and made my way out of Plymouth by Martyn’s Gate.

*   *   *

I crossed Bilbury Bridge and took the road eastwards. Noticing the Carmelite Friary on my left, I remembered Joanna Cobbold’s words concerning a husband and wife who lived nearby, and who claimed to have recognized Beric Gifford as he passed their door, both going towards, and, later, returning from Martyn’s Gate.

I glanced around me, but there was only one dwelling anywhere near the friary, and that was a single-storey, stone-tiled cottage some hundred yards further on, on the opposite side of the track, close to the shoreline. It was surrounded by a small garden in which grew a plentiful supply of samphire and sea beet, both good for the cooking pot, and, I guessed, the occupants’ means of livelihood, sold by them either in Plymouth market or door to door.

While I hesitated, wary of intruding, the goodwife emerged from her cottage carrying a knife, and began to cut the now flowerless plants, stripping them of their fleshy leaves which she packed, layer upon layer, into a basket. She glanced up briefly as I approached, then, finding me of no great interest, stooped once more to her task.

I coughed in order to attract her attention, and when she again looked up, I asked politely, ‘Do you need anything today, Mistress? Needles, thread? Silks, laces? Knives or spoons?’ I slid my pack from my back and shook it enticingly.

It was her turn to hesitate while she considered. Then, reaching a decision, she jerked her head towards the cottage door and said, ‘Come inside.’

After the brightness of the afternoon sun, the interior of the little house was very gloomy, and all I could see for several moments was a galaxy of stars and whirling orange circles. When my sight cleared, however, the first thing I noticed was a table ranged against one wall, and a man sitting at it, having a meal and, at the same time, counting a pile of coins. The latter he quickly whisked out of sight, into his pocket, as soon as he saw me.

‘A pedlar, Jacob,’ the woman said, ‘come to show us his wares. Clear the table, now, so he can spread them out.’ And, with a single movement of her arm, she swept aside the tin plate and mug from which her husband was eating and drinking. The man seemed used to this sort of treatment and made no demur, except to grimace at me when he thought his wife wasn’t looking. I smiled at him sympathetically.

‘I haven’t all day,’ the woman admonished me sharply. ‘I’ve more harvesting to do before sundown, so just let me see what you’re selling.’

I unbuckled the straps of my pack and laid out its contents for her inspection. Whilst I did so, I cudgelled my brains for the most natural way in which to introduce the subject of Oliver Capstick’s murder and their sighting of Beric Gifford. In the end, though, I need not have worried. It was the man, Jacob, who mentioned the subject without any prompting from me.

‘You’ve been hawking your goods around Plymouth, have you? Not much joy to be had there, I’ll be bound. Tight-fisted lot! Never want to pay a fair price for anything. Which way have you come? By Martyn’s Gate and Bilbury Bridge?’ I grunted assent and he went on, ‘Did you happen to notice a house just inside the gate, painted red and gold? There was a very nasty murder there, five months back. At the very beginning of May it was. The owner, Oliver Capstick by name, was bludgeoned to death by one of his own kinfolk; by his own great-nephew, Beric Gifford.’

‘I did hear something of the story,’ I said, keeping a close eye upon the goodwife who, I felt, was not above slipping one or two of the smaller items into her apron pocket while my attention was engaged elsewhere. ‘There seems to be no doubt in anyone’s mind that the killer was this young man you’ve mentioned. And yet surely it would be too foolhardy for anyone to commit such a crime so openly. Perhaps people are mistaken as to his identity.’

‘There’s no mistake,’ the goodwife said tartly, picking up and putting down a length of cream silk ribbon on which she left earthy fingermarks. ‘Jacob and I both saw him that very morning, the first time on his way to do the deed, and the second time on his way back.’

‘And you’re certain that it was Master Capstick’s great-nephew? You know him well enough, do you, to recognize him? You weren’t persuaded into thinking it was him, after others has named him as the culprit?’

The goodwife swelled up like a frog and almost burst with indignation.

‘How dare you question my judgement?’ she cried. ‘Why, I’ve known Beric Gifford since he was in his cradle, even if my husband hasn’t. Before I wed Jacob, I was laundress to Mistress Gifford, who died, poor thing, when Beric was born. And since my marriage, many and many’s the time I’ve seen him and his sister pass by on their way to visit Master Capstick. They both knew us by sight as well as we knew them, and Beric would always wave to us if we were outside the cottage. Not recognize him, indeed! What would you know about it?’