The Saint John's Fern (24 page)

‘Because Bartholomew had tried to kill you,’ Berenice said. ‘And because his body was found in the stables.’

I was momentarily diverted. ‘How could it be? Last night, Mistress Glover saw him off the manor at your request.’

‘He must have come back after I’d returned indoors,’ Katherine put in. ‘It’s the only explanation. He restabled his horse in one of the stalls and then … and then, before he could cross the courtyard to knock at the door, he was set upon by his attacker and murdered.’

‘But why would he come back?’ I asked. ‘What would be his purpose?’

Berenice sighed. ‘Because he prefers – preferred,’ she corrected herself, with a catch in her throat, ‘being here with me to returning to his parents’ house. Until I inherited Great-Uncle Oliver’s fortune, neither Sir Walter nor Lady Champernowne approved of Bartholomew’s choice of bride, and he had quarrelled bitterly with them on the subject. Things are different now, of course, and recently, I’ve been trying to get him to go home more often. But he still hasn’t – hadn’t – forgiven his mother and father.’

‘And you really thought,’ I said, recalling my grievance, my anger flaring up again, white-hot, ‘that I would stab a man in the back?’

I had been allowed to see the body where it lay, face downwards, in one of the empty stalls, a ring of dried blood encircling a neat wound made by a weapon that had been driven cleanly through the heart. I had carefully examined the ground all around, and was of the opinion – an opinion which I had so far kept to myself – that Bartholomew Champernowne had been killed outside the stall and dragged in there after he was dead; although why the murderer should have felt it necessary to do so, I had not yet worked out to my satisfaction. A faint glimmer of light was, however, beginning to dawn.

The murder weapon, I surmised, could have been a dagger or an ordinary long-bladed knife of the sort that most men, myself included, always carry with them for cutting up meat. Equally, such a knife could be found in every kitchen the length and breadth of the land. The killer had taken the knife away with him, and it was unlikely now that it would ever be positively identified.

‘If the chapman here didn’t murder Master Champernowne,’ the Sheriff’s officer said, ‘who did? Did he have any other enemies, Mistress Gifford, that you know of?’

Berenice slowly shook her head and pressed a hand to her temples. ‘Bartholomew was generally very well liked. I can’t think of anyone who bore him a grudge.’ But at the last word, she suddenly lifted her face to mine. ‘Wait! Chapman, what is the name of that man who told you that he hated Bartholomew? Indeed, you said he hated all the Champernownes? Jack … Jack something-or-other … Yes, I have it. Jack Golightly!’

I was so shocked that I was unable to find my voice for a moment or two; long enough, at any rate, for the Sheriff’s officer to express his interest.

‘Where is he to be found, this Jack Golightly?’

Katherine Glover answered promptly, ‘Roger Chapman can tell you.’

‘Now, hold hard!’ I exclaimed hotly. ‘You have no cause, Mistress Gifford, to accuse Jack in this manner. Besides, it’s impossible. How could he have gained access to Valletort Manor last night? You’re careful enough about locking up the house. Surely you must be equally careful about locking the courtyard gates.’

‘There’s a wicket door beside the gate,’ Berenice said quickly. ‘It’s always left open. That’s obviously how Bartholomew got in when he returned after Katherine had waved him off home. He must have dismounted and led his horse through.’

‘That’s as maybe,’ I retorted angrily. ‘But how does that implicate Jack Golightly? He was undoubtedly tucked up in his bed, several miles away.’

‘Not necessarily,’ the Sheriff’s officer said heavily. ‘There’s plenty of thieving and poaching going on in these parts at night, you can take my word for it. Suppose this man was out and about yesterday evening and came across Master Champernowne. Perhaps Master Champernowne saw him and words were exchanged. It might be that they even came to blows. This Golightly fellow then decided to follow Master Champernowne. The tracks hereabouts don’t allow for fast riding and a fleet-footed man could easily keep pace with a horse. So, he followed him back here, entered by the wicket, there was another quarrel and your friend drew his knife.’ The office nodded to himself as though well satisfied. ‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully, looking at me, ‘that could be it. Now, chapman, tell me where I can find this Jack Golightly.’

Chapter Seventeen

It was Mistress Tuckett who gave the Sheriff’s officer directions, as she seemed to know Jack and where he lived. I could only watch in confusion as the man strode purposefully from the hall. Then I sat down on the edge of the dais while my companions dispersed, the two younger women presumably to get dressed, the housekeeper and groom about their daily business.

I felt as though I were trapped in the middle of some absurd nightmare. How had Jack Golightly suddenly become a suspect for the murder of Bartholomew Champernowne? It made no sense. It was as if a name had been plucked out of the air because a killer must, and would, be found.

I could understand why the Sheriff’s officer was so eager to make an arrest. Sir Walter and Lady Champernowne were most probably of some importance in the district, and for the wilful murder of their son they would undoubtedly demand that the perpetrator be brought to justice without delay. Woe betide the lawman who failed to catch the villain! But why were Berenice Gifford and Katherine Glover so anxious to identify the criminal that they must seize upon any possibility, however unlikely? Why must they try to make palpably implausible facts fit their theory? I was momentarily baffled …

Then the light that had been slowly dawning at the back of my mind burst into full and glorious radiance. Of course!
I
had been intended for the part of the murderer. Bartholomew had been detained here on the pretext that he owed me an apology and then I had been invited to pass the night in the stable.
I
was the one who would have been found there with the body this morning, but for the unwitting intervention of Robert Steward. Who, then, was the real villain? For me, there could only be one answer: Beric Gifford.

But if this were so, it meant that both Berenice and her maid must be party to Bartholomew’s murder; that they had had prior notice of Beric’s intention. Why he needed to dispose of his future brother-in-law I as yet had no idea, but that puzzle could wait. First, I had to work out the details of the deed itself, and my guess was that Bartholomew had never left the manor, but been stabbed to death within minutes of his arrival at the stables. Katherine had been dispatched by Berenice, under the pretence of making sure that he had quit the premises to establish that the killing had been successfully accomplished and the body concealed in one of the stalls, so that I should not accidentally stumble across it when I put in my expected appearance. I recalled Berenice’s raised eyebrows and Katherine’s answering nod, both of which now took on a new significance.

There had been an element of risk involved, it was true, for I might have chosen to sleep in the very stall where the corpse was hidden and, having discovered it, raised the alarm. But would that really have made any difference? Yesterday evening or this morning, I could still have been accused of the crime.

My appearance at Robert’s window, and the subsequent revelation that I had been locked in with him all night, must have been a great blow to the two women. It explained the expression of anger and frustration that I had glimpsed on Berenice’s face, and why another scapegoat for the murder had to be found, and quickly, before the suspicions of the Sheriff’s officer could begin to centre on Beric Gifford. Like manna from heaven must have come the memory of all that I had said in Modbury churchyard concerning Jack Golightly and his hatred of the Champernownes. Berenice gave me the impression of being an intelligent, perceptive woman, and no doubt she, too, had sensed that the Sheriff’s officer wanted a swift arrest; something with which he could confront Sir Walter and Lady Champernowne when he informed them of their son’s untimely death. Moreover, and of great importance to Berenice, who had been the object of their disapproval, the culprit would have no connection with Valletort Manor.

Which brought me back to the reason for Bartholomew’s murder. Assuming that I was right, that Beric Gifford was indeed the killer, why had his death been necessary? And why would Berenice concur? I recalled again Mistress Trenowth’s words when she told me how happy Berenice had seemed the day she announced her betrothal. So what could possibly have happened in the meantime to make it necessary for her to agree to his being killed? What threat had he posed to her beloved brother, or to Katherine Glover, that she accepted he must forfeit his life?

‘Are you still here, chapman?’ asked a voice behind me. ‘I thought you would be on your way by now.’

I glanced round, startled, to find Berenice standing just behind me, dressed from crown to toe in funereal black. I could see nothing of her face except as a pale oval behind her gauze veil, and there was something so sinister about her sudden appearance that a shiver of apprehension coursed down my spine. Nevertheless, nervous as I was, I felt compelled to say something in defence of Jack Golightly. I rose clumsily to my feet and turned to confront her.

‘Why have you sent the Sheriff’s officer on a fool’s errand?’ I asked accusingly. I drew a bow at a venture. ‘You know Master Golightly didn’t kill Master Champernowne. You know it was your brother.’

There was a moment’s silence, during which the air was charged with menace. Then Berenice laughed, a low, musical sound, and put back the veil from her face. I was struck anew by her unusual looks; the dark complexion, the deep brown eyes and the strong, almost mannish cast of countenance. No, she was not beautiful in any accepted sense of the word, but beside her, the small, flower-like features of Katherine Glover paled into insignificance.

‘I’ve told you before, Roger –’ the use of my name was almost sensuous – ‘Beric’s long gone. Why should he stay? It would be madness. I assure you, he isn’t here. And even if he were, why would he want to kill Bartholomew? He has no reason to wish him dead.’ She moved closer to me as she spoke and laid a hand against my chest.

I recoiled from her touch as if stung. I could not explain my reaction, except that, just for a second, I had the impression that I was looking into the face of someone, or something, not quite human.

She laughed again, but this time it was a harsher, less pleasant sound.

‘Don’t worry, I have no wish to seduce you. Well? You haven’t answered my question yet. Why should my brother want to kill my betrothed, even if Beric was here, instead of far away, in Brittany or France?’

‘That’s not true,’ I blurted out. ‘He’s in neither of those places, and I think you know it. I don’t understand why he murdered Master Champernowne, but I do know that he hasn’t fled abroad.’

‘And what makes you so certain of that fact?’ Berenice demanded, descending the two steps of the dais, so that we now stood on a level.

‘Because,’ I answered recklessly, ‘I witnessed Mistress Glover’s meeting with your brother five nights ago, outside the Bird of Passage Inn at Oreston.’

The strong, well-marked eyebrows flew up in surprise and I heard her sharp intake of breath. ‘Did you, indeed?’ the lady asked softly. Her eyes shifted to a point beyond my right shoulder. ‘Ah! Kate! Your arrival is most opportune. The chapman here has just informed me that you met my brother at midnight, five nights ago, outside the inn at Oreston. What have you to say to that?’

I had turned as soon as she addressed her maid, in time to see Katherine emerge from a small door in the tapestry-covered wall behind the dais. This was the same entrance that Berenice must have used a few minutes earlier, and explained her abrupt, almost magical appearance behind me. But there was nothing supernatural about it, after all, and immediately I began to feel better. I had allowed myself to become the prey of foolish fancies.

Katherine Glover was also arrayed in unrelieved black, although she had released her hair from beneath its hood, letting it flow in a golden-brown mane across her shoulders. She was indeed a very pretty woman, and the luminous grey eyes that she turned on me were brimming with innocence.

‘I’m sorry, chapman, but you’re mistaken. I was tucked up in my bed and fast asleep from the moment that my head touched the pillow.’ The soft red lips curled into a smile. ‘My aunt and uncle will tell you that they heard and saw nothing. You dreamt it. There’s no other explanation.’

I opened my mouth to argue with her, then realized that to do so was pointless. It was Katherine’s word against mine, and in any case, Berenice would pretend to believe her, even though she knew the truth. There was nothing further I could do here for the present, and I needed to find out what had happened to Jack Golightly. Perhaps he could prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that he was miles from Valletort Manor the previous evening. But then again, perhaps he couldn’t. Suddenly it was imperative that I should leave as soon as possible in order to pursue my own enquiries.

‘I must go,’ I said. ‘With your permission, Mistress Gifford, I’ll retrieve my pack and stick from Robert Steward’s room and then be on my way. Thank you for your hospitality. I’m deeply sorry that my visit here should have ended in such a tragedy. You have my sympathy.’ I tried to sound sincere, but failed miserably.

Neither woman answered, but watched in silence as I disappeared from their sight around the kitchen screen. Once again, I shivered. I should be glad to shake the dust of Valletort Manor from my feet. But I should be back. I was sure of it. I felt it in my bones.

*   *   *

I paused, listening intently, then, slowly, turned my head and looked over my shoulder.

All was quiet except for the chirping of an occasional bird, but I could have sworn that, a moment earlier, I had heard a twig snap. Was someone following me? Had Berenice gone straight to her brother, wherever he was hiding, to inform him that I knew too much? That I was dangerous?