‘Of course you do.’ Mistress Fettiplace planted an affectionate kiss on my cheek. ‘And don’t forget, while you’re in Plymouth, to seek out my sisters and let them know what has happened, as well.’
I nodded. I had said nothing to anyone of my suspicions that Mathilda Trenowth might have guessed that the murderer was really Berenice, and not Beric. After all, I couldn’t prove it. She would deny it if challenged, and in the event it hadn’t prevented the truth from being discovered.
I had to share Simon’s bed that night, and as I picked up my candle to join him upstairs, my hostess tapped me on the shoulder.
‘By the way,’ she said, ‘there’s talk that Bevis Godsey’s come forward to volunteer evidence to Sergeant Warren. He’s been frightened, I dare say, by the news of another murder and the two women’s suicide. It seems he’s confessed to catching Berenice and Katherine together in an unguarded moment and guessing the truth. He was given a valuable thumb ring belonging to Beric Gifford in order to buy his silence.’ Anne Fettiplace gave a mirthless snort of laughter. ‘A good job for him, I reckon, that things have turned out as they have. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have bet a fig on him living to a ripe old age.’
I lay awake for a long time that night, listening to my bedfellow snoring, unable to fall asleep myself. My longing to see Adela again, and to hold her in my arms, was overwhelming. I wished that God had not picked on me as the fittest person to solve these mysteries for Him and bring those responsible to book, but at least He had provided me with a loving wife and children as the calm, constant centre of my occasionally dangerous life.
But then, not for the first time, I found myself admitting that I shouldn’t really like to lead a simple chapman’s life. I should miss the excitement and the thrill of foiling evil and righting wrongs. In three or four weeks, with luck and lifts from friendly carters, I should be home, surrounded by every domestic happiness and comfort that Adela could provide. But I knew very well that after a few days I should begin to grow restless, all my senses alert, waiting to hear God’s next call. And, secretly, I should be only too eager to obey.
Also by Kate Sedley
Death and the Chapman
The Plymouth Cloak
The Weaver’s Tale
The Holy Innocents
The Eve of St. Hyacinth
The Wicked Winter
The Brothers of Glastonbury
The Weaver’s Inheritance
THE SAINT JOHN’S FERN
. Copyright © 1999 by Kate Sedley. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
ISBN 0-312-27683-4
First published in Great Britain by Headline Book Publishing
A division of the Hodder Headline Group
First St. Martin’s Minotaur Edition: August 2002
eISBN 9781466869271
First eBook edition: March 2014