The Saint John's Fern (3 page)
John Cobbold grimaced. ‘Well, they haven’t,’ he said, ‘although they’ve been looking, on and off, these past five months. And there’s also a reward offered for Beric’s capture, but that’s done no good, either. The countryside’s been scoured for miles around, in all directions, but no one’s ever found hair nor hide of him.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘The truth is that quite a few of the Sheriff’s officers, as well as a number of other people, are coming to the conclusion that Beric Gifford…’ He hesitated before continuing, ‘They’re saying … well, they’re saying that he must have eaten of Saint John’s fern.’
The carter stared for a moment, his blue eyes wide with dismay, then he shivered and made the sign of the Cross. ‘He’s made himself invisible,’ he whispered.
We all followed his example, crossing ourselves to ward off the evil spirits, for Saint John’s fern is part of the world of magic, practised by those hobgoblins, elves and other sprites who inhabit the nether regions between earth and hell. Perhaps in this modern age, people no longer give as much credence to the powers of spells and witchcraft as they once did – leastways not in the towns and cities – but when I was young, there was an implicit belief in such things, in spite of the contrary teachings of the Church. It was well known that the hart’s-tongue fern, which grows in damp, shady places such as woods and down wells and in fissures in the rocks, and is also called the fern of Saint John, can, taken in sufficient quantity, make people invisible. An infusion of its leaves is very good for hiccoughs, coughs and other winter chest complaints, but eat the leaves raw and the human body can melt into thin air for hours, or even days at a time, disappearing and reappearing at will.
I was not sure then, any more than I am now, that I really believed the tale; and even in those less enlightened days, there were many people, particularly in London and other big cities, who would have shared my doubts, while any self-respecting priest would have roundly denounced anything which smacked of magic as heresy. But at the same time, it is difficult to free ourselves of the beliefs of our ancestors; and those of us in whom the blood of the Saxon predominates over that of the Norman, accept from birth the powers of the gods of the trees; of Hodekin, the wood sprite, of Robin Goodfellow and of the terrible Green Man. All Nature is a mystery, and the properties of Saint John’s fern one of the greatest, for although the plant has leaves and spore, the flowers are never seen. They are invisible, and the belief is that they can pass on this attribute to humans.
There was a long silence after Peter Threadgold’s last words while we contemplated the unwelcome idea of a brutal murderer escaping the law, and his just deserts, by unnatural powers.
Then, ‘No,’ I objected, all the common sense that I inherited from my mother reasserting itself, ‘it can’t be possible.’
‘Why not?’ demanded Peter Threadgold. ‘And if Beric Gifford has made himself invisible, he could easily be many miles away by now.’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t believe it,’ I said loudly and firmly, in order to convince myself as much as my listeners. ‘I don’t believe that Saint John’s fern makes anyone invisible. It’s just a story. As for what really happened, if this Beric Gifford returned home barely ahead of his pursuers, then what Mistress Cobbold said is right. He had very little time to escape, even if he took a fresh horse. And if he has not been traced elsewhere, then he must still be hiding on the manor.’
John Cobbold looked and sounded irritated. ‘The house, outbuildings and lands have been searched from end to end, I tell you, and the Sheriff’s men have found nothing. Although,’ he added grudgingly, ‘there have been claims by some local people that Beric has been seen. But the sightings have always been late at night, or sometimes very early in the morning, and never near enough for them to say positively that it was him.’
‘Master Hannaford, next door,’ Joanna Cobbold broke in, ‘was one of the posse raised to go in pursuit of Beric Gifford. And he told Mistress Hannaford that the Giffords’ groom told the sergeant that no horse was missing from the Valletort stables. None had been taken out that morning save the black and he was safely back in his stall.’
John Cobbold frowned. ‘You haven’t mentioned this before.’ He sounded somewhat aggrieved that his wife had not kept him better informed.
‘I’d forgotten it until now,’ she answered simply, to which there was no satisfactory response.
‘The groom might have been lying,’ I suggested. ‘But if he wasn’t – and I suspect the number of the Giffords’ horses is well known to their neighbours, and the information easily checked – then it’s possible that, even if he is not within the manor pale, Beric is still somewhere close at hand. What of his parents? What do they say regarding the accusation against their son and his disappearance?’
‘The mother and father have been dead these many years, I believe,’ Joanna Cobbold said. ‘But I really know very little about the family. If you want to know more, you will have to consult Mistress Trenowth.’
‘Now why should the chapman wish to know more?’ her husband chided her. ‘If the Sheriff’s men can’t solve the mystery of Beric Gifford, I’m sure no one else can. Roger’s only here to sell his wares and then move on.’ He glanced anxiously at his father-in-law, who was still looking a little sick, and added hurriedly, ‘The best thing we can do is to put the unsavoury business out of our minds. There’s no need to trouble ourselves further. No random killer is on the loose. It was a family quarrel, obviously, and therefore nothing to do with anyone else. Whatever provoked Beric Gifford to murder his great-uncle is not our concern.’
Peter Threadgold nodded in agreement, a little of the colour creeping back into his cheeks beneath his tan. ‘You’re quite right, John,’ he said. ‘It’s a terrible thing to have happened, but you mustn’t dwell on it, either of you.’ He pushed back his stool and rose to his feet. ‘And now I must be going if I’m to reach Tavistock before midnight. Martha’s probably on the lookout for me already and will be in a fine state by the time I do get home. Where are those two young rascals? Call them in to kiss their old granddad goodbye.’
The boys, hauled in from the street, were inclined to be sullen at first at being taken away from their friends, but upset and tearful when they understood that their grandfather was going home.
‘Won’t you stay, Grandda?’ they begged, catching hold of his arms and attempting to detain him by sheer force.
By the time they had been detached, general farewells exchanged, fond messages for her mother relayed by Joanna Cobbold, and the cob, who had been put out to grass in the cottage yard, once more harnessed between the shafts of the cart, the day was on the wane. It would be another hour before it got dark, but Peter Threadgold was suddenly anxious to be off, and I noted how his eyes carefully avoided the shuttered house next door as he turned the cart about. He paused for one last kiss from his daughter and grandsons, punched his son-in-law playfully on the shoulder and raised a hand to me.
‘Good luck attend you, chapman, and if you’re ever near Tavistock don’t go on your way without paying a visit to my goodwife and me. I’m well known in those parts and anyone will direct you to our cottage. Joanna will make you comfortable tonight. God be with you, my friend!’
We all stood and watched him trundle the length of Bilbury Street and turn the corner. One final wave and he had vanished from sight. I went back into the cottage with my hosts.
* * *
I was finding it impossible to sleep, and part of the reason was sheer physical discomfort.
I was sharing a truckle bed with Thomas, the elder of the two boys, and although, unlike his younger brother, he was a fairly quiet sleeper, and did not perpetually toss and turn from side to side, the bed was far too short for my great limbs. By day, it was kept, with its fellow, beneath the larger bed that stood behind a curtain in one corner of the cottage, and was, of necessity, of only middling length. It was also narrow, and, in addition, I felt obliged to lie rigidly still for fear of disturbing my companion.
The other reason for my restlessness was the story of Master Capstick’s murder at the hands of his great-nephew, Beric Gifford. Once Peter Threadgold had departed, I should have liked to question my hosts further on the subject, but I suspected that my interest would be unwelcome. Moreover, the two boys had settled themselves by the fire for the evening, and I knew that neither John nor Joanna Cobbold wished to discuss the matter in front of them. And even when Thomas and Robin had gone to bed, they were still close enough at hand to hear every word that passed between their elders. So I had held my peace, and eventually retired, to fall into an uneasy slumber from which I had awakened an hour or so later, with no hope of going to sleep again for quite some time.
Bright moonlight filtered through the cracks in the window shutters, diffused by the inner screens of strong, oiled parchment. The fire had been banked with peat for the night and a few glowing embers were still visible between the turfs. I felt an urgent desire to get up and walk about, but for a long time I dared not, for fear of waking the others. But finally, in desperation, I pushed aside my share of the blanket and eased my feet to the floor, sitting quietly on the edge of the bed for a moment or two, my knees tucked almost beneath my chin. Then, stealthily, I reached for my tunic and boots, the only three items of clothing that I had shed, and put them on again, waiting with bated breath for someone to ask me what I thought I was doing, and where I was going, in the middle of the night.
But no one challenged me. Thomas rolled on to his stomach, reclaiming the half of the palliasse that I had abandoned; John Cobbold’s rhythmic snoring never faltered; Robin murmured in his sleep, but did not wake; and from my hostess there was neither sound nor movement. Cautiously, I edged my way to the door and drew back the bolts, grateful for Joanna Cobbold’s careful housewifery that kept them well oiled. With a swift, almost furtive glance over my shoulder, I stepped outside, gently shutting the door behind me.
The street was quiet: no one was abroad. A dog barked somewhere, once, twice, and then fell silent; an owl hooted in a distant barn. I could hear, not too far away, the hush and murmur of the sea. Oliver Capstick’s house rose up, gaunt and black, against a moonlit sky; and just beyond it, Martyn’s Gate was closed and locked until the porter’s arrival to open it at daybreak.
I stared up at the eyeless windows, wondering who the house belonged to now, and why, five months after the old man’s murder, it still remained shuttered and empty. Unlike the cottages in Bilbury Street, it had no fenced yard around it; outside it boasted only a well and an outside privy, but no stables, which was unusual in a gentleman’s residence. At the back was open ground where judging by the churned-up mud, the children played, and where a tenter had set up his drying frames. In the distance, I could just make out the shadow of the Old Town Gate. I returned to the front of the house, feeling that familiar shiver of anticipation that heralded the start of any new adventure; for I was more convinced than ever that Oliver Capstick’s murder was the reason God had brought me to Plymouth.
I walked up to the front door and, without the slightest expectation of it being unbolted, lifted the latch. To my utmost astonishment, it yielded to my touch and, trembling with excitement, I pushed it wide and stepped inside. Immediately, I was almost overpowered by the smell of dust and damp that permeates any house left unoccupied too long, and I stood unmoving for several minutes while my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. When I could see again, I realized that I was standing in a small, square hall from which the stairs rose steeply to the upper storey. Two doors opened off this hallway, one to the right, one to the left of me, and, upon investigation the rooms they served proved to be the counting-house and parlour. A narrow passage, cautiously trodden in case some of the flags should prove uneven, led me to the back door and also gave access to kitchen, pantry and wash-house.
Softly I padded back to the foot of the stairs and closed the street door, but not before I had lit a candle that stood in its holder on a nearby shelf, using the tinder-box that lay alongside it. Then I mounted to the upper storey, which, I discovered, boasted three bedchambers. Two of them were of middling size and showed no sign of occupancy, all the cupboards and chests, when I peered within, being empty of any personal belongings. I guessed that one must have been used as a guest chamber and that Mistress Trenowth had probably occupied the other; but there was no doubt whatsoever that the third and largest room had been Master Capstick’s.
A huge, canopied, four-poster bed stood in the middle of the floor, its curtains made of a heavy, richly woven damask silk. An elaborately carved chest, which I did not hesitate to open, still contained his clothes, now chill and damp to the touch and, in daylight, most likely showing traces of mildew. The rushes covering the boards, like the rushes in other parts of the house, stank to high heaven and had obviously not been removed or changed since the murder. But what eventually drew my eyes, and held them was the coverlet, roughly folded and placed in the middle of the mattress. It showed sinister dark marks which, at first, I tried to convince myself were merely a part of the pattern. However, the tips of my fingers assured me that the patches were stiff and brittle, the rusty stains of long-dried blood.
I drew back in disgust. Whoever was now the owner of Oliver Capstick’s property seemed to have shut up the house without making any attempt to clean it properly or set it to rights since that terrible morning when Beric Gifford had murdered his great-uncle and then disappeared. The sour stench of decay emanated from almost every room, making the bile rise in my throat. I made a bolt for the bedchamber door, sweat breaking out on my forehead, and as I did so, my foot kicked against something solid. I stooped and groped about, very reluctantly, amongst the flea-infested rushes until one hand closed over something hard and metallic that was lying on the floor, partially concealed by the base of the bed.
