‘Well here we are,’ Ursula Cooper said. ‘This is where I must leave you. I trust I can rely on you, chapman, not to pester Mathilda again, simply in order to satisfy your ghoulish curiosity.’
I did not answer her directly, but asked instead, ‘Do you believe that Beric Gifford has eaten Saint John’s fern?’
She snorted contemptuously. ‘No, I don’t! If he’s any sense, he’s escaped and is miles away by now. Ireland, perhaps, or Scotland! Although France is much nearer, and it wouldn’t be all that difficult to find a boat whose master was willing to take him across the Channel — for a price.’
‘But what about this Katherine Glover? Mistress Trenowth is certain that he wouldn’t stir anywhere without her.’
‘Nonsense!’ The widow was dismissive. ‘He’s only to wait awhile and then send for her when the time is ripe.’
I sighed, thanked her, and stood looking after her as she walked away. A domineering woman, but one whose sole concern was for Mistress Trenowth’s welfare, however mistaken she might be in that sister’s needs. I wondered how long they would be able to tolerate one another before parting company. It was already over five months since the murder, a fair time for two women to share the same house.
As I climbed the gentle incline of Notte Street, I wondered if the Widow Cooper was not indeed correct in her assumption that Beric Gifford had fled to France. And yet, as Mistress Trenowth had pointed out, money would have proved a stumbling block, particularly before Berenice had come into possession of her uncle’s fortune. Later, however, when the money was hers, had he gone then? Yet, according to Mathilda Trenowth, he would never have stirred without Katherine Glover, and she was still at Valletort Manor … Nothing seemed to make sense.
At least I knew now that the house in Bilbury Street belonged to Berenice Gifford. But why had she left it and its furnishings to rot? Before long, once people had overcome their horror of the killing, and when some curious person discovered, as I had done, that the street door was unlocked, the contents would gradually be stolen. If she wished to preserve her property, she would do well to look to it before it was too late.
I paused, my hand, upraised to knock on one of the Notte Street doors, arrested in midair. Perhaps I ought to return to Bilbury Street immediately and alert Mistress Cobbold to the fact that the neighbouring house was wide open to thieves and vagabonds. I should have to admit to how I knew this fact, but I felt that she had a right to be told. Consequently, I abandoned all thought of rich pickings in Notte Street and made my way back to Old Town Ward. But as I approached Martyn’s Gate, I saw that there was a horse, a light-coloured palfrey, tied to the hitching-post outside Master Capstick’s former dwelling.
I was still some few yards distant, when the door of the house opened and a young woman emerged.
Chapter Five
I saw at once that this could not be Berenice Gifford. The woman’s garments were too plain and too sober for one who had recently acquired a fortune and who, by reputation, had a liking for finery. The clothes were more suited to those of a lady’s maid, so I felt justified in my assumption that this was Katherine Glover. And who would be more trusted with the key of the house than a future sister-in-law?
And I could see that the girl did have the key, for, having closed the front door behind her, she inserted it in the lock; but her subsequent vain attempts to turn it gave me my opportunity.
I lengthened my stride. ‘Can I be of help?’ I asked, pausing beside her. ‘You seem to be having trouble.’
She turned a delicate, flower-like face towards me, a strand of pale golden brown hair escaping from beneath her linen hood. Startled grey eyes, widely spaced on either side of a small straight nose, regarded me with a certain amount of apprehension while a softly bowed red mouth completed an enchanting picture. It was easy to see why Beric Gifford had been unwilling to give her up, even for a wife with a substantial dowry.
‘Thank you. You’re most kind,’ she answered in tones that were deeper and stronger than I had expected from so fragile-looking a creature. ‘The lock’s rusty and the wards are stiff. Sometimes the key fails to do its job properly and the house remains open to any passing thief. If you would be good enough to make sure that the door is indeed secure, I should be very grateful.’
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?’