I turned to my hostess, who had by now recovered her poise and was sitting bolt upright on the bench, her hands tightly clasped together on the table in front of her. ‘You saw him? And you’d swear that it was this great-nephew of Master Capstick?’
‘Of course I’d swear! I know him well by sight. He and his sister have often visited their great-uncle in the past. Just before I went to spread out my washing, I’d been in the street, talking to Bessie Hannaford, my neighbour on the other side, and as I turned into the yard, Beric Gifford rode up on that big black horse of his.’
‘A huge, showy, very spirited animal,’ John Cobbold put in. ‘Master Capstick told me once that his great-nephew was the only person who could manage the brute. He was quite proud of the fact, even though he strongly disapproved of the boy spending so much on a horse that no one else on the manor could ride. A shocking waste of money he called it-’
Peter Threadgold broke in impatiently, ‘But if it’s known he killed Master Capstick, why hasn’t this Beric Gifford been arrested and hanged?’
His son-in-law shrugged. ‘No one can find him,’ he answered in a hushed voice. ‘Since last being seen on the morning of the murder, he’s seemingly disappeared off the face of the earth.’
There was silence for a moment, then I suggested, ‘He’s run away, do you mean?’
Joanna Cobbold stirred uneasily. ‘He would have had to run very fast,’ she said, ‘to outstrip the Sheriff’s men. On my and Mistress Trenowth’s evidence, there was a posse after him within the half-hour, and it seems that when they arrived at Valletort Manor, Beric Gifford’s horse was in the stables, still lathered after its ride. But there was no sign of Master Gifford himself, and he hasn’t been seen since. The general opinion is that his sister’s hiding him somewhere on the manor, for, by every account, the two of them have always been as thick as thieves.’
‘But surely that’s impossible,’ her father protested. ‘The Sheriff’s men must have searched every nook and cranny of both house and demesne. If he’s there, they’re bound to have found him.’
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.’