‘Robert, do you know if Roger Chapman had left the house at all before you first spoke to him?’
I butted in furiously. ‘No, I hadn’t. What’s all this about? What are you suggesting?’
‘Allow the steward his say,’ the Sheriff’s officer demanded. ‘Come on, old man! Let’s hear you! Did you understand your mistress’s question?’
‘Of course I did!’ Robert snapped. ‘I’m not senile.’
‘Well then? What’s your answer?’
Robert waved a gnarled hand at me. ‘He’s already told you. I saw the chapman come out of the kitchen and spoke to him before he had time to go outside. He followed me upstairs and I wouldn’t let him out again. I was too quick for him. Too clever!’ He sniggered and began rocking to and fro in a paroxysm of self-congratulatory mirth.
I was half afraid he might reveal why he had locked me in in the first place, and I felt that my desire to go poking and prying around Valletort Manor would not be well received by its mistress, But the old man was by now too far gone in his own conceit to remember what, to him, were merely trivial details.
I called down peremptorily, ‘Would you mind, Mistress Gifford, telling me what this is about? It seems more and more as if I am suspected of some crime or misdemeanour.’
She stared up at me and, for a fleeting second, I thought I saw a look of baffled rage and frustration cross her face. Then, suddenly, it was gone and she gave me a tremulous, apologetic smile.
‘I’m sorry, Roger. I must confess that I’ve wronged you. I hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive me, considering the circumstances.’ She covered her eyes with both hands, and I could see that her whole body was shaking. Katherine Glover slipped a comforting arm about her mistress’s shoulders.
‘What is it? What’s happened?’ I cried, on fire with curiosity and impatience.
‘It’s Master Champernowne,’ Mistress Tuckett said, as Berenice seemed in no fit state to reply. ‘He’s been murdered.’
* * *
We were all gathered in the great hall, standing or seated about the high table on its dais. The Sheriff’s officer had accompanied us, for now that I was no longer his quarry, he seemed uncertain what course to pursue.
‘But what made you suspect me?’ I asked angrily, my first flush of bewildered indignation beginning to turn to a slow-burning fury.
‘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 …