Neither woman answered, but watched in silence as I disappeared from their sight around the kitchen screen. Once again, I shivered. I should be glad to shake the dust of Valletort Manor from my feet. But I should be back. I was sure of it. I felt it in my bones.
* * *
I paused, listening intently, then, slowly, turned my head and looked over my shoulder.
All was quiet except for the chirping of an occasional bird, but I could have sworn that, a moment earlier, I had heard a twig snap. Was someone following me? Had Berenice gone straight to her brother, wherever he was hiding, to inform him that I knew too much? That I was dangerous?
My departure from the manor had been delayed by Robert Steward, who not only wished to discuss the murder, but also to detain me for as long as possible.
‘I told you this place was evil,’ he kept muttering. ‘I don’t want to be left alone here. I don’t like it any more. It’s not the same since she came.’
In the end, I had to break free of the hands grasping my sleeve and escape down the stairs before he hit on the idea of locking me in again. But as I followed the track that led up to the high wooded ground behind the house, I was made uneasy by my late start, and wished fervently that I was at the end of my journey and safely back in Modbury.
I told myself not to be so foolish: no one would harm me. Another murder, especially one coming so soon on the heels of Bartholomew Champernowne’s, would divert suspicion back to Valletort Manor, and that was surely something that neither Beric nor his sister could tolerate. But then I reflected that only the two women need concern themselves with an alibi. Beric had eluded justice for so long, it seemed impossible that he should be caught now. And whether he could make himself invisible or not, he had certainly perfected the art of lying low. It was a talent that many a woodland creature would envy him.
I resumed my walk, my now almost empty pack allowing me to quicken my pace considerably. A piece of dry wood snapped under my feet; but then, like an echo, came the crack of another twig somewhere along the track behind me. My heart began to thump and I could feel the prickle of sweat all over my body. It was a coincidence I told myself; I was hearing things. There was no one following me. Nevertheless, I started walking faster still, my strides lengthening.
Without warning, I found myself in the little glade where stood the shelter made of pegged-down branches covered with tarred cloth. On a sudden impulse, I dropped to my knees and crawled inside, dragging my pack and cudgel after me. It appeared even danker and darker than it had seemed the day before yesterday, as I waited for I knew not what, hardly daring to breathe. Had I been mistaken? Was there really someone dogging my footsteps? Or was I letting an overripe imagination run away with me? I laid hold of my stick, gripping it tightly, and tucked my long legs more carefully underneath my body, making certain they couldn’t be seen …
Someone was in the glade. I knew it by the slight vibration of the ground and the rustle of feet in a drift of dried leaves. Then all noise and movement ceased, and I guessed that whoever was there had paused to glance around. Would he look inside the tent? But why should he? He had no cause to think I knew that I was being followed.
Suddenly, however, he was standing right outside. Through the narrow, triangular opening I could see his boots; soft brown leather that must have reached to his knees, for the tops were hidden from my view. The framework of branches, clearly visible from within, trembled slightly as he placed a hand on the outer covering. Any moment now, he would stoop and peer in … I withdrew as silently and as sinuously as I could until I came up against the trunk of the tree and found it impossible to retreat any further.
Then, abruptly, the owner of the boots moved away, but I wondered what he would do when it dawned on him that I was no longer travelling the path ahead. Would he come back? Would he realize where I was hiding? Probably. It behoved me, therefore, to abandon the shelter as soon as possible. I gave my pursuer a minute or so to get clear of the glade before wriggling out, shouldering my pack again and setting out after him.
Beric Gifford — for who else could this man be? — and I had now changed places. I was the one with all the advantage of pursuit and surprise. But still, I must be cautious. He had twice shown himself to be a ruthless killer, and I had no doubt that, if he could, he would rid himself of me. Once I had recklessly owned to seeing him and Katherine Glover together, five nights ago at Oreston, I had sealed my death warrant as far as Beric was concerned. I should have thought of that before making my admission; and perhaps I had in one corner of my mind. Perhaps, without fully realizing it, I had decided to flush my quarry into the open, for how else was Beric ever to be brought to justice?
Suddenly the trees drew back and I found myself in the clearing where, the day before yesterday, I had eaten my apple whilst sitting on the log, and where, afterwards, I had fallen asleep. On the opposite side of the grass circle was the path leading to the main track that stretched from Modbury to the sea. But where was Beric? I had walked quickly and should surely have caught up with him by now. Yet there seemed to be no sign of him.
Suppose he really was able to make himself invisible! Suppose the story about the Saint John’s fern were true! I had managed to convince myself that it was just an old wives’ tale, but I could be wrong. Beric could have discarded his clothes and be standing alongside me now, and, at any minute, I should feel his hands about my neck, squeezing the life from my body. Or, more likely, a knife would be plunged between my shoulder blades as had happened to Bartholomew Champernowne. I had been all kinds of a fool not to consider this possibility before setting out in pursuit of such a dangerous opponent. I had allowed what I thought was common sense to gain too firm a hold over my mind. All at once, I was afraid to move. My feet felt as if they were rooted to the ground.
Something moved on the edge of my vision. I whirled about, my stick clasped in both hands, ready for action, only to be brought up short by the sight of a swineherd, followed by three fat pigs, as they emerged from the trees where the animals had been rootling for mast.
‘Hey up!’ the man said, looking alarmed, as well he might. ‘No need to be so quick with that cudgel of yours, chapman. There’s no one about here as would wish to harm you. Especially not a great hulking lad like you.’
I heaved a sigh of relief and lowered the stick to my side.
‘I beg your pardon,’ I said. ‘But all the way here, between Plymouth and Modbury, I’ve been fed with stories about someone by the name of Beric Gifford, who’s committed a murder seemingly and has made himself invisible in order to escape justice, by eating the hart’s-tongue fern.’
The man’s face darkened. ‘Ay, that’s true enough,’ he agreed. ‘Battered his poor old uncle to death, so they say. And has been cheating the hangman ever since.’ He lunged at one of the swine who showed signs of wandering away in search of some more succulent morsel than he had yet managed to discover. ‘If you like, I’ll walk with you part of your way. It’ll be company for us both, and between us we should be able to tackle even an invisible man.’
‘I’d be grateful,’ I answered. ‘I’ve just come from Valletort Manor, and Bartholomew Champernowne was stabbed to death there, last night. The groom found his body, cold and stiff, this morning in one of the stalls in the stable.’
My companion looked aghast and let out an oath. Under his questioning, I told the story as far as I knew it; although I didn’t repeat my suspicion that I had been intended for the role of the murderer. Not only did I have no proof to support my theory, but it would have made the tale too long and too complicated, and needed too many explanations regarding my prior involvement. But I did add that the Sheriff’s officer had gone in pursuit of Jack Golightly, and also stated my own opinion concerning the identity of the killer; an opinion with which the swineherd wholeheartedly concurred.