‘You’ll remember whatever it was later,’ Anne Fettiplace said comfortably, beginning to clear away the dirty dishes. ‘That’s the way it always happens. If I can’t recollect where I’ve put a thing, I let it go, and the answer always comes to me when I’m not even thinking about it.’
‘True, true,’ nodded her husband. He refilled all our cups with ale. ‘So,’ he continued, ‘you’re satisfied, Master Chapman, that the man you saw outside the Bird of Passage Inn at Oreston must be Beric Gifford.’
‘I can’t understand why he didn’t escape abroad as soon as he’d murdered his uncle,’ Simon objected, loosening his belt and sighing with repletion. ‘What sane man would wait around to get his neck stretched? Or to spend the rest of his life in hiding?’
‘If he’s willing to risk eventual madness by eating Saint John’s fern and constantly making himself invisible,’ Ivo Fettiplace said after a moment’s silence, ‘then I suppose there’s no reason why he shouldn’t defy the law and stay at Valletort Manor until he dies.’
‘Do either of you know him well?’ I asked.
Father and son exchanged glances, each waiting for the other to speak, then the older man shrugged.
‘I suppose everyone in Modbury knows him and Berenice. They are — or rather were, before this terrible business — in and out of the town ever since they could ride a pony. And I suppose we, as a family, took a greater interest in them than most folk, on account of Anne’s sister being housekeeper to old Master Capstick.’
‘Do you like them?’
‘They’re a civil enough young couple,’ Simon Fettiplace conceded. ‘She can be bad-tempered if anyone thwarts her or she isn’t treated with the deference she thinks she’s due, but I’ve never had a cross word from Beric. I’ve always thought him a pleasant young fellow, and I was shocked beyond measure when I heard what he’d done.’
‘We all were,’ his mother added, overhearing this last remark as she came back into the cottage with a full pail of water. She poured some of the liquid into a pan which she then hung over the fire to heat, and set down the bucket and the rest of its contents on one end of the table, announcing her intention of making water-cider with the pippins she had bought the day before yesterday from Bevis Godsey. ‘It’s high time you two were getting back to the sawmill,’ she reprimanded her menfolk.
But neither man seemed inclined to heed her words, turning deaf ears to her suggestion.
‘Beric’s always been a good horseman,’ Ivo Fettiplace remarked cutting himself a wedge of the goat’s-milk cheese that had not yet been cleared from the table.
‘He is that,’ agreed Simon, following his father’s example. ‘When he bought that horse of his — that great black brute with as evil an eye as I’ve ever seen in an animal — everyone said as how he’d break is neck. But not Beric!’ Simon crammed the cheese into his mouth. ‘He had that creature eating out of his hand before he’d had it a fortnight. Together, they were like one of those mythical beings I’ve heard tell of, half man, half horse. But I forget their name.’
‘You mean centaurs,’ I said.
‘Do I?’ He swallowed convulsively, regarding me with some curiosity. ‘You’re probably right. You’ve pretty good book learning for a chapman.’
‘I was given an education by the monks at Glastonbury,’ I explained. ‘My mother intended me for the religious life, but I had other ideas.’ I turned to Ivo. ‘Would you agree, Master Fettiplace, that Beric Gifford is as good a horseman as your son claims he is?’
The elder man helped himself to another slab of cheese. ‘I would that. There’s not been the horse foaled that he couldn’t ride. Never a second’s trouble with any of them that I’ve ever seen.’
‘And what about Mistress Berenice? Is she as fine a horsewoman as her brother is a horseman?’
‘Very nearly,’ Mistress Fettiplace cut in. ‘Though you won’t find men giving her the credit that’s her due.’ She whisked the cheese off the table and put it away in a cupboard, with a muttered animadversion about insatiable appetites.
Husband and son ignored the stricture and continued to dwell on the riding skills of the Giffords.
‘Mistress Berenice is a good enough horsewoman, I grant you,’ Simon admitted. ‘But she hasn’t the same confidence as her brother.’
‘Almost!’ Anne Fettiplace protested indignantly as she ladled some of the hot water into a bowl in order to begin washing the dirty dishes.
‘But not quite.’ Her husband rose from his stool and stretched his arms above his head until the bones cracked. ‘Come on, Simon, my lad. This won’t get the wood cut. At this rate it’ll be nightfall before we’ve sawn up that load of timber.’ He held out a calloused, leathery hand. ‘In case we don’t meet again, Master Chapman, I’ll wish you God’s blessing. Will you be staying much longer in Modbury?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I answered. ‘I must certainly remain until I get definite news of my friend.’ I did not add that if Jack Golightly had indeed been arrested, then my self-appointed mission to track down Beric Gifford would become of the greatest urgency.
‘Of course! Of course!’ agreed my host genially. ‘And you must remain here with Anne for as long as you wish. She’ll be glad of your company, won’t you, my dear?’
‘I’m depending upon his staying for a while at least,’ his wife responded. ‘I want you to meet all my neighbours, Roger, and tell them the story of your visit to Valletort Manor. Only,’ she cautioned, ‘I wouldn’t repeat your theory concerning Beric Gifford until you have amassed more proof. Besides, they won’t be interested in that.’ She gave me her most winning smile. ‘I hope you’ll agree to do this for me.’
I promised, although a little grudgingly, for I wanted everyone to know that I considered Jack Golightly innocent. Ivo and Simon Fettiplace both laughed and wished me well as they left the cottage, while Mistress Fettiplace bade me sit down again while she finished the dishes. She indicated a rough, wooden armchair that I guessed to be her husband’s seat, for it was not only swathed with a piece of red cloth, but also boasted a cushion, covered in the same material. I was conscious of the honour done to me and sat down carefully, at first bolt upright, but gradually slipping down until my legs were stretched at full length in front of me.
I was full of pasties and good ale, having overeaten as usual, not knowing when I might get my next meal. The food and, in addition, the warmth of the fire were making me drowsy, and I was aware that my eyelids were heavy. I made a valiant effort to stay awake, but could not. Within five minutes of sitting down, I was fast asleep.
Even as I closed my eyes, I knew I was going to dream. Since our meal, I had been suffering from one of the oppressive headaches that sometimes afflict me and are harbingers of those strange visions that crowd my unconscious mind. I was in a wood, shrouded by a clinging, rain-drummed mist, and I knew I must be near the sea, for in the distance, I could plainly hear the gentle sobbing of the waves. Suddenly the wind rose sharply, tearing aside the curtain of rain, tossing the spidery twigs of the trees and making them rattle so loudly that I was not at all surprised, on closer inspection, to discover that they were in fact dry, bleached bones.
Without warning, the swineherd was standing beside me, while his pigs rootled and snuffled at the base of one of the trees, showering us both with the earth from their digging. The muffled sound of hoofs made us look round, and there, riding towards us on his big black horse was Beric Gifford, his flat-crowned, black velvet cap pulled forward over his eyes, wrapped in a cloak and struggling to control his mount, which showed a strong tendency to unseat him. Beside him, holding the animal’s rein, walked Robert Steward, also wearing a flat, black velvet cap exactly like his master’s.
They had almost drawn level with us, where we stood at the side of the track, when I stepped full into their path to halt them. Then I reached into my pouch and pulled out the hat ornament with its entwined letters, B and G, and its pendant, teardrop pearl, handing it up to Beric to take from me. But he shook his head, pushing my hand aside with an impatient gesture. As he did so, I noticed on the middle finger of his right hand the ring that I had last seen adorning that of Bevis Godsey.