The knight was in the middle of uttering some consolatory remark, in a low, grief-stricken voice, when he happened to glance up and see me.
‘Who’s this?’ he demanded in quite another tone.
Berenice and Katherine Glover both stared in astonishment, but then I saw something very like a gleam of fear in both pairs of eyes.
‘Roger Chapman, what are you doing back here again?’ Berenice asked, rising slowly to her feet. ‘We thought we’d seen the last of you.’
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you. I’ve come to tell you that I’ve found your brother,’ I announced baldly. ‘That is, I’ve discovered Beric’s grave.’
I think Berenice would have faced me down and poured ridicule on my story, but at my words, Katherine Glover gave a scream and clapped both hands over her mouth. She began to sob hysterically.
‘Stop that at once, Kate, d’you hear me?’ her mistress shouted slapping her hard across the face.
But the admonition was useless and the other woman sank to the floor, clutching her reddened cheek.
‘I told you we’d be found out in the end,’ she moaned. ‘You always took such risks.’
By this time, Sir Walter Champernowne was also on his feet, looking dazed and bewildered. ‘What’s going on? What’s this all about?’ he entreated.
As briefly and succinctly as I could, I told him of my suspicions and of my gruesome discovery in the woods. ‘And I think you’ll find that one of these two women also killed your son,’ I added. ‘I suspect Mistress Glover of being responsible for that particular murder. As pretty a pair of cold-hearted killers as you’re likely to find anywhere in England.’
Berenice, who had been bending over her friend, suddenly straightened up and flew at me, her mourning draperies billowing out around her, giving her the appearance of a great black crow. I prepared to defend myself, but it was only when Sir Walter shouted a warning, that I realized she had a knife in her hand. Where it had come from I had no idea, but it must have been concealed somewhere about her person.
Fortunately, there was a stool close by and I grabbed it, holding its seat in front of me as a shield. The blade stuck fast in the wood, and with a curse Berenice let go the handle. Sir Walter Champernowne, recovering his wits and convinced by her actions of the truth of my accusations, lunged at her in an effort to seize her by the skirt, but she whirled out of his reach. Gripping Katherine Glover’s arm, she hauled her to her feet and literally dragged her friend across the floor and through the door at the back of the dais. Sir Walter and I, both still shocked by the speed and turn of events, were slow to move in pursuit. The door was slammed in our faces, and we heard the rasp of bolts being shot home on the other side.
‘Where does it lead?’ the knight demanded, breathing heavily. ‘To what part of the house?’
‘I don’t know,’ I admitted, turning in the direction of the kitchen. ‘We must ask Mistress Tuckett.’
But the housekeeper, disturbed by the sudden noise, had already emerged from the kitchen to discover the cause. At the same moment, Sergeant Warren burst in through the main door of the hall, followed by several of Sir Walter’s servants who had also been alarmed by the uproar within. I left the knight to put the Sheriff’s officer in possession of all the facts, while I dealt with Mistress Tuckett, pointing to the door at the back of the dais.
‘Where does that go?’ I demanded, explaining that it had been bolted on the other side. And when I was told that, behind it, a flight of steps led up to the mistress’s bedchamber, I insisted on being taken there at once.
The astonished housekeeper was inclined to jib at this, until Sergeant Warren added the weight of his commands to my request. So, leading us through the kitchen to the passageway beyond, and from thence ascending a flight of stairs to an upper corridor, Mistress Tuckett pointed out the door to Berenice’s bedchamber, situated halfway along.
‘There’s her room, and there, at the other end, is the staircase that leads down again to the great hall. But before anyone of you goes another step, I’d like to know what all this is about.’
Sergeant Warren and Sir Walter Champernowne ignored her and strode forward to hammer at the bedchamber door. When there was no response, the former tried the latch, but although it lifted, the door refused to yield.
‘Bolted from within,’ Sergeant Warren announced unnecessarily. ‘We must break it down. Somebody fetch an axe.’
‘No need for that,’ said Sir Walter brusquely. ‘Here we are, you, myself and the chapman, not to mention three or four of my men. We’re all big enough and strong enough. Surely we ought to be able to break it down between us, if we all rush at it together.’
It was not quite as easy as he made it sound, but in the end two panels of the wood splintered under our combined assault and we were able, one at a time, to squeeze through the gap that we had made …
We were too late, as I had feared we might be. Both women were already dead, sprawled across the bed yet still, in death, enfolded in one another’s arms. After the first, shocked stillness, Sergeant Warren stooped and picked up a small glass bottle from the floor.
‘Poison,’ he said, pouring the few remaining drops into the palm of his left hand. He sniffed it warily. ‘Probably an infusion of deadly nightshade berries.’ He sighed heavily, then added with a venomous snarl, ‘I hate to see a murderer cheat the gallows.’
But his words were almost lost as Mistress Tuckett, finally penetrating the room through the gap in the splintered door, let out an ear-piercing scream.
* * *
Jack Golightly embraced me with the tears coursing down his cheeks.
He had been released from the roundhouse an hour or so earlier and had immediately sought me out at the Fettiplaces’ cottage, where I had been made more than welcome for yet another night. Indeed, I had the feeling that neither Anne Fettiplace nor her husband would ever have forgiven me had I not accepted their offer of hospitality, for they and Simon were basking in the reflected glory of my exploits. Everyone in Modbury wanted to hear the story and have the mystery explained, as well as to congratulate Jack on his freedom. Besides which, the sensation of the day’s events at Valletort Manor would probably never again be repeated: a murder in the morning and a double suicide in the evening was more than anybody felt that he or she had a right to expect in a lifetime. I was the hero of the hour.
The swineherd, too, his pigs now safely penned in their sty for the night, merited his share of interest. He had been able to waylay Sergeant Warren, riding to seek out Sir Walter at Valletort Manor, there to boast vaingloriously of his swift arrest of Jack Golightly.
‘He didn’t believe me, you know,’ the swineherd confided later when all the Fettiplaces’ neighbours had at last gone home to sleep off the excitement and a generous quantity of good, home-brewed ale. He himself was just setting off for his own cottage within the manor pale. ‘At least, put it this way: Sergeant Warren didn’t want that body to be Beric Gifford’s, for he knew that if it were, Jack’s arrest was going to make him look an almighty fool.’
I smiled and clapped the swineherd on the back. ‘Well, in the end he had no choice but to believe it. And thank you, my friend, for all your help, for without you and your pigs I doubt if I’d have guessed the truth.’
He looked pleased, but reluctantly disclaimed the honour. ‘God would surely have illuminated your mind by some other means,’ he said.
He left the cottage, nevertheless, with a jaunty gait and whistling a tune under his breath.