‘You’ve given him something to tell his children and grandchildren,’ Anne Fettiplace remarked, closing and bolting the cottage door for the night.
‘And his goody and her kinswomen, the Trims, will treat him with a new respect,’ Ivo Fettiplace observed as he began damping down the fire.
‘Are you set on beginning your homeward journey tomorrow?’ his wife asked wistfully.
‘I am,’ I answered. ‘I’m sorry, but there’s nothing to keep me here any longer. I’m more than happy for Sergeant Warren to take the credit with the Sheriff for what has been discovered concerning these dreadful crimes. Moreover, it will be a long journey back to Bristol, for I must visit both Plymouth and Tavistock on my way home to let some friends know the outcome of my labours. And I’ve a family, a wife and son and daughter, whom I’ve not seen for very many weeks. They’ll be looking for me. And I miss them.’
‘Of course you do.’ Mistress Fettiplace planted an affectionate kiss on my cheek. ‘And don’t forget, while you’re in Plymouth, to seek out my sisters and let them know what has happened, as well.’
I nodded. I had said nothing to anyone of my suspicions that Mathilda Trenowth might have guessed that the murderer was really Berenice, and not Beric. After all, I couldn’t prove it. She would deny it if challenged, and in the event it hadn’t prevented the truth from being discovered.
I had to share Simon’s bed that night, and as I picked up my candle to join him upstairs, my hostess tapped me on the shoulder.
‘By the way,’ she said, ‘there’s talk that Bevis Godsey’s come forward to volunteer evidence to Sergeant Warren. He’s been frightened, I dare say, by the news of another murder and the two women’s suicide. It seems he’s confessed to catching Berenice and Katherine together in an unguarded moment and guessing the truth. He was given a valuable thumb ring belonging to Beric Gifford in order to buy his silence.’ Anne Fettiplace gave a mirthless snort of laughter. ‘A good job for him, I reckon, that things have turned out as they have. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have bet a fig on him living to a ripe old age.’
I lay awake for a long time that night, listening to my bedfellow snoring, unable to fall asleep myself. My longing to see Adela again, and to hold her in my arms, was overwhelming. I wished that God had not picked on me as the fittest person to solve these mysteries for Him and bring those responsible to book, but at least He had provided me with a loving wife and children as the calm, constant centre of my occasionally dangerous life.
But then, not for the first time, I found myself admitting that I shouldn’t really like to lead a simple chapman’s life. I should miss the excitement and the thrill of foiling evil and righting wrongs. In three or four weeks, with luck and lifts from friendly carters, I should be home, surrounded by every domestic happiness and comfort that Adela could provide. But I knew very well that after a few days I should begin to grow restless, all my senses alert, waiting to hear God’s next call. And, secretly, I should be only too eager to obey.