For a moment or two, I was nonplussed as to why she was not much further ahead of me on the road to Modbury, until I realized that, travelling on horseback, she must have ridden some way northwards after passing through Martyn’s Gate, in order to cross the Plym. But, having done so, why she had returned to Oreston instead of striking out across country, I had no idea.
I took off my cloak and shook it, the raindrops iridescent in the firelight, before advancing to warm my own hands at the leaping flames.
‘We meet once more,’ I said, smiling.
Katherine Glover frowned. ‘I’m not aware that we have met before, sir,’ she answered.
This was a severe blow to my self-esteem, for most people remember me, if only because of my height. I should have to remember, when I got home, to tell Adela, who would laugh and say that I needed to be shorn of some of my conceit.
‘Outside Master Capstick’s house, in Bilbury Street,’ I reminded my companion. ‘You were having trouble turning the key in the lock of the front door, and I was able to do it for you.’ She inclined her head slightly, but made no response, so I continued with an assumed ignorance, ‘I imagined you to be well ahead of me by this time.’
‘You no doubt came by the ferry,’ she said. ‘I had to ride northwards a way, in order to cross the river by the Ebb Ford, at Crabtree.’
Curiosity made me impolite. ‘And you returned to Oreston?’ I frowned. ‘Surely there are easier ways of reaching Valletort Manor?’ I was half-hoping that she might reveal in which direction the manor lay.
Her face flushed a deep crimson, that had nothing to do with the heat of the fire.
‘You seem to have learnt a great deal about me, chapman. How do you know where I live?’
‘I spent last night with Mistress Cobbold, Master Capstick’s neighbour.’
Katherine Glover curled her lip. ‘That explains everything,’ she sneered.
‘I also have a passing acquaintance with Mistress Trenowth,’ I added.
The sneer became more pronounced. ‘Then you probably know as much about my affairs as I know myself.’ Katherine Glover, whose wide, grey eyes had been raised to mine, now looked away, staring into the heart of the fire. ‘As to why I didn’t ride straight home after crossing the ford, the answer is simple. It’s obvious that a storm is brewing. It was growing dusk early and those cross-country tracks are rough and lonely. It would be easy enough for the horse to stumble in the dark, and there are footpads and outlaws about to add to the danger. A woman on her own is never really safe. So I decided to ride here, to Oreston.’
I recalled my own crossing of the Ebb Ford the previous day, travelling in the opposite direction in the company of Peter Threadgold. ‘There’s an inn at Crabtree,’ I said, ‘to the best of my recollection.’
‘Well, I prefer this one,’ she snapped. ‘The owners are my uncle — my father’s brother — and his wife.’ She was angry now, as she had every right to be at my unwarranted questioning of her arrangements. ‘I’ll thank you to mind your own business and leave me to manage mine.’
At that moment, the landlord entered the taproom and, hearing Katherine’s raised voice, looked at me with hostility.
‘This pedlar annoying you, Kate?’ he demanded.
She hesitated, then shook her head. ‘It’s all right, Uncle. He’s come from Plymouth, and has been listening to gossip about Master Capstick’s death, with the result that he regards me as being under suspicion for harbouring a murderer. And he thinks this gives him the right to quiz me on all my movements. He’s not the first, however, nor will he be the last to make such an impertinent assumption.’
‘No, no!’ I protested feebly, knowing that she was right, and guessing that she had probably suffered from public calumny and intrusion into her affairs ever since the killing and Beric’s subsequent disappearance.
‘Well, if that’s the case, you can be on your way, chapman,’ the landlord informed me belligerently. ‘My niece has had enough to put up with from neighbours and folks in these parts generally, without perfect strangers giving her offence.’
‘Now, now, Maurice, let’s not be too hasty,’ said a voice behind him, and the goodwife of the establishment glided into view. A pair of very bright, almost black eyes looked me up and down, and the full, sensuous mouth curved into an approving smile. ‘Let’s not be turning good money away from the door. The lad didn’t mean to be inquisitive or rude, I’m certain. People’s interest is always aroused by a murder, and there’s no denying that Katherine’s name will be bandied about in connection with it, whether she likes it or not.’ She moved forward and laid a bony hand on my arm. ‘But whatever you’ve been told by the Plymouth gossips, our niece knows nothing of Beric Gifford’s present whereabouts, nor does she wish to. Her betrothal to him is at an end. Is that not correct, my dear?’ she added, glancing towards Katherine with raised eyebrows.
‘If you say so, Aunt Theresa,’ the girl answered, but did not turn her head.
‘I tender my apologies, Mistress,’ I said. ‘There is no possible justification for my prying into your affairs, or for questioning you as I did. I hope you’ll forgive me.’
‘Of course she will,’ the goodwife, whose name I now knew to be Theresa Glover, assured me before Katherine had a chance to reply. ‘That’s settled, then.’ She smiled at me. ‘Are you looking for a bed for the night, chapman? You’d be wise to stop here if you can afford it. The weather’s getting worse by the sound of it.’
At her words, we all paused to listen. Great gusts of wind, smelling of the sea, were hurling themselves against the shutters, which rattled dismally, like the loose teeth in an old man’s head. The rain drummed on the roof of the inn in a steady, relentless rhythm, and the quiet firelit taproom seemed a haven of warmth and security in the surrounding stormy darkness.
‘I’m hoping for supper as well as a bed, Mistress,’ I answered. ‘I can pay for both.’ And I patted the pouch at my belt.
Mistress Glover nodded briskly, not doubting my word. ‘In that case, I’ll go and prepare your room. As for food, there’s fish broth, half a cold capon, a pigeon pie, and some apple pasties that I baked myself only this morning.’
She hurried away, leaving me facing the still antagonistic landlord.
‘What do you say, Kate?’ Maurice Glover asked his niece after a moment or two. ‘Do you want him to stay? Because if you don’t out he goes, storm or no storm.’
‘Oh, let him stay,’ Katherine Glover answered indifferently. ‘He’s harmless enough. I can stand up for myself. Here, chapman, sit down and get dry.’
Her uncle grunted. ‘Oh well, if you’re happy … Do as she says, my lad. Sit down and I’ll fetch you a cup of ale.’ He took a wooden beaker from a shelf and went across to a row of barrels ranged against a wall of the room. Turning the tap of one of them, he filled the beaker with a flow of dark golden brown liquid, which he handed to me with the encouragement, ‘Drink up!’ and went away, presumably to help his wife.
‘I’m sorry I was so rude just now,’ I said, feeling the need to apologise yet again. ‘And, of course, had I realized from the outset that this inn belonged to your aunt and uncle, I should never have thought it strange that you chose to make your way here rather than remain at Crabtree.’
Katherine Glover shrugged, but made no answer, continuing to stare into the fire where the logs, shifting every now and again, revealed caverns of ruddy gold and sea-green-blue. She made it perfectly clear that she had no wish to indulge in further conversation, so I respected her silence, sitting down at the opposite end of the bench and stretching my long legs towards the flames. It was a silence that she maintained throughout supper, a meal shared with the landlord and his wife, there being no guests other than our two selves staying that night at the inn.
When we had finished eating, Katherine announced that she was ready for her bed, and, with a kiss for her uncle and aunt and a brief ‘Good night’ to me, went upstairs.