‘So?’ I queried, puzzled.
Wilfred took my arm, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, although there was no one to overhear him.
‘Gueda Beeman isn’t just the local witch or wise woman,’ he said. ‘She’s the local whore, as well. Mind you, she never charges for her services. She likes men, so what she does, she does out of the goodness of her heart. In short, men might be said to take advantage of her, although I don’t think she looks at it that way. But it’s a fact not generally known by the womenfolk of these parts. If they did discover the truth, they’d run her out of the neighbourhood, if nothing worse. So the men keep quiet about it. That’s why I thought I’d better come with you and explain, otherwise there could have been an embarrassing misunderstanding between you and her.’
I was grateful for the warning, and said so.
Gueda Beeman’s dwelling was barely a mile north of Brixton, in a woodland clearing a few yards from the main track. It was, as I had been told, a ramshackle place with a hole torn in its roof of twigs and moss, and a rotten door fallen in on its hinges. Drifts of dead leaves lay scattered over the grass, and the swaying, sighing trees crowded all around us. Every now and then, a stray shaft of sunlight penetrated the latticed branches overhead, but for the most part, the surroundings were as dismal as the cottage.
‘Here we are then,’ my guide informed me unnecessarily. ‘Do you want me to stay while you ask her these questions of yours? Everything’s quiet, so it doesn’t look like she’s got anyone with her.’
But even as he spoke, we noticed two horses tethered close at hand: a dark bay gelding and a sturdy cob. Attending them was a sullen-faced youth wearing dark green livery, a hawk, with silver bells on its jesses, perched on one gloved wrist. A moment later, a young man, richly dressed, strode out of Gueda Beeman’s cottage, pulling up short at the sight of Wilfred and myself.
He ignored my companion, but gave me a long, hard stare, almost as though he recognized me, before turning away and mounting his horse. He made no reply to my courteous ‘Good day!’ and rode off, his man following astride the cob.
‘That was Bartholomew Champernowne,’ Wilfred said.
Chapter Eight
Before I had properly assimilated the information, a tall, fair-haired woman came out of the cottage, and, much as Bartholomew Champernowne himself had done, paused to look me up and down. Again, Wilfred was accorded the most cursory of glances.
If this was Gueda Beeman, as I supposed it must be, she was not at all what I had expected. When the wise woman had originally been mentioned, along with the fact that many people thought her a witch, I had imagined an old crone, wizened and repulsive. Later, when Wilfred had told me that she was also the local whore, I had amended this picture, although I don’t know why, to that of a somewhat younger woman, but one still well past the first flush of youth.
Instead, Gueda was not only young but also beautiful, in spite of the layers of dirt that grained her skin, and the filthy, tattered gown that she was wearing. She had huge, grey-green eyes, thickly fringed with lashes the colour of ripe corn, the same shade as her hair — or the shade her hair would have been had it been washed. Her figure, too, was one to make the angels jealous, and her bare feet were as small and delicate as her hands. But when she spoke, the illusion of some fairy princess fallen upon hard times was rudely shattered. Her voice was harsh, her speech coarse, thickly larded with its Devonshire burr.
‘What do you want, then, chapman?’
I noticed that she was jingling some coins in her right hand, and I muttered in Wilfred’s ear, ‘I thought you said she gave her favours free.’
‘So she does usually,’ he muttered back. ‘But perhaps Master Champernowne insisted on paying.’
‘What are you two whispering to one another about?’ Gueda demanded sulkily. ‘If you have anything to say to me, pedlar, say it out loud.’
It was true that I was carrying my pack on my back, but I had the feeling that this was not the only reason that she had so readily divined my calling. I smiled placatingly before replying, ‘I’d be grateful for a few words with you, Mistress, if I may.’
‘Very well.’ She stared at me belligerently, but made no attempt to invite me inside the cottage, for which I was truly thankful.
So I put my question regarding her sighting of Beric Gifford on the morning of the murder, without anticipating any reply but a confident affirmation. I was therefore astonished when she shook her head and answered with an emphatic, ‘I saw nothing.’
‘You mean it wasn’t you who told the Sheriff’s officer that you’d seen Master Gifford riding towards Plymouth on May Day morning?’ I demanded, disappointed.
‘I’ve told you so, haven’t I?’ she spat at me. ‘I never said any such thing. And besides, I don’t know this … this Beric Gifford.’
‘Are you certain of that?’ I queried angrily.
She tossed her head. ‘Yes. I’m certain.’
But I could see by the way her eyes refused to meet mine that she was lying, and I was suddenly struck by the significance of the coins she was still jingling in her hand. Bartholomew Champernowne had not been enjoying the lady’s favours; he had been bribing her to deny her evidence concerning his future brother-in-law in the event of a tall, far too nosy pedlar finding his way to her door and asking questions. But how had he known of me? The answer, of course, was simple: Katherine Glover. He must have been at Valletort Manor when she returned home that morning, and had heard enough of my curiosity concerning Oliver Capstick’s murder to make him determined to try to silence the local witnesses. He no doubt felt that interest in the killing was on the wane after all those months, and the last thing he wanted was for a stranger to revive it with his unwelcome meddling.
Master Champernowne’s interference, however, only stiffened my resolve to seek out the other two who claimed to have seen Beric on the fateful morning: the smallholder who lived near Yealmpton and the friend who had sighted him close to Sequers Bridge. And even if Bartholomew got to them before I did, and was able to command, or pay for, their silence, I hoped I could judge for myself whether or not they were telling the truth, just as I had done with Gueda Beeman.
I thanked the wise woman, (witch, whore, however she preferred to be known) with elaborate courtesy.
‘Please forgive me, Mistress, for wasting your time.’ I added with heavy sarcasm, ‘I can see now that the information I was given concerning you was false. I shall therefore not inflict myself upon you any further.’
She regarded me with deep distrust, for she was not used to such talk and, guessing that she was being mocked, rightly resented it.
‘I didn’t see Beric Gifford!’ she bawled after me as, grasping Wilfred’s arm, I turned to go.
‘She was lying,’ my companion said positively as we made our way along the path leading from the clearing to the Wollaton track.
‘Undoubtedly,’ I agreed. ‘Master Champernowne has paid her to deny her story. That’s why she has money.’
‘Of course!’ Wilfred’s honest face shone with sudden enlightenment. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. What will you do next?’
‘Carry on about my business,’ I answered truthfully, even if I was being less than candid. ‘I have a wife and children to support, and although I love a mystery, this one is already over five months old and I fear the trail has gone cold. It’s time for me to be moving on.’ But I was careful not to say where to. There seemed no point in involving Wilfred and his goodwife in my plans.
I walked with him the short distance back to Brixton and the main east-bound track, where, with some regret, we took our leave of one another.
‘God be with you, then.’ My new acquaintance reached up and patted me on the shoulder in a gesture that was affectionate as well as valedictory. ‘You’re wise not to try to cross a Champernowne. They’re a family who make good friends but implacable enemies.’