Jack Golightly warmly clasped my proffered hand.
‘Take care,’ he urged again. ‘You’re a good man, even if you do support that usurper Edward of Rouen, and all the tribe of the House of York.’ He grinned. ‘Tread carefully, and I hope you bring Beric Gifford to justice. You’re right. There’s no excuse for killing an old, defenceless man, whatever he may have done. God be with you, chapman, and I trust we’ll meet again one day.’
He accompanied me to the door of the cottage, where he once more shook my hand before giving me instructions how to reach Edmeston and the home of Sir Anthony Sherford.
* * *
I crossed the River Erme by Sequers Bridge and then followed a track that wound its way between the trees in a slightly northerly direction. I had gone less than half a mile when, as Jack Golightly had predicted, I came upon Sir Anthony Sherford’s dwelling.
Sir Anthony was obviously a man of some substance, for a great many new buildings, a few of very recent construction judging by the rawness of the timber and the cleanliness of the stonework, had been added to the original house. This latter I guessed to be several centuries old and was built foursquare around a central courtyard and above an undercroft well stocked with provisions for the coming winter. There were also a number of servants in evidence, one of whom came forward briskly at my approach.
‘Take yourself off to the kitchen, chapman. Either the cook or the housekeeper may have need of your goods. And if you have anything they think Lady Sherford might want, Dame Isabelle, the housekeeper, will let her know.’
‘I was hoping,’ I said, standing my ground, ‘to have a word with young Master Sherford.’
The man was truculent. ‘What do you want with him? He’ll not be interested in your fripperies or your knives and spoons. Get away to the kitchen with you!’
‘I’d like to speak to Master Sherford, none the less,’ I repeated and, diving my hand into the pouch at my waist, I produced a coin, turning it over suggestively between my fingers.
The man, who had once more opened his mouth to refuse me, stood, suddenly irresolute, but with avarice winking in his dark brown eyes.
‘What do you want with Master Stephen?’ he demanded.
‘That’s my affair.’ I handed over the coin, but then it struck me that I might be making a fool of myself and I added, ‘If, that is, he’s a friend of Beric Gifford.’
The servant’s eyes widened abruptly, then one of them half closed in what might or might not have been a wink. At the same time, he slid the coin into his pocket. ‘Got a message from Master Gifford, have you?’ he asked in a carefully lowered voice. ‘D’you know where he is?’
I made no reply, pressing my lips firmly together as an indication that I was not prepared to say more. The man still hesitated, and I realized that I had probably been foolish to hand over the money before I had achieved my object. But after a moment or two, he indicated an upturned barrel just inside the courtyard entrance and said, ‘Sit there, and I’ll see if I can find the young master for you. Mind you,’ he added, swinging on his heel, ‘even if I do, I can’t guarantee he’ll be willing to speak to you.’
He went away and, ignoring his offer of a seat, I withdrew into the shadows of the courtyard archway. No one else seemed to evince any interest in me, for which I was thankful. I had no desire to be hauled off to the kitchen to display my wares to the cook and housekeeper, or to have to explain my business over again.
The day, as days in early autumn often do, had turned suddenly warm, although it was not yet ten o’clock. I began to sweat, but whether as a result of the unexpected heat or because I was feeling the effects of my three nights of broken sleep, I was uncertain. Or was it simply that the events of the small hours of this morning had shaken me more than I cared to admit, even to myself? I suddenly had a great yearning for my home, for Adela, for my children, but I put the longing from me. There was work for me to do here, or God would never have given me that inexplicable urge to come to Devon.
There was a slight bustle in the main doorway of the house, which stood immediately opposite the archway where I was sheltering. A young man appeared, following the servant to whom I had already spoken, and, after what were obviously a few words of dismissal to his attendant, walked towards me across the courtyard. As he drew near, I could see that he was about eighteen or nineteen years of age, tall and slender, with hair so fair that it was almost silver in colour, and eyes that were of such an intense dark blue that in some lights they looked nearly purple. He was dressed for riding, and I surmised that he had been fetched from the stables, his expression suggesting that he was none too pleased at the interruption to his morning’s plans.
I stepped out from the shadows and respectfully tugged at my forelock. Obsequiousness costs nothing and, in my experience often obtains me what I want with less effort than I should otherwise have to expend.
‘Master Sherford, I’m sorry to intrude upon your time in this fashion. It’s generous of you to take the trouble to speak to me.’
His annoyance was tempered with nervousness. ‘Matthew said you have a message for me from Beric Gifford.’ The eyes widened giving them the appearance of rain-drenched pansies. ‘I–I haven’t seen him, you know, not since the day he vanished, the … the day of … of the murder.’
I shook my head. ‘Your man got it wrong, sir. He assumed too much. I have no message for you from Beric Gifford. But from what you’ve just said, I’m right, am I not, in thinking that you were at one time his friend? You are the person who told the Sheriff’s officers that you saw Master Gifford near Sequers Bridge?’
Stephen Sherford nodded, now thoroughly bewildered. ‘I am. But what of it?’ The pale eyebrows arched themselves over those extraordinarily deep blue eyes.
Quite unexpectedly, I felt awkward and at something of a loss, for what possible reason could I give this young man for my interest in the murder of Oliver Capstick? I should have approached him sideways, like a crab, instead of tackling him face to face. I should have followed my usual course and gone to the kitchens, as the servant, Matthew, had instructed me to do, and while displaying the contents of my pack tried to discover what, if anything, was known by the cook and her helpers, or by the housekeeper, Dame Isabelle. I reflected wryly that I might also have made some money had I done so. The trouble was, I doubted if anyone but Stephen Sherford would be able to provide the answers to my questions.
‘I — er — I’m a — a friend of Master Capstick’s neighbours, John and Joanna Cobbold,’ I floundered. Stretching the truth a little further, I added, ‘They — er — they were fond of the old man. They — they’re anxious to see his murderer brought to justice. I–I promised them I would make such enquiries as I could on my travels.’
‘I don’t know where Beric is,’ my companion said sharply. ‘And I don’t want to, either. I want nothing to do with him. He was my friend, yes. But what he’s done is inexcusable. If he’s ever caught, he’ll hang.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t think what got into him. Oh, he has a temper when he’s roused, but I should never have thought him capable of murder! At least not that sort of murder. He might have killed someone in a fit of uncontrollable anger, but never in cold blood. It just shows that you never really know other people, not even when you’ve been friends with them for years.’
Master Sherford’s sudden outburst began to put me at my ease. I realized that he probably needed to talk about his erstwhile friend in an effort to make sense to himself of what had happened; so I withdrew a few more steps into the shadows of the archway where it was more difficult to be seen, hoping that he would follow me, which he did. His initial irritation had vanished and he seemed as eager now to chat as he had been reluctant hitherto.