‘To Modbury first, to glean what I can there, and then to Valletort Manor.’ I picked up my pack and settled it on my shoulders. ‘That, after all, is where the answers must finally lie. I shall have to see what Mistress Gifford and Katherine Glover are able to tell me.’
‘You’ll get nothing from either of them,’ Stephen Sherford said as he began to move in the direction of the house. ‘His sister dotes on Beric. He can do no wrong in her eyes. And Katherine Glover knows how to keep her mouth shut. Ah, well! God be with you, chapman!’
I called after him, ‘You haven’t received a visit from Bartholomew Champernowne today, I presume? At least, if you have, you haven’t mentioned it.’
He paused, looking puzzled. ‘He wouldn’t dare to show his face here. My father and I dislike the fellow, and he knows it.’
‘Then I’ll wish you good day, Master Sherford.’
And I set out on the last leg of my journey.
Chapter Eleven
The little town of Modbury, running steeply downhill to the sequestered valley, has declined in importance since its Saxon heyday, when it was the moot burgh or chief meeting place of the district. It still boasts, however, a portreeve, steward of the marketplace and the representative of the people in all their dealings with the lord of the manor; an ancient Saxon office.
Modbury Priory, high above the town, had, I learnt later, originally been a daughter house of the Benedictine Abbey of Saint Pierre-sur-Dives in Normandy, but thirty and more years ago, after many vicissitudes in its fortunes, the late King Henry had granted all its lands and revenues to his foundation of the College of the Blessed Mary at Eton. The priory had finally been dissolved ten years previously, and the last prior was happily living out the remainder of his days as a tenant of the college.
The Champernownes are still Lords of the Manor as far as I know, and have been since the reign of the second Edward, when they succeeded to the title after first the de Valletorts and then the Oxtons. The principal members of the family, at the time of which I speak, seemed to me to be generally well-liked, and had the great virtue, as far as I was concerned, of having supported the House of York during the recent civil wars. (I knew little at this juncture about Bartholomew Champernowne except that he belonged to a cadet branch of the family, and that I and at least two others felt some antipathy towards him.)
The population of the town was not large; less, I guessed, than that of either Totnes or Plympton. But it seemed to be a thriving place, its prosperity centred on the woollen industry with a fair proportion of Tuckers, Fullers and Weavers amongst its local surnames. It had a bustling marketplace and a cheerful, welcoming attitude towards strangers, if my experience was anything to go by.
This, then, was Modbury as I encountered it on that warm, sunny October afternoon, descending from the church and manor house atop the hill, to the huddle of shops and dwellings at its base.
* * *
I had no difficulty in finding the cottage of Anne Fettiplace. The first person I accosted, a bright, smiling youth with ruddy cheeks, was able to direct me straight to her door.
‘Here, I’ll show you,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’ It was only a few steps further on and hardly worth his time and effort: he could have pointed it out from where we were standing. But, as I was soon to discover, he was typical of the townspeople, for most of whom nothing was too much trouble. ‘She’ll be pleased to see one of your calling,’ the lad added. ‘Indeed, we all shall. We’ve been starved for a good while now of fresh news from the outside world. Have you come far? From London, perhaps?’ he suggested hopefully.
‘From Bristol,’ I said, and saw his face fall. ‘But we do get London news,’ I assured him. ‘If you’ll tell me where you live, I’ll call on you and your goodwife later.’
‘My mother and father,’ he amended, but flushed with pleasure that I should think him old enough to be married. He pointed out his parents’ cottage, wished me a courteous good day and sped off to spread the news that there was a stranger in the town.
My knock on Anne Fettiplace’s door was answered by a woman as round and as plump as Mistress Trenowth and the Widow Cooper, and who, in looks, could only be their sister.
‘Mistress Fettiplace?’ I enquired, but without any doubt as to what her answer would be.
She gave me an apologetic smile and admitted the charge. ‘But I’m afraid I’m not in need of your goods just at present, chapman,’ she said. Then she paused, frowning. ‘But how do you know my name?’
‘I’ve come from Plymouth, where I met your sisters,’ I explained. ‘They bade me seek you out if I wanted a place to sleep in Modbury, so I’m taking the liberty of doing as I was instructed.’
Immediately her plump features were wreathed in smiles and she held the cottage door open for me to enter.
‘Please walk in! If you’re a friend of Ursula and Matty’s of course I can find you somewhere to sleep. Put your pack and staff down there in that corner while I fetch you a cup of my best home-brewed ale. Are you looking to stay in Modbury long?’
While she spoke, she bustled about, filling a beaker from the ale-cask that stood in another corner of the room, and inviting me to sit down at the table. When I had slaked my thirst and complimented her, much to her gratification, upon an excellent brew, I said, ‘Before I trespass on your time and good nature, Mistress Fettiplace, I must explain how I came to meet your sisters and what my business is hereabouts. You may not wish to have me as your guest when everything is made plain to you.’
‘Have you eaten?’ she interrupted. ‘It’s nearly suppertime. I was just about to get my meal and I should be most happy if you would share it with me. Whatever you have to tell me can wait until it’s ready.’
I grinned. Anne Fettiplace was a woman after my own heart, and one who had the right priorities.
‘Nothing would please me more,’ I answered, ‘if you’re certain you have enough for two.’
‘More than enough,’ was the reply; and in what seemed next to no time she had placed upon the table a large plate of meat pasties, a dish of damson tarts and another of oatcakes, some butter, still wrapped in its cooling dock leaves, and a big, round goat’s-milk cheese. Then she replenished my beaker with more ale and bade me draw my stool closer to the board. ‘You can tell me what you think I should know while we eat. But not just yet. Take the edge off your hunger first.’
I thanked her and pitched in, not realizing until I started eating just how ravenous I had been. Once my appetite was blunted, however, I wasted no more time and began my tale, commencing with my meeting, three days earlier, with Peter Threadgold and recounting faithfully most of what had happened since. There was something about Anne Fettiplace’s open, gentle countenance that inspired my trust.
She listened carefully, asking only the occasional question when my narrative became unclear to her, and nodding her head repeatedly to show that she understood.
‘So!’ she exclaimed, when at last I had finished. ‘The disappearance of Beric Gifford after his great-uncle’s murder is a strange tale, sure enough, and I can see why you might be intrigued by it. But to think that you can solve a puzzle that’s perplexed us all for so many months — well, I wouldn’t be too certain about that.’ She leant her plump elbows on the table, propped her several chins in her cupped hands and lowered her voice almost to a whisper. ‘There’s witchcraft at work here, or I’m very much mistaken. Beric Gifford has eaten of the Saint John’s fern.’
‘So I’ve already been told. But, Mistress Fettiplace,’ I protested, ‘do you really believe such a story? What I mean is, can the hart’s-tongue fern really make anyone invisible, or is it just a … a … an old wives’ tale? We all drink infusions of the leaves to ease our winter coughs and agues, and nothing happens to us. Nothing bad, that is. Why should eating the leaves make us disappear? Indeed, one of the people I met in the course of my journey here — I mentioned him just now, Jack Golightly — swore to me that he had once eaten a leaf without any ill effect whatsoever.’