Heartstone

by C. J. Sansom

  He grunted, little brown eyes narrowing. ‘In my experience, when a lawyer asks to see a conveyance it is usually because he wishes to query the title.’

  ‘Then I apologize if I caused you unnecessary concern. I see I must have done, since Master Seckford and Goodman Harrydance tell me you made enquiries about my visit afterwards.’

  ‘But why ride back all this way to look at the ruins of that foundry?’

  ‘I had a day without business in Hampshire, and felt like a ride. Master Seckford had told me Goodman Harrydance knew the site.’

  ‘And all this because you have a client interested in tracing family links. Who is this client, anyway?’

  ‘You know I cannot answer that, sir. It would be a breach of professional confidentiality.’

  ‘You’ll have to tell the Sussex coroner when he gets here.’ Buttress’s eyes continued to probe mine a moment longer, then he turned away and made an irritated gesture. ‘I suppose now I must arrange for the remains to be fetched back to Rolfswood. It’s market day tomorrow – this will be a rich piece of gossip for the goodwives. And I must write to the Sussex coroner at Chichester. Though heaven knows when he will be able to get here. Well,’ he continued, looking round the four of us, ‘at least there is no urgency. Master Fettiplace was in that pond nineteen years; it won’t hurt him to wait a little longer.’

  ‘With respect, sir,’ I said, ‘this is still a newly discovered murder. Sir Quintin Priddis’s old verdict of accidental death was clearly wrong.’

  ‘Ay.’ Wilf spoke up boldly. ‘I always said that first inquest was not done properly.’

  Buttress leaned his heavy body forward, glaring into the old man’s face. ‘Are you accusing one of the region’s leading men of incompetence? Watch your step, old nid-nod.’

  ‘Goodman Harrydance is upset,’ Seckford said placatingly.

  Buttress turned his baleful look on him. ‘I know you and this other old fool like a drink together, Master Curate. More than one. And I hear your services have a papist flavour. Don’t provoke me into making life difficult for either of you.’

  ‘Sir,’ I said. ‘I protest. You are the magistrate, it is not fitting you should bully witnesses.’

  Buttress’s face darkened, but he kept his control. ‘I brought Goodman Harrydance to order for insulting the former coroner. And Master Seckford is no witness to anything. He did not accompany you to the foundry.’

  Seckford said quietly, ‘I am, though, a witness to the state of mind of Mistress Fettiplace after the foundry burned down, and to the fact she was hurried away by Master Priddis himself.’

  I winced, wishing he had not drawn attention to Ellen’s disappearance. I said, mildly, ‘If she witnessed a murder, that could explain her state of mind.’

  ‘And what,’ Buttress asked, rounding on me, ‘if the death was suicide? What if Master Fettiplace, for some reason we do not know, set the fire, killed his man, then rowed out to the middle of the pond, tied a lump of iron round his leg, and drowned himself? Such things happen; there was a silly village girl a couple of years ago got herself with child and drowned herself in a local pond.’

  I suddenly thought of Michael Calfhill, swinging from that rope in his lodgings. I said, ‘Then surely the empty boat would have been found floating in the pond next morning.’

  ‘Maybe it went unnoticed; everyone was concerned with the fire.’

  ‘Why should Master Fettiplace have killed himself?’ I asked.

  Buttress shrugged. ‘Who knows? Well, we shall have to bring the witnesses together. Some of the men from the foundry are still alive.’

  ‘I understand Ellen Fettiplace had spent the day with a young man who was interested in her, Philip West.’

  Buttress flicked me an angry look. ‘The Wests are an important local family. Self-important anyway. Master West is now an officer on the King’s ships.’

  ‘Nonetheless, he, too, will need to be questioned.’ I realized that when all these people were brought together it would come out how thoroughly I had been investigating Ellen’s history. But the important thing was to get them together and questioned properly. And I would be there.

  ‘It will take time to put these wheels in motion,’ Buttress said. I realized he would do everything he could to delay. But why? To keep a forged conveyance secret?

  He said, ‘I expect by the time the Sussex coroner has been able to get all these people together for an inquest, you will be back in London. He will write to you. Unless the French land and we are all so mired in war down here that nothing can be done about anything.’

  ‘I shall keep in touch with matters through Master Seckford.’ I gave the old man a meaningful glance, and he nodded.

  ‘Yes, Master Shardlake,’ Buttress said heavily, ‘I imagine you will.’

  EVENING FOUND US lodging at Rolfswood inn; Buttress, unsurprisingly, had offered us no hospitality. When we left the house Wilf’s sons were waiting for us a little way up the street. This time their manner towards me was friendly. After all, I had just lied to save their father from a possible charge of poaching.

  ‘You should have left that body be, Father,’ one brother said chidingly. ‘Let someone else find it. Look at you, you’re half dead.’

  ‘I couldn’t leave Master Fettiplace there,’ Wilf said. ‘Master Shardlake will keep me safe.’

  ‘I promise I will see justice done,’ I said. I hoped I would be able to. Buttress might not be clever, but he was cunning and ruthless.

  Seckford and Wilf came with us to the inn. The woman who had first introduced me to Wilf, a widow named Mistress Bell, turned out to own it. She agreed to give us a place for the night. When we parted I grasped Seckford’s flabby hand. ‘Sir,’ I said, ‘please protect Wilf so far as you can. A letter will bring me here.’ I had given him the address of Hoyland Priory, and of my chambers in London.

  He looked at me with bleary eyes, then smiled sadly. ‘You fear I will be too far gone in my cups to be of use. No, sir, I will control myself. God has given me a task to perform, as once he did with Ellen. I will not fail this time.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, hoping he could keep his resolution.

  Barak and I were shown up to a room where we both collapsed, exhausted, on the bed, until an hour later hunger sent us down to eat. The inn was full; I remembered Buttress saying tomorrow was market day. As we ate, someone brought the news that the body of old Master Fettiplace had been found in the mill pond and an excited hubbub of conversation began. Barak and I retired upstairs before we could be connected with the gossip.

  ‘Where does this leave us?’ he asked.

  ‘With the chance to bring everyone involved together to be questioned. Buttress will drag his heels, I must keep on at him.’

  ‘From London? And Ellen? If this all comes out, will she be safe?’

  ‘I took steps to ensure she was protected. I will take more on my return.’

  ‘And now you’ll have to keep coming back here.’

  I sat up on the bed. ‘I must bring some order out of this chaos, Jack. I must.’ I heard the rising passion in my voice. Barak gave me a long, serious look, but said nothing.

  ‘Buttress is hiding something,’ I said at length.

  ‘Probably. But where does finding Fettiplace’s body actually leave things? An inquest might agree with Buttress, decide Fettiplace could have killed Gratwyck, then gone out on the pond and killed himself.’

  ‘What if some third party came to the foundry, raped Ellen, then killed both her father and Gratwyck? She said at least two men attacked her, she said they were too strong for her, she could not move.’

  Barak was silent again for a minute, then said, ‘You place much weight on the shrieks of a madwoman.’

  ‘She spoke the truth that day.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ He folded his arms and looked at me, holding my eye in a way that reminded me oddly of some judges I had known.

  ‘You did not see her, you did not see the horror those memories
brought.’

  ‘What if West’s insinuations are true, that Ellen herself killed her father and Gratwyck, then set the fire? Priddis could still have had her removed from the area to please the Wests, and done some deal with Buttress so he bought that house cheaply and they shared the profits. You know what these county officials are like, they’re at it all the time.’

  ‘I got the impression Buttress did not like the Wests. Rivals for local power, perhaps.’

  ‘You don’t want to believe she could possibly have done it, do you?’

  I sat on the edge of the bed, frowning. ‘I think that, whatever happened, Philip West was involved somehow. That day marks him still.’

  ‘Just because you think so doesn’t make it true.’

  I said impatiently, ‘I want to get West, and Priddis too, questioned at an inquest. That will bring out the truth.’

  He still looked dubious, and concerned. ‘What is the Sussex coroner like?’

  ‘I know nothing about him. I will make enquiries when we return to London.’

  ‘If we ever do.’

  ‘We’ll go back as soon as the Hampshire coroner lets us go. I made a promise and I’ll keep to it.’

  Barak walked to the shutters at the sound of loud voices from the street, shouting and calling. I had been conscious of growing noise but thought it was traders preparing their stalls for market day. He opened the shutters, then whistled. ‘Come and see this.’

  I joined him at the window. Outside a large group of people, some carrying torches, had gathered round a pile of brushwood in the middle of the street. As we watched the little crowd parted, shouting and cheering, to allow four men through. They carried the straw effigy of a man, dressed in a ragged smock with the fleur-de-lys of France painted prominently on the front.

  The crowd began to shout: ‘Burn the Frenchy! Kill the dog!’

  The mannikin was laid on the brushwood, which was set on fire. The figure was outlined in flames for a moment, then quickly consumed. ‘That’s what invaders get!’ someone shouted, to loud cheers.

  ‘We’ll neuter the French King’s gentlemen cocks for him!’

  I turned away with a grunt. ‘They might pause to ask who started all this. The King, taking on a far larger power.’

  ‘That’s the problem,’ Barak said, ‘you set something in motion and before you know where you are it’s all out of control.’ He looked at me meaningfully. I did not reply, but lay down again on the bed, watching the reflected flames dancing redly on the ceiling.

  NEXT MORNING we rose early for the long ride back to Hoyland. The weather was clear and bright again. Outside the ashes of the fire had been cleared away, and market stalls with bright awnings were being set up along the street. We had breakfasted and were gathering our things together when old Mistress Bell knocked and entered, looking flustered. ‘Someone has called to see you, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Who is it?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘Mistress Beatrice West, widow of Sir John West and owner of Carlen Hall.’

  Barak and I exchanged glances. ‘Where is she?’ I asked.

  ‘I have shown her to my poor parlour,’ Mistress Bell continued in a rush of words. ‘She has heard about the body in the mill pond. Please sir, do not say anything to upset her. Many of my customers are her tenants. She is a proud woman, easily offended.’

  ‘I have no wish to make an enemy of her.’

  ‘Trouble,’ Mistress Bell said with sudden bitterness. ‘Each time you come, trouble.’ She went out, closing the door with a snap. Barak raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Wait here,’ I said.

  MISTRESS BELL’S parlour was a small room containing a scratched table, a couple of stools and an ancient wall painting of a hunting scene, the paint cracked and faded. A tall, strongly built woman in her sixties stood by the table. She wore a wide, high-collared blue dress, and an old-fashioned box hood framing a clever, haughty face with small, keen, deep-set eyes that reminded me of her son.

  ‘Mistress Beatrice West?’ I asked.

  She nodded her head in curt acknowledgement, then said abruptly, ‘Are you the lawyer who found that body in the pond? At the Fettiplace foundry?’

  ‘I am, madam. Matthew Shardlake, Serjeant-at-Law, of London.’ I bowed deeply.

  Mistress West nodded, her pose becoming slightly less stiff. ‘At least I am dealing with someone of rank.’ She waved a manicured hand at the stools. ‘Please, sit if you wish. Perhaps you find standing for long uncomfortable. I will not sit on a stool, I am used to chairs, but I see this is a poor place.’

  The indirect reference to my condition made me bridle slightly. But I realized that temperate words and a modest manner were the best way of dealing with this woman. ‘I am quite happy to stand, thank you.’

  She continued staring at me with those sharp little brown eyes. Despite her haughty demeanour I read anxiety there. She spoke abruptly: ‘I came to Rolfswood last night, to visit the market. I am staying with friends. I had scarce arrived when I received a letter from that boor Humphrey Buttress. He told me the body of Master Fettiplace, that we all thought burned in his foundry nineteen years ago, had been found in the pond. By you.’

  ‘That is correct, madam.’

  ‘He said he required as magistrate – required, oh, he loves that word – to know the whereabouts of my son, given his former – connection – to Mistress Ellen Fettiplace. Well, that is easily enough answered. Philip is at Portsmouth, preparing to defend England. Buttress said you wanted him questioned.’ She paused for breath. ‘Well, sir, what have you to say? What is this old matter to do with you?’

  I answered quietly, ‘I can tell you only what I told Master Buttress. I have been making enquiries on behalf of a client about the Fettiplace family. I visited the foundry with old Goodman Harrydance yesterday, and we found the body. I am sorry to cause inconvenience, but clearly the discovery in the pond must be investigated. Your son is one of those who must be part of that. I only wish to see justice done, to see the relevant people are called.’

  ‘Why are you in Sussex?’

  ‘A legal case in Hampshire. I am staying at a house some miles north of Portsmouth. Hoyland Priory. I am engaged on a Court of Wards matter there.’ I judged it best not to tell this woman my normal work was at the Court of Requests. Her face relaxed a little. I said, ‘Master Seckford told me your son came out on the day of the fire to ask Master Fettiplace’s approval of a marriage to his daughter.’

  ‘That girl,’ Mistress West said bitterly. ‘She was below our station, Philip should never have involved himself with her. She went mad after the fire – she was taken away. Will you have an official part in the investigation?’ she asked suddenly.

  ‘I am involved now, as a finder of the body.’ I looked closely at Mistress West. Was it her who had arranged Ellen’s abduction?

  Suddenly she seemed to wilt. ‘We thought it was all done, but now – a murder, and my son to be questioned.’

  ‘I want to see the truth found, madam. That is all.’

  She stared at me, long and hard, then seemed to reach a decision. ‘Then there is something I should tell you. It must come out, and I would rather tell you first than Buttress. You may understand, Master Shardlake, that in small towns there is often rivalry between those of good old birth like my family and men like him.’

  ‘Having met him, I can imagine he is – difficult.’

  ‘If I were to tell you something that showed my son did not meet Mistress Fettiplace on that day, perhaps Philip would not have to be called to the inquest.’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘He would not want to reveal it, even now. But I must do what I can to protect him. He should have told them at the first inquest. Though we all thought it was an accident then.’ She began wringing her hands and I realized she was a frightened woman, on the edge of panic. She looked at me again, then composed herself and began speaking rapidly.

  ‘Nineteen years ago, my son was twenty-two. For his age he had
risen high. Two years before, my late husband and I had found him a place in the King’s household, working for his majesty’s Master of Hunt. We were well pleased.’ Her face relaxed into a fond smile for a moment. ‘You should have seen Philip then. A fine, strong boy, carefree, devoted to manly pursuits. Those were the last of the old days, sir, when everything in England seemed settled and secure. The King had been married to Queen Catherine of Aragon near twenty years, happily we thought, though they had no son. We did not know he had already set his eyes on Anne Boleyn.’

  ‘I remember it well.’

  ‘My son, as I said, helped organize the King’s hunts. I am told he can scarce walk now, but in those days he was always hunting. Philip caught the King’s eye, he favoured young men who shared his taste for sport. By 1526 he was in the outer circle of the King’s boon companions and sometimes he would be asked to join the King at games of dice and cards.’ She spoke with pride, then added in a heavier tone, ‘And sometimes, the King would use Philip as a messenger, to deliver private letters. He had come to trust my son greatly. Letters to – ’ Mistress West set her lips in a tight line – ‘to Anne Boleyn.’

  I remembered Anne Boleyn’s execution that Lord Cromwell had insisted I attend; her head flying out when severed from the body, the jets of blood. I closed my eyes for a moment. Strange I had not recalled that when I saw Lady Elizabeth, her daughter.

  Mistress West sighed. ‘It does not matter now, Catherine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn are both long dead, but by heaven it mattered then. In 1526 no one outside the court had even heard of Anne Boleyn. The King had had mistresses before, but Anne Boleyn insisted he divorce Catherine and marry her. You know the story. She promised him a son.’ Mistress West laughed bitterly. I thought, but she only gave him Elizabeth. I remembered the little girl looking keenly up at me as she questioned me about lawyers.