by C. J. Sansom
'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.
'Well, in 1526 the King went on one of his hunting Progresses to the royal parks in Sussex. Queen Catherine was with him, as was Philip. Anne Boleyn was at her family home in Kent. But the King wrote to her regularly, and Philip was one of the trusted messengers he used. What those letters said, how far matters had gone by then, I do not know and nor did Philip. But Queen Catherine was worried—'
'As early as that? I had not known—'
'Oh, Queen Catherine always had her spies.'
Mistress West began walking restlessly around the room, her skirt swishing on the rush-strewn boards.
'The court was at Petworth Castle in Sussex that August, over twenty miles from here. You should understand, Master Shardlake, my son's position meant he spent much of his time in London; he could only visit Rolfswood occasionally. There were often gaps of many weeks between his visits to Ellen Fettiplace. I think now, if he had seen more of her, he would have realized how unsuitable she was for a bride.'
'You did not like her.'
'I did not,' she answered vigorously. 'Her father had allowed her too much independence, she would blow hot and cold with my son. But her impertinence just made him more lovelorn.' She gave a bitter laugh. 'Just as the King was with that false, faithless Boleyn creature, and look how that ended.' She continued sadly, 'And there was something wild, unstable in Ellen's nature already. She was not one to be crossed.'
'What do you mean?'
'There are things I know.'
I frowned, remembering what Philip West had told me about setting fires.
'Philip had written to tell us he planned to propose to Ellen Fettiplace, and had obtained leave from the Master of Hunt to visit us. Then, just before he left, the King himself called for him. He asked that after Philip came here he take a letter over to Hever. A letter with the King's own seal.'
'Did the King know of your son's planned proposal?'
'Yes. That was why he allowed Philip to come here first.' Mistress West came over and looked at me. I wished she would sit. 'But when Philip rode from Petworth to Hampshire, Master Shardlake, he was not alone.' Her voice shook slightly. 'He had a friend at the court, a young lawyer, who asked if he could come with my son for the ride and his company. He was going on to Hampshire.'
I felt a catch in my throat. So there had been two of them. They were so strong. I could not move! It was an effort to keep my voice even. 'Who was the friend?' I asked.
Mistress West looked at me, and now there was a sort of desperate appeal in her eyes. 'That is the difficulty, sir. I do not know.'
'But if Philip came
to stay with you—'
'Let me tell you how it happened. Philip's letter came by fast messenger from Petworth, saying he would be with us the following day. Because he had to go on afterwards to deliver the King's message—we did not know to whom, then—he could only stay here one night. He planned to ride straight to the Fettiplace house that afternoon and speak to William Fettiplace. If he agreed to the marriage, Philip would propose to Ellen that day.' I thought, that is not quite what Philip said, he spoke of asking for Master Fettiplace's approval and seeing Ellen later.
His mother continued, 'If Ellen accepted he would bring her and Master Fettiplace to the Hall afterwards. He said a friend would be riding with him. So we made everything ready for his arrival. The ninth of August, a date I remember each year.'
'The date of the fire.'
She gave me a long, considering look, then she went and sat heavily on a stool. She was starting to look very tired. She went on, 'My late husband and I waited at home, the best wine brought out in anticipation of a celebration, though in truth we hoped Philip would arrive alone, that Ellen Fettiplace would have refused him. But the hours passed, it grew dark and still nobody came. We waited and waited. Then, towards midnight, Philip arrived. My poor boy, he had been so happy to be part of the King's court, so full of life and energy. But it had all gone out of him, he looked crushed, bereft—' Mistress West paused—'afraid.'
So, I thought, she turned him down. 'Had she rejected him?' I asked.
Mistress West shook her head. 'No. Philip had not seen Ellen: he knew nothing of the fire. Because something else had happened that had frozen his blood and froze ours when he told us. His friend, Master Shardlake, had betrayed him. During the journey, some miles from Rolfswood, they stopped for a drink at a country inn. There they had an argument. Philip can be fierce when he is provoked. It was nothing, some foolish quarrel about some horses, but the two of them ended on the ground, fighting.'
