Heartstone

'Did they have any other family?'

Broughton clasped his hands on his lap. 'They came to London from Lancaster. Like many young folk John came here to seek his fortune. In time their parents died. When the plague took John and Ruth there was only an old aunt of Ruth's left in the north that she spoke of sometimes and wrote to. Michael came to me, concerned by Master Hobbey's interest in the children's wardship—I suggested he look for letters from her, and I would write to her. Sir,' he burst out suddenly, 'how did Michael die?'

I answered gently, 'The verdict was suicide. What he found in Hampshire may have disturbed the balance of his mind.'

'Oh, dear God.' Broughton put his head in his hands.

'I am sorry, sir. But please, tell me what you can about the wardship. What of the aunt?'

'Michael brought her address. By that time, he said, Nicholas Hobbey was already taking away papers and books of account. Michael argued with him, but Hobbey brushed him aside—Michael had no status.'

'It sounds as though you knew Michael well.'

Broughton sighed and shook his head. 'Michael came to church with the family every Sunday. But no, I never felt I knew him. Nor that he fully trusted me. I wondered if he was a secret papist, but I do not think so. Something troubled him though. But he loved those two children and did all he could to help them. We became—' he smiled—'conspirators, for the children's welfare.'

'Michael's mother said Hugh and Emma Curteys were close.'

'Yes. Serious, godly children.' He shook his head, his long beard trembling. 'I wrote to the aunt, paid for a fast messenger. It was already three weeks then after John and Ruth's death. Michael and I suspected Hobbey was after control of the children's lands, but not that it could be done so fast.'

'Usually it can't.'

'I waited every day for a reply from the north, but you know how long it takes to get messages from those wild places. Two weeks passed, then three. Michael visited me again, saying Hobbey was always at the Curteys house. And his lawyer too.'

'Vincent Dyrick.'

'Yes, that was the name. Michael said the children were afraid. He implored me to go and see Hobbey. So I did, I went to his house up at Shoe Lane.' Broughton frowned. 'He received me in his parlour, looked at me with the haughty arrogance of a man who worships Mammon, not God. I told him I had written to the aunt. Well, Master Hobbey only asked coldly how an old woman was going to drag herself two hundred miles and care for two growing children. He said he was the family's best friend and their neighbour in Hampshire, he would see justice done for Hugh and Emma. And then his wife came in. Abigail Hobbey.' There was anger in Broughton's face now.

'Goodwife Calfhill mentioned her. She said Michael thought her a little mad.'

'A screaming, raving shrew. She burst into the parlour while I was talking to her husband, screeching that I was a troublemaking ranter, making accusations against her husband when he wished only to help two orphaned children.'

'But you had made no accusations.'

'No, but when that woman started screaming at me, that was when I really began to fear for those children.'

'How did Nicholas Hobbey react to his wife's outburst?' I asked curiously.

'He was annoyed. He raised a hand, said, "Quiet, my dear," or some such words. She stopped yelling, but still stood with her eyes flashing fire at me. Then Hobbey told me to leave, saying I had upset his wife. Unwomanly creature. He added sarcastically that I should let him know if the aunt replied, but he had already made his application to the Court of Wards.'

'Did the aunt reply?'

'Two weeks later I had a letter from her vicar in Lancaster, to say she had died a year before.'

'I suspect Master Hobbey had already discovered that.'

'There seemed nothing else I could do,' Broughton said, spreading his arms wide. 'I talked to Michael. To be fair to Hobbey, Michael said the children were well taken care of, their needs looked after. But he said Hugh and Emma had no affection from Hobbey or his wife.'

'That happens often enough in wardship cases.'

'There was more to it than that. Michael feared Nicholas Hobbey planned to marry Emma to their son, and so unite their Hampshire lands.'

'That would be David Hobbey.'

'Yes. I saw him as I left the house that day. He was in the hallway outside, I am sure he had been listening at the door. He gave me an impertinent stare, a strange look for a child, something—triumphant about it.'

'He would have been—what—twelve then?'

'Yes. As ill favoured a boy as I have ever seen. Squat, fat-faced. Dark like his father, a wispy moustache already growing on his lip.' Broughton stopped, raising his hands. 'I am sorry, I should not have said that. He was only a child.'

'Almost a man now,' Barak observed.

I said, 'Unfortunately, to arrange such a marriage would be within Master Hobbey's rights once he had the wardship.'

Broughton shook his head in disgust. 'It is ungodly. The sacrament of marriage turned to a bargain. And Michael said—he told me David had put his hands on Emma. In a way he should not. Hugh had fought him over it.'

'So Michael's mother told me too. But then Emma died.'

'God rest the poor child. By then the wardships had been granted and Michael had moved with the children to the Hobbeys' house, out of the parish. I only saw him once more after that, when he came to tell me Emma had died and he had been dismissed.' Broughton shook his head. 'He said Abigail Hobbey showed no sadness at her funeral, looked on coldly as Emma was buried. I thought I saw despair in Michael's face then. And from what you say it seems I was right.' Broughton looked at me earnestly. 'Does this help you, sir?'

I thought. 'Only a little, I fear. Is there anyone else in your congregation who knew the family?'

He shook his head. 'Not well. It was only I that took an interest in the wardship. People do not like to interfere in such matters. But there was one thing I discovered. There were rumours that Master Hobbey was in debt.'

'Then how could he afford to buy the wardship? And he had just bought a monastic house and was having it converted.'

Barak grunted. 'Hoped to get Emma's share of the Curteys land by marrying her to his son. If so, he got a bad bargain.'

Broughton looked alarmed. 'He still has the right to make a marriage for Hugh. What if he plans to marry him to someone unsuitable? That could be what Michael discovered.'

I nodded thoughtfully. 'Possibly. Sir, I would be grateful if you could come to the hearing on Monday. At least you could testify you were unhappy with how matters were handled.' I needed every scrap of evidence I could bring. But there was still nothing a good lawyer for the other side could not easily dismiss. I got up, wincing at my stiff back. Broughton rose too.

'Sir,' he said. 'You will see justice done? Right whatever wrong is being done to Hugh?'

'I will try. But it will not be easy. I will send Barak back tomorrow to prepare a deposition for you. It must be lodged with the Court of Wards before the hearing.'

'God will not suffer injustice to children,' Broughton said with sudden passion. 'Our Saviour said, "Any wrong done unto these little ones is done also to me."' He quoted the Bible in a fierce voice; but then I saw he was crying, tears running down his creased face. 'I am sorry, sir,' he said. 'I was thinking of Michael. A suicide. In Hell. It is so—harsh. But God has decided that is where suicides must go and how can we question God?' Faith and desperation showed equally in his face.

'Justice may be tempered with mercy,' I ventured. 'That is an important principle, in earthly law at least.'

Broughton nodded, but did not speak again as he led us outside. 'What time should I come on Monday?' he asked as we parted at the church door.