Heartstone

'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.'