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  'Such things happen between young men.'

  'After the fight Philip's friend gave him hard words and said he would ride back to Petworth. Later Philip realized he had probably manufactured the quarrel. For shortly after, as he rode on here, Philip found the King's letter was gone. He had had it on his person. And you see, his friend was employed in Queen Catherine's household. She must have learned about the letter somehow, and used this lawyer as one of her spies.'

  'So his friend stole a letter from the King to Anne Boleyn?' I asked incredulously. 'To give to Catherine of Aragon? He took his life in his hands.'

  'Oh, the Queen would have protected him. She was known for her loyalty to her servants.' I thought, someone else had said that to me: Warner, the current Queen's solicitor. Who would have been a young lawyer in Catherine's service in 1526. My heart began to thud.

  'Philip thought at first he had dropped the letter during the fight. He raced back to the inn but there was no sign of it. So he was left with the prospect of returning to court and telling the King it was lost.'

  'But it was stolen—'

  Mistress West shook her head impatiently. 'My husband told him to say it was lost. Do you not see? Better for the King to think the letter was lost than probably in Queen Catherine's hands already. My husband told Philip not even to tell us the man's name, it would be safer for us if we did not know. But this inquest will enquire about Philip's movements that night and then he must give the name or be a suspect. This man is his alibi.' Then she spoke with some venom: 'Let him pay for his crime at last.'

  I said, 'Jesu, that letter could have spoken of the King's intention to marry Anne Boleyn. If Catherine of Aragon had early notice of that, it could explain her refusal to consider a divorce from the start. Madam, if the King learned of your son's lie, even now it could go hard for him.'

  Mistress West clasped her hands together. 'Better my son's carelessness be known than risk a charge of murder. I have thought about it all night, Master Shardlake. And I have decided.' She looked at me, waiting for a response. I could see why she did not want Buttress to be the first to hear this story.

  'So your son did not see Ellen?'

  'No. He stayed the night with us, then rose early the next morning and rode straight back to Petworth. News of the fire had not yet reached us. He told the King the letter had been lost on the journey. He was dismissed, of course. Then a messenger brought him news of the fire. He came home at once, and went to see Ellen, but she would not receive him. My husband and I implored him to leave her alone, but he persisted almost until she was taken away.'

  I looked at her. For the first time she dropped her eyes. And I thought, yes, it was you that conspired with Priddis to have Ellen taken to the Bedlam.

  She said, 'Philip went to sea, took service on the King's ships. For him it was a matter of honour, he felt he had betrayed the King. He has been at sea ever since. I am sure the King would consider his honourable service if the truth about that letter came out now.'

  I looked at her. From my knowledge of the King, I doubted it.

  'Since my husband died Philip has left the running of the estate in my hands. It is as though he is punishing himself still for losing that letter, after near twenty years.' She looked at me again with a sad smile. 'And that is the story, Master Shardlake. So you see, my son knew nothing of the fire, of those deaths.'

  I made a steeple of my hands. It was a coincidence, to say the least, that the letter had vanished on the night of the fire. Mistress West clearly believed her son's story implicitly, and was perhaps arrogant and self-absorbed enough to think others would too. But there was only Philip's word that the letter and his friend even existed. I remembered him at Portsmouth—he was a haunted man, but haunted only by a lost letter, or something darker? And if there was a friend was he alibi or accomplice?

  'Did your son ever say what became of his friend, the lawyer?' I asked. 'If he was allied to Catherine of Aragon, he was backing the losing side.'

  She shrugged. 'I do not know. I imagine he changed his loyalties, turned his coat during Queen Catherine's fall. Many did.'

  'That is true.'

  She took a deep breath. 'Do you think if that story is told now it would help my son?'

  I looked at her. 'In truth, madam, I do not know.'

  'I would ask one more thing of you,' she said. 'Please do not tell Master Buttress what I have told you. Not just yet. Give my son—give him a chance to acquit himself in the battle that may be coming.'

  I thought it would do no harm to keep the matter quiet for the moment. And it would give me time to make my own further investigations.

  'Very well. I promise to say nothing yet.'

  Her manner had changed completely now, it was almost imploring. 'Thank you. You are a thoughtful man, a neutral party. And perhaps—'

  'Perhaps what, Mistress West?'

  'Perhaps there is some way, some private way, of dealing with this matter without Philip being shamed at the inquest.'

  'What might that be?'

  'I do not know. If you could use your influence . . .'

  'I will consider,' I answered flatly.

  'If you wish to speak further, a message to my house, Carlen Hall, will reach me.'

  'And I am at Hoyland Priory, eight miles north of Portsmouth on the Portsmouth road.'

  I looked at her, and thought, anxious and afraid for your son as you are, I have no pity for you. When the time comes I will have the story of Ellen's forced removal out of you.

  She gave a desolate smile. 'Of course, long before the inquest, my son may have given his life for his country. I think he would prefer to die with honour than live to see the story told.' Her mouth trembled and tears came to her eyes. 'Die for the King, and leave me alone in the world.'

  Chapter Thirty-five

  AN HOUR LATER we were on the road south to Hoyland. Mistress West had given me much food for thought. Barak's reaction when I told him her story had been instantaneous: 'I don't believe a word. West told his mother that story to keep her quiet. More likely he and his friend attacked Ellen, then his friend disappeared.'

  'And the fire, and the murders at the foundry?'

  'Maybe Ellen's father, and Gratwyck, came on them when they were attacking Ellen. Maybe she had refused to marry West and it maddened him. There was a fight and Gratwyck and Master Fettiplace got killed. And there never was a letter.' He looked at me. 'That would put Ellen in the clear for you.'

  'Well, whether you are right, or West's story has truth in it, clearly now he holds the key to what happened. Either way I think Mistress West bribed Priddis to get a verdict of accidental death at the inquest. She may have been paying Ellen's fees at the Bedlam ever since.'

  'If so, Philip West will already know where she is.'

  I nodded slowly. 'And if he was responsible for all that happened, guilt may have driven him to the King's ships. To look for danger and death.'

  'He may find those very soon.'

  'But who was his friend who rode with him that day and then vanished?' I frowned. 'If that story was a lie, it was a dangerous one. The King would have been angered if he heard a junior courtier had put such a story about. And the timing sounds right—1526, when the King was lusting after Anne Boleyn, but no one had any inkling yet he planned to marry her. There is only one way to find out,' I said decisively. 'I am going back to Portsmouth, to ask West.'

  Barak stared at me. 'You can't! It's the fifteenth of July, the King's supposed to arrive today. To say nothing of the French fleet sailing towards us. For Jesu's sake, you can set these enquiries in motion when we return to London.'

  I met his gaze. 'West may no longer be alive by then.'

  'I thought you were starting to see things in proportion,' Barak said. 'You can't go back to Portsmouth now.'

  'It may be the only way to get the truth. And I have had a thought, one I do not like. About who West's friend might have been.'

  'Who?'

  'Master Warner has been
in the service of the Queen's household since Catherine of Aragon's time, and he is a lawyer. He has survived five changes of Queen. He is about the right age.'

  'I thought he was your friend.'

  'Friends have betrayed me before.'

  'Queen Catherine Parr trusts him.'

  'Yes. And she has good judgement. But there would not be many lawyers of his age in the Queen's household. And he said once that our present Queen was the kindest to her servants since Catherine of Aragon.'

  Barak considered. 'Edward Priddis would have been a young lawyer in London around that time. So would Dyrick, come to that.'

  'And Dyrick worked in the royal service. And Priddis said he was in London for a while, but not what he did there.'

  'If he was involved, his father would have a real incentive to cover things up.'

  We turned at the sound of wheels creaking loudly. Two large carts passed us, each drawn by four straining horses and loaded with boxes of iron gunballs; new cast, no doubt, in the Wealden furnaces.

  'I hope we have some letters when we get back to Hoyland,' Barak said. 'It's about time.'

  * * *

  THERE WERE no servants working in the gardens of Hoyland Priory when we rode through the gates. Already Abigail's flower beds were starting to look neglected. To my surprise, I saw Hugh practising at the butts on his own. He looked at us but made no acknowledgement, bending to string a new arrow to his bow.

  As we dismounted, Fulstowe came round the front of the house, neat as ever, with his beard freshly trimmed. His manner was even more proprietorial. He bowed briefly. I asked if there had been any letters.

  'None, sir. But the coroner has got here. He wishes to see you.'

  'Thank you. Could a servant take the horses to the stables for us?'

  'I fear everyone is too busy just now,' Fulstowe said with a little smile. 'And now, if you will excuse me.' He walked away.

  'That fellow's getting too big for his boots,' Barak said, then added angrily, 'Damn it, I need to know how Tamasin fares.'

  'If the King has arrived at Portchester, maybe the roads will be clearer tomorrow.'

  He shook his head angrily. 'I'll take the horses round to the stables, since nobody else will.'

  I went into the great hall. I stopped and stared as I saw the tapestries of the hunting scenes had been removed, leaving the walls blank. Then to my astonishment I saw that old Sir Quintin Priddis was again sitting in the chair by the empty fireplace. He raised the half of his face that was not paralysed in that sinister, sardonic half-smile.

  'We meet again, Master Shardlake. I hear you have been over to Sussex.'

  'I have, sir.'

  His blue eyes narrowed. 'A successful journey?'

  I took a deep breath. But he would find out soon enough. 'I was at Rolfswood, where the Fettiplace family came from. A body has been found in the mill pond there, weighted down, and it seems to be the late William Fettiplace. It appears he was murdered. There will be a new inquest,' I added.

  Sir Quintin's self-control was remarkable. His sharp gaze did not flinch. I wished Edward had been there too, so I could have seen his reaction. 'Well, well,' the old man said. 'Death seems to follow you about, sir.' He changed the subject. 'I trust my son was helpful when you went to visit Master Curteys' woodlands.'

  'Indeed.'

  'And have you decided to abandon the silly nonsense? I am sure this poor family would be relieved to have one less thing to worry about.'

  'I am still considering. I did not expect to see you here again, Sir Quintin.'

  He laughed, that strange rusty sound. 'A matter I was due to deal with in Winchester has been cancelled. An assessment of a young ward's lands, but the boy has died. The fellow who took the wardship made a bad investment, and thus we are not required in Winchester till next week. So I decided to stop here on the way, to see the outcome of Mistress Hobbey's inquest. And the local Hampshire coroner is a useless fellow, I may be able to render him some assistance.' He winced and adjusted his body to a more comfortable position. It crossed my mind that he might have come back to discover more about my connection to Rolfswood.

  A door opened and Edward entered, dressed like his father in sober black, and accompanied by a small, cross-looking fellow of around sixty in a lawyer's robe. Edward's cold blue eyes narrowed when he saw me. As I bowed I wondered whether this self-contained man could be capable of rape, and reflected that those who keep themselves most under control can be the most dangerous when they lose it.

  Sir Quintin raised his good arm and gestured to me. 'This man and his clerk are the first finders of the body, Sir Harold. Serjeant Matthew Shardlake. Serjeant Shardlake, this is Sir Harold Trevelyan, coroner of Hampshire.'

  Sir Harold looked at us peevishly. 'So you have returned. As first finders you should have stayed till my arrival. A lawyer should know that. I want to start the inquest tomorrow afternoon. I have enough to do in Portsmouth with these deaths in the galleasses. I don't know what the King was thinking of, filling them with the drunken refuse of London. Still, hopefully this inquest should be quick enough, with a suspect in custody.'

  'You may find there are one or two problems with evidence,' I answered sharply.

  Sir Harold looked offended. 'Master Dyrick says this Ettis is a rebellious fellow with a grudge against the family. His only alibi is his servant. Well, I'll see for myself later.'

  'Has a jury been selected?'

  'It has. I authorized Master Hobbey's steward to select some villagers.'

  'But loyalties in this village are divided,' I replied forcefully. 'Fulstowe will choose only villagers loyal to Master Hobbey.'

  'It is established procedure to use the steward to select jurors. And might I ask, sir, what business it is of yours? I am told you are here to conduct an enquiry into the ward Hugh Curteys' lands. But I am also told you are one of the serjeants at the Court of Requests, so perhaps you have some bias against landowners.'

  Sir Quintin cackled from his chair. 'Sir Harold is a major landowner up near Winchester.' I cursed silently. There could be few worse men to conduct this inquest.

  Sir Quintin looked at me. 'There is a surfeit of inquests these days. Master Shardlake says there is to be another one, at the town he has just visited in Sussex. Though that one, I fancy, will be slower, with an uncertain outcome. A body found after near twenty years.'

  Sir Harold nodded in agreement. 'That will not be a priority for the Sussex coroner.' Priddis exchanged a glance with Edward, who had been watching silently.

  'If you will excuse me,' I said, 'I should pay my respects to Master Hobbey.'

  * * *

  HOBBEY WAS IN his study again, with Dyrick, but now it was Dyrick who sat at the big desk, while Hobbey sat in a chair with the picture of the former abbess on his knee, staring at it. He barely looked up as I entered. His face was grey and sunken.

  'Well, Master Shardlake,' Dyrick said, 'so you are back. The coroner was quite agitated to find you absent.'

  'I have spoken to him. I hear Master Fulstowe has selected a jury from the villagers. Ettis's enemies, I imagine.'

  'That is up to the steward. Now, tell me, Brother, have you decided to accept our proposals on costs?'

  'I am still considering it,' I answered shortly. 'If the inquest finds that Ettis committed the murder, he will be committed for trial at Winchester. They will have to find a jury of townsmen there. I will be called to give evidence as first finder, and I promise you I will ensure that any trial is fair.'

  Dyrick turned to Hobbey. 'You hear him, sir? Now he thinks he can interfere with the trial of your wife's murderer. Was there ever such a fellow?'

  Hobbey looked up. He seemed barely interested, sunk in melancholy. 'What will happen will happen, Vincent.' He turned the picture round on his lap, showing us the old abbess, the dark veil and white wimple, the enigmatic face in the centre. 'Look how she smiles,' he said, 'as though she knew something. Perhaps those who say we who have turned monastic buildings into houses are c
ursed are right. And if the French invade, who knows, they may even burn this house to the ground.'

  'Nicholas—' Dyrick said impatiently.

  'Perhaps that is why she is smiling.' He turned to me with a strange look. 'What do you think, Master Shardlake?'

  'I think that is superstition, sir.'

  Hobbey did not answer. I realized he had retreated completely into himself. Dyrick and Fulstowe were in charge here now. And if it took hanging Ettis to end opposition to the enclosure of the village, they would do it, whether he was guilty or not.

  * * *

  SUPPER THAT EVENING was one of the most melancholy meals I have ever attended. Hobbey sat slumped at the end of the table, picking listlessly at his food. Fulstowe stood watchfully behind him, and several times exchanged glances with Dyrick. Hugh sat staring at his plate, oblivious of everyone, including David, who sat next to him. David was unkempt, his doublet stained with food, his pale face furred with black stubble and his protuberant eyes red from crying. Occasionally, he would stare wildly into space, like someone trying to awaken from a horrible dream. Hugh, though, was as neatly dressed as ever, and had even had a shave.

  I tried to engage Hugh in conversation, but he made only monosyllabic replies. He was, I guessed, still angry after our conversation about his words over Abigail's corpse. I looked round the table: those sitting there were all men. I wondered if a woman would ever sit here again, in this place which a decade before had housed only women. I stared up at the great west window and remembered my first evening—the hundreds of moths that had come in. There were few this evening; I wondered what had become of them all.

  I glanced again at the bare walls. Dyrick said, 'Master Hobbey had the tapestries taken down yesterday. He cannot bear to look at them now.'

  'That is understandable.' Hobbey, next to Dyrick, had taken no notice.

  Edward Priddis was next to me. He spoke quietly. 'My father says there has been a discovery at Rolfswood. That William Fettiplace did not die in that fire, but ended in the mill pond.' His tone, as always, was quiet and even.