Heartstone (Matthew Shardlake #5)(136)

‘The building is larger than I thought,’ I said. Even now I caught the tang of iron in the air.

Wilf looked up. He had unearthed the remains of a spade, the blade half rusted away. ‘If a fire started here it would take a long time to burn up the whole enclosure. And those walls weren’t high, anyone active could climb over.’

Ellen’s words came back to me again: He burned! The poor man, he was all on fire – One man, I thought. Was the other already in the pond?

‘I see what a wreck this place must have been after the fire,’ Barak said.

‘Burned almost to the ground,’ Wilf replied. ‘They found bones, of course. Burned right through, charred.’ He pointed to the furnace. ‘Just there.’

‘How many bones?’ I asked.

Wilf shook his head. ‘It was hard to say which bones were there, they were so burned. But there was only the remains of one pelvis. Priddis said the other bones must have been been burned beyond recognition. Now, sirs, come. Let us see what Caesar found.’

We left the ruined foundry. The rain was still coming down, and I blinked water out of my eyes. We went over to the muddy depression, which gave off a rotten stink. It was surrounded by reeds, dying now from lack of water. Wilf produced a length of cord and tied Caesar to a tree. The dog whined, looking longingly out at the mud. Wilf pointed at a spot near the centre of the pond, perhaps twenty yards in. I saw a trail of footprints leading to what looked like a large blackened stick protruding from the mud. Barak whistled softly.

Wilf pointed to a wooden pole protruding from the reeds. ‘The boat used to be tied to that post, see, there. When Master Fettiplace’s daughter was little she used to go rowing out on the pond. Someone could have taken that boat on the night of the fire and dumped the body in the middle.’ I suddenly thought, Ellen could. But why not leave it in the foundry?

Wilf’s mouth set firmly. ‘We’d best do it now, sirs.’

He put the rusty spade over his shoulders, and Barak and I removed our shoes and followed him onto the dried, cracked mud, walking carefully. Once the crust gave and Barak sank to mid-calf, swearing mightily as he pulled his leg out.

Wilf was first to reach the middle. ‘See, sir?’ he said quietly.

I looked down at the shrivelled remains of a human arm, dried skin and wasted tendons over bone. I was reminded of the saints’ relics that were forbidden now. Wilf took the spade from his shoulders and set it in a crack in the dried mud. ‘Stand back, sirs,’ he said.

‘Let me do it,’ Barak said roughly. ‘I’m younger than you.’

‘No, sir. It’s easy enough, even with this broken thing. I just have to dig through the crust into the mud. But you’ll have to help me get it out.’ Wilf thrust the spade into the mud. Barak and I watched, the rain tipping down relentlessly on our heads, as he dug. Underneath was a layer of stinking, viscous ooze. Once Wilf stopped, winced, then stood with his head lowered.

‘What’s the matter?’ Barak asked.

‘I think I hit the body.’ He had gone pale.

‘Do you want me to take over?’ Barak asked.

‘Yes, please.’

After about twenty minutes Barak had exposed an area of thick silty mud perhaps seven feet by three. Then he leaned over and reached down. He felt around, then tugged gently, dragging up another arm. He turned his head from the smell of the ooze. ‘Try to find the feet,’ he said. ‘If we try pulling it out by the arms it might come apart.’

Wilf and I knelt carefully on the wet crust and reached into the mud. The rain still beat down on us all and on those exposed, withered arms. ‘I’ve got a leg,’ Wilf said in a shaking voice.

‘I have the other.’ It felt horrible, just cloth and bone.

Barak said, ‘One, two, three,’ and we all pulled. Slowly the body of a man rose from the bottom of the pool, the mud sucking at it. The leg I had hold of seemed particularly hard to get out; as it rose slowly from the mud I saw why. A rope was tied round the thigh, a lump of iron on the other end. There was no doubt now: this body had been hidden here.

We hauled the dark, dripping thing to the bank. Caesar strained at his leash, barking. We sat down, taking deep breaths of fresh air, the rain running into our mouths. Then Wilf rose and, gently turned the body over. Producing a rag from his smock, he wiped the mud-encrusted head. It was little more than a skull with skin stretched over the bones, but it still had hair.

He wiped the neck and the collar of what I saw were the rags of a doublet. He bent down and rose with a large button in his hand. He showed it to me, his hand shaking.

‘See, sir, the button hasn’t rotted. See the design, a big square cross. I remember it, these were the buttons Master Fettiplace wore on the doublet he often wore to work. And the hair is fair, as his was. It is him.’ Wilf looked stricken, then he began to weep. ‘Forgive me, this is hard for me.’ Barak put a hand on his shoulder.

‘How did it happen?’ I asked Barak quietly. ‘Ellen said one man burned. That must have been Wilf’s friend Peter Gratwyck. Her father was killed and put in here.’ I looked at the body, but it was too mummified to show any sign of a wound now.

Barak said, ‘If he was killed, why not leave the body in the foundry to burn?’ He leaned close. ‘And who was there? Ellen was, we know, but was anyone else?’