Heartstone (Matthew Shardlake #5)(146)

‘As I explained to your son, a client was trying to find the Fettiplace family.’

‘And now at some point you will have to trail back to Sussex from London. It does no good to meddle, I always think. Master Dyrick told me meddling landed you in trouble with the King once, at York.’

He leaned back in his seat, his barb delivered, while Dyrick gave me a nasty smile.



THE INQUEST ON Abigail Hobbey was held the following afternoon in the great hall. Outside it was another bright, sunny day, but the hall was shadowed and gloomy. The big table had been set under the old west window. Sir Harold Trevelyan sat behind it, with Edward Priddis on his right, evidently pressed into service to take notes. On his left – in defiance of all procedure – sat Sir Quintin. He surveyed the room, his good hand grasping his stick. The jury, twelve men from the village, sat on hard chairs against one wall. I recognized several who had worked for the hunt. Men who would likely be in Fulstowe’s pocket.

Barak and I, Fulstowe and Sir Luke Corembeck sat together. Behind us were some of the servants, including old Ursula, and perhaps twenty people from the village. One was Ettis’s attractive wife, her body tense and her face rigid with fear and anger. From the way her neighbours gave her words and gestures of comfort, I guessed they represented Ettis’s faction in the village. The jury, I saw, gave them some uneasy glances.

In the front row the Hobbey family sat with Dyrick. David was slumped forward, head in hands, staring at the floor. I saw he was shaking slightly. Next to him Hugh sat bolt upright. When he came in I had looked at him hard, to remind him I remembered what he had said over Abigail’s body. On Hugh’s other side Nicholas Hobbey still looked dreadful; he watched people coming in with a sort of bewildered wonderment.

Last to arrive was Ettis. I heard a clanking of chains outside, and exchanged a look with Barak; we both knew that sound from the London jails. Two men led Ettis in; the proud, confident yeoman had turned into an unshaven, hollow-eyed figure. He was set roughly on a chair against the wall. Behind me there was muttering among the villagers, and one or two of the jurors looked shamefaced.

‘Silence!’ Sir Harold shouted, banging the table with a little gavel. ‘I won’t have jangle and talk in my court! Any more noise and I will clear the benches.’

Sir Harold called me first, to give evidence about finding the body. Barak was called next and confirmed what I had said. The coroner then proceeded immediately to call Fulstowe. The steward spoke with cold clear fluency of Ettis’s leadership of the faction in the village that wanted to oppose the enclosures, the antipathy between him and the Hobbeys, particularly Abigail, and his known skill as an archer.

‘Yes,’ Sir Harold said. ‘And Master Ettis’s only alibi is the servant he says was with him marking his sheep. Call him.’

An old countryman was called. He confirmed he had been with his master that day. Sir Harold, in a bullying tone, got him to confirm he had worked for Ettis for twenty years.

‘So you would have every incentive to say anything to protect your master,’ he said coldly.

Sir Quintin intervened. ‘If he is hanged his property is forfeit to the State, and you will be out on the street.’

‘I – I only speak the truth, Master.’

‘So we would hope, fellow. There are penalties for those who perjure themselves.’

‘Isn’t there anything we can do?’ Barak whispered. ‘That crippled old goat hasn’t any right to question anyone.’ I shook my head.

Sir Harold dismissed the old servant. As he did so, Sir Quintin looked straight at me, raising his eyebrows. He was showing me his power. Sir Harold banged his gavel to quell a fresh outbreak of muttering. I waited till it had died down, then rose to my feet.

‘Sir,’ I said, ‘in fairness, it must be asked whether there were others who might have a motive to kill Abigail Hobbey.’

Sir Harold spread his hands. ‘Who else could have wanted to kill the poor woman?’

I paused. I realized that what I was about to say would be terrible for the Hobbey family, but Ettis had to have justice. I said, ‘I have been here over a week, sir. I fear almost everyone I met disliked Mistress Hobbey. Master Hobbey himself admitted it to be so. There was – an incident, the killing of her dog.’

A fresh murmur spread along the benches, and David turned and looked at me in utter horror. Dyrick and Nicholas Hobbey turned and stared, wide-eyed. Hugh, though, sat looking straight ahead. Hobbey stood up, suddenly connected to the real world again. ‘Coroner, that was an accident.’

Dyrick stood too. He said, ‘And there was certainly an incident with Ettis. He had the insolence to call and argue with Master Hobbey and me in Master Hobbey’s study; Mistress Hobbey came in and gave him hard words. I was there, I heard all.’

Sir Harold said to me, ‘Are you implying a member of her family could have killed her?’

‘I’m saying it is possible.’ I hesitated. ‘I could say more.’

Then Hugh did turn and look at me, fury in his face. I stared back. Hesitantly, he stood up. ‘May I say something?’ he said.

The coroner looked at Sir Quintin. ‘The ward,’ Sir Quintin said.

‘Well, boy?’

Hugh said, ‘Master Shardlake is right, everyone disliked poor Mistress Hobbey. If you were to enquire of all who suffered from her tongue you would be calling many witnesses.’