Heartstone (Matthew Shardlake #5)(167)

One of the servants, a young man from the village, came out of the buttery. He stared at us in astonishment, as though we were ghosts. All the servants would know how I had upset the family at the inquest. I walked across, smiling. ‘Good afternoon, fellow. Do you know if Master Hobbey is at home?’

‘I – I don’t know, sir. He is going to the village today, with Master Fulstowe and Master Dyrick.’

‘Dyrick is still here?’

‘Yes, sir. I don’t know if they’ve gone out yet. You have come back?’

‘Just briefly. Something I need to speak with Master Hobbey about. I will go round to the house.’ We walked away, leaving him gazing after us.

‘I wonder what they’re up to in the village,’ Barak said.

‘Trying to bully them over the woodlands, probably.’

We went down the side of the great hall and round to the front of the house. In Abigail’s garden the flowers were dying unwatered in the heat. I said, ‘Remember when that greyhound killed Abigail’s dog? Remember her saying I was a fool who did not see what was in front of me? If I had, then, she might not have died. But they were so clever, all of them. Come,’ I said savagely, ‘let’s get this over.’

We walked round to the front porch. Hugh was sitting on the steps, oiling his bow. He wore a grey smock and a broad-brimmed hat to shade his face. When he saw us he jumped to his feet. He looked shocked.

‘Good afternoon, Hugh,’ I said quietly.

‘What do you want?’ His voice trembled. ‘You are not welcome here.’

‘I need to talk to Master Hobbey. Do you know where he is?’

‘I think he’s gone to the village.’

‘I will go in and see.’

‘Fulstowe will throw you out.’

I met Hugh’s gaze, this time letting my eyes rove openly over his long, tanned face, staring straight at the smallpox scars. He looked away. ‘Come, Jack,’ I said. We walked past Hugh, up the steps.

The great hall, too, was silent and empty. The saints in the old west window at the far end still raised their hands to heaven. The walls remained blank; I wondered where the tapestries were. Then a door at the upper end of the hall opened, and David came in, dressed in mourning black. Like Hugh and the servant before him, he stared at us wonderingly. Then he walked forward, his solid body settling into an aggressive posture.

‘You!’ he shouted angrily. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘There is something I need to see your father about,’ I told him.

‘He’s not here!’ David’s voice rose to a shout. ‘He’s gone to the village with Fulstowe, to sort out those serfs.’

‘Then we will wait till he returns.’

‘What’s this about?’

‘Something important.’ I looked into the boy’s wide, angry blue eyes. ‘Something I have discovered about the family.’ David’s full lips worked, and his expression turned from truculence to fear.

‘Go away! I am in charge in my father’s absence. I order you to leave!’ he shouted. ‘I order you out of this house!’ He was breathing heavily, almost panting.

‘Very well, David,’ I said quietly. ‘We will go. For now.’ I turned and walked away to the door. Barak followed, casting glances over his shoulder to where David stood staring. Then the boy turned and walked rapidly away. A door slammed.

We stepped back into the sunlight. In the distance I saw Hugh standing, shooting arrows at the butts. Barak said, ‘David looked like he’d been found out in something.’

‘He has, and realized it. He is not quite as stupid as he seems.’

‘He looked like he might have another fit.’

‘Poor creature,’ I said sorrowfully. ‘There is every reason to pity David Hobbey. More than any of them.’

‘All right,’ Barak said in a sharp voice. ‘Enough riddles. Tell me what’s going on.’

‘I said I wanted you to see. Come, walk with me.’

I led the way round the side of the house. Here we had a clear view of Hugh. He stood with feet planted firmly on the lawn. He had a bagful of arrows at his belt and was shooting them, one after another, at the target. Several were stuck there already. Hugh reached down, fitted another arrow to his bow, bent back, rose up and shot. The arrow hit the centre of the target.

‘By God,’ Barak said. ‘He gets better and better.’

I laughed then, loudly and bitterly. Barak looked at me in surprise.

‘There is what none of us saw,’ I said, ‘except Feaveryear, who realized and ran to Dyrick. I think Dyrick did not know until Hobbey told him after Lamkin died. I remember he looked perturbed after that. He had probably demanded Hobbey tell him what it was Abigail had said I could not see.’

‘Know what?’ Barak’s voice was angry now. ‘All I see is Hugh Curteys shooting on the lawn. We saw that every day for a week.’

I said quietly, ‘That is not Hugh Curteys.’

Now Barak looked alarmed for my sanity. His voice rose. ‘Then who the hell is it?’

‘Hugh Curteys died six years ago. That is Emma, his sister.’

‘What—’

‘They both had smallpox. But I believe it was Hugh that died, not Emma. We know Hobbey was in financial difficulties. He could hold off his creditors by making a bond to pay them, over a period of years, and creaming off the money from the Curteys children’s woodlands. I think that is why he took the wardship.’