Heartstone (Matthew Shardlake #5)(31)

‘So Michael’s mother told me too. But then Emma died.’

‘God rest the poor child. By then the wardships had been granted and Michael had moved with the children to the Hobbeys’ house, out of the parish. I only saw him once more after that, when he came to tell me Emma had died and he had been dismissed.’ Broughton shook his head. ‘He said Abigail Hobbey showed no sadness at her funeral, looked on coldly as Emma was buried. I thought I saw despair in Michael’s face then. And from what you say it seems I was right.’ Broughton looked at me earnestly. ‘Does this help you, sir?’

I thought. ‘Only a little, I fear. Is there anyone else in your congregation who knew the family?’

He shook his head. ‘Not well. It was only I that took an interest in the wardship. People do not like to interfere in such matters. But there was one thing I discovered. There were rumours that Master Hobbey was in debt.’

‘Then how could he afford to buy the wardship? And he had just bought a monastic house and was having it converted.’

Barak grunted. ‘Hoped to get Emma’s share of the Curteys land by marrying her to his son. If so, he got a bad bargain.’

Broughton looked alarmed. ‘He still has the right to make a marriage for Hugh. What if he plans to marry him to someone unsuitable? That could be what Michael discovered.’

I nodded thoughtfully. ‘Possibly. Sir, I would be grateful if you could come to the hearing on Monday. At least you could testify you were unhappy with how matters were handled.’ I needed every scrap of evidence I could bring. But there was still nothing a good lawyer for the other side could not easily dismiss. I got up, wincing at my stiff back. Broughton rose too.

‘Sir,’ he said. ‘You will see justice done? Right whatever wrong is being done to Hugh?’

‘I will try. But it will not be easy. I will send Barak back tomorrow to prepare a deposition for you. It must be lodged with the Court of Wards before the hearing.’

‘God will not suffer injustice to children,’ Broughton said with sudden passion. ‘Our Saviour said, “Any wrong done unto these little ones is done also to me.” ’ He quoted the Bible in a fierce voice; but then I saw he was crying, tears running down his creased face. ‘I am sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘I was thinking of Michael. A suicide. In Hell. It is so – harsh. But God has decided that is where suicides must go and how can we question God?’ Faith and desperation showed equally in his face.

‘Justice may be tempered with mercy,’ I ventured. ‘That is an important principle, in earthly law at least.’

Broughton nodded, but did not speak again as he led us outside. ‘What time should I come on Monday?’ he asked as we parted at the church door.

‘The hearing is set for ten, the Court of Wards at Westminster. If you could come early.’

Broughton bowed and returned to the dim interior of the church. As we walked through the lych gate Barak turned to me. ‘Justice? He won’t see that in the Court of Wards.’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘Only harsh judgement, like he says God gives.’

‘If Michael Calfhill deserves to be in Hell, perhaps even the Court of Wards’ judgement is better than God’s. Come, let’s change the subject. We are talking heresy in the street.’



MICHAEL CALFHILL’S lodgings lay at the other end of the city, in the warren of streets down by the river. The afternoon was well on as we turned into a narrow alley, where high old dwellings with overhanging eaves had been converted into lodging houses, old paint flaking onto the muddy ground. Chickens rooted in the dust. At a tavern on the corner a group of seven or eight apprentices in their late teens, many with swords at the belts of their blue robes, gave us hostile looks. The tallest, a fair-haired, heavy-set lad, fixed me with a hard stare. Perhaps he thought my lawyer’s robe the uniform of a French spy. Barak put a hand to his own sword and the boy turned away.

Barak knocked on an unpainted wooden door. It was answered by a pretty young woman, an apron over her cheap wool dress. She smiled at him in recognition before giving me a deep curtsey. This must be Michael’s downstairs neighbour; I guessed Barak had charmed her.

‘I’ve brought Master Shardlake, Sally,’ he said lightly. ‘The lawyer that has an interest in poor Michael’s affairs. Did Constable Harman give you the key?’

‘Yes, sir. Come in.’

We followed her into a damp hallway, through an inner door into her lodging, a small room with dirty rushes on the floor, a table and a bed. An old iron key lay on the table. There was no glass in the windows, and the slats in the shutters were open. I saw the apprentices watching the house. Sally followed my gaze. ‘They’ve been hanging around there for days,’ she said. ‘I wish they’d go away.’

‘What guild are they from?’ I asked. ‘Their masters should keep them under better control.’

‘I don’t know. A lot of apprentices have lost their places with goods so dear. My husband worked as a messenger for the German traders at the Steelyard, but there’s no trade now with ships being impounded everywhere. He’s out looking for work.’ Her face was weary.

Barak picked up the key. ‘Can we have a look?’

‘Yes. Poor Michael,’ she added sadly.

I followed Barak up a flight of narrow stairs. He turned the key in the lock of a battered door at the back of the house. It creaked open. The shutters on the little window were closed, only dim shapes visible. Barak pulled them open. I saw the room was small, patches of damp on the walls. There was a narrow straw bed, a pillow with a torn sheet splayed across it. An old chest beside the bed was open, revealing an untidy heap of clothes. The only other furniture was a scarred table and a chair that lay overturned on the floor. A quill and a dusty, dried-up inkpot stood on the table. Looking up, I saw a strip of white sheet knotted to the roof beam, the end cut.