Heartstone (Matthew Shardlake #5)(94)



As I do, I thought, but did not dare to say. Seckford rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘Another drink, sir? I know I need one.’

‘No, thank you.’ I stood as well. Seckford looked at me, something desperate in his eyes. ‘Drink with me, sir,’ he said. ‘It eases the mind. Come.’

‘I have travelled far, sir,’ I answered gently. ‘I am very tired, I must rest. But thank you for telling me the story. I see it was hard for you. I would not have liked to be in your place.’

‘Will your client try to find Ellen?’

‘I promise something will be done.’

He nodded, his face twisting with emotion as he went and poured another mug for himself.

‘One last question, if I may. What happened to the Fettiplace house?’

‘It was sold, as Priddis said it would be. To Master Humphrey Buttress, that owns the corn mill. He is still there.’ The curate smiled mirthlessly. ‘An old associate of Master Priddis – I’ll warrant it was sold cheap. Master Buttress brought his own servants, and Jane Wright and the other Fettiplace servants were all out on the street. She died the next year, during the great dearth, she starved, and she was not the only one. She was old, you see, and had no work.’ Seckford steadied himself on the buffet with one hand. ‘I pray your friend will find Ellen in London and help her, if she still lives. But I beg you, do not repeat what I have said about Priddis, or the Wests, or Master Buttress, to anyone in authority. It could still bring me trouble. My vicar wants me out, you see, he is a radical reformer while I – I find the new ways difficult.’

‘I promise.’ I shook his trembling hand and left him.



MY CONSCIENCE troubled me as I walked back down the lane towards the town. I wished I could have told him Ellen was alive, that she had had at least some semblance of a life before I brought fresh trouble to it. I believed there had been a rape on that long-ago night, as well as the fire. I remembered Ellen’s words – They were so strong! I could not move! The sky above – it was so wide – so wide it could swallow me! And Ellen’s dress had been torn and had grass on it. But who were the men who had done it?

Thinking hard, I was paying little attention to my surroundings. The lane ran between hawthorn hedges, and suddenly two men stepped from a gap and stood in front of me. They were in their thirties, labourers by the look of them. They looked vaguely familiar. One gave a little bow. ‘Evening, master,’ he said.

‘Good evening, fellows.’

‘I hear you’ve been cozening old tales out of our father.’ Now I recognized the resemblance to Wilf in their thin sharp faces.

‘I was asking about the fire at the Fettiplace foundry, yes.’ I looked round. We were quite alone in the shady lane. I heartily wished Barak were with me.

‘Been talking to old John Seckford too, have you?’

‘Yes. Your father suggested it.’

‘Father is an old gabblemouth. He’s been full of theories about that fire for years, saying the verdict didn’t make sense, something was kept quiet. We tell him it’s all long past and he shouldn’t be making trouble. The Wests are powerful people, they own the land we farm. Father doesn’t know anything, he wasn’t there. We thought we’d tell you, sir.’ His tone was quiet, even respectful, but threatening nonetheless.

‘Father said you were leaving Rolfswood tomorrow,’ his brother added. ‘Our advice is not to come back, and certainly not to talk to our father again.’ He leaned forward. ‘Or you might be found with your head broken. Not that we ever told you that, or even spoke to you at all.’ He nodded at me significantly, then the two turned and disappeared again through the gap in the hedge. I took a long, deep breath, then resumed my way.



I SPENT a troubled night at the inn. What had happened here nineteen years ago? Theories chased each other round my tired mind as I lay in bed. Could Peter Gratwyck have been one of the rapists? Had he and Philip West attacked Ellen and her father, then set fire to the foundry to dispose of the body? Had Gratwyck then run away? I shook my head. There was no evidence to support that theory, nor any other. But I wondered all the more whether murder had been done that night.

Priddis’s involvement had been a shock. In two days I was to meet him in Portsmouth. And Philip West was probably there too. That was no surprise, for all the prominent officials of the region, and the army and the King’s ships, were gathering in Portsmouth now. The King himself would be there in a week.

Tomorrow I would return to Hoyland Priory and its strange family. I realized I had scarcely thought about them since I arrived here. I tossed and turned, remembering how Seckford had described Ellen: like a poor animal caught in a trap.



NEXT MORNING I rose early. There was one more thing I could do before I left.

I left the inn and walked up the main street. I soon found the house Goodwife Bell had mentioned. It was the largest, new-painted in blue, with diamond-paned windows and a doorway framed by posts beautifully carved with animal figures. I knocked at the door. A servant answered, and I asked if I could speak to Master Buttress regarding the Fettiplace family. That should bring him, I thought.

I was asked to wait in the parlour. It was a well-appointed room, dominated by a wall painting of Roman officials in togas, arguing outside the Senate. A large vase of summer flowers stood on a table. I looked at them, remembering what Seckford had said about Ellen bringing flowers to him. This was the house where she had been brought up, lived all her life until the tragedy. I looked around it, my senses heightened, but felt nothing, no connection.

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