Heartstone (Matthew Shardlake #5)(95)

The door opened and a tall, burly man with curly iron-grey hair entered, wearing a wool doublet with silver buttons over a shirt embroidered with fine lacework. He bowed.

‘Master Buttress?’ I asked.

‘I am. I am told you have an enquiry about the Fettiplace family, who once lived here.’ His manner was civil, but there was something both watchful and aggressive about him.

‘I am sorry to trouble you so early, but I wonder if you could help me.’ I told him my story about making enquiries for a friend.

‘Who told you I owned the house?’

‘I heard it at the inn.’

Buttress grunted. ‘This town is full of gossip. I only knew the family slightly.’

‘I understand. But I have been thinking. Mistress Fettiplace would have had to put her London address on the deed of conveyance when she sold the house. That might help me trace her. Unless,’ I added, ‘her sanity was an issue, in which case the conveyance would have gone through the Office of Wards, as it was then.’

Buttress looked at me narrowly. ‘As I recall, she sold it herself. It was all done properly, she was past sixteen, of an age to sell.’

‘I have no doubt it was, sir. But if you could be so kind as to find the conveyance, it would be a great help if I could find an address.’ I spoke deferentially, reckoning that was the best approach with this man. He frowned again, then drew himself up to his full height. ‘Wait,’ he said, ‘I will see if I can find it.’

Buttress left, returning a few minutes later with a document with a red seal at the bottom. He brushed the dust off with a sweeping motion and laid it on the table. ‘There, sir,’ he said stiffly. ‘You will see everything is in order.’ I studied the conveyance. It sold the house, and the freehold of some woodland, to Humphrey Buttress on the fifteenth of December 1526. Two months after Ellen had been taken away. I did not know the price of land round here then, but it was less than I would have expected. The address was care of a solicitor, Henry Fowberry of Warwick Lane, off Newgate. The signature above it, Ellen Fettiplace in a round childish hand, was nothing at all like her signature I had seen at the Bedlam. It was a forgery.

I looked up at Buttress. He smiled urbanely. ‘Perhaps this solicitor is still in practice,’ he said. ‘You may be able to find him.’

I doubted that. ‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘If not, your friend may be best advised to drop his search.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Have you heard?’ Buttress said. ‘The King has just ordered the second instalment of the Benevolence to be paid now instead of at Michaelmas. Every man of means has to pay fourpence in the pound on the value of his assets.’

‘I had not heard.’

‘To pay the men and supplies for this great levy en masse. You will have seen much activity on the roads if you have come from London.’

‘Yes, indeed.’

‘If you are going to be away any length of time you should arrange to pay your assessment in London, or they will be after you.’

‘My business near Portsmouth should only keep me a few days.’

‘And then you will be returning home?’ His hard eyes were fixed on mine.

‘That is my plan.’

Buttress seemed to relax. ‘I am a magistrate,’ he said proudly. ‘I have to help collect the payments locally. Well, we have to stop the French from landing, Pope’s shavelings that they are. The price of grain is high, so I should not complain.’

‘You are lucky if you have more coming in than going out this year.’

He smiled tightly. ‘Wars need supplies. Well, I would offer you some breakfast. Better than you will get at that inn – ’

‘Thank you,’ I answered. I wanted to learn more about this man.

‘ – but unfortunately I must leave. There is much to do at the mill. I am a man short, one of my workers was gored to death by a bull last week.’

‘How sad.’

‘The fool forgot to shut a gate and it went after him.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Bulls, fires, these rural parts can be dangerous places.’



I BREAKFASTED at the inn. I received sour glances from the old woman who had introduced me to Wilf, and wondered if she had become suspicious of my close questioning of him and told his sons. I fetched Oddleg from the stables and rode out of Rolfswood, which was stirring into life on another fine summer’s morning. I patted the horse. ‘Back to Hampshire, good beast,’ I said, settling myself in the saddle. And soon, I thought, to Portsmouth.





Chapter Twenty-three


BY THE TIME I rode once more through the gate of Hoyland Priory it was around four o’clock, the shadows lengthening. All was peaceful. A gardener was working on Abigail’s flower beds. Insects buzzed and a woodpecker tapped somewhere in the woods. Two peacocks strutted across the lawn, watched by Lamkin as he sprawled under a tree. I rode round the side of the house, Oddleg quickening his pace at the prospect of returning to the stables.

I gave the ostler instructions to ensure the horse was properly washed down and combed. He was surly and uncommunicative like all the Hobbey servants. As I left the stables, a door in the rear wall of the enclosure opened and the huntsman Avery entered. He wore a green jerkin, green scoggers on his legs and even a green cap above his thin, deeply tanned features. He bowed. I walked across to him.