Heartstone (Matthew Shardlake #5)(98)

‘Rape.’ I looked at him. ‘Perhaps murder. And tomorrow we go to Portsmouth and meet Priddis, who conducted the inquest. I don’t think I should mention Rolfswood.’

‘You think he may be linked to people who might endanger Ellen?’

‘Yes. And Philip West is in Portsmouth too. I asked Guy to visit Ellen, and paid Hob Gebons to look after her, but still I fear for her. It is a nightmare tangle. If murder was involved, Ellen’s safety has been only provisional for nineteen years. What if she has another outburst and lets out more of what happened? Whoever is paying her fees may decide she is safer out of the way. And if they can afford Bedlam fees and coaches, perhaps they can afford to find a hired killer too.’

‘You shouldn’t have started this, in my opinion.’

‘Well, I did,’ I snapped. ‘I only learned about the fire and the deaths on the way here.’ I grimaced. ‘I swore to myself not to involve you. I am sorry.’

‘For what? You’re not going back there, are you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I think the damage is done now, anyway,’ he said bluntly. ‘If this Buttress was involved in what happened I imagine he’d soon tell these West people someone was making enquiries.’

‘Yes. I thought about it all through the ride home. I charged ahead without thinking, I was so keen to get information. I hadn’t expected to find that conveyance was forged.’ I hesitated. ‘I have been wondering whether to try and seek out this Philip West in Portsmouth.’

‘Having come this far perhaps you should. Leacon may know where we can find him. But be careful what you say to him.’

‘Yes.’ I realized that our roles had become reversed, Barak was the one advising me what to do, not to be impulsive. But he did not have my driving need to discover all I could about Ellen, to rescue her somehow. Through guilt for the damage I had done to her, through being unable to return her love.

I sighed, and opened my letters. The first was from Guy. It was dated 6 July, three days before, and would have crossed with the one I sent.

Dear Matthew,

I write on another hot and dusty day. The constables have been rounding up more sturdy beggars to send to Portsmouth to row on the King’s ships. They are made slaves, and I think of that when Coldiron talks of English freedom being set against French slavery.

I have been to see Ellen. I think she has returned somewhat to her old self; she is working again with the patients but there is a deep melancholy about her. She did not look pleased when I came into the Bedlam parlour. I had spoken first with the man Gebons, who was pleasant enough after the money you gave him. He says Keeper Shawms has told his staff to restrain Ellen and lock her away immediately should she have another outburst.

When I told Ellen you had asked me to come and see how she was, I am afraid she became angry. She said bitterly that she had been locked up because of you, and did not wish to speak to me. Her manner was odd, something almost childish in it. I think I will wait a few days then go again.

At home I have had words with Coldiron. I rise early these days and I heard him giving Josephine foul oaths in the kitchen, calling her a stupid mare and goggle-eyed bitch in front of the boys, all because she had slept late and not woken him as usual. He threatened to box her ears. I went in and told him to leave her alone. He was surly but obeyed. What pleased me is that as I told him to keep a decent tongue before his daughter I saw Josephine smile. I still ponder over that time I heard her swear in French.

Tamasin, by God’s grace, continues very well and I am giving the post rider a letter from her, for Jack.



I put the letter down with a sigh. I was greatly relieved Ellen was improved, but her bitterness towards me cut deeply. She was right, it was my clumsiness that had done it. I cut the seal on Warner’s letter. To my surprise he had already received mine.

Esher, 7th July 1545

Dear Matthew,

The rider brought your letter so I am replying early in the morning, before we move on. The King has brought a small retinue compared to a normal Progress, and we are to move as fast as we can. We travel via Godalming and Fareham, and will be at Portsmouth on the 14th or 15th. The fleet under Lord Lisle is now at the Channel Islands, watching to see when those French dogs sail, and to harry their ships. Then all our great ships will gather at Portsmouth for his majesty’s arrival. It now seems certain the French will attack there. They have their spies, but we have ours.

I have had word from the man I sent to enquire about Nicholas Hobbey. I ensured he was discreet. Apparently Hobbey indeed suffered greatly through poor investments in the continental trade seven years ago, just at the time he was buying the house and woodland in Hampshire. He ended in debt to moneylenders in London. My guess would be he bought the wardship of those children in the hope he could bind their lands to his through marriage, and make illicit profit from their woodland in the meantime to pay his creditors. Sir Quintin Priddis I believe, even more than most feodaries, is known for corrupt dealing and would help them cook the accounts.

There is a strange piece of news from the Court of Wards. The senior clerk, Gervase Mylling, has been found dead in their records office, which I am told is a damp underground chamber full of vile humours. He shut himself in there accidentally some time on Tuesday evening, and was found dead on Wednesday morning, the day you left. Apparently he had a weak chest and was overcome by the foul air. I had to go to court on her majesty’s business that day and all the lawyers were talking of it. Yet they say he was a careful fellow. But only God knows when a man’s hour may strike.