by C. J. Sansom
'Yes.'
'Someone always had to be there during the summer, to take deliveries of coke and ore ready for the winter, and keep an eye on the mill pond and the wheel. Peter usually did that, he lived very close by. But that summer—it was 1526, the year before the great dearth when the crops failed through the rains. That August I remember was cold and windy, like October—'
'And the fire—' I prompted.
He leaned in very close, so I felt his warm beery breath. 'That summer Peter was living at the furnace. His wife, who was a vicious old shrew, had thrown him out, saying he drank too much. I suppose he did, but never mind that. Peter asked Master Fettiplace if he could stay at the furnace for a while, and he agreed. There was a little straw bed there, people often stayed overnight during the winter campaigns, but he was the only one there that night.' Wilf took another draught of beer and sat back. 'Ah, sir. It hurts me still to remember.' He sighed. The dog looked up at him and gave a little whine.
'Towards nine that night I was at home here in the town. A neighbour came banging at my door, saying the furnace was on fire. I ran out. Lots of people were heading for the woods. As you came close to the furnace you could see the flames through the trees, the mill pond all red, reflecting the fire. It was dreadful, the whole enclosure was ablaze from end to end when I got there. It was built of wood, you see. Ellen Fettiplace blamed Peter afterwards, said he had lit a fire in the foundry building to warm himself and started the blaze.'
'Ellen? The daughter?' I had to pretend not to know.
'That's right. She was the only witness. She and Master Fettiplace had gone for an evening walk to the furnace—Master Fettiplace wanted to check that an ore delivery had come—and found Peter drunk by the fire. Master Fettiplace shouted at him, he jumped up and somehow his clothes caught light. He fell over on the straw bed and that caught light too. There was a lot of coke dust about and the whole place went up. Peter and Master Fettiplace were burnt to death; only young Ellen got out, and it drove her mad. Too mad to appear at the inquest, a statement from her was read out.' I remembered Ellen screaming. I saw his skin melt, turn black and crack! He tried to get up but he fell!
'That was the end of my work there,' Wilf said. 'Me and half a dozen others. The foundry was never rebuilt, it didn't make enough profit. The ruins are still out there in the woods. The following year the harvest failed, we had a hard time making it through.' He looked round the empty parlour. 'Peter Gratwyck was my best friend. The nights we've sat here drinking when we were young men.'
'Do you know where the daughter went?' I asked.
'The night of the fire she ran to the local priest, old John Seckford that's still curate here. Her reason had gone. She wouldn't leave the vicarage. After the inquest she was taken away, to relatives in London they said. But your friend's never come across her?' he asked curiously.
'No.'
I thought, this is not what I expected, there is no rape in this story. 'This Ellen, what was she like?'
'A pretty enough girl. About nineteen then. But spoiled by her father, full of her own opinions. The sad thing was, at the time of the fire there was talk of her getting married.'
'To whom?'
'Master Philip West, his family have lands here. He went to serve on the King's ships after.'
'I take it the verdict at the inquest was accidental death.'
'It was.' Wilf was suddenly alert. He said, 'There were questions I wanted to ask about that fire. I didn't see why Master Fettiplace couldn't have got out. But I wasn't called. Master Quintin Priddis hurried the inquest through.'
I sat up. 'Priddis?'
Wilf's eyes narrowed. 'You know him?'
'Only by name. He is responsible for the Court of Wards in Hampshire.'
'He was one of the Sussex coroners then.'
'Did Mistress Fettiplace say how it happened that neither her father nor your friend escaped?'
'Peter's clothes were on fire and somehow Master Fettiplace's clothes caught too. So she said, and hers was the only evidence. The foundry was gone, nothing left of poor Peter or Master Fettiplace save a few bones. You are sure you don't know Quintin Priddis?' His look was anxious now.
'I have never met him.'
'I must go,' the old man said suddenly. 'My wife is expecting me back. How long are you staying in Rolfswood?'
'I leave tomorrow morning.'
He looked relieved. 'Then I wish you a safe journey. Thank you for the beers. Come, Caesar.'
He got up, the dog following. Then he paused, turned back and said, 'Talk to Reverend Seckford. Many round here think something was covered up back then. But that's all I'll say.'
He hurried out.
Chapter Twenty-two
I WALKED SLOWLY up the hill to the church. I was dusty, my legs and back stiff and aching, and I wanted nothing more than to rest. But I had little time here. I considered what old Wilf had said. He had seemed suspicious of the official version of what had happened at the foundry—but clearly knew nothing of a rape. I remembered Ellen's words, that terrible day she lost control. They were so strong! I could not move!
The church was small, a squat Norman building. Within little had changed since popish days; statues of saints were still in their places, candles burned before the main altar. Reverend Broughton would not approve, I thought. An elderly woman was replacing candles that had burned down. I went up to her.
'I am looking for Reverend Seckford.'
'He'll be in the vicarage, sir, next door.'
I went to the adjacent house. It was a poor place, wattle and daub, old paint flaking away. But Seckford was a perpetual curate, subordinate to a priest who perhaps held several parishes. I felt guilty at the thought that I was about to lie to Seckford, as I had to Wilf. But I did not want anyone here to know where Ellen was.
I knocked on the door. There were shambling footsteps, and it was opened by a small man in his fifties, wearing a cassock that could have done with a wash. He was very fat, as broad as he was long, his round cheeks covered in grey stubble. He looked at me with watery eyes.
'Reverend Seckford?' I asked.
'Yes,' he answered mildly.
'I wondered if I could speak with you. About a kindness you did many years ago to a woman called Ellen Fettiplace. Wilf Harrydance suggested I call on you.'
He studied me carefully, then nodded. 'Come in, sir.'
I followed him into a shabby parlour. He invited me to sit on a wooden settle covered by a dusty cloth. He took a chair opposite, which creaked under his weight, and looked at me curiously. 'I think you have been travelling, sir.'
'Yes. I apologize for my dusty state.' I took a deep breath, then repeated the story I had told Wilf about a friend looking for Fettiplace relatives. Seckford listened carefully, though his eye occasionally strayed to the open window behind me, and to a large jug on the buffet, where some tarnished silver plate was displayed. When I had finished he stared at me, his face full of sadness.
'Forgive me,' he said quietly, 'but I hope your client's interest is no mere matter of idle curiosity. Ellen's is a sad, terrible story.'
'My—my friend, I am sure he would help her if he could.'
'If she is still alive.' Seckford paused, gathering his thoughts. 'William Fettiplace, Ellen's father, was a good man. He got little profit from that foundry but he was charitable, gave money to the poor and to the church. His wife, Elizabeth, died young. He doted on Ellen. Perhaps he indulged her too much, for she grew into a strong-willed girl. But kind, charitable. She loved the church: she used to bring flowers for the altar, sometimes for me too, to brighten this poor place.' His eyes went blank for a moment, then he continued. 'The fire was nineteen years ago.'
'Wilf said the August of 1526.'
'Yes. Next year came the harvest failure and the great dearth. I buried many parishioners then.' His eyes wandered again to the window. I turned, but there was only a little garden with a cherry tree.
'That day was cold and cloudy, as it had often
been that summer. I was here. It was getting dark, I remember I had lit a candle, when there came a frantic hammering at the door. I thought it was someone needing the last rites, but it was poor Ellen that staggered in. Her hood was gone, her hair wild, her dress torn and stained with grass. She must have fallen on her way from the foundry in the dark.'
But, I thought, something else could have happened to explain that.
'I could get no sense from her. Her eyes were staring, she kept taking great whooping breaths but could not speak. Then she said fire, fire at the foundry. I ran and shouted for help and soon half Rolfswood was running there. I stayed with Ellen. They told me after that by the time people got there the whole enclosure was ablaze. All they found of Master Fettiplace and his man Peter Gratwyck was some charred bones. God rest their poor souls.'
'Goodman Harrydance said Ellen moved in here afterwards?'
'Yes.' He raised his chin. 'But there was nothing improper, I got Goodwife Wright, one of the Fettiplace servants, to come and stay.'
'How long did she remain?'
'Near two months. She never recovered from that night. At first she would barely talk at all, and would say nothing about what happened. If we asked her she would start crying or even screaming. It alarmed us. If someone knocked on my door she would jump or even scream and run to her room. After a while she could be got to talk a little of commonplace things, the weather and suchlike, but only to me or Goodwife Wright. And she wouldn't go outside, she would just shake her head wildly if I suggested it. She refused to see anyone else. Not even the young man people had said she would marry, Master Philip West, though he came several times. You could see in his face how troubled he was. I think he loved her.'
'He went to the King's ships, Goodman Harrydance said.'
'Yes, soon after. I think he had a broken heart. You see, the word was Philip West was going to propose to Ellen. His family had obtained a junior position for him at the King's court. He was often in London, but that summer the King had come on Progress to Sussex and Master West had ridden over to visit for the day.' Seckford shook his head sadly. 'Master Fettiplace would have been pleased for them to marry, for the Wests are a wealthy landowning family. And Master West was a handsome young fellow.'
'Are the West family still here?'
'Philip West's father died some years ago. His mother, Mistress Beatrice West, still manages his lands. He owns much round here, but leaves all the management in his mother's hands, only visiting when he is home from sea. She is a—formidable woman. She lives in a big house outside the town. Philip was here last month, when his ship arrived at Portsmouth.' He looked at me. 'I hear all the King's ships are coming there, and the King himself is on his way to review them.' The curate shook his head sorrowfully. 'We live in terrible times.'
'We do, sir.'
'I saw Philip West last month, passing down the main street on his horse. Still a handsome man but middle-aged now, and stern faced.' Seckford stood abruptly. 'Forgive me, sir. I made a resolution to drink no strong beer till the shadow on that cherry tree strikes the gate. But remembering all this—' He stepped to the buffet and took two pewter mugs. 'Will you drink with me, sir?'
'Thank you.'
He filled the mugs from the jug. He drank his straight off in a few gulps, sighed deeply and refilled it, before passing the other to me and lowering himself back into the chair.
'It was after they took Ellen away that I started drinking too much. It seemed so cruel, the foundry burning down, that poor girl with her wits gone. And I have to preach that God is merciful.' His plump face sagged into an expression of great sadness.
'And was Ellen the only witness to what happened?' I asked quietly.
Seckford frowned. 'Yes, and the coroner was very persistent in trying to get the story out of her.' His voice took on a harsh note. 'Mistress West wanted the matter out of the way so her son would not be reminded of it, and it would cease to be the talk of the locality. And the Wests could help Coroner Priddis's advancement. An ambitious man, our former coroner,' he concluded bitterly.
'I know of Priddis,' I said. 'He is now Sir Quintin, feodary of Hampshire. A post of some power.'
'So I have heard. The Priddis family were mere yeomen, but they were ambitious for their son and sent young Quintin to law.' The curate drained his mug. 'Ambition, sir, I believe it a curse. It makes men cold and hard. They should stay in the station God set them.' He sighed. 'Perhaps you will not agree.'
'I agree ambition may lead men into harshness.'
'Priddis was keen to be in with all the gentry. A busy, bustling little fellow. From the day after the fire he kept calling here, demanding to see Ellen and take a statement. But as I told you, she wouldn't see anyone. Master Priddis had to adjourn the inquests on Master Fettiplace and Peter several times. I think it rankled with him, his power thwarted by a mere girl. He had no sympathy for her state of mind.'
'Well, it was his duty to discover what happened.'
'The knave got his statement in the end. I'll tell you how.' Seckford took another mighty quaff of beer. Unlike Wilf he had shown no suspicion of me and it struck me there was something unworldly about him.
'After a few weeks Ellen improved, as I said, but still she would not say what had happened and she would not go out, not even to the church next door. She kept inventing excuses, became—crafty. Ellen Fettiplace, that had been so honest and open before. It saddened me. I think in the end she agreed to see Priddis so he would leave her alone. That was all she wanted now, to stay in this house with me and Jane Wright and never leave.'
'Were you there when he saw her?'
He shook his head. 'Priddis insisted it just be him and Goodwife Wright. They went into my kitchen over there and came out an hour later, Priddis looking pleased with himself. Next day he sent a draft statement to Ellen and she signed it. It said she and her father went to the foundry for a walk that evening, he wanted to check the delivery of some coke, they found Peter drunk and he fell into a fire he had made to warm himself. Peter's clothes caught fire and somehow William Fettiplace's did too. Priddis allowed the statement at the inquest without Ellen attending because of her state of mind. Got a verdict of accidental death.' Seckford slapped his fist angrily on the side of his chair. 'Case closed, tied up in red ribbon and put away.'
'You think Ellen's statement was untrue?'
He looked at me keenly. 'My guess is Master Priddis pieced together the little Ellen had said, worked it up into a likely chain of events and Ellen signed it to be rid of him. As I said, she had become calculating. They say that can happen to folks that are sick in their minds. She wanted only to be left alone.'
'What do you think really happened?'
He looked at me. 'I have no idea. But if the fire had only just started I do not see how Master Fettiplace at least could not have escaped.'
'Did he have any enemies?'
'None. No one wished him ill.'
'How did Ellen come to leave you?'
The curate leaned back in his chair. 'Oh sir, you ask me to remember the worst part of all.'
'I am sorry. I did not mean to press.'
'No, you should hear it to the end now.' Seckford got up, took my mug, waddled to the buffet and poured more beer.
'Goodwife Wright and I did not know what to do about Ellen. She had no relatives, she was heiress to her father's house here in Rolfswood, a little land, and the burnt-out foundry. I thought to keep her with us in the hope that eventually she might recover and be able to deal with her affairs. But Quintin Priddis took a hand again. Not long after the verdict he was back. Sat where you sit now and said it was improper for Ellen to remain here. He threatened to tell my vicar, and I knew he would order her put out.' Seckford drained his mug again.
I leaned forward. 'Goodman Harrydance said she was taken to London, to relatives.'
I saw the hand holding the empty mug was trembling. 'I asked Master Priddis what was to become of her. He said he had made enquiries and found relatives
in London, and that he was willing to arrange for her to be taken to them.' He frowned and now he did look at me sharply. 'You say this friend of yours lives there, but does not know her.'
'He knows nothing of this.' I hated lying to the old man, and realized how once started on a course of lies it becomes ever harder to stop. But Seckford seemed to accept my reply.
He said, 'My guess is Mistress West asked Priddis to search for relatives, gave him some fee. There would have to have been some profit in it for him to act.'
I thought, but for whoever placed her in the Bedlam there has been no profit, only continual expense. Keeping her out of the way could only be for their safety. Was it Mistress West, protecting her son?
'Priddis played a dirty trick.' Seckford spoke quietly. 'Jane Wright, you see, had had no wages since the fire. Nor had the other servants in Master Fettiplace's house. Who was to pay them? Priddis told her that placing Ellen with these relatives meant that things could be put on a proper footing, Master Fettiplace's house sold and her arrears of wages paid. He said he would put in a word with whoever bought the house, see if they would keep her on. That brought her over to his side. I cannot blame her, she had no income, we were all living out of my poor stipend.'
'Did you ask who these relatives were?' I asked gently.
'Priddis would not say. Only that they lived in London and would take care of her. He said that was all I needed to know.' Seckford leaned forward. 'Sir, I am only a poor curate. How was I to stand up to Priddis, a man of authority and power with a stone for a heart?'