Heartstone: A Shardlake Novel

by C. J. Sansom

  ‘That’s a relief.’

  ‘And I spoke to Ursula. I told her I was in with Ettis, and persuaded her to talk to me. She hates the Hobbeys. Said Master Hobbey told her off about leaving those flowers in the graveyard. Consecrated ground that’s been left to rot, she called it. She said Abigail has always been high strung, with a sharp temper, but recently she seems to have withdrawn into herself.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Ever since she heard you were coming.’

  ‘What did she say about the boys?’

  ‘Just that David is a little beast. I got the impression she might know something more, but she wouldn’t be drawn. She said Hugh is well mannered, but too quiet for a boy his age. She doesn’t like any of them. I asked her if she saw anything the day Michael Calfhill came.’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘Afraid not. That day she was working on the other side of the house.’

  ‘Damn it.’

  ‘This place is as full of watchers and factions as the King’s court.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘I spoke to Avery on my way in, he said much the same. He used to work at Lewes Priory. Cromwell had it demolished by the same people who demolished Scarnsea, where he sent me after his commissioner was murdered. And do you remember, during the Dark Fire business, that Wentworth household? Another family full of factions and secrets.’ I sighed. ‘Strange. I had one of my dreams of drowning last night; they always remind me of what happened in York, and the nightmare of the Revelation murders. Strange how the past revisits you.’

  ‘I’ve always tried not to let it.’ Barak looked at me keenly. ‘What happened in Rolfswood? Something did, I can tell.’

  I met his gaze. He looked tired, from the strain of living in this place combined with anxiety over Tamasin. I was tired too; tired of lies. I needed, self-indulgently perhaps, to tell someone about Rolfswood. So I told him about the fire, and all I had learned from Wilf, Seckford, and Buttress, as well as the threat from Wilf’s sons.

  ‘People are still scared of loose tongues nineteen years later,’ he mused. ‘What do you think happened?’

  ‘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.

  Her majesty asks me to send you her good wishes. She hopes your enquiries progress. She thinks it would be a good thing if you were to be on your way back to London as soon as you can.

  Your friend,

  Robert Warner

  I laid the letter in my lap and looked at Barak. ‘Mylling is dead. Found locked in the Stinkroom. He su
ffocated.’ I passed the letter to him.

  ‘So Hobbey was in debt,’ he said when he had read it.

  ‘Yes. But Mylling – he would never have gone into the Stinkroom without leaving that stone to prevent the door closing. He feared the place, it set him wheezing.’

  ‘Are you saying someone shut him in? They’d have had to know he had a weak chest.’

  ‘I can’t see him taking any risks with that door.’

  ‘You’re not suggesting some agent of Priddis or Hobbey had him killed, are you? And why would they? You’d seen all the papers already.’

  ‘Unless there was something else Mylling knew. And remember Michael Calfhill? He is the second person connected with this case to die suddenly.’

  ‘You were sure Michael’s death was suicide.’ Barak’s voice rose impatiently. ‘God’s nails, if Hobbey has been defrauding Hugh over the sale of wood, it can’t be worth more than a hundred or so a year at most. Not enough to be killing people for, surely, and risking the rope—’

  We were interrupted by a knock at the door. Barak threw it open. A young man, one of the Hobbey servants, stood outside. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘Master Hobbey and Mistress Abigail are taking a glass of wine outside before dinner with Master Dyrick. They ask if you would join them.’

  I WENT TO my room, where I washed my face and neck in the bowl of water Fulstowe had sent up, then changed into fresh clothes and went outside. Chairs had been set out beside the porch, and Hobbey, Abigail and Dyrick sat there, a large flagon of wine on a table between them. Fulstowe had just brought out a plate of sweetmeats. Hobbey rose and smiled.

  ‘Well, Master Shardlake.’ His manner was at its smoothest. ‘You have had a long ride. Come, enjoy a glass of wine and the peace of this beautiful afternoon. You too, Fulstowe, take a rest from your labours and join us.’

  Fulstowe bowed. ‘Thank you, sir. Some wine, Master Shardlake?’

  He passed me a cup and we both sat. Abigail gave me one of her sharp, hostile glances and looked away. Dyrick nodded coldly.

  Hobbey looked out over his property, his face thoughtful. The shadows were lengthening over the garden. Lamkin was dozing under his tree. In an oak tree nearby a wood pigeon began cooing. Hobbey smiled. ‘There,’ he said, pointing. ‘Two of them, high up, see?’

  I looked to where two of the fat grey birds sat on a branch. ‘A far different scene from the stinks of London,’ Dyrick observed.

  ‘Yes,’ Hobbey answered. ‘How many days in my office there, looking out at the rubbish on the Thames bank at low tide, did I dream of living somewhere like this. Peaceful, quiet.’ He shook his head. ‘Strange to think they are preparing for war so near.’ He sighed. ‘And we will see those preparations tomorrow at Portsmouth. All I have ever aimed for is a peaceful life for me and mine.’ He looked at me, real sadness in his face. ‘I wish Hugh and my son were not so keen on war.’

  ‘There I agree with you, sir,’ I said. I was seeing another side of Hobbey. He was greedy, snobbish, probably corrupt, but he was also devoted to his family and what he had hoped would be a quiet country life. And surely he was not a man to arrange two murders.

  ‘Vincent too had a letter today.’ Hobbey turned to Dyrick. ‘What news of your wife and children?’

  ‘My wife says my daughters are fractious and miss me.’ Dyrick gave me a hard look. ‘Fine as your house is, sir, for myself I would fain be back home.’

  ‘Well, hopefully you soon will be.’

  ‘When Master Shardlake allows,’ Abigail said with quiet bitterness.

  ‘Come, my dear,’ Hobbey said soothingly. She did not reply, only looked down and took a small sip of wine.

  ‘How went your work in Sussex, Brother Shardlake?’ Dyrick asked. ‘Fulstowe said there were complications.’ He smiled, demonstrating he was within the household’s network of information.

  ‘It is more complex than I expected. But so many matters turn out that way.’ I returned his gaze. ‘To have unexpected layers.’

  ‘Some tenant dragging an unfortunate landlord to Requests?’

  ‘Now, Brother,’ I answered chidingly. ‘I may say nothing. Professional confidentiality.’

  ‘Of course. Why, this poor landlord may come to me for advice.’

  ‘Master Shardlake,’ Hobbey asked. ‘Do you think you will have completed your business before our hunt?’

  ‘I am not sure. I must see what Priddis has to say.’

  Dyrick’s face darkened. ‘Man, we are surely done. You are dragging this out—’

  Hobbey raised a hand. ‘No arguments, gentlemen, please. Look, the boys have returned.’

  Hugh and David had appeared in the gateway, their big greyhounds on their leashes. David carried a bag of game over his shoulder.

  Abigail spoke sharply. ‘Those hounds. I’ve told them to take them in by the back gate—’

  Then it happened so quickly that none of us had time to do more than stare in horror. Both hounds turned their long heads towards Lamkin. The little dog got to his feet. Then his greyhound’s leash was out of David’s hand, flying out behind the big dog as it ran straight at Lamkin with huge, loping strides. Hugh’s hound pulled forward, jerking the leash from his hand too. Lamkin fled from the dogs, running towards the flower garden with unexpected speed, but few animals on earth could have outrun those greyhounds. David’s hound caught the little spaniel just inside the flower garden, lowering its head then lifting it with Lamkin in its mouth. I saw little white legs struggling, then the greyhound closed its jaws and the spaniel’s body jerked, blood spurting. The greyhound loped back to David and dropped Lamkin, a limp pile of blood and fur, at its master’s feet. Abigail stood, hands clawing at her cheeks. A terrible sound came from her, less a scream than a wild keening howl.

  David and Hugh stared down at the bloody mess on the ground, which the dogs had started to pull apart. David looked shocked. But I had seen the tiny flicker of a smile as he let go the leash. Hugh’s face was composed, expressionless. I thought, was this something they both planned, or only David?

  Abigail’s grief-stricken wail stopped abruptly. She clenched her fists and marched across the lawn, the hem of her dress making a hissing sound on the grass. David stepped back as Abigail raised her fists and began pummelling at his head. She screamed, ‘Evil, wicked brute! Monster! Why do you torment me? You are no normal creature!’

  David lifted his arms to protect his face. Hugh stepped forward and tried to pull Abigail away, but she slapped his arm down. ‘Get away!’ she screamed. ‘You are as unnatural a creature as he!’

  ‘Abigail!’ Hobbey shouted. ‘Stop, in heaven’s name! It was an accident!’ He was trembling. I exchanged a glance with Dyrick. For once we were in the same position, not knowing whether to intervene.

  Abigail turned to us. I have seldom seen such anger and despair in a human face. ‘You fool, Nicholas!’ she yelled. ‘He let go the leash, the evil thing! I have had enough, enough of all of you! You will blame me no more!’

  Fulstowe walked quickly towards Abigail and took her by the arm. She turned and smacked him hard on the cheek. ‘Get off me, you! Servant! Knave!’

  Hobbey had followed the steward. He seized Abigail’s other arm. ‘Quiet, wife, in God’s name quiet yourself!’

  ‘Let go!’ Abigail struggled fiercely. Her hood fell off, long grey-blonde hair cascading round her shoulders. David had backed against a tree. He put his head in his hands and began to cry like a child.

  Suddenly Abigail sagged between Nicholas and Fulstowe. They let her go. She raised a flushed, tear-stained face and looked straight at me. ‘You fool!’ she shouted. ‘You do not see what is right in front of you!’ Her voice was cracking now. She looked at Fulstowe and her husband, then at Hugh and the weeping David. ‘God give you all sorrow and shame!’ she cried, then turned her back on them and ran past Dyrick and me into the house. There were servants’ faces at every window. Hobbey went to David. The boy collapsed in his arms. ‘Father,’ I heard David say in an agonized voice.


  Hugh looked expressionlessly at the greyhounds, their long muzzles red as they growled over a scrap of bloody fur.

  Part Four

  PORTSMOUTH

  Chapter Twenty-four

  AN HOUR LATER I was sitting in Barak’s room.

  ‘It was only a lapdog,’ he said. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t an accident?’

  ‘You didn’t see David’s smile when he let go the leash. Abigail is his mother, yet he seems to hate her, while Hugh treats her with indifference.’

  ‘Hugh’s greyhound attacked the spaniel too?’

  ‘I think he lost hold of its leash. Abigail loved that dog. David couldn’t have done anything worse to her. But what did Abigail mean, calling me a fool, saying, “You do not see what is in front of you”? What don’t I see?’

  Barak considered. ‘Something to do with Fulstowe? He is such a haughty fellow, you’d think he owned the place.’

  ‘Whatever it is, I don’t think Dyrick knows. When Abigail shouted that out he looked completely astonished. Oh, in God’s name, what is going on here?’ I pulled my fingers through my hair, as though I could drag an answer from my tired brain, then groaned and stood up. ‘It is time for dinner. Jesu knows what that will be like.’

  ‘I’ll be glad to get out of here tomorrow. Even to go to Portsmouth.’

  I left him and returned to the house. The sun was starting to sink behind the tall new chimneys of the priory. A servant, supervised by Fulstowe, was wiping a patch of grass with a cloth; removing Lamkin’s blood, that his mistress might not see. The steward came across.

  ‘Master Shardlake, I was about to look for you. Master Hobbey asks if you would see him in his study.’

  HOBBEY SAT in a chair by his desk, looking sombre and pale. He had upturned his hourglass and was watching the sand trickle through. Dyrick sat opposite, frowning. I guessed the two had been conferring. Whatever the outcome it had not pleased Dyrick. For the first time I saw anxiety in his face.