by C. J. Sansom
Seckford said, ‘It concerns the circumstances in which Wilf found it.’
‘Then I will do what I can to advise you.’
Seckford said, ‘I heard that for a lawyer to be bound to a client money has to pass.’
‘That is not strictly true. I can act pro bono, for the public good.’
‘I’d rather money changed hands,’ Wilf said firmly. ‘In front of Master Seckford.’ He reached to the purse at his belt and pulled out a sixpence, an old coin of true silver. ‘Is this enough?’ he asked.
I hesitated, then reached out and took the coin. ‘Yes. There, Wilf, you are my client. By law I may not reveal anything you tell me, to anyone.’
Wilf took a deep breath, then bent to pat the big dog. ‘Me and Caesar here, this time of year we go hunting for truffles in the woods. Master Buttress owns the woods now, and everything in them. Though he talks of having them cut down to sell the timber, he’s still jealous of his property.’
‘You could call what Wilf does poaching,’ Seckford said quietly. ‘The penalties are severe, and Master Buttress is one to ensure a prosecution. He’s a magistrate.’
I said, ‘There would need to be evidence.’ I looked at Wilf. ‘Is there any?’
His eyes bored into mine. ‘Yes.’ He paused, then continued. ‘Two days ago, I took Caesar into the woods. He has a wonderful nose for truffles. I know the foresters’ movements, see. I know when they are in another part of the woods.’
‘I understand.’
‘It’s early for truffles yet, and I don’t usually go anywhere near the old foundry. It’s full of sadness for me, that place. I remember how it was, busy, the mill wheel turning. I hate seeing those ruins – ’ Wilf broke off, took a swig of beer, then said bitterly, ‘But this time I went up there. I’d heard the mill pond had broken through the dam, after the storms of rain and hail in June, but I hadn’t wanted to go and see. But you asking about what happened at the foundry, it brought it all back, and I decided to take Caesar that way and take a look at the place.’
‘I see.’
Wilf wiped his mouth and went on. ‘No one had attended to the mill pond since the fire. Those gates were bound to give way eventually. Well, when I went up there they had: the mill pond had quite drained away, only silt left at the bottom, which with the warmer weather this month has dried and shrunk. It was a strange, sad sight, the empty pond with the ruins by the broken dam. Then Caesar ran out onto the dried mud, began sniffing and digging at something sticking out of it.’ He closed his eyes briefly, then continued.
‘I called him, but he wouldn’t come, he was worrying at what looked like a tree root. In the end I took off my shoes and walked over to get him. The dried mud was only a crust over softer stuff: once I sank in almost to my knees, but I made it over to Caesar. Then I saw what he was worrying at.’ The old man paused and took another swig of beer. ‘It was an arm, a human arm, all withered but preserved by the silt. There’s a whole body down there. So then I came to Master Seckford.’
‘Who do you think it was?’ I asked urgently.
‘I don’t know. You couldn’t tell.’ He fell silent.
Barak said, ‘Someone could have fallen in the pond over the years since the foundry went.’
Wilf shook his head. ‘It was in the middle of the pond. Someone took that body out there in a boat – there used to be a little rowing boat – and dropped it in.’
I asked, ‘Could a swimmer not have drowned in there sometime?’
‘The body’s clothed, sir. There’s what looks like the remains of a doublet sleeve on the arm.’
‘Mary help us,’ Seckford said. He rose and headed for the buffet.
‘No, sir,’ I said to him sharply. ‘Please, we should stay sober.’
Seckford hesitated and looked longingly at the jug, but made himself come and sit down again. He looked at me. ‘Wilf was afraid of reporting it, sir, you see. Because he’d been poaching. His dog had dug up some truffles on the way, and he’d be hard put to explain what he was doing in the woods. That is our problem. And there are footprints in the mud now, going out to where the body is.’
‘I see.’
Seckford said carefully, ‘What we thought, sir, is that you could say you came back here today to make more enquiries, and got Wilf to agree to take you to the foundry to look at it. Then the dog can find – what it found.’ He smiled uneasily.
‘You are asking my master to perjure himself,’ Barak said.
Seckford met his gaze. ‘It may be Wilf’s only hope.’ He looked at me. ‘He would not have gone up there but for your visit. And you, sir, wanted to discover what happened there. Well, finding the body would put you at the centre of any new enquiry. You could tell them what you told us, that you were seeking members of the Fettiplace family for a friend.’
I leaned back, sighing. Again I had set out on an enquiry in good faith, with the aim of helping someone in trouble, and brought more trouble to everyone involved. Yet Seckford, it seemed, still trusted me.
‘I’ll take you there now, show you,’ Wilf said eagerly. ‘Then you could say afterwards that you asked me to go there today. You’re my only hope,’ he added desperately. ‘My sons agree.’
I looked at Barak. He shook his head, spread his hands.
‘I’ll do it,’ I told Wilf. ‘Take me to the foundry now, show me and we’ll pretend we’ve just found the body.’
Wilf let out a long sigh of relief and smiled at the curate. ‘You were right about him, Master Seckford. He’ll save me.’
SECKFORD REMAINED behind. I was not sorry, for he would have slowed us down, and I had a horrible anxiety that someone else might find the body in the meantime. I saw the old fellow reach for his jug as we headed for the door. Outside, Wilf pointed to a path which led up into woodland. I was hungry, dusty, my legs tired beyond measure. But this had to be done now.
We followed Wilf into the woods, the dog at his heels. The sky was very dark; it could start raining at any moment.
‘What the fuck are we getting into this time?’ Barak muttered.
‘Something that should have been dealt with a long time ago. But no secret lasts for ever.’
He shook his head. ‘This one might have, if that dog hadn’t gone digging. You realize there’ll be another inquest. You’ll be first finder again. Only this time you’ll have set that up.’
‘I couldn’t leave that old man in the briars. But you don’t have to come, you don’t have to be involved in this.’
‘That woman saw us riding together through the town. They’ll be asking later who was with you.’
‘You are right. I’m sorry.’
‘It looks like murder again, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, Jack, it does.’
We followed Wilf along an overgrown path between the trees, alongside the large stream that ran through the town. This would have been a pretty scene in other circumstances. ‘This stream fed the mill,’ Wilf called over his shoulder. ‘Here, Caesar!’ He called to the dog, which had got a little ahead and seemed impatient. He stopped, running a hand over his bald brown pate. ‘I walked this way to work for many years,’ he said quietly. ‘It was so busy then, carts coming down here with loads of iron. We come to the foundry first, the pond’s behind.’
We reached the clearing where the foundry had stood just as heavy drops of rain began to fall. All that was left was a pile of low ruins, jagged remnants of wooden walls, black and burned, festooned with ivy. At one end the smashed remains of a water-wheel leaned against a tall, round structure with rooks’ nests on top. The furnace chimney no doubt. Beyond the ruined building I glimpsed a long, rectangular expanse of brown mud, through the centre of which the stream now ran. Large overgrown mounds stood on the banks. ‘What are those?’ I asked Wilf, pointing.
‘Slag heaps.’
Seeing the empty pond, the dog tried to dart ahead. Wilf reached out and put a hand on its collar. ‘We’ll need to find something to dig with,’ he said. He led us into the
ruins through a gap in the broken walls. Inside, the wide stone floor was covered with weeds. At one end stood the old furnace shed. The walls had almost gone but the big stone furnace stood blackened but untouched, a dark hole at the bottom: no doubt the hatch through which the semi-molten iron was collected. Wilf began picking among the rubbish on the floor. Barak and I stood looking around. The rain had started to come down steadily, pattering on our heads and on the stone floor.
‘The building is larger than I thought,’ I said. Even now I caught the tang of iron in the air.
Wilf looked up. He had unearthed the remains of a spade, the blade half rusted away. ‘If a fire started here it would take a long time to burn up the whole enclosure. And those walls weren’t high, anyone active could climb over.’
Ellen’s words came back to me again: He burned! The poor man, he was all on fire – One man, I thought. Was the other already in the pond?
‘I see what a wreck this place must have been after the fire,’ Barak said.
‘Burned almost to the ground,’ Wilf replied. ‘They found bones, of course. Burned right through, charred.’ He pointed to the furnace. ‘Just there.’
‘How many bones?’ I asked.
Wilf shook his head. ‘It was hard to say which bones were there, they were so burned. But there was only the remains of one pelvis. Priddis said the other bones must have been been burned beyond recognition. Now, sirs, come. Let us see what Caesar found.’
We left the ruined foundry. The rain was still coming down, and I blinked water out of my eyes. We went over to the muddy depression, which gave off a rotten stink. It was surrounded by reeds, dying now from lack of water. Wilf produced a length of cord and tied Caesar to a tree. The dog whined, looking longingly out at the mud. Wilf pointed at a spot near the centre of the pond, perhaps twenty yards in. I saw a trail of footprints leading to what looked like a large blackened stick protruding from the mud. Barak whistled softly.
Wilf pointed to a wooden pole protruding from the reeds. ‘The boat used to be tied to that post, see, there. When Master Fettiplace’s daughter was little she used to go rowing out on the pond. Someone could have taken that boat on the night of the fire and dumped the body in the middle.’ I suddenly thought, Ellen could. But why not leave it in the foundry?
Wilf’s mouth set firmly. ‘We’d best do it now, sirs.’
He put the rusty spade over his shoulders, and Barak and I removed our shoes and followed him onto the dried, cracked mud, walking carefully. Once the crust gave and Barak sank to mid-calf, swearing mightily as he pulled his leg out.
Wilf was first to reach the middle. ‘See, sir?’ he said quietly.
I looked down at the shrivelled remains of a human arm, dried skin and wasted tendons over bone. I was reminded of the saints’ relics that were forbidden now. Wilf took the spade from his shoulders and set it in a crack in the dried mud. ‘Stand back, sirs,’ he said.
‘Let me do it,’ Barak said roughly. ‘I’m younger than you.’
‘No, sir. It’s easy enough, even with this broken thing. I just have to dig through the crust into the mud. But you’ll have to help me get it out.’ Wilf thrust the spade into the mud. Barak and I watched, the rain tipping down relentlessly on our heads, as he dug. Underneath was a layer of stinking, viscous ooze. Once Wilf stopped, winced, then stood with his head lowered.
‘What’s the matter?’ Barak asked.
‘I think I hit the body.’ He had gone pale.
‘Do you want me to take over?’ Barak asked.
‘Yes, please.’
After about twenty minutes Barak had exposed an area of thick silty mud perhaps seven feet by three. Then he leaned over and reached down. He felt around, then tugged gently, dragging up another arm. He turned his head from the smell of the ooze. ‘Try to find the feet,’ he said. ‘If we try pulling it out by the arms it might come apart.’
Wilf and I knelt carefully on the wet crust and reached into the mud. The rain still beat down on us all and on those exposed, withered arms. ‘I’ve got a leg,’ Wilf said in a shaking voice.
‘I have the other.’ It felt horrible, just cloth and bone.
Barak said, ‘One, two, three,’ and we all pulled. Slowly the body of a man rose from the bottom of the pool, the mud sucking at it. The leg I had hold of seemed particularly hard to get out; as it rose slowly from the mud I saw why. A rope was tied round the thigh, a lump of iron on the other end. There was no doubt now: this body had been hidden here.
We hauled the dark, dripping thing to the bank. Caesar strained at his leash, barking. We sat down, taking deep breaths of fresh air, the rain running into our mouths. Then Wilf rose and, gently turned the body over. Producing a rag from his smock, he wiped the mud-encrusted head. It was little more than a skull with skin stretched over the bones, but it still had hair.
He wiped the neck and the collar of what I saw were the rags of a doublet. He bent down and rose with a large button in his hand. He showed it to me, his hand shaking.
‘See, sir, the button hasn’t rotted. See the design, a big square cross. I remember it, these were the buttons Master Fettiplace wore on the doublet he often wore to work. And the hair is fair, as his was. It is him.’ Wilf looked stricken, then he began to weep. ‘Forgive me, this is hard for me.’ Barak put a hand on his shoulder.
‘How did it happen?’ I asked Barak quietly. ‘Ellen said one man burned. That must have been Wilf’s friend Peter Gratwyck. Her father was killed and put in here.’ I looked at the body, but it was too mummified to show any sign of a wound now.
Barak said, ‘If he was killed, why not leave the body in the foundry to burn?’ He leaned close. ‘And who was there? Ellen was, we know, but was anyone else?’
I turned to Wilf. ‘Did anyone from round here, apart from Master Fettiplace and your friend Gratwyck, go missing at the time of the fire? Someone who might have done this and fled?’
Wilf’s face was streaked with mud and tears and rain. ‘No sir,’ he said, ‘nobody.’
Chapter Thirty-four
WILF INSISTED we put Fettiplace’s body under cover, and we placed the desiccated corpse against an inside wall of the ruined foundry, protecting it with loose planks. It was sickening to carry; I feared it might come apart. Afterwards I looked over the cracked mud where the body had lain; already the space, and our footsteps, were filling with rainwater. Then we walked back, sodden and dripping.
‘Now I suppose we have to go to Buttress,’ Barak said quietly, ‘as magistrate.’
‘Yes. He will have to set enquiries in motion, and notify the Sussex coroner.’ I shook my head. ‘Murder follows me on this journey.’
‘The common factor in each is Priddis’s involvement.’ Barak lowered his voice to a whisper, though Wilf was ahead with Caesar. ‘You said Ellen’s signature on the deed conveying the house was forged. Do you think Buttress knows?’
‘He could do. I didn’t like what I saw of him.’
The vicarage came into view. I took Wilf’s arm. ‘You should send for your sons,’ I said gently. ‘You have had a shock.’
He came to himself, looked at me. ‘You’ll say nothing about my poaching?’
‘No. I promised. We shall tell the story as we agreed, that I asked you to show me the old foundry buildings today.’
Seckford had seen us approaching and came into his garden. ‘What did you find?’ he asked apprehensively.
‘The body of Master Fettiplace.’ I took the curate’s soft plump arm, and looked him in the face. ‘Sir, Wilf will need you sober now. We all will.’
He took a deep breath and turned to Wilf. ‘His body will have a Christian burial. I shall see to it.’
We went into the parlour. Seckford spoke with sudden firmness. ‘That jug, Master Shardlake, will you take it out to the kitchen?’
I took his beer to a filthy little room behind the parlour, where flies buzzed over dirty plates. Seckford seemed barely able to care for himself, but once he had cared for Ellen. I returned t
o the parlour, where Wilf was hunched on the settle. Seckford was in his chair.
‘Master Seckford,’ I said, ‘I think we must go to Master Buttress, now. All four of us.’
‘Will the truth be found?’ he asked. ‘This time?’
‘I hope so. Now listen please, both of you. I beg you to stay quiet about my personal interest. Let Buttress continue to think I have merely been trying to trace family links for a client.’
Seckford looked at me with sudden sharpness. ‘But if you found something out in London, surely that must come out now.’
‘There are reasons I should say nothing yet. Please trust me.’ More than ever now I did not want Buttress, or his allies, to discover where Ellen was – assuming they did not know already. I hoped desperately that I had done enough to protect her, and suddenly wished Wilf had never stumbled on that body. The old man was looking at me doubtfully again.
Seckford came to my rescue. ‘We must trust Master Shardlake, Wilf. Do not say more than you have to in dealing with people like Buttress, eh, Master Shardlake?’
‘Exactly.’ I felt a rush of gratitude for Seckford’s trust. He stood, went over to Wilf and patted his arm. ‘We can call at the church on the way, I will write a note for the verger to take to your sons.’
AN HOUR LATER I sat again in Master Buttress’s well-appointed parlour. There was a fresh vase of flowers on the table, their scent cloying. Seckford sat beside me, his plump cheeks sweating a little, while Barak and Wilf stood behind us. Buttress had offered chairs only to Seckford and me, though Wilf looked shocked and ill.
Buttress himself walked up and down the room, hands clasped behind his broad back, as I told him of the discovery in the pond. When I had finished he ran a big hand through his grey curly hair, thinking. Then he came and stood looking down at me.
‘What I do not understand, Master Shardlake,’ he said with blustering aggression, ‘is why you went ferreting about at the foundry. When you came before your concern seemed to be in querying my right to this house.’