‘You may find there are one or two problems with evidence,’ I answered sharply.
Sir Harold looked offended. ‘Master Dyrick says this Ettis is a rebellious fellow with a grudge against the family. His only alibi is his servant. Well, I’ll see for myself later.’
‘Has a jury been selected?’
‘It has. I authorized Master Hobbey’s steward to select some villagers.’
‘But loyalties in this village are divided,’ I replied forcefully. ‘Fulstowe will choose only villagers loyal to Master Hobbey.’
‘It is established procedure to use the steward to select jurors. And might I ask, sir, what business it is of yours? I am told you are here to conduct an enquiry into the ward Hugh Curteys’ lands. But I am also told you are one of the serjeants at the Court of Requests, so perhaps you have some bias against landowners.’
Sir Quintin cackled from his chair. ‘Sir Harold is a major landowner up near Winchester.’ I cursed silently. There could be few worse men to conduct this inquest.
Sir Quintin looked at me. ‘There is a surfeit of inquests these days. Master Shardlake says there is to be another one, at the town he has just visited in Sussex. Though that one, I fancy, will be slower, with an uncertain outcome. A body found after near twenty years.’
Sir Harold nodded in agreement. ‘That will not be a priority for the Sussex coroner.’ Priddis exchanged a glance with Edward, who had been watching silently.
‘If you will excuse me,’ I said, ‘I should pay my respects to Master Hobbey.’
HOBBEY WAS IN his study again, with Dyrick, but now it was Dyrick who sat at the big desk, while Hobbey sat in a chair with the picture of the former abbess on his knee, staring at it. He barely looked up as I entered. His face was grey and sunken.
‘Well, Master Shardlake,’ Dyrick said, ‘so you are back. The coroner was quite agitated to find you absent.’
‘I have spoken to him. I hear Master Fulstowe has selected a jury from the villagers. Ettis’s enemies, I imagine.’
‘That is up to the steward. Now, tell me, Brother, have you decided to accept our proposals on costs?’
‘I am still considering it,’ I answered shortly. ‘If the inquest finds that Ettis committed the murder, he will be committed for trial at Winchester. They will have to find a jury of townsmen there. I will be called to give evidence as first finder, and I promise you I will ensure that any trial is fair.’
Dyrick turned to Hobbey. ‘You hear him, sir? Now he thinks he can interfere with the trial of your wife’s murderer. Was there ever such a fellow?’
Hobbey looked up. He seemed barely interested, sunk in melancholy. ‘What will happen will happen, Vincent.’ He turned the picture round on his lap, showing us the old abbess, the dark veil and white wimple, the enigmatic face in the centre. ‘Look how she smiles,’ he said, ‘as though she knew something. Perhaps those who say we who have turned monastic buildings into houses are cursed are right. And if the French invade, who knows, they may even burn this house to the ground.’
‘Nicholas – ’ Dyrick said impatiently.
‘Perhaps that is why she is smiling.’ He turned to me with a strange look. ‘What do you think, Master Shardlake?’
‘I think that is superstition, sir.’
Hobbey did not answer. I realized he had retreated completely into himself. Dyrick and Fulstowe were in charge here now. And if it took hanging Ettis to end opposition to the enclosure of the village, they would do it, whether he was guilty or not.
SUPPER THAT EVENING was one of the most melancholy meals I have ever attended. Hobbey sat slumped at the end of the table, picking listlessly at his food. Fulstowe stood watchfully behind him, and several times exchanged glances with Dyrick. Hugh sat staring at his plate, oblivious of everyone, including David, who sat next to him. David was unkempt, his doublet stained with food, his pale face furred with black stubble and his protuberant eyes red from crying. Occasionally, he would stare wildly into space, like someone trying to awaken from a horrible dream. Hugh, though, was as neatly dressed as ever, and had even had a shave.
I tried to engage Hugh in conversation, but he made only monosyllabic replies. He was, I guessed, still angry after our conversation about his words over Abigail’s corpse. I looked round the table: those sitting there were all men. I wondered if a woman would ever sit here again, in this place which a decade before had housed only women. I stared up at the great west window and remembered my first evening – the hundreds of moths that had come in. There were few this evening; I wondered what had become of them all.
I glanced again at the bare walls. Dyrick said, ‘Master Hobbey had the tapestries taken down yesterday. He cannot bear to look at them now.’
‘That is understandable.’ Hobbey, next to Dyrick, had taken no notice.
Edward Priddis was next to me. He spoke quietly. ‘My father says there has been a discovery at Rolfswood. That William Fettiplace did not die in that fire, but ended in the mill pond.’ His tone, as always, was quiet and even.
‘That is true. I was there when the body was found.’ I told him how the body had been exposed when the mill pond dam burst. I saw that on Edward’s other side his father was listening intently, ignoring Sir Harold’s tale of how some villagers along the coast had accidentally lit one of the beacons while practising what to do if the French landed.
‘I suppose the Sussex coroner will have to be brought in to conduct a fresh inquest?’ Edward asked.
‘Yes. Do you know him?’
‘No. But Father does.’ Edward leaned across and said loudly, ‘Master Shardlake is asking about the Sussex coroner.’
Priddis inclined his head. ‘Samuel Pakenham will let such an old matter lie. As I would. He’ll get round to it in time.’
‘They will want to call you, sir,’ I told him, ‘as you conducted the first inquest.’
‘I dare say. But they won’t find anything new, not after twenty years. Maybe Fettiplace killed his workman and then himself. There’s insanity in the family, you know: his daughter went mad.’ He fixed me with his keen eyes. ‘I remember now that I helped arrange for her to be sent to relatives in London. I’ve forgotten who they were. You forget things, Master Shardlake, after twenty years, when you are old and crippled.’ He gave his wicked-looking half-smile.
More determined than ever to be at the Sussex inquest, I turned back to Edward, forcing a disarming smile. I said, ‘They will also want to call the young man who was connected to Mistress Fettiplace at the time. Philip West, who comes from the local family I mentioned to you.’
‘I remember the name. Father, did he not go to the King’s court?’
‘Yes.’ Sir Quintin nodded. ‘His mother was a proud woman, full of herself.’ He cackled again. ‘Everyone knew from her that Philip West went hunting with the King.’
‘You did not go to court yourself when you were young?’ I asked Edward.
‘No, sir. My time in London was spent at Gray’s Inn. Working like a dog to become qualified. My father kept my nose to the grindstone.’
The old man answered sharply, ‘Law students should work like dogs, that is what they are there for, to learn how to snap and bite.’ He leaned across, supporting his weight on his good arm, and said to Dyrick, ‘Something you seem to have learned well, sir.’ He laughed again, like old hinges creaking.
‘I will take that as a compliment,’ Dyrick answered stiffly.
‘Of course.’
There was silence round the table. Edward and his father flicked looks at me from two pairs of hard blue eyes. Then Sir Quintin said, ‘You seem very interested in matters at Rolfswood, sir, going there twice and digging up all this information.’
‘As I explained to your son, a client was trying to find the Fettiplace family.’
‘And now at some point you will have to trail back to Sussex from London. It does no good to meddle, I always think. Master Dyrick told me meddling landed you in trouble with the King once, at York.’
&nb
sp; He leaned back in his seat, his barb delivered, while Dyrick gave me a nasty smile.
THE INQUEST ON Abigail Hobbey was held the following afternoon in the great hall. Outside it was another bright, sunny day, but the hall was shadowed and gloomy. The big table had been set under the old west window. Sir Harold Trevelyan sat behind it, with Edward Priddis on his right, evidently pressed into service to take notes. On his left – in defiance of all procedure – sat Sir Quintin. He surveyed the room, his good hand grasping his stick. The jury, twelve men from the village, sat on hard chairs against one wall. I recognized several who had worked for the hunt. Men who would likely be in Fulstowe’s pocket.
Barak and I, Fulstowe and Sir Luke Corembeck sat together. Behind us were some of the servants, including old Ursula, and perhaps twenty people from the village. One was Ettis’s attractive wife, her body tense and her face rigid with fear and anger. From the way her neighbours gave her words and gestures of comfort, I guessed they represented Ettis’s faction in the village. The jury, I saw, gave them some uneasy glances.
In the front row the Hobbey family sat with Dyrick. David was slumped forward, head in hands, staring at the floor. I saw he was shaking slightly. Next to him Hugh sat bolt upright. When he came in I had looked at him hard, to remind him I remembered what he had said over Abigail’s body. On Hugh’s other side Nicholas Hobbey still looked dreadful; he watched people coming in with a sort of bewildered wonderment.
Last to arrive was Ettis. I heard a clanking of chains outside, and exchanged a look with Barak; we both knew that sound from the London jails. Two men led Ettis in; the proud, confident yeoman had turned into an unshaven, hollow-eyed figure. He was set roughly on a chair against the wall. Behind me there was muttering among the villagers, and one or two of the jurors looked shamefaced.
‘Silence!’ Sir Harold shouted, banging the table with a little gavel. ‘I won’t have jangle and talk in my court! Any more noise and I will clear the benches.’
Sir Harold called me first, to give evidence about finding the body. Barak was called next and confirmed what I had said. The coroner then proceeded immediately to call Fulstowe. The steward spoke with cold clear fluency of Ettis’s leadership of the faction in the village that wanted to oppose the enclosures, the antipathy between him and the Hobbeys, particularly Abigail, and his known skill as an archer.
‘Yes,’ Sir Harold said. ‘And Master Ettis’s only alibi is the servant he says was with him marking his sheep. Call him.’
An old countryman was called. He confirmed he had been with his master that day. Sir Harold, in a bullying tone, got him to confirm he had worked for Ettis for twenty years.
‘So you would have every incentive to say anything to protect your master,’ he said coldly.
Sir Quintin intervened. ‘If he is hanged his property is forfeit to the State, and you will be out on the street.’
‘I – I only speak the truth, Master.’
‘So we would hope, fellow. There are penalties for those who perjure themselves.’
‘Isn’t there anything we can do?’ Barak whispered. ‘That crippled old goat hasn’t any right to question anyone.’ I shook my head.
Sir Harold dismissed the old servant. As he did so, Sir Quintin looked straight at me, raising his eyebrows. He was showing me his power. Sir Harold banged his gavel to quell a fresh outbreak of muttering. I waited till it had died down, then rose to my feet.
‘Sir,’ I said, ‘in fairness, it must be asked whether there were others who might have a motive to kill Abigail Hobbey.’
Sir Harold spread his hands. ‘Who else could have wanted to kill the poor woman?’
I paused. I realized that what I was about to say would be terrible for the Hobbey family, but Ettis had to have justice. I said, ‘I have been here over a week, sir. I fear almost everyone I met disliked Mistress Hobbey. Master Hobbey himself admitted it to be so. There was – an incident, the killing of her dog.’
A fresh murmur spread along the benches, and David turned and looked at me in utter horror. Dyrick and Nicholas Hobbey turned and stared, wide-eyed. Hugh, though, sat looking straight ahead. Hobbey stood up, suddenly connected to the real world again. ‘Coroner, that was an accident.’
Dyrick stood too. He said, ‘And there was certainly an incident with Ettis. He had the insolence to call and argue with Master Hobbey and me in Master Hobbey’s study; Mistress Hobbey came in and gave him hard words. I was there, I heard all.’
Sir Harold said to me, ‘Are you implying a member of her family could have killed her?’
‘I’m saying it is possible.’ I hesitated. ‘I could say more.’
Then Hugh did turn and look at me, fury in his face. I stared back. Hesitantly, he stood up. ‘May I say something?’ he said.
The coroner looked at Sir Quintin. ‘The ward,’ Sir Quintin said.
‘Well, boy?’
Hugh said, ‘Master Shardlake is right, everyone disliked poor Mistress Hobbey. If you were to enquire of all who suffered from her tongue you would be calling many witnesses.’
‘Did you dislike her?’ Sir Harold asked.
Hugh hesitated, then said, ‘I did. Perhaps I was wrong – ’ his voice almost broke – ‘she had been strange, unwell, for many years. When I saw her dead I said, “You deserved this.” But at the same time I placed a flower in her lap, for she made a most piteous sight.’
Sir Harold and Sir Quintin stared at each other, taken aback. ‘Deserved it?’ Sir Harold asked. ‘Why did you say such a thing?’
‘It was how I felt, sir.’
Sir Quintin said sharply, ‘When I spoke with you in Portsmouth last week, you said you had no complaints to make about your life here.’
‘I did, sir, but I did not say I was happy.’
There was the loudest murmur yet from the benches. Then there was an unexpected sound. Nicholas Hobbey had burst into tears. Burying his face in his handkerchief, he rose and walked out of the hall. Dyrick turned to me, his face furious. ‘See what you have done!’
I noticed Fulstowe watching his master. For the first time I saw anxiety in the steward’s calculating face. Did he, like Hobbey, begin to see his world crumbling around him? Or did he have some other reason for anxiety? Ettis, sitting in his chains, looked at Hugh with something like hope.
There was another interruption. David stood, sending his chair crashing over. He pointed at Hugh. ‘You lie,’ he shouted. ‘You are a viper this family has taken to its bosom! You have always envied us because you are not like us, you can never be like us! My father, he loved my mother, and so did I. I did love her!’ He stared round the room, his face anguished.
Sir Harold was looking anxious. He whispered to Sir Quintin. I caught the word ‘adjournment’. Sir Quintin shook his head vigorously, then banged his stick on the floor. ‘Be quiet! All of you!’ He turned to me, his eyes savage. ‘Your behaviour is disgraceful, sir. You are turning this inquest into a circus. You have brought no evidence forward. This whole family, it is clear, is racked by grief. Sir Harold, let us proceed.’
The coroner stared round the room, then asked me, ‘Serjeant Shardlake, have you any evidence associating anyone with the commission of this crime?’
‘No, sir. I say only that given that many had – difficulties – with Mistress Hobbey, and the lack of any proper evidence against Master Ettis, the verdict should be murder by person or persons unknown.’
‘That is for the jury to decide. Sit down, or I will hold you in contempt.’
There was nothing more I could do. Sir Harold called no other witnesses. The jury was sent out. They soon returned with their verdict. Murder – it could be nothing other than that, of course – by Leonard Ettis, yeoman of Hoyland, who would now be held in custody in Winchester jail till the next assizes in September.
As he was led out Ettis looked at me again in appeal. I nodded once, vigorously. In front of me Hugh sat straight as a stock again, his back rigid. Beside him David still wept quietly. Fulstowe came acr
oss, took David’s arm, and led him from the hall. I had failed to widen the inquest’s investigation, at terrible cost to the family. Now nothing further would happen for months. I put my head in my hands. The room was clearing. I heard the tap of Sir Quintin’s stick as he came down the hall. The tapping stopped beside me. I looked up. Sir Quintin seemed exhausted, but triumphant too. Edward was supporting him. Sir Quintin leaned slowly down, and spoke quietly. ‘There, Master Shardlake. See what happens when people are awkward at inquests.’
Chapter Thirty-six
WE FILED OUT OF the hall into the sunshine. The jurors walked down the drive in a group, while most of the villagers gathered round Ettis’s wife. She had broken down and stood sobbing. I walked across to her.
‘Mistress Ettis,’ I said quietly.
She looked up and wiped her face. ‘You spoke up for my husband,’ she said quietly. ‘I thank you.’
‘I can do little now, but I promise, when he comes to trial at Winchester, I will ensure all is fairly done. There is no actual evidence against him,’ I added encouragingly.
‘What should we do about going to Requests about our woodlands, sir? My husband would want us to continue.’
Behind me I saw Dyrick and Fulstowe standing on the steps, watching. I looked round the villagers; some seemed cowed, but many had a defiant aspect. I said, loudly, ‘I think it vital you lodge your case. You must not let what happened today intimidate you from taking action. I think that was partly the intention; I do not consider a jury can convict Master Ettis. Appoint someone else from the village to lead you until he is freed.’ I took a deep breath, then added, ‘Send the papers to me, I will fight the case for you.’
‘Listen to my master,’ Barak added approvingly. ‘Fight back.’
Mistress Ettis nodded. Then everyone turned at the sound of approaching hoofbeats. A messenger in royal livery was riding fast up the drive. He came to a halt at the steps, dismounted, and approached Fulstowe. They spoke briefly, then the messenger went inside. The steward hesitated, then walked down the steps to us. Dyrick stayed where he was. I had, reluctantly, to admire Fulstowe’s courage; there were near twenty villagers there, in hostile and angry mood, but he marched straight up to me. ‘Master Shardlake, that messenger has a packet of letters for you. He is waiting in the kitchen.’ He turned to the villagers. ‘Go, all of you, unless you wish to be arrested for trespass.’