Buttress, to anyone in authority. It could still bring me trouble. My vicar wants me out, you see, he is a radical reformer while I—I find the new ways difficult.'
'I promise.' I shook his trembling hand and left him.
MY CONSCIENCE troubled me as I walked back down the lane towards the town. I wished I could have told him Ellen was alive, that she had had at least some semblance of a life before I brought fresh trouble to it. I believed there had been a rape on that long-ago night, as well as the fire. I remembered Ellen's words—
Thinking hard, I was paying little attention to my surroundings. The lane ran between hawthorn hedges, and suddenly two men stepped from a gap and stood in front of me. They were in their thirties, labourers by the look of them. They looked vaguely familiar. One gave a little bow. 'Evening, master,' he said.
'Good evening, fellows.'
'I hear you've been cozening old tales out of our father.' Now I recognized the resemblance to Wilf in their thin sharp faces.
'I was asking about the fire at the Fettiplace foundry, yes.' I looked round. We were quite alone in the shady lane. I heartily wished Barak were with me.
'Been talking to old John Seckford too, have you?'
'Yes. Your father suggested it.'
'Father is an old gabblemouth. He's been full of theories about that fire for years, saying the verdict didn't make sense, something was kept quiet. We tell him it's all long past and he shouldn't be making trouble. The Wests are powerful people, they own the land we farm. Father doesn't know anything, he wasn't there. We thought we'd tell you, sir.' His tone was quiet, even respectful, but threatening nonetheless.
'Father said you were leaving Rolfswood tomorrow,' his brother added. 'Our advice is not to come back, and certainly not to talk to our father again.' He leaned forward. 'Or you might be found with your head broken. Not that we ever told you that, or even spoke to you at all.' He nodded at me significantly, then the two turned and disappeared again through the gap in the hedge. I took a long, deep breath, then resumed my way.
I SPENT a troubled night at the inn. What had happened here nineteen years ago? Theories chased each other round my tired mind as I lay in bed. Could Peter Gratwyck have been one of the rapists? Had he and Philip West attacked Ellen and her father, then set fire to the foundry to dispose of the body? Had Gratwyck then run away? I shook my head. There was no evidence to support that theory, nor any other. But I wondered all the more whether murder had been done that night.
Priddis's involvement had been a shock. In two days I was to meet him in Portsmouth. And Philip West was probably there too. That was no surprise, for all the prominent officials of the region, and the army and the King's ships, were gathering in Portsmouth now. The King himself would be there in a week.
Tomorrow I would return to Hoyland Priory and its strange family. I realized I had scarcely thought about them since I arrived here. I tossed and turned, remembering how Seckford had described Ellen: like a poor animal caught in a trap.
NEXT MORNING I rose early. There was one more thing I could do before I left.
I left the inn and walked up the main street. I soon found the house Goodwife Bell had mentioned. It was the largest, new-painted in blue, with diamond-paned windows and a doorway framed by posts beautifully carved with animal figures. I knocked at the door. A servant answered, and I asked if I could speak to Master Buttress regarding the Fettiplace family. That should bring him, I thought.
I was asked to wait in the parlour. It was a well-appointed room, dominated by a wall painting of Roman officials in togas, arguing outside the Senate. A large vase of summer flowers stood on a table. I looked at them, remembering what Seckford had said about Ellen bringing flowers to him. This was the house where she had been brought up, lived all her life until the tragedy. I looked around it, my senses heightened, but felt nothing, no connection.
The door opened and a tall, burly man with curly iron-grey hair entered, wearing a wool doublet with silver buttons over a shirt embroidered with fine lacework. He bowed.
'Master Buttress?' I asked.
'I am. I am told you have an enquiry about the Fettiplace family, who once lived here.' His manner was civil, but there was something both watchful and aggressive about him.
'I am sorry to trouble you so early, but I wonder if you could help me.' I told him my story about making enquiries for a friend.
'Who told you I owned the house?'
'I heard it at the inn.'
Buttress grunted. 'This town is full of gossip. I only knew the family slightly.'
'I understand. But I have been thinking. Mistress Fettiplace would have had to put her London address on the deed of conveyance when she sold the house. That might help me trace her. Unless,' I added, 'her sanity was an issue, in which case the conveyance would have gone through the Office of Wards, as it was then.'
Buttress looked at me narrowly. 'As I recall, she sold it herself. It was all done properly, she was past sixteen, of an age to sell.'
'I have no doubt it was, sir. But if you could be so kind as to find the conveyance, it would be a great help if I could find an address.' I spoke deferentially, reckoning that was the best approach with this man. He frowned again, then drew himself up to his full height. 'Wait,' he said, 'I will see if I can find it.'
Buttress left, returning a few minutes later with a document with a red seal at the bottom. He brushed the dust off with a sweeping motion and laid it on the table. 'There, sir,' he said stiffly. 'You will see everything is in order.' I studied the conveyance. It sold the house, and the freehold of some woodland, to Humphrey Buttress on the fifteenth of December 1526. Two months after Ellen had been taken away. I did not know the price of land round here then, but it was less than I would have expected. The address was care of a solicitor, Henry Fowberry of Warwick Lane, off Newgate. The signature above it, Ellen Fettiplace in a round childish hand, was nothing at all like her signature I had seen at the Bedlam. It was a forgery.
I looked up at Buttress. He smiled urbanely. 'Perhaps this solicitor is still in practice,' he said. 'You may be able to find him.'
I doubted that. 'Thank you,' I said.
'If not, your friend may be best advised to drop his search.'
'Perhaps.'
'Have you heard?' Buttress said. 'The King has just ordered the second instalment of the Benevolence to be paid now instead of at Michaelmas. Every man of means has to pay fourpence in the pound on the value of his assets.'
'I had not heard.'
'To pay the men and supplies for this great levy en masse. You will have seen much activity on the roads if you have come from London.'
'Yes, indeed.'
'If you are going to be away any length of time you should arrange to pay your assessment in London, or they will be after you.'
'My business near Portsmouth should only keep me a few days.'
'And then you will be returning home?' His hard eyes were fixed on mine.
'That is my plan.'
Buttress seemed to relax. 'I am a magistrate,' he said proudly. 'I have to help collect the payments locally. Well, we have to stop the French from landing, Pope's shavelings that they are. The price of grain is high, so I should not complain.'
'You are lucky if you have more coming in than going out this year.'
He smiled tightly. 'Wars need supplies. Well, I would offer you some breakfast. Better than you will get at that inn—'
'Thank you,' I answered. I wanted to learn more about this man.
