Heartstone (11 page)

‘Yes,' I said. ‘That fits.'

Mylling turned to his assistant. ‘The papers, Alabaster,' he said. The young man had been listening after all, for he immediately began rooting in the dog-eared piles, quickly fetching over a thick bundle tied in red ribbon. Mylling untied it and passed me the top paper. A Bill of Information, filled out in a neat hand, the signature in the bottom corner the same as that on the suicide note. I read:

I looked at Mylling. ‘Did you help draft the application?' I asked. Clerks were not supposed to do that, but Michael Calfhill would not have known the legal formulae and Mylling would probably have helped for cash.

‘Ay. I told him the bill should strictly be signed by a barrister, but he insisted on doing it himself, at once. I said he should tone his language down, but he wouldn't. I did try to help him. I felt sorry for him.' I saw, rather to my surprise, that Mylling spoke truly. ‘I told him he'd need witnesses and he said he'd talk to some vicar.'

‘May I?' I reached for the file. The paper beneath the application, as I expected, was the defendant's reply to the bill. Signed by Vincent Dyrick, it was a standard defence, bluntly denying that any of the allegations were true. The other papers were much older.

‘Is there anywhere private I could look at these?'

‘I'm afraid not, sir. Court papers may only be taken out of the office for hearings. You may lean at the desk here.' My hand went to my purse again, for leaning over that counter for any length of time would, I knew, hurt my back, but Mylling shook his head firmly. ‘I'm afraid that is the rule.'

So I leaned over the counter and looked through the papers. Nearly all dealt with the grant of Hugh and Emma's wardship six years before; records of the application by Nicholas Hobbey, Gentleman, and valuations of the land from the local officers, the escheator and feodary. Hobbey had paid £80 for the wardship, and £30 in fees. That was a large amount.

There was also a copy of the earlier conveyance to Hobbey of the priory buildings and his minority share of the woodland he had bought from the Court of Augmentations. He had paid out £500 for those. There was a plan of the lands formerly under the nunnery's ownership; I looked to see whether there were any valuable rented properties, but all the land, both Hugh's and Hobbey's, seemed to be just an expanse of woodland - apart from the village of Hoyland, which Hobbey had bought with the priory buildings. He was lord of the manor, giving him an increase in social status. Hoyland was quite a small village, I saw, thirty households so perhaps two hundred people. There was a schedule of tenancies and I saw that although some households owned their land freehold, most held it on short leases of seven to ten years. I thought, the amount of rent will be minimal, not much profit for anyone there. Hoyland Priory was described as being eight miles north of Portsmouth, ‘on the hither side of Portsdown Hill'. From the plan it lay very near the main London to Portsmouth road, ideal for transporting wood.

I stood up, easing my back. Hobbey had made a big investment, first in his portion of the land and then in the wardship. He had moved down there, so presumably he had sold his merchant's business in London. A successful merchant deciding to set himself up as a country gentleman - it was a common enough picture.

I looked up. Mylling was glancing at me covertly from his desk. His eyes skittered away. ‘This wardship went through very fast,' I said. ‘Barely two months from the original petition to the grant. Hobbey paid high fees. He must have wanted the wardship badly.'

Mylling got up and came over. He said in a low voice, ‘If he wanted it put through quickly he would have been expected to show his appreciation to Attorney Sewster and the feodary.'

‘Master Hobbey has lands in Hampshire next to the wards' property. And a young son.'

Mylling nodded sagely. ‘That'll be it. If he married the girl to his son that would unite their lands. Draw up a pre-contract of marriage while they're still children. You know the gentry. Marry in haste, love at leisure.'

‘The girl died.'

Mylling inclined his head wisely. ‘Wardship has its risks like any other business. There's still the boy's marriage, though. He could make some profit from that.' Mylling turned away as the outer door opened and a fat, elderly clerk brought in a file of papers, depositing it on the counter. ‘Young Master Edward's wardship to his uncle is confirmed,' he said. ‘His mother was overruled.'

Through the door I heard the sound of a woman and a little boy weeping. The clerk stroked the dangling sleeves of his robe. ‘His mother said the uncle is so ugly the boy runs away at the sight of him. Sir William told her off for insolence.'

Mylling called for Alabaster and he came over. ‘Draw the orders, there's a good fellow.'

‘Yes, sir.' Alabaster smiled cynically at the court clerk. ‘No gratitude in Wards, is there, Thinpenny?'

The clerk scratched his head. ‘That there isn't.'

Alabaster smiled again, a nasty smile I thought, then saw me looking and turned back to his desk. Thinpenny left and Mylling returned to his desk. I turned back to the Curteys documents. There was little more on the file: an exhibition setting out the amounts Hobbey undertook to pay for the children's education - another outgoing, I thought - and then a short certificate recording the death of Emma Curteys in August 1539. Finally there were half a dozen orders from the last few years, ordering that Master Hobbey be permitted to cut down a limited amount of woodland belonging to Hugh, ‘the trees being mature and the demand for wood great'. Hugh's profits, like his inheritance, were to be held by the Court of Wards. The amount to be cut down was to be agreed ‘between Master Hobbey and the feodary of Hampshire'. On each occasion sums between £25 and £50 had been remitted to court with a certificate endorsed by the feodary, one Sir Quintin Priddis. At last, I thought, the stink of possible corruption; there was nothing to prove that larger sums had not been split between Hobbey and this Priddis. But nothing to prove they had, either. I slowly closed the file and straightened up, wincing at a spasm from my back.

Mylling came over. ‘All done, sir?'

I nodded. ‘I wonder whether Master Hobbey will come to the hearing.'

‘His barrister going to the initial hearing would suffice. Though I would go if I was the subject of an accusation like that.'

‘Indeed yes.' I gave him a friendly smile. I needed Mylling for one thing more. ‘There is a separate matter I seek information on. Not connected to this case. The record of a
lunatico inquirendo
, a finding of lunacy on a young woman. It would have been nineteen years ago. I wondered if you could help me find it.'

He looked dubious. ‘Do you represent the guardian?'

‘No. I want to find who the guardian is.' I tapped my purse.

Mylling cheered up. ‘It's not strictly my department. But I know where the records are.' He took a deep breath, then turned to the young clerk. ‘Alabaster, we're going to have to go to the Stinkroom. Go to the kitchens, fetch lanterns and meet us there.'

THE PEOPLE waiting on the bench had all gone. Mylling led me through a warren of tiny rooms with a quick, bustling step. In one a clerk sat with two piles of gold coins on his desk, transferring angels and sovereigns from one pile to another and marking up a fat ledger.

We descended a flight of stone stairs. There was a landing and then another flight, leading down into darkness. We were below street level. Alabaster was waiting on the landing, holding two horn lanterns with beeswax candles inside, which gave off a rich yellow light. I wondered how he had got there before us.

‘Thank you, Alabaster,' Mylling said. ‘We won't be long.' He turned to me. ‘This is not a place you'd want to spend too much time in.'

The young clerk bowed, then walked away with quick, loping strides. Mylling took the lantern and handed one to me. ‘If you please, sir.'

I followed him down ancient steps, carefully, for they were so old they were worn in the centre. At the bottom was an ancient Norman door set with studs of iron. ‘This was once where part of the royal treasure was kept,' Mylling told me. ‘These parts date back to Norman times.' He put his lantern on the floor, turned his key in the lock and heaved at the door. It creaked open loudly. It was enormously thick and heavy, and he needed both hands. Next to the door was half a flagstone. He nudged it into the doorway with his foot. ‘Just to be safe, sir. Careful of the steps inside.'

As I descended after him into the pitch-black room, the smell of rot and damp made me gasp and almost retch. Mylling's lantern showed a small, dimly lit chamber with a stone-flagged floor. Water dripped somewhere. The walls were furred with mould. Piles of ancient papers, some with red seals dangling from strips of coloured linen, were stacked on damp-looking shelves and on the old wooden chests that stood piled on top of each other.

‘The old records room,' Mylling said. ‘The work at Wards grows so fast, the storage space is all taken up so we have put papers about wards who have died, or grown up and sued out their livery, down here. And all the lunatic cases.' He turned and looked at me, his face more lined and seamed than ever in the lamplight. ‘There's no money in lunatics, you see.'

I coughed at the foul air. ‘I see why you call it the Stinkroom.'

‘No one can stay here for long - they start coughing and can't breathe. I don't like coming down here; I start to wheeze even in my own house in a damp winter. In a few years all these papers will be stuck together with mould. I tell them, but they don't listen. Let's get on, if we may. What date would this lunacy enquiry be, sir?'

‘Fifteen twenty-six, I believe. The name is Ellen Fettiplace. From Sussex.'

He looked at me keenly. ‘Is this another matter the Queen has an interest in?'

‘No.'

‘Fifteen twenty-six. The King was still married to Catherine the Spaniard then. That caused some stir, his divorcing her to marry Anne Boleyn.' He chuckled wheezily. ‘A few more divorces and executions since then, eh?' He weaved his way through the chests to a far corner. ‘This is where the lunatics are kept,' he said, stopping at a row of shelves piled with more damp-looking paper. He raised his lantern, and pulled out a stack. ‘Fifteen twenty-six.' He laid them on the stone floor, bent down and riffled through them. After a while he looked up. ‘Nothing here for Fettiplace, sir.'

‘Are you sure? No similar names?'

‘No, sir. Are you sure you have the year right?'

‘Try the years before and after.'

Mylling rose slowly, wet marks from the floor on his hose, and returned to the stacks. As he ferreted through more papers, my nose and throat began to tingle. It was as though the furry, damp coating on the walls was starting to grow inside me. At least the clerk was thorough. He pulled out two more stacks and laid them on the floor, flicking through them with experienced fingers. I noticed a huge glistening mushroom growing between the stone flags next to him. At length he got up and shook his head. ‘There's nothing there, sir. No one named Fettiplace. I've been a year back and a year forward. If it was here I'd find it.'

This was unexpected. How could Ellen be held in the Bedlam if there was no order of lunacy? Mylling rose, his knees creaking. Then we both jumped at the sound of a clap of thunder through the half-open door. Underground as we were, it was still loud.

‘Listen to that,' Mylling said. ‘What a noise. As though God himself were sending his fury crashing down on us.'

‘He'd have cause, given what goes on in this place,' I said with sudden bitterness.

Mylling raised his lantern and looked at me. ‘It's the King's wish, sir, everything that happens here. He is our Sovereign Lord and Head of the Church, too. What he orders must be enough to satisfy our consciences.' I thought, perhaps he believes what he is saying, perhaps that is how he is able to do this.

‘I'm sorry I couldn't find your lunatic,' Mylling said.

‘Well, sometimes knowing what is not on record can be useful.'

Mylling looked at me, eyes bright with curiosity and maybe some deeper emotion. ‘I hope you find your witnesses for the Curteys case, sir,' he said quietly. ‘What happened to Michael Calfhill? I can see nothing good, though Master Sewster wouldn't say.'