‘I take it the verdict at the inquest was accidental death.’
‘It was.’ Wilf was suddenly alert. He said, ‘There were questions I wanted to ask about that fire. I didn’t see why Master Fettiplace couldn’t have got out. But I wasn’t called. Master Quintin Priddis hurried the inquest through.’
I sat up. ‘Priddis?’
Wilf’s eyes narrowed. ‘You know him?’
‘Only by name. He is responsible for the Court of Wards in Hampshire.’
‘He was one of the Sussex coroners then.’
‘Did Mistress Fettiplace say how it happened that neither her father nor your friend escaped?’
‘Peter’s clothes were on fire and somehow Master Fettiplace’s clothes caught too. So she said, and hers was the only evidence. The foundry was gone, nothing left of poor Peter or Master Fettiplace save a few bones. You are sure you don’t know Quintin Priddis?’ His look was anxious now.
‘I have never met him.’
‘I must go,’ the old man said suddenly. ‘My wife is expecting me back. How long are you staying in Rolfswood?’
‘I leave tomorrow morning.’
He looked relieved. ‘Then I wish you a safe journey. Thank you for the beers. Come, Caesar.’
He got up, the dog following. Then he paused, turned back and said, ‘Talk to Reverend Seckford. Many round here think something was covered up back then. But that’s all I’ll say.’
He hurried out.
Chapter Twenty-two
I WALKED SLOWLY up the hill to the church. I was dusty, my legs and back stiff and aching, and I wanted nothing more than to rest. But I had little time here. I considered what old Wilf had said. He had seemed suspicious of the official version of what had happened at the foundry – but clearly knew nothing of a rape. I remembered Ellen’s words, that terrible day she lost control. They were so strong! I could not move!
The church was small, a squat Norman building. Within little had changed since popish days; statues of saints were still in their places, candles burned before the main altar. Reverend Broughton would not approve, I thought. An elderly woman was replacing candles that had burned down. I went up to her.
‘I am looking for Reverend Seckford.’
‘He’ll be in the vicarage, sir, next door.’
I went to the adjacent house. It was a poor place, wattle and daub, old paint flaking away. But Seckford was a perpetual curate, subordinate to a priest who perhaps held several parishes. I felt guilty at the thought that I was about to lie to Seckford, as I had to Wilf. But I did not want anyone here to know where Ellen was.
I knocked on the door. There were shambling footsteps, and it was opened by a small man in his fifties, wearing a cassock that could have done with a wash. He was very fat, as broad as he was long, his round cheeks covered in grey stubble. He looked at me with watery eyes.
‘Reverend Seckford?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ he answered mildly.
‘I wondered if I could speak with you. About a kindness you did many years ago to a woman called Ellen Fettiplace. Wilf Harrydance suggested I call on you.’
He studied me carefully, then nodded. ‘Come in, sir.’
I followed him into a shabby parlour. He invited me to sit on a wooden settle covered by a dusty cloth. He took a chair opposite, which creaked under his weight, and looked at me curiously. ‘I think you have been travelling, sir.’
‘Yes. I apologize for my dusty state.’ I took a deep breath, then repeated the story I had told Wilf about a friend looking for Fettiplace relatives. Seckford listened carefully, though his eye occasionally strayed to the open window behind me, and to a large jug on the buffet, where some tarnished silver plate was displayed. When I had finished he stared at me, his face full of sadness.
‘Forgive me,’ he said quietly, ‘but I hope your client’s interest is no mere matter of idle curiosity. Ellen’s is a sad, terrible story.’
‘My – my friend, I am sure he would help her if he could.’
‘If she is still alive.’ Seckford paused, gathering his thoughts. ‘William Fettiplace, Ellen’s father, was a good man. He got little profit from that foundry but he was charitable, gave money to the poor and to the church. His wife, Elizabeth, died young. He doted on Ellen. Perhaps he indulged her too much, for she grew into a strong-willed girl. But kind, charitable. She loved the church: she used to bring flowers for the altar, sometimes for me too, to brighten this poor place.’ His eyes went blank for a moment, then he continued. ‘The fire was nineteen years ago.’
‘Wilf said the August of 1526.’