‘He is not as hard as people think,’ Edward said stiffly. ‘He does a difficult job.’
‘There is another family I heard of, that you may know. The Wests.’
‘Oh yes, they are important landowners. Mistress West has always ruled the roost around Rolfswood. Did you meet her too?’
‘I only heard of her and her son. He is an officer on the King’s ships now. Philip West. He would have been about your age.’
‘I met him once or twice when I was a boy. But I returned seldom after I went to Cambridge. You seem to have made detailed enquiries, Brother Shardlake.’
‘It was an interesting story.’
Edward brought his horse to a halt and surveyed the landscape. ‘In truth, sir, I think it impossible to tell what trees once grew here. The old trunks are all overgrown. And we are approaching a little too near the treeline for my comfort.’
‘Look at the new young trees growing up,’ I answered quietly. ‘Fully half must be oaks. And see all the high old oaks in the forest ahead.’
Edward made a show of looking carefully, though I was sure he had noticed everything I had. Then he turned to me, and asked quietly, ‘What do you wish to achieve from this case, Master Shardlake?’
‘Justice for Hugh Curteys. It is clear to me this land was mainly forested with oak, though Master Hobbey’s accounts show oaks as barely a quarter of the trees felled.’
‘Yet Hugh Curteys himself said, at the Guildhall, that he is quite content.’
‘He is a young man with no head for business. And when these woods were felled he was a child.’
‘So you would go back to the Court of Wards and ask for what – restitution? It would take great time, Brother, and expense, trouble to a whole family, including Hugh, that has just suffered a great tragedy. A surveyor would have to be paid for, and he would likely find nothing conclusive. Consider, Master Shardlake, is it worth it? Especially when Master Hobbey has offered to be more than reasonable over costs.’
‘You know of his offer?’
‘Brother Dyrick told me, just before we left.’ He raised his heavy eyebrows. ‘He seems greatly fumed with this matter.’
I met his gaze. You and your father took a cut of those profits, I thought. But I had already decided to accept Dyrick’s offer. Without Hugh’s support I could do nothing. But there was no need to commit myself just yet as we had to stay here anyway. ‘I will think more on it,’ I said.
He shrugged. ‘Very well. Even so, I think you know you must settle. And now may we go back? I am anxious Father does not get overtired.’
‘Very well.’
As Edward turned his horse I caught him smiling secretively, sure the case was over.
WHEN WE RETURNED the house was still and hushed, old Priddis sitting alone by the empty fireplace. He looked up. ‘Well, Edward,’ he asked, ‘is all well with the woodlands?’
‘Master Shardlake and I have had a sensible discussion.’
Sir Quintin gave me a long stare, then grunted. ‘Help me, Edward, I would get up.’
Edward helped the old man to his feet. Sir Quintin stood, breathing heavily, his useless arm swinging by his side. The whiteness of his withered hand reminded me of poor Abigail’s dead face, and I had to suppress a shudder.
‘I have had enough of this place,’ Sir Quintin said pettishly, ‘everyone in such a state. I want to get away.’
‘Very well,’ Edward answered soothingly. ‘I will prepare the horses. By the way, Father,’ he added lightly, ‘Master Shardlake has visited Rolfswood. He was talking of that tragedy at the foundry – you remember, when you were coroner?’
Sir Quintin’s eyes narrowed and he looked at me hard for a moment. Then he waved his good hand and said, ‘I barely remember it, it was an age ago. I have dealt with so many cases in my life. Come, Edward, help me outside.’ He leaned forward, staring into my face. ‘Goodbye, Master Shardlake. I hope you will see the sense in letting this matter drop. These people have enough trouble, it seems to me.’
I went up to my room, stood looking out of the window at the butts. I had learned nothing from the Priddises. I felt helpless frustration and anger. There was a knock on the door, and Barak came in. He seemed anxious.
‘How are the family?’ I asked. ‘None of them was in the great hall.’
‘Fulstowe told me to get out of the house shortly after you left. But as I was leaving a rider arrived with a letter for you. I hoped it might be more news from London, but I don’t recognize the hand.’
He reached into his doublet and pulled out a piece of cheap paper, crudely sealed with wax. My name and ‘Hoyland Priory’ were scrawled on the front. I opened it.
‘Is it from home?’ Barak asked eagerly.
I shook my head. ‘No.’
The note was in a scrawled hand, it was dated 12 July, the day before, and signed John Seckford, Curate of Rolfswood.