‘You don’t want to believe she could possibly have done it, do you?’
I sat on the edge of the bed, frowning. ‘I think that, whatever happened, Philip West was involved somehow. That day marks him still.’
‘Just because you think so doesn’t make it true.’
I said impatiently, ‘I want to get West, and Priddis too, questioned at an inquest. That will bring out the truth.’
He still looked dubious, and concerned. ‘What is the Sussex coroner like?’
‘I know nothing about him. I will make enquiries when we return to London.’
‘If we ever do.’
‘We’ll go back as soon as the Hampshire coroner lets us go. I made a promise and I’ll keep to it.’
Barak walked to the shutters at the sound of loud voices from the street, shouting and calling. I had been conscious of growing noise but thought it was traders preparing their stalls for market day. He opened the shutters, then whistled. ‘Come and see this.’
I joined him at the window. Outside a large group of people, some carrying torches, had gathered round a pile of brushwood in the middle of the street. As we watched the little crowd parted, shouting and cheering, to allow four men through. They carried the straw effigy of a man, dressed in a ragged smock with the fleur-de-lys of France painted prominently on the front.
The crowd began to shout: ‘Burn the Frenchy! Kill the dog!’
The mannikin was laid on the brushwood, which was set on fire. The figure was outlined in flames for a moment, then quickly consumed. ‘That’s what invaders get!’ someone shouted, to loud cheers.
‘We’ll neuter the French King’s gentlemen cocks for him!’
I turned away with a grunt. ‘They might pause to ask who started all this. The King, taking on a far larger power.’
‘That’s the problem,’ Barak said, ‘you set something in motion and before you know where you are it’s all out of control.’ He looked at me meaningfully. I did not reply, but lay down again on the bed, watching the reflected flames dancing redly on the ceiling.
NEXT MORNING we rose early for the long ride back to Hoyland. The weather was clear and bright again. Outside the ashes of the fire had been cleared away, and market stalls with bright awnings were being set up along the street. We had breakfasted and were gathering our things together when old Mistress Bell knocked and entered, looking flustered. ‘Someone has called to see you, sir,’ she said.
‘Who is it?’
She took a deep breath. ‘Mistress Beatrice West, widow of Sir John West and owner of Carlen Hall.’
Barak and I exchanged glances. ‘Where is she?’ I asked.
‘I have shown her to my poor parlour,’ Mistress Bell continued in a rush of words. ‘She has heard about the body in the mill pond. Please sir, do not say anything to upset her. Many of my customers are her tenants. She is a proud woman, easily offended.’
‘I have no wish to make an enemy of her.’
‘Trouble,’ Mistress Bell said with sudden bitterness. ‘Each time you come, trouble.’ She went out, closing the door with a snap. Barak raised his eyebrows.
‘Wait here,’ I said.
MISTRESS BELL’S parlour was a small room containing a scratched table, a couple of stools and an ancient wall painting of a hunting scene, the paint cracked and faded. A tall, strongly built woman in her sixties stood by the table. She wore a wide, high-collared blue dress, and an old-fashioned box hood framing a clever, haughty face with small, keen, deep-set eyes that reminded me of her son.
‘Mistress Beatrice West?’ I asked.
She nodded her head in curt acknowledgement, then said abruptly, ‘Are you the lawyer who found that body in the pond? At the Fettiplace foundry?’
‘I am, madam. Matthew Shardlake, Serjeant-at-Law, of London.’ I bowed deeply.
Mistress West nodded, her pose becoming slightly less stiff. ‘At least I am dealing with someone of rank.’ She waved a manicured hand at the stools. ‘Please, sit if you wish. Perhaps you find standing for long uncomfortable. I will not sit on a stool, I am used to chairs, but I see this is a poor place.’
The indirect reference to my condition made me bridle slightly. But I realized that temperate words and a modest manner were the best way of dealing with this woman. ‘I am quite happy to stand, thank you.’
She continued staring at me with those sharp little brown eyes. Despite her haughty demeanour I read anxiety there. She spoke abruptly: ‘I came to Rolfswood last night, to visit the market. I am staying with friends. I had scarce arrived when I received a letter from that boor Humphrey Buttress. He told me the body of Master Fettiplace, that we all thought burned in his foundry nineteen years ago, had been found in the pond. By you.’