‘They will want to call you, sir,’ I told him, ‘as you conducted the first inquest.’
‘I dare say. But they won’t find anything new, not after twenty years. Maybe Fettiplace killed his workman and then himself. There’s insanity in the family, you know: his daughter went mad.’ He fixed me with his keen eyes. ‘I remember now that I helped arrange for her to be sent to relatives in London. I’ve forgotten who they were. You forget things, Master Shardlake, after twenty years, when you are old and crippled.’ He gave his wicked-looking half-smile.
More determined than ever to be at the Sussex inquest, I turned back to Edward, forcing a disarming smile. I said, ‘They will also want to call the young man who was connected to Mistress Fettiplace at the time. Philip West, who comes from the local family I mentioned to you.’
‘I remember the name. Father, did he not go to the King’s court?’
‘Yes.’ Sir Quintin nodded. ‘His mother was a proud woman, full of herself.’ He cackled again. ‘Everyone knew from her that Philip West went hunting with the King.’
‘You did not go to court yourself when you were young?’ I asked Edward.
‘No, sir. My time in London was spent at Gray’s Inn. Working like a dog to become qualified. My father kept my nose to the grindstone.’
The old man answered sharply, ‘Law students should work like dogs, that is what they are there for, to learn how to snap and bite.’ He leaned across, supporting his weight on his good arm, and said to Dyrick, ‘Something you seem to have learned well, sir.’ He laughed again, like old hinges creaking.
‘I will take that as a compliment,’ Dyrick answered stiffly.
‘Of course.’
There was silence round the table. Edward and his father flicked looks at me from two pairs of hard blue eyes. Then Sir Quintin said, ‘You seem very interested in matters at Rolfswood, sir, going there twice and digging up all this information.’
‘As I explained to your son, a client was trying to find the Fettiplace family.’
‘And now at some point you will have to trail back to Sussex from London. It does no good to meddle, I always think. Master Dyrick told me meddling landed you in trouble with the King once, at York.’
He leaned back in his seat, his barb delivered, while Dyrick gave me a nasty smile.
THE INQUEST ON Abigail Hobbey was held the following afternoon in the great hall. Outside it was another bright, sunny day, but the hall was shadowed and gloomy. The big table had been set under the old west window. Sir Harold Trevelyan sat behind it, with Edward Priddis on his right, evidently pressed into service to take notes. On his left – in defiance of all procedure – sat Sir Quintin. He surveyed the room, his good hand grasping his stick. The jury, twelve men from the village, sat on hard chairs against one wall. I recognized several who had worked for the hunt. Men who would likely be in Fulstowe’s pocket.
Barak and I, Fulstowe and Sir Luke Corembeck sat together. Behind us were some of the servants, including old Ursula, and perhaps twenty people from the village. One was Ettis’s attractive wife, her body tense and her face rigid with fear and anger. From the way her neighbours gave her words and gestures of comfort, I guessed they represented Ettis’s faction in the village. The jury, I saw, gave them some uneasy glances.
In the front row the Hobbey family sat with Dyrick. David was slumped forward, head in hands, staring at the floor. I saw he was shaking slightly. Next to him Hugh sat bolt upright. When he came in I had looked at him hard, to remind him I remembered what he had said over Abigail’s body. On Hugh’s other side Nicholas Hobbey still looked dreadful; he watched people coming in with a sort of bewildered wonderment.
Last to arrive was Ettis. I heard a clanking of chains outside, and exchanged a look with Barak; we both knew that sound from the London jails. Two men led Ettis in; the proud, confident yeoman had turned into an unshaven, hollow-eyed figure. He was set roughly on a chair against the wall. Behind me there was muttering among the villagers, and one or two of the jurors looked shamefaced.
‘Silence!’ Sir Harold shouted, banging the table with a little gavel. ‘I won’t have jangle and talk in my court! Any more noise and I will clear the benches.’
Sir Harold called me first, to give evidence about finding the body. Barak was called next and confirmed what I had said. The coroner then proceeded immediately to call Fulstowe. The steward spoke with cold clear fluency of Ettis’s leadership of the faction in the village that wanted to oppose the enclosures, the antipathy between him and the Hobbeys, particularly Abigail, and his known skill as an archer.
‘Yes,’ Sir Harold said. ‘And Master Ettis’s only alibi is the servant he says was with him marking his sheep. Call him.’