‘Jesus Christ, another theory.’
‘It is easy to test. It should only take half an hour. And if I am wrong no harm will be done, and we can be on our way.’
‘Do you think you know who killed Abigail?’ he asked sharply.
‘I am not sure yet. But if I am right, the killer came from within the household not the village.’ I gave him a pleading look. ‘Maybe I am wrong, but if I am right Ettis may be proved innocent. Half an hour. But if you want, ride on and find a bed in Petersfield.’
He looked down the dusty, tree-shaded road, then at me, and to my relief he shook his head and laughed. ‘I give up,’ he said. ‘I’ll come. After all, it’s only the Hobbeys we have to face this time.’
Chapter Forty-one
I KNEW THAT if we rode up to the front door of Hoyland Priory, Fulstowe might see us and order us off. Accordingly we turned onto the path along the edge of the hunting park that led to the rear gate. Overhanging branches brushed us as we rode quietly along. I remembered the day of the hunt, the great stag turning at bay. And the day we had ridden into Hugh’s woodland and that arrow had plunged into the tree beside us.
We dismounted beside the gate. ‘Let’s tie the horses to a tree,’ I said.
‘I hope it’s unlocked.’
‘It’s flimsy. If need be we can smash it open.’
‘Breaking and entering?’ Barak looked at me seriously. ‘That’s not like you.’
But it was unlocked, and we stepped quietly through into the familiar grounds. Ahead was the lawn dotted with its trees; to our left the kennels and other outhouses. Barak looked down to the little sheds where he and Dyrick’s clerk had lodged. He suddenly asked, ‘Feaveryear hasn’t been harmed, has he?’
‘No, he was sent packing back to London because he discovered something.’
‘In God’s name, what?’
‘I want you to see for yourself.’
I looked at the great hall, the sun glinting on the windows. No one was about; it was very quiet. We started a little as a pair of wood pigeons flapped noisily from one tree to another. It was hot, the sun almost directly above. My coif chafed against my brow and I wiped away sweat. I realized I was hungry; it was well past lunchtime. I looked at the old nuns’ cemetery, the practice butts, remembered Hobbey saying he wondered if he might be under a curse for taking over the old convent.
One of the servants, a young man from the village, came out of the buttery. He stared at us in astonishment, as though we were ghosts. All the servants would know how I had upset the family at the inquest. I walked across, smiling. ‘Good afternoon, fellow. Do you know if Master Hobbey is at home?’
‘I – I don’t know, sir. He is going to the village today, with Master Fulstowe and Master Dyrick.’
‘Dyrick is still here?’
‘Yes, sir. I don’t know if they’ve gone out yet. You have come back?’
‘Just briefly. Something I need to speak with Master Hobbey about. I will go round to the house.’ We walked away, leaving him gazing after us.
‘I wonder what they’re up to in the village,’ Barak said.
‘Trying to bully them over the woodlands, probably.’
We went down the side of the great hall and round to the front of the house. In Abigail’s garden the flowers were dying unwatered in the heat. I said, ‘Remember when that greyhound killed Abigail’s dog? Remember her saying I was a fool who did not see what was in front of me? If I had, then, she might not have died. But they were so clever, all of them. Come,’ I said savagely, ‘let’s get this over.’
We walked round to the front porch. Hugh was sitting on the steps, oiling his bow. He wore a grey smock and a broad-brimmed hat to shade his face. When he saw us he jumped to his feet. He looked shocked.
‘Good afternoon, Hugh,’ I said quietly.
‘What do you want?’ His voice trembled. ‘You are not welcome here.’
‘I need to talk to Master Hobbey. Do you know where he is?’
‘I think he’s gone to the village.’
‘I will go in and see.’
‘Fulstowe will throw you out.’
I met Hugh’s gaze, this time letting my eyes rove openly over his long, tanned face, staring straight at the smallpox scars. He looked away. ‘Come, Jack,’ I said. We walked past Hugh, up the steps.
The great hall, too, was silent and empty. The saints in the old west window at the far end still raised their hands to heaven. The walls remained blank; I wondered where the tapestries were. Then a door at the upper end of the hall opened, and David came in, dressed in mourning black. Like Hugh and the servant before him, he stared at us wonderingly. Then he walked forward, his solid body settling into an aggressive posture.
‘You!’ he shouted angrily. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘There is something I need to see your father about,’ I told him.
‘He’s not here!’ David’s voice rose to a shout. ‘He’s gone to the village with Fulstowe, to sort out those serfs.’
‘Then we will wait till he returns.’