C.J. Sansom - Heartstone

Barak opened his satchel and passed me the paper, written in his scratchy copyhand and signed by Broughton. He sat frowning, preoccupied, as I read. Broughton reiterated what he had told us about the Curteys family, the parents' death and Nicholas Hobbey's rapid intervention, his own and Michael's efforts on behalf of Hugh and Emma, and Hobbey's hostility to him. I looked at Barak. 'Nothing new, then?'

'No. He says that's all he remembers. I asked him if any of the Curteyses' neighbours could tell me anything, but he was sure not. The family do seem to have kept to themselves, as the godly folk will.'

I looked up as a shadow passed the window: Bess Calfhill, her face pale as parchment in the sunshine, paler even than her white coif. She wore a black dress again, though the mourning period was long past. 'Go and receive her,' I said to Barak, 'tell her my neck's been hurt in an attempted robbery. Gently. Someone with a bruised neck's the last thing she'll want to see.'

He went out, and I pulled the strings on my shirt tight again before taking the draft deposition I had prepared for Bess from my desk. Barak led her in, and she sat on the other side of my desk. She looked at my neck, shuddered slightly and dropped her gaze, twisting her hands in her lap. Then she looked up, her face determinedly composed.

'Thank you for coming, Bess.' I made my voice as strong as I could.

'It is for Michael, sir.'

'I have prepared a deposition based on what you told me at Hampton Court. If I may, I will read it over. We can make any necessary corrections, see if there is anything to add.'

'I am ready,' she said quietly.

We went through her story again. Bess nodded vigorously when I read out how close Michael and the two children had been, and said 'Yes' with quiet fierceness as I related Michael's attempt to resist Hobbey's taking over their affairs. At the end she nodded firmly. 'That is it, sir, that is the story. Thank you. I could never have formed the words so well.'

I smiled. 'I have training, Bess. But please remember that Michael's story, told to you, is hearsay. Hearsay is allowed in the case of a deceased person, but it does not have the status of first-hand testimony. And Master Hobbey's barrister may question you on it.'

'I understand,' she said firmly. 'Will Nicholas Hobbey be there?'

'I do not know.'

'I am ready to face them both.'

'We have spoken to Vicar Broughton, who has been helpful. He is coming on Monday. But he can confirm only that he and Michael tried to stop the wardship. Is there anything else you can think of that I have not included? About the children, perhaps.'

She shook her head sadly. 'Only little bits and pieces.'

'They would have been brought up by the women of the household till they were old enough for a tutor, I imagine.'

'Yes. Though John and Ruth Curteys delayed past the normal age to get a tutor. Michael thought they loved their children so much they did not wish to share them.'

'Did you meet Hugh and Emma?'

'Yes. Once Michael brought them to visit me and I went to him at the Curteyses' house and saw them many times. Master and Mistress Curteys were most civil to me, as though I were a gentlewoman. I remember Hugh and Emma coming up to Michael's room to meet me. They were laughing because Hugh had got nits from somewhere and had his hair cut close. His sister laughed at his shaven poll, saying he looked like a little old man. I told Emma tush, she should not mock her brother, but Hugh laughed and said if he were a man then he was strong enough to smack his insolent sister. Then he chased her round the room, both of them shrieking and laughing.' She shook her head. 'I can see them now, that poor dead girl's hair flying out behind her, Michael and I joining in their laughter.'

'Mistress,' I asked quietly, 'why do you think Michael left home towards the end?'

'I think it was because—' her lips worked suddenly—'because I fuss so.' She bowed her head, then said, 'Michael was all I had. His father died when he was three, and I brought him up alone. At Lord and Lady Latimer's house in Charterhouse Square. Lady Latimer, as she was then, took great interest in my son, who was fond of learning like her, and encouraged him. She too knows what a kind-hearted boy he was. Too kind-hearted, perhaps.'

'Well,' I said, 'let us see if we can get his kindness rewarded in court on Monday.' I exchanged glances with Barak. We both knew that if the case were allowed to go forward, it would be because of the Queen's involvement, not the merits of the evidence.

A LITTLE LATER I walked again down Middle Temple Lane, my knapsack over my shoulder. I turned left, to the Temple church. Dyrick's chambers lay opposite, in an ancient building of heavy stone. A clerk told me he was on the third floor, and I trudged wearily up a wide staircase of heavy oak boards. I had to pause halfway up, for my neck was throbbing. I grasped the banister and continued. On the third-floor landing a board outside a door had Dyrick's name picked out in elegant letters. I knocked and went in.

All barristers' chambers are much alike. Desks, shelves, papers, clerks. Dyrick's had many bundles piled around on tables, the sign of a busy practice. There were two clerks' desks but only one was occupied, by a small young fellow in a clerk's short robe. He had a thin face and a long neck in which a large Adam's apple bobbled, and narrow blue eyes beneath straggling hair. He looked at me with insolent disapproval.

'I am here to see Brother Dyrick,' I said curtly. 'Serjeant Shard-lake.'

An inner door was thrown open, and Vincent Dyrick stepped out, advancing quickly with outstretched hand. He was a tall, lean man around my age. Athletically built, he seemed to exude energy. He had a pale complexion and coppery hair worn long; he was not handsome, but certainly striking. He smiled, showing a full set of teeth, but his greenish-brown eyes were hard and watchful.

'Good morning, Serjeant Shardlake. We have met before in court. I beat you twice, I think?' His voice was as I remembered, deep and rasping, educated but still with a touch of London in it; a good voice for court.

'We lost one case each, as I recall.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes.'

'Come to my room. You do not mind if Master Feaveryear, my clerk, sits with us?' He waved an arm at the young man.

'Not at all.' My strategy was to say as little as possible, and get Dyrick to reveal as much as possible.

'In you go, Sam.' Dyrick threw open the door to his office and waved Feaveryear in ahead of him. I followed. 'Please, sit.' Dyrick indicated a stool set before a large oak desk and took a chair behind it, motioning Feaveryear to another stool beside him. The clerk took up a quill that had been laid there, ready sharpened, and dipped it in an inkpot. Copies of Michael Calfhill's application and Dyrick's reply lay on the desk. Dyrick squared them carefully with his hands, then looked at me. His smile was gone.

'Brother Shardlake, it grieves me to see a lawyer of your seniority involved in such a case as this. I would call it frivolous and vexatious were not the man who lodged this garbled bill clearly insane. A suicide, God pardon him. This application will be thrown out, and there will be substantial costs.' He leaned forward. 'Who is to pay them? Has his mother means? I heard she was but some old servant.'

So he had been doing his research. Maybe paying for information from the Court of Wards, perhaps even from Mylling.

'Any costs will be paid according to the law,' I said. It was the same point I had made to Richard Rich. I made a mental note to write to Warner suggesting he find some substantial back pay due to Mistress Calfhill. 'If we lose, that is.'

'You will.' Dyrick laughed, glancing at Feaveryear, who looked up and smiled. I opened my knapsack.