Heartstone by C. J. Sansom Page A

glistening mushroom growing between the stone flags next to him. At length he got up and shook his head. ‘There’s nothing there, sir. No one named Fettiplace. I’ve been a year back and a year forward. If it was here I’d find it.’
    This was unexpected. How could Ellen be held in the Bedlam if there was no order of lunacy? Mylling rose, his knees creaking. Then we both jumped at the sound of a clap of thunder through the half-open door. Underground as we were, it was still loud.
    â€˜Listen to that,’ Mylling said. ‘What a noise. As though God himself were sending his fury crashing down on us.’
    â€˜He’d have cause, given what goes on in this place,’ I said with sudden bitterness.
    Mylling raised his lantern and looked at me. ‘It’s the King’s wish, sir, everything that happens here. He is our Sovereign Lord and Head of the Church, too. What he orders must be enough to satisfy our consciences.’ I thought, perhaps he believes what he is saying, perhaps that is how he is able to do this.
    â€˜I’m sorry I couldn’t find your lunatic,’ Mylling said.
    â€˜Well, sometimes knowing what is not on record can be useful.’
    Mylling looked at me, eyes bright with curiosity and maybe some deeper emotion. ‘I hope you find your witnesses for the Curteys case, sir,’ he said quietly. ‘What happened to Michael Calfhill? I can see nothing good, though Master Sewster wouldn’t say.’
    I looked at him. ‘He killed himself.’
    Mylling looked at me with his sharp dark eyes. ‘I wouldn’t have thought he’d have done that. He seemed so relieved to have made the application.’ He shook his grey head, then led the way back into the corridors. I heard the chink of gold again.

Chapter Six
    STEPPING OUTSIDE, I blinked in unexpectedly clear light. The flagstones of the passageway were covered with hailstones, shining under a sky that was bright blue again. The air was fresher, suddenly cool. I walked away carefully, crunchy slipperiness under my feet. In Palace Yard people who had taken shelter from the storm in doorways were emerging again.
    I decided to walk to Barak’s house, which lay on my way home, and see if he was back. By the time I reached the great Charing Cross the hailstones had melted away, the ground only a little damp underfoot. As I passed the fine new houses of the rich lining the Strand, my thoughts were on Ellen. How could she have been placed in the Bedlam without a certificate of lunacy? Someone had been paid well to take her in and was still being paid. I realized she was at liberty to walk out of the place tomorrow; but there was the paradox, for that was the last thing she could do.
    I turned into Butcher Lane, a short street of two-storey houses. Barak and Tamasin rented the ground floor of a neat little house, painted in pleasing colours of yellow and green. I knocked at the door, and it was answered by Goodwife Marris; a stout woman in her forties, Jane Marris normally had an air of cheerful competence. Today, however, she looked worried.
    â€˜Is Mistress Tamasin all right?’ I asked anxiously.
    â€˜ She ’s all right,’ Jane replied with a touch of asperity. ‘It’s the master that isn’t.’
    She showed me into the tidy little parlour with its view on a small garden bright with flowers. Tamasin sat on a heap of cushions, hands cradling her belly. Her face was streaked with tears, her expression angry. Barak sat on a hard chair against the wall, shamefaced. I looked from one to the other. ‘What’s amiss?’
    Tamasin cast a glare at her husband. ‘We’ve had that officer back. Jack’s only got himself conscripted into the army, the fool.’
    â€˜What? But they’re looking for single men.’
    â€˜It’s because he flipped his fingers at the man. And he answered him back today. Jack thinks he can do as he likes. Thinks