Heartstone

I had decided to visit Ellen that morning. The thought that she did not even have the formal protection of an order of lunacy had tightened my sense of responsibility even further. Two people had to know the truth: Warden Metwys and the keeper, Edwin Shawms. Metwys I had encountered during the case of my incarcerated client two years before; he was a typical courtier, who made no secret of the fact that the wardenship was for him nothing more than an office of profit. The sums that a man of his status would require to give up secrets were beyond my means. And Keeper Shawms was a tool of Metwys's. So I had decided, perhaps rashly, to see Ellen again, and try once more to find out what I could.

I knocked at the door. It was answered by one of the junior keepers, a heavy-set, slack-jawed young man called Palin. He nodded at me dully. 'I have come to see Ellen Fettiplace,' I said.

'Ah.' He nodded. Then he was pushed aside and Hob stood in the doorway. 'Master Shardlake,' he said in a mock-cheerful tone. 'I had not expected to see you again so soon.'

'I may be going away, I wished to tell Ellen.'

He stood aside to let me enter. The door of the office was open and I saw Shawms sitting behind the desk, writing. A fat, middle-aged man, he always seemed to wear the same slightly stained black jerkin. He looked up as I appeared, his expression stony. We were old adversaries.

'Come to see Ellen, Master Shardlake?' he asked in his growl of a voice.

'I have, sir.'

'Looks like someone's been at your neck,' he said. 'Some poor defendant had enough of being dragged through the courts?'

'No, just some common thieves, after money like all rogues. Thank you for your welcome, Master Shawms. It is always warm greetings at the Bedlam.'

'It's hard work for those who have to labour here. Eh, Hob?' He glanced sharply at Gebons.

'That it is, sir.'

'She is in the parlour. And you can tell her either to get old Emanuel to sign a receipt for his clothes, or sign it on his behalf. Tell her to bring it to me, and my inkpot.'

* * *

IN THE PARLOUR Ellen was doing what she did best, talking reassuringly to a patient, her voice calm and encouraging. It was the tall, thin man I had seen in the courtyard on my previous visit. They sat at the large, scarred old table, a quill and inkpot between them. Ellen was studying a paper, while the new patient clutched a bundle close to his chest and looked across at her apprehensively. As I entered, they both looked up. Ellen's face was transfigured by a delighted smile. The patient, though, dropped his bundle onto the table, stood and waved a frantic hand at me. 'A lawyer!' he shouted. 'They've sent a lawyer, they're going to put me in the Marshalsea prison!'

'No, Emanuel,' Ellen said, grasping his shoulder. 'This man is my friend, Master Shardlake. He has come to see me.' She spoke with pride.

'I've paid all I can, sir,' Emanuel told me, wringing his hands. He backed away, becoming more agitated. 'My business is gone, all I have are the clothes I stand in and those in this bundle. The court allowed me those, they sent them—'

I raised a hand soothingly. 'I have come to see Ellen, sir. I know nothing of you—'

'You deceive me. Even the King deceives me, his silver is not real. I have seen it. All my true silver is taken.'

'Palin,' Ellen called, as Emanuel dodged her grasp and made for the door. The young man entered and caught him firmly. 'Come on, matey,' he said. 'Come and lie down. No one's after you.' He strong-armed a weeping Emanuel away. I turned to Ellen. She was staring at my neck with a horrified look.

'Matthew, what happened?'

'An attempt at robbery. I am quite safe,' I added, making light of it.

'Thank you for coming again. It has scarce been four days.' She smiled once more.

'There was something I wished to speak to you about. But Shawms said something about signing a paper for him.'

'Yes, it is this, a receipt for Master Emanuel's poor belongings. He will not sign it, so I must.' She did so, signing her name with an elegant round hand, proof she had had some education.

She returned the paper and inkpot to Shawms's office, and then I followed her down the long corridor to her chamber. She wore the same light-blue dress as on Wednesday, and I noticed it was threadbare in several places. We passed the chamber of the fat old gentleman who had a delusion that he was the King. His door was half-open, and one of the keepers was replacing the rushes on the stone floor, a rag over his face against the smell, for the old ones, heaped in a corner, stank mightily. The old man sat on a commode, a tattered curtain for a robe and his paper crown on his head. He stared stonily ahead, ignoring the common mortals who passed.