Lamentation (The Shardlake Series Book 6) (69 page)

Chapter Forty-one

N
EXT DAY
I
WENT AGAIN
to ask Treasurer Rowland for a copy of his letter to Isabel Slanning, and to see whether she had replied. I had done much thinking about what old Vowell had told Philip and me. It seemed all too possible that, forty years before, Isabel or Edward, or both, had killed their stepfather. Again I remembered Isabel’s words to me, weeks ago, about her brother:
If you knew the terrible things my brother has done.
But what could be achieved by confronting them now, without new evidence? I knew Philip would be seeing Edward, perhaps had done so already. I had an uneasy feeling that the consequences of that old tragedy might ripple out anew.

My uneasiness was not assuaged when Rowland’s clerk told me the Treasurer would not be available for appointments until Monday. It struck me that there was something a little furtive in the clerk’s manner. I made an appointment for that day; it was three days hence, but it was at least a firm commitment.

L
ATER THAT MORNING
I was working in chambers, researching a precedent in a yearbook so that when the new term started next month I should have everything prepared. There was a knock at the door and John Skelly entered. His eyes behind his thick spectacles had a reproachful look, as often this last month. Not only had I frequently been out of the office, leaving the work to fall behind, but I knew he was conscious that Barak and Nicholas and I shared some secret he knew nothing about. It was better he did not, and safer for him, a married man with three children. But I knew he must feel excluded. I must talk to him, thank him for the extra work he had done for me, give him a bonus.

I smiled. ‘What is it, John?’

‘There is a visitor for you, sir. Master Okedene. The printer who came before.’

I laid down my book. ‘What does he want?’ I asked a little apprehensively, remembering how his last visit had led us to the tavern and the fight with Daniels and Cardmaker.

‘He says he has come to say goodbye.’

I told him to show Okedene in. He looked older, thinner, as though his strong solid frame was being eaten away by worry. I invited him to sit.

‘My clerk says you are come to bid me farewell.’

He looked at me sadly. ‘Yes, sir. I have sold the business and we are moving in with my brother, at his farm in East Anglia.’

‘That will be a great change in your life.’

‘It will. But my family have never been at ease since Armistead Greening’s murder and Elias’s disappearance. I hear Elias has never been found, nor those others who used to meet with Master Greening.’

I hesitated before replying, ‘No.’

He looked at me sharply, guessing I knew more than I was saying. I wondered what rumours were circulating among the radicals. Okedene sat, rubbing his brow with a strong square hand, before speaking again. ‘I have not told my family of our encounter with Armistead’s killers in that tavern, but knowing those people are still out there only makes me feel more strongly than ever that we are not safe. We must think of our children. Every time I see the ruin of Master Greening’s workshop it reminds me, as it does my wife.’

‘Ruin? What do you mean?’ I sat up.

‘You do not know, sir? The print-shop took fire, two weeks ago, in the night. A young couple, workless beggars, had got in there, and one of them knocked over a candle. You remember the building was all wooden; it burned quickly. Poor Armistead’s press, the only thing of value he had, destroyed; his trays of type no more than a lumps of useless lead. If we and the other neighbours had not rushed out with water to quench the flames, it could easily have spread to my house. And others.’

Okedene had spoken before of the printers’ fear of fire. I knew how quickly it could spread in the city in summer. Londoners were careful of candles in a hot dry season such as this.

Okedene added, ‘And those two killers are still in London. The fair one and the dark.’

I sat up. ‘Daniels and Cardmaker? You have seen them?’

‘Yes. I hoped they might have left the city, but I saw them both, in a tavern out near Cripplegate last week. I was passing; it was market day and very busy, they did not see me. But I would never forget those faces. I thought of coming to you then, but after what happened last time I felt myself best out of the business.’

‘I understand. I have heard nothing more of them since the day of the fight.’ I thought again of the feeling I had had of being followed at the wharf, the chink of a footstep on stone.

‘All is settled,’ Okedene said firmly. ‘We go next week. We have sold the works to another printer. But I thought I would come to tell you I had seen those men. And to ask whether there has been any progress in finding who was responsible for killing Armistead Greening? Those two thugs were employed by someone else, were they not?’ His eyes fixed on mine. ‘Someone important? Someone who, perhaps, is still protecting them, for they still dare to show their faces in the taverns.’

I bit my lip. I had learned much since first meeting Okedene: who Bertano was, how the Queen’s book had been stolen, what had happened to the others in Greening’s group. But not the answer to the most important question, the one he had just asked. Who was behind it all?

‘I think you are right,’ I answered. ‘I think Daniels and Cardmaker were employed by someone important, but whoever it was has covered his tracks utterly.’

His eyes fixed on mine. ‘And that book? The one called
Lamentation of a Sinner
?’

‘It has not been found, though – ’ I hesitated – ‘at least it has not been used to damage the Queen.’

Okedene shook his head. ‘It is all terrible, terrible.’ I felt a stab of guilt, for I had scarcely thought of him recently. An ordinary man whose life had been turned upside down by all this. ‘I fear more troubled times may be coming,’ he added, ‘for all the heresy hunt has ended. People say the King may not last long, and who knows what will happen then?’

I smiled wryly. ‘One must be careful what one says about that. Forecasting the King’s death is treason.’

‘What is not treason these days?’ Okedene spoke with sudden fierce anger. ‘No, my family is better out in the country. The profit we will make on our crops may be little, with the coinage worth less every month, but at least we can feed ourselves.’

‘I am sorry my enquiries brought such trouble to you,’ I said quietly.

Okedene shook his head. ‘No, the fault lies with those who killed my poor friend.’ He stood up and bowed. ‘Thank you, sir, and goodbye.’ He went to the doorway, then turned back and said, ‘I thought I might have had some word, perhaps some thanks, from Lord Parr, for going to tell him privately what had happened that night.’

‘He is not best known for gratitude,’ I said sadly.

L
ATER THAT MORNING
my work was disturbed again, unexpectedly. From the outer office I heard Nicholas’s voice call out, ‘No!’ followed by a tinkling sound.

I hurried out. I found Barak and Skelly staring in astonishment at him. He stood red-faced, his long body trembling, staring at a letter in his hand. On the floor at my feet I saw a golden coin, a half-sovereign: others were scattered around the room.

‘What has happened?’ I asked.

‘He has just had a letter delivered,’ Skelly said.

Nicholas stared at me then swallowed, crumpling the letter in his hand. Skelly stepped out from behind his desk and began going round the room, picking up the scattered coins.

Nicholas spoke coldly. ‘Leave them, please, John. Or put them in the Inn chapel poor-box. I will not take them.’

‘Nicholas,’ I said, ‘come into my office.’

He hesitated, but followed me in slowly, his movements strange and stiff. I gestured him to a chair and he sat down. I took my place on the other side of my desk. He looked at me with unseeing eyes. His face, which had been red, turned slowly white. The boy had suffered a shock. ‘What has happened?’

He slowly focused on me, then said, ‘It is over. They have disinherited me.’ He looked at the letter, which he still held. His face worked, and I thought he might break down, but he took a deep breath and set his features stiff, hard. I reached out a tentative hand to the letter, but he clutched it all the tighter. I said again, ‘What has happened? Why did you throw those coins away?’

He answered coldly, ‘I am sorry for my outburst. It will not happen again.’

‘Nicholas,’ I said, ‘do not treat me like this. You know I will help you if I can.’

His face worked again for a moment. ‘Yes. I am sorry.’ He fell silent, staring out of the window at the quadrangle, then, his head still turned away, said, ‘I told you my parents had threatened to disinherit me in favour of my cousin, because I would not marry a woman I did not love.’

‘That is a hard thing to do.’

‘My mother and father are hard people. They – they could not bend me to their will, so they found someone more amenable.’ He gave a sad half-smile. ‘The duel was the last straw; I did not tell you about that.’ He turned and looked me in the face, his expression half-fierce, half-desperate.

‘What duel?’

He gave a harsh little laugh. ‘When my father was trying to get me to marry this poor girl against both our wishes, I made the mistake of confiding in a friend who lived nearby. Or friend I thought he was; certainly a gentleman.’ He spoke the word, which signified so much to him, with sudden bitterness. ‘But he had been overspending and his family had put him on short commons. He said if I did not give him two sovereigns he would tell my father that I did not intend to marry her. ’

‘What did you do?’

Nicholas spoke with a sort of bleak pride. ‘Challenged the churl to a duel, of course. We fought with swords, and I cut him in the arm.’ He clutched the letter again. ‘Wish I’d taken half his ear off, like that rogue Stice. His parents saw he had been injured and came complaining to mine. When they confronted me I told them why we had fought, and that I would not marry.’ He took a deep breath, and ran a hand down his face. ‘It was then they decided to send me to law, and threatened to disinherit me. I did not think they would go through with it, but they have.’

‘What does the letter say? May I see it?’

‘No,’ he answered quietly. ‘I shall keep it, though, as a reminder of what parents can be. My father calls me undutiful, uncontrollable. The duel and my refusal to accept their choice of wife have undermined their position locally, my father says. Neither he nor my mother want to see me again. He sent this letter by special messenger, with five pounds. He says he will send me the same sum every year.’ He fell silent again, then said, very definitely, ‘I think it cruel, and wrong.’ A fierce look came onto his face. ‘Who do you think, sir, has done the greater wrong here?’

‘They have.’ I answered without hesitation. ‘When you first told me about the girl I, too, thought that perhaps they would get over their anger. But it seems not.’

I knew that Nicholas would have liked to rage and shout, but he kept himself under control. He took more deep breaths, and I was glad to see colour returning to his face. ‘I already have in my possession barely enough to pay for my pupillage with you, sir,’ he said, his voice sad. ‘I think I must leave.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘You have learned almost enough now to earn your keep.’ He looked at me and I could see he knew that was not true: he was still learning, and for a while at least I would spend as much time teaching and correcting him as benefiting from his labours. ‘Or at least you will soon, if you continue to work hard, as you have during these last difficult weeks.’ I smiled. ‘And you have helped me in much more important ways.’

‘I will not be a burden,’ he burst out angrily. ‘I will fend for myself from now on.’

I smiled sadly. ‘The Bible tells us, Nicholas, that pride goes before a fall, and a haughty spirit before destruction. Do not leave me – us – because of pride, do not make that mistake.’

He looked down at the crumpled letter. I had an uneasy feeling that if he did follow his pride and anger he would end badly, for there was a self-destructive element to his nature. There was silence for several seconds. Then a knock, and the door opened. Barak entered, not with a flourish but quietly. He, too, held something in his hand. He came up to the desk and laid a neat little stack of half-sovereigns on the desk. Nicholas looked at him.