Dark Fire (50 page)

I felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck. It was the same harsh smell that had wafted up the stairs of Madam Gristwood’s house the night before.

I bent slowly and looked into the coffin. In the red light of sunset St John’s remains looked strangely peaceful. His skeleton lay on its back, arms crossed. His skull was turned to one
side, as though sleeping, the jaws closed rather than grinning open, a few brown hairs still clinging to it. The winding sheet had rotted away, there were only a few mouldy scraps of cloth in the
bottom of the coffin. And among them, a little pewter jar, the size of a man’s hand. There was a crack at the top, but when I bent and lifted it gently I could feel it was almost full. I was
right, I thought. I have found it.

‘What’s that?’ Samuel asked. He sounded disappointed, no doubt he had been hoping for the glint of gold after all. ‘Here,’ he called to his fellows. ‘Bring a
torch. We can hardly see here!’

I turned to see a man brandishing a flaming torch at the edge of the grave, about to hand it down. ‘No!’ I shouted. ‘No fire, whatever you do!’

‘Why not?’ Samuel asked, frowning.

‘It’s witchcraft,’ someone else said. ‘That’s some Christ-killing Jew down there.’ Samuel crossed himself and there was a murmur among the crowd. I clambered
back out, holding the jar carefully. No one leant over to help me and I had to balance on the coffin and heave myself up with one hand. I stood on the edge of the grave, breathing heavily. I looked
for Hoskyn, but he had left his table and was nowhere to be seen. About ten labourers stood around me, their faces hostile and frightened, a couple carrying torches. ‘Damned hunchback,’
someone muttered.

Then everyone turned at the sound of footsteps, and the men bowed and fell back like wheat before a gale as the frowning figure of Sir Richard Rich, in feathered cap and a yellow silk robe,
stepped into the centre of the group, Hoskyn at his elbow.

‘You men,’ he called sharply, ‘leave now. All of you.’ The labourers melted away like smoke, Samuel clambering rapidly out of the grave and following them. Left alone
with Rich and Hoskyn, I slid the hand with the little jar behind my back. Rich looked into the grave. His cold eyes passed over St John’s remains, then he turned back to me.

‘Jesu, what a stink. Christ’s blood, Master Shardlake, it seems you cannot stay away from Barty’s. First you’re in my garden among the washing and now you’re
digging up graves looking for trinkets.’

I took a deep breath. ‘I am here on Lord Cromwell’s authority—’

He waved a hand dismissively. ‘Hoskyn told me. Sounds like a cock-and-bull story to me. The earl doesn’t collect monastic relics, he burns them.’

‘It was not a relic I was seeking, sir. I – I thought Lord Cromwell had asked you to attend him—’

‘I’ve heard nothing of it, I’ve been out on audit all day.’ Rich frowned. ‘You are a hard man to get rid of, Shardlake.’ He nodded at the grave. ‘If I
find this is some frolic of your own, I’ll put you in there to add to the smell.’ He turned, frowning, as a servant ran up to him. Rich looked at him irritably.

‘Sir Richard,’ the man gasped, ‘an urgent message. From Lord Cromwell. His man has been trying to find you all day. He wishes to see you at once at Whitehall.’

Rich gave me a startled look. He set his lips, then nodded to the steward. ‘Make my horse ready.’ He turned back to me. ‘You are becoming a nuisance, Shardlake,’ he said.
His voice was low, but furious. ‘A serious nuisance. I do not tolerate nuisances. Be warned.’ With that he turned and stalked away, Hoskyn waddling after him. I clutched the jar hard.
Then, my legs shaking like jelly, I walked quickly out of the graveyard.

I
SAT IN MY BEDROOM
, staring down at the jar of Greek Fire on my table. I had brought a plate from the kitchen and poured a
little onto it; the brownish-black viscous liquid lay there, glistening like a toad’s skin. I pulled the table over to the open window to dispel the acrid tang of the stuff. I left the candle
on the other side of the room for safety, though that meant there was insufficient light to examine it further. In truth, I was afraid of it. Tomorrow, I had decided, I would take it to Guy.

A knock at the door made me jump. Wincing at a spasm from my back, I hastily covered the jar and plate with a cloth, calling, ‘Wait a moment!’

‘It’s me,’ Barak replied through the door. ‘Can I come in?’

‘I – I’m getting dressed. Wait in your room, I’ll come to you.’

To my relief I heard retreating footsteps. I sniffed the air, but the smell was faint and could not have reached him through the door. Leaving the window open, I slipped out of the room, locking
it behind me.

Barak had been asleep when I had returned from St Bartholomew’s half an hour before and I had left him. As I knocked at his door I recalled that in the conflicts that had raged around
reformers over which of apparently conflicting biblical passages one should follow, I had ever preferred, ‘Obey God rather than man,’ over ‘Let every man be subject to the
governing authorities.’ I knew I would have to lie to Barak now, and did not relish it, but I felt in my heart that taking the Greek Fire to Guy was the right course. I shuddered at the
thought that if the servant had not arrived when he did, Rich might have had it. Although he might have plenty already, for all I knew.

Barak was sitting on the bed in his shirt, mournfully examining a pair of dusty netherstocks. He put his finger through a hole. ‘Hard riding’s done for these,’ he said.

‘I’m sure Lord Cromwell will pay for more.’ The room was a mess, dirty clothes and greasy plates strewn over the floor and the table. I remembered my former assistant Mark, who
had once had this room, how tidy he had kept it.

Barak crumpled the torn stocks into a ball and threw them into a corner.

‘Any luck at Barty’s?’

‘No. We dug up the grave but there was nothing in it, only St John’s skeleton. Rich was there. He came up and demanded to know my business.’

‘Shit. What did you tell the arsehole?’

‘I thought there might be trouble, but the summons from Cromwell arrived just then and he went off in a hurry.’

Barak sighed. ‘Another trail gone cold. We must see what the earl gets out of Rich. He’ll send a message once he’s talked to him.’

‘And Marchamount is back tomorrow. I’ll go into chambers and see him.’

Barak nodded, then looked up at me. ‘Are you up to trying the well again tonight? There won’t be a message from the earl for hours, perhaps not till tomorrow morning. My
shoulder’s much better.’

I was far from up to it, I ached with tiredness from head to toe and my arm hurt. But I had promised, and after all it was for Elizabeth that I had agreed to do everything else in the first
place. I nodded wearily. ‘Let me just get some food, then we will go.’

‘Good idea. I’m hungry too.’ Barak, evidently restored by his rest, leaped from the bed and led the way downstairs. I followed, guilt at my deception of him gnawing at me.

Joan had prepared a pottage for us, which she brought to the parlour.

Barak scratched at his near-bald pate. ‘Shit, this itches, damn it. I’ll have to wear a cap when I go out from now on, I hate the way people stare at me, my head bald as a
bird’s arse like some old dotard—’

He was interrupted by a loud knock at the front door. ‘That’ll be the message,’ he said, rising. ‘That was quick.’

But it was Joseph Wentworth that Joan showed into the parlour a moment later. He looked exhausted, his clothes were dusty and his hair glinted with sweat. Haggard eyes stared from a dirty
face.

‘Joseph,’ I said. ‘What has happened?’

‘I’ve come from Newgate,’ he said. ‘She’s dying, sir. Elizabeth is dying.’ And then the big man burst into tears, covering his face with his hands.

I made him sit down and tried to calm him. He wiped his face with a dirty rag of handkerchief, the same one he had brought the day he first came to the house, which Elizabeth had embroidered. He
looked up at me, helpless and distraught, his earlier anger at my lack of progress apparently forgotten.

‘What has happened?’ I asked again gently.

‘These last two days Elizabeth has had another cellmate. A child, a mad beggar girl who has been running round the wards accusing all she meets of abducting her little brother. She made
trouble at a baker’s shop in Cheapside—’

‘We saw her the other day—’

‘The baker complained. She was picked up by the constable and taken to the Hole. Elizabeth wouldn’t talk to her, any more than she would to the old woman who was hanged—’ He paused.

‘She went wild when the old woman was taken out, though. Has that happened again?’

Joseph shook his head wearily. ‘No. When I went to visit Lizzy this morning the turnkey told me the child had been examined by a doctor and removed to the Bedlam. He reckoned her mad. But
he said when he went to take them food last night, he heard Lizzy and the girl talking. He couldn’t hear what they were saying but he remarked it; it was the first time he had heard Elizabeth
speak, and the girl had been sullen and quiet too since she was put in the Hole.’

‘What was her name?’

‘Sarah, I believe. She and her brother were orphans, kicked out of St Helen’s foundling hospital when the nunnery closed.’ He sighed. ‘This morning Elizabeth just sat,
hollow-eyed, would not even look at me or at the food I had brought, though her last meal was lying there untouched. Then when I went this evening—’ He broke off and put his head in
his hands again.

‘Joseph,’ I said, ‘I was hoping to have some news for you tomorrow. I know you feared I had forgotten you—’

He looked up at me. ‘You’re all I have, Master Shardlake. You were my only hope. But now I fear it’s too late. This evening Lizzy was lying insensible on the straw, her face
burning hot to the touch. She has gaol fever, sir.’

Barak and I exchanged glances. Outbreaks of fever were common in gaols, blamed on the foul humours released by the stinking straw. Whole prisons had sometimes died of it, and it had been known
to penetrate the Old Bailey, felling witnesses and even judges. If Elizabeth had it, her chances were slim.

‘The turnkeys won’t go near her,’ Joseph said. ‘I said I’d pay to have her put somewhere better, get a physician. Though God knows how, I hear my crops are ruined
by the heat.’ A note of hysteria entered his voice.

I rose wearily. ‘Then I shall have to take a hand. I have assumed a responsibility for Elizabeth and it is time I met it. I’ll come to the gaol. I know they have good rooms for those
who can pay. And I know an apothecary who can cure her if anyone can.’

‘She needs a physician.’

‘This man is a physician, though as a foreigner he is not allowed to practise here.’

‘But the cost—’

‘I’ll deal with that – you can repay me later. God knows,’ I muttered, ‘at least this is something clean and clear to do.’

‘I’ll come if you like,’ Barak said.

‘You will?’ Joseph looked at him, staring a little as he noticed his shaven head for the first time.

‘Thank you, Barak. Then come, I will get Simon to run to Guy with a note, ask him to come to Newgate.’ I stood up. From somewhere, God knew where, I had found a last reserve of
energy. Joseph might have thought me self-sacrificing, but I felt that if Elizabeth died now before our time was up, after all my decision to act for her had led me into, the irony would be so dark
as to be beyond bearing.

T
HE GAOL LOOKED DARK
and sinister at night, its towers a grim outline against the starry sky. The gaoler was sleepy, angry at being woken until I pressed
a shilling into his hand. He summoned the fat turnkey. The man’s face fell when the gaoler told him to take us to the Hole and he led us below ground without his usual brutal badinage.
Quickly unlocking the door, he retreated fast and stood against the opposite wall.

The stink of urine and bad food that hit us in the hot cell was appalling: it stung the throat and brought tears to the eyes. We held our sleeves to our noses as we went in. Elizabeth lay
insensible on the straw, her limbs askew. Even unconscious her face was troubled, the eyes working beneath the closed lids in some fevered dream. Her colour was high, her obscenely bald head
shining bright pink. I put my hand to her brow. Joseph was right – she was burning. I motioned the others to go back outside and went over to the turnkey. ‘Listen,’ I said,
‘I know you have comfortable rooms upstairs.’

‘Only for those that can pay.’

‘We’ll pay,’ I said. ‘Take me back to the gaoler.’

The turnkey locked the door again and, motioning the others to remain behind, I followed him back up to the gaoler’s room, a comfortable chamber with a feather bed and a wall hanging. The
gaoler was sitting at his table, a worried look on his hard features.

‘Is she dead yet, Williams?’ he asked.

‘No, master.’

‘Listen,’ I said. ‘We want to get her out of these foul airs. I’ll pay for a good room.’

The gaoler shook his head. ‘Moving her will only spread the humours of her fever round the gaol. And the judge’s order was she was to stay in the Hole.’