Lamentation (The Shardlake Series Book 6) (16 page)

‘Nicholas,’ I said, ‘would you look under the printing press and see if there is any type in the upper tray? I am not sure I could manage it.’ If there was, I would have to get the boy to detach the tray somehow, so that I could see if it was the same type used in printing the French book, or something else; had Greening been planning to print the
Lamentation
?

Nicholas twisted his long body under the press and looked up with an easy suppleness I envied. ‘No print in the tray, sir. It looks empty.’

‘Good,’ I said, relieved.

He rose and stood looking around. ‘What a poor place. To have to live as well as work here, amidst this smell.’

‘Many live in far worse conditions.’ Yet Nicholas was right, a man who was able to keep a printer’s business going should have been able to afford a home. Unless his business was failing; perhaps he had not been sharp enough for this competitive trade. Lord Parr had said Greening’s parents were poor, so where had he got the capital to buy the press and other equipment to start the business? I saw, by the bed, a dark stain on the floor. Blood, from the injuries Greening had received. Poor fellow, not yet thirty, now rotting in the common graveyard.

There was a plain wooden coffer beside the bed. It was unlocked, and contained only a couple of stained leather aprons, some shirts and doublets of cheap linen, and a well-thumbed New Testament. No forbidden books; he had been careful.

Nicholas was bending over a little pile of half-burned papers on the floor. ‘Here’s where they tried to start the fire,’ he said.

I joined him. ‘Under the shelf of inks. If Okedene hadn’t come the place would have gone up.’ I picked out one of the half-burned pieces of paper ‘
. . . le chat est un animal méchant . . .
’ ‘Pages from the book he was printing,’ I said.

Nicholas looked around the room. ‘What will happen to all this?’

‘It belongs to his parents now. The power of attorney gives me the right to take out probate on their behalf. Perhaps you and Barak could deal with that. The author will have paid Greening to print his book, that money will have to be repaid. Otherwise the materials will be sold and the proceeds given to his parents. The printing press will be worth something.’

I looked at the paper on the shelf. Not a large stock, but with nearly all paper in England imported, it had a market value, and as Fletcher had suggested, it would be worth stealing, as would the working type. But it hardly explained two attempted burglaries by separate parties.

I went to the side door and stepped outside, pleased to be away from the harsh fumes, and looked out. The little patch of weedy ground ended at a brick wall, seven feet high. I had a thought. I needed to speak to Okedene on his own, without Nicholas. Besides myself, Okedene was the only other person outside the palace walls who knew of the
Lamentation
.

‘Nicholas,’ I said, ‘go and look over that wall.’

He did so, pulling himself up easily. ‘A garden,’ he said. ‘In little better state than the ground this side.’

‘Will you climb over, see where those men might have gone after they killed Greening, whether they left any traces? Then join me at Okedene’s house.’

He looked worried. ‘What if the owners see me poking about in their garden?’

‘Make some excuse.’ I smiled. ‘A good lawyer should always be able to think on his feet.’

Chapter Nine

M
ASTER
O
KEDENE
’
S
establishment was a three-storey house. The bottom floor was a bookshop, volumes displayed on a table outside. They were varied; from Eliot’s
Castle of Health
to little books on astrology and herbs, and Latin classics. There were a couple of prayer books, approved ones, small volumes no larger than a man’s hand, which one could carry as one walked. From the upper floors came a thumping, clacking sound: newly inked pages would be put under the press, it would be rapidly screwed down, the page taken out and a new one inserted. An old man stood in the doorway, guarding the bookshop; he was stringy and arthritic-looking, his hands knotted. He studied me warily; he would have seen Nicholas and me enter Greening’s shed.

I smiled. ‘God give you good morrow, goodman. I am a lawyer, representing the parents of the late Master Greening.’

He took off his cap, revealing a bald pate beneath. ‘God pardon his soul.’ He gave a wheezing cough.

‘I have authority from Constable Fletcher to investigate the matter. Would you be Master Okedene’s assistant, that saw the two men run from the building?’

‘I am, sir,’ he answered more cheerfully. ‘John Huffkyn, at your service.’

‘I am Master Shardlake. Would you tell me what happened?’

He nodded, clearly pleased to tell his story again. ‘It was evening, I was helping Master Okedene run the press. He is printing a book on the voyages to the New World, with woodcuts showing the wondrous creatures there. A big contract. We were working till the light was done.’ He sighed. ‘Now that Master Okedene has taken on that lump Elias as apprentice, I am put to mind the shop during the day.’ He paused. ‘But thirty years in this business have worn my joints to shreds. And my chest—’

‘That night . . .’ I said, bringing him back to the point.

‘Work had just finished, we were pinning up pages to dry overnight. The windows were open and we heard a commotion next door. Cries, then a loud shout for help. Master Okedene and I looked at each other. Master Greening could occasionally be heard in loud discussions with his friends, but these were sounds of violence. We ran downstairs. The master ran next door, but I stayed in the doorway. With my poor bent limbs and bad chest I could be of little assistance . . .’ He looked ashamed.

‘I understand,’ I offered solicitously.

‘From here I saw it all. Master Okedene battered the door in, and a second later I saw two men run out of there.’ He pointed to Greening’s side door. ‘As I told them at the inquest, they were both in their twenties, dressed in dirty wadmol smocks. Vagrants, they seemed to me, masterless men.’ He made a grimace. ‘Both carried nasty-looking clubs. They were strongly built; one was tall and, young as he was, near bald. The other was fair-haired and had a big wart on his forehead; it was visible even in the poor light. Both had raggedy beards.’

‘You observed well.’

‘My eyes at least are still sound. I would be glad to identify them, help see them hang. Master Greening was a good neighbour. I know he was a radical, but he was quiet, he wasn’t one of those who buttonholes people and starts preaching at them, putting them in danger of the law. He did no man harm – that I know of,’ he added, looking at me sharply.

‘I have heard no ill spoken of him.’

Huffkyn continued, ‘When the two men had gone I went across to the shed, for I could smell burning. Master Okedene was putting out a fire, a heap of papers set alight on the floor, and poor Greening was lying there. A dreadful sight, the top of his head bashed in, blood and brains spilling out.’ He shook his head.

‘Thank you, Goodman Huffkyn.’ I took out my purse and gave him a groat. ‘And now, if I may, I would speak to your master. Can I go in?’

‘Of course. He is at work with Elias, on the first floor.’

I
WALKED THROUGH
the shop and went upstairs. The rhythmic thumping was louder now. The whole first floor had been knocked into one room, a larger equivalent of poor Greening’s. Again there were shelves of paper and chemicals, printed pages in piles, more hung up on ropes stretched across the room, like linen on drying day. Although the shutters were open, the chamber was hot and smelled of heavy leaden dust; I felt sweat on my brow.

Two men were working at the press. Both wore stained leather aprons. A tall, clean-shaven, grey-haired man in his fifties was smoothing out a fresh piece of paper on the bottom tray. Holding the handle of the great screw above the upper tray, where the inked letters were set, was a large, strongly muscled boy of about eighteen, with a dumpish, heavy countenance. They looked round as I entered.

‘I am Master Shardlake,’ I said quietly. ‘I have been sent to investigate poor Master Greening’s murder.’

The older man nodded. ‘Geoffrey Okedene,’ he said. ‘I had a message to expect you. Let us go to the book-binding room. Elias, we will be down in a while.’

The boy looked at me directly for the first time. His brown eyes were afire with anger. ‘It was a wicked, godless thing,’ he said. ‘Good Christian people are no longer safe in these days.’

‘Keep your place, boy.’ Okedene frowned at him, then led me up to the top floor, where a middle-aged woman sat at a table, carefully sewing pages into a binding of thick paper. Okedene said, ‘Could you go down to the kitchen for a few minutes, my dear? I need a private word with this gentleman of the law. It concerns the contract for the new book. Perhaps you could take Elias a jug of ale.’

‘I heard you chide Elias just now. That boy needs a whipping for his insolent tongue.’

‘He is strong and works hard, that is what matters, sweetheart. And the loss of his old master hit him hard.’

Mrs Okedene rose, curtsying to me before stepping out. The printer closed the door behind her. ‘My wife knows nothing of this matter,’ he said quietly. ‘You have come from Lord Parr? He said he would send someone.’

‘Yes. You acted well that night, Master Okedene.’

He sat at the table, looking at his work-roughened hands. He had a pleasant, honest face, but it held lines of worry. ‘I had a note from Whitehall that a lawyer would be coming. They asked me to burn it, which I did.’ He took a deep breath. ‘When I saw the words on that page poor Greening held – I am no sacramentarian, but I have ever been a supporter of reform. I had work from Lord Cromwell in his time. When I saw the title page of that book, I knew it was a personal confession of sinfulness and coming to faith, such as radicals make these days, and could be dangerous to her majesty, whom all reformers revere for her faith and goodness.’

‘How did you gain access to Whitehall Palace?’

‘There is a young apprentice printer living on the street who is known as a fiery young radical. As is often the case with such young men, he has contact with other radicals among the servants at court. I went to him, told him I had hold of something the Queen’s councillors should know about. He told me of a servant I should approach at Whitehall, and thus I was led to Lord Parr himself.’ He shook his head wonderingly.

‘Is this boy friendly with Elias?’

‘No. Elias tended to mix only with Master Greening and his circle.’ Oakdene passed a hand across his brow. ‘It is hard to find oneself suddenly inside Whitehall.’

I smiled sympathetically. ‘It is.’

‘It was – frightening.’ He looked at me. ‘But I must do what I can, for conscience’s sake.’

‘Yes. Lord Parr is grateful to you. He has asked me to take up the investigation into the murder, which the coroner has all but abandoned. I have told the constable and everyone else – including my own pupil, whom I have set to search the gardens behind Greening’s shed – that I am acting on behalf of Greening’s parents. I took the liberty of questioning Goodman Huffkyn, and I would like to speak to Elias as well. I understand he thwarted an earlier attempt to break in.’

‘So he says, and Elias is truthful, if unruly.’

‘You must not speak of that book to him or anybody else.’

He nodded emphatically. ‘By our Lord, sir, I know how much discretion this matter demands. Sometimes good Christians must speak with the wisdom of the serpent as well as the innocence of the dove, is it not so?’

‘In this matter, certainly. Now, would you tell me in your own words what happened that night?’

Okedene repeated what Huffkyn had told me about hearing a noise and rushing outside. ‘As I ran up to the shed, I heard Master Greening call out to someone to leave him alone. I think he was fighting them. I tried the door and found it locked so I put my shoulder to it. It gave way at once.’

‘It was locked from inside?’

‘Yes, Master Greening lived there, as you know, and would lock the door at night. I can only guess the people who attacked him knocked at the door, pushed their way in when he answered, then locked the door behind them.’

‘Huffkyn gave me a description of them.’

‘Yes, I only caught the merest glimpse.’

‘He seems a clever old man.’

‘Poor fellow, he has a bad chest, as many of us in the trade do. I am afraid I took the chance, when poor Greening died, to take on Elias and put John Huffkyn to lighter work.’

‘Probably a good arrangement for everyone.’

‘I hope so.’

‘When you entered, apart from that glimpse of the attackers, what did you see?’

‘My eyes were drawn at once to the fire. I had to put it out.’ He looked at me seriously. ‘With all the paper and printing materials in this street, fire is a constant worry. Fortunately the pile of paper had only just started to burn, and I was able to stamp it out. Then I saw poor Greening – ’ he took a long breath – ‘on the floor. I hope never to see such a thing again. And then I saw the torn sheet of paper in his hand – the best quality paper on the market. I read it, and knew this was more than a matter of murder. I heard Huffkyn coming and stuffed the page into my pocket.’