Lamentation (The Shardlake Series Book 6) (26 page)

She shook her head. ‘I never saw it before last night.’

I exchanged a glance with Cecil. Greening’s killers – and it was obvious from Goodwife Rooke’s description that it was they who had also killed Elias – might have learned that Elias had vanished, and been waiting around the alley lest he came home, a cart ready to remove the body. Had the boy not managed to shout out, he would never have been seen again.

Cecil said, ‘I will arrange to have Elias’s body taken away.’

For the first time, Goodwife Rooke looked hostile. ‘Is my son to have no proper funeral?’

‘It is safest, believe me. For you and your daughters.’

‘And as we have told you,’ I added, ‘Elias’s death will not go unpunished.’

She bowed her head.

‘And now, might Master Shardlake look at Elias’s body?’ Cecil took her hand. ‘We will say a prayer.’

She looked at me angrily. ‘See what was done to my poor son.’ She addressed Cecil. ‘Was he killed for his beliefs? Was Master Greening?’

‘As yet we do not know. But it may be.’

Goodwife Rooke was silent. She knew she was at our mercy. ‘Come, Master Shardlake,’ Cecil said quietly.

‘Do not let my daughters see,’ Goodwife Rooke called after us with sudden passion. ‘If you hear them outside Elias’s room, send them downstairs. They must not see that.’

E
LIAS LAY FACE UP
on a straw bed in a tiny bedroom, the afternoon sun full on his bloodied face. He had been struck on the right cheekbone, hard enough to shatter it, for splintered shards of white bone showed through the dark mess of his face. He had also been struck on the top of the head, his hair a mess of gore. The shutters were open and blowflies had entered and settled on his head. In sudden anger I waved them away.

‘Head wounds make much blood,’ Cecil observed – calmly enough, though he stayed a couple of feet from the bed.

‘He was killed the same way as Greening,’ I said. ‘Struck on the head. And that cart and tarpaulin were almost certainly arranged to take him away. They didn’t want a great hue and cry.’ I looked at the body again. I thought of Bealknap, lying in his bed. But he had been rotten with sickness, ready to die, whereas Elias had been but eighteen, full of young life. I turned to Cecil. ‘Did you believe what you said, about Elias being safe in the arms of Jesus?’

The young lawyer looked stung. ‘Of course. Do you wish to say a prayer with me now, as I told his mother we would?’ he asked stiffly.

‘No,’ I answered, and asked bluntly, ‘What do you plan to do with the corpse?’

‘Lord Parr has some contacts. I should think he will arrange to have it buried out on the Lambeth marshes.’

I looked at him. ‘Lord Cromwell used to do that, with inconvenient bodies. I remember.’

Cecil looked at me hard with those protuberant eyes. ‘In high politics, Serjeant Shardlake, there are always people who work in the dark. You should know that. Do you want a commotion about the murder of two radical Protestant printworkers? Men with possible links to the Queen? There must be a link, mustn’t there, or Lord Parr would not be involved?’

I nodded reluctantly, turning away from the sight of Elias’s shattered head. ‘What of Greening’s three friends, Master Cecil? What if they are dead too?’

He shook his head. ‘The evidence suggests they all fled their homes. They may have learned that the two men who killed Greening were about.’

I nodded agreement. That sounded right. ‘I want something done for that poor woman.’

‘As I said, I will ask Lord Parr.’

‘It is what the Queen would wish. Send someone soon,’ I added.

W
E LEFT
G
OODWIFE
R
OOKE
sitting wearily at her table and went back outside. We examined the cart; it was just a cheap wooden one, the tarpaulin old. But it was not valueless; it was unlikely someone would have just left it in these streets.

We walked slowly back to Paternoster Row. ‘Why did Elias not flee with those others?’ Cecil asked.

‘Because he had a mother and two sisters to support, and could not just abandon them.’

He nodded agreement. ‘I will report back to Lord Parr now. He will probably want to talk to you when you go to the Queen’s Wardrobe tomorrow morning. With your assistant, the one who used to work with Lord Cromwell,’ he added, looking at me curiously.

‘Cromwell was a hard and ruthless man. But he had beliefs. If he could see how those he promoted turned out – Paget, Rich, Wriothesley, helping Gardiner fight against everything he believed in.’ I shook my head.

‘The balance on the Privy Council is about to change. Lord Hertford and Lord Lisle return from France soon. With the peace treaty well ensured. That will be a feather in their caps with the King.’

‘Will the peace hold?’

‘Oh, I think so. The coinage is so debased now that any English money is distrusted in Europe. The German bankers who lent the King so much to finance the war will allow him no more.’ He smiled sadly. ‘England is bankrupt, you see.’

‘Bankrupt indeed,’ I said ruefully.

‘But if we can solve this matter without trouble to the Queen the reformists may begin to turn things round.’ His manner was neutral, detached, but I realized William Cecil knew a very great deal. He fixed me again with those staring eyes, then raised his cap and bowed. ‘God give you good evening, Master Shardlake.’ He turned away, heading for the river and a wherry to Whitehall.

Chapter Fifteen

I
WALKED HOME THROUGH
the quiet streets, thinking hard. Two men were dead now, three had fled, and I was no nearer to a solution to the problem of who had stolen the Queen’s book, or why. I felt very alone. I had been unable to say too much to Cecil; he did not know about the missing book. The only ones I could talk to honestly were Lord Parr and the Queen.

When I reached Chancery Lane I turned into Lincoln’s Inn; I had to confirm whether that tolling bell had been for Bealknap. The porter was sunning himself in the gatehouse doorway. He bowed. ‘God give you good morrow, Serjeant Shardlake.’

‘And you. I heard the chapel bell tolling earlier.’

He spoke in a pious voice. ‘Master Stephen Bealknap has died, God’s mercy on his soul. The woman who was nursing him has ordered the coffin already.’ He inclined his head towards the courtyard. ‘It’s just been brought in. They’ll take him to the coroner’s till the funeral, as there’s no family.’

‘Yes.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘I daresay you won’t miss him that much.’ The porter knew all the doings at the Inn, including my long enmity with Bealknap.

‘We are all equal in death,’ I replied. I thought, when news of Bealknap’s planned monument got out, the porter would have a rich feast of gossip. I walked on to Bealknap’s chambers. The shutters in his room were open now. There was a noise in the doorway as two men manhandled a cheap coffin outside.

‘Light, ain’t he?’ one said.

‘Just as well, on a hot day like this.’

They carried the coffin out of the gate. The sunlit quadrangle was quite empty. It was the custom that when a member of the Inn died his friends would stand outside as the coffin was taken out. But no one had come to mourn Bealknap.

I walked away, up to my house. I was hungry; I had missed lunch again. As I opened the door I heard Martin Brocket’s voice, shouting from the kitchen. ‘You obey
me
, young Josephine, not my wife. And you account to
me
for where you’ve been.’

I stood in the kitchen doorway. Martin was glaring at Josephine, his normally expressionless face red. I remembered how her father used to bully the girl, reduce her to trembling confusion, and was pleased to see Josephine was not intimidated; she stared back at Martin, making him redden further. Agnes stood by, wringing her hands, while Timothy was by the window, pretending to be invisible.

‘No, Martin,’ I said, sharply. ‘Josephine answers to me. She is my servant, as you are.’

Martin looked at me. It was almost comical to watch him compose his face into its usual deferential expression. ‘What makes you nip the girl so sharply?’ I asked.

‘My wife – ’ he waved an arm at Agnes – ‘gave the girl permission to walk out with that young man this afternoon without asking me. And she is late back. She told Agnes she would be back at three and it is nearly four.’

I shrugged. ‘It is Josephine’s day of rest. She can come back when she likes.’

‘If she is seeing a young man, I should be informed.’

‘You were. By your wife. And I saw you watch Josephine leave.’

‘But for decorum’s sake, she should be back when she said.’ Martin was blustering now.

‘She is an adult, she can return when she wishes. Mark this, Josephine. If you are seeing Goodman Brown on your free day, so long as you inform Martin, or Agnes, or me, in advance you may come back any time before curfew.’

Josephine curtsied. ‘Thank you, sir.’ Then she gave Martin a little triumphant look.

‘And no more shouting,’ I added. ‘I will not have a brabble in my house. Josephine, perhaps you could get me some bread and cheese. I missed my lunch.’

I walked out. It was not done to support a junior servant against a steward in his presence, but Martin had annoyed me. I wished I understood what was the matter between him and Josephine. From the window, I saw Timothy leave the kitchen and cross the yard to the stables. On impulse, I followed him out.

T
HE LAD WAS SITTING
in his accustomed place, atop an upturned bucket beside Genesis. He was talking softly to my horse, as he often did. I could not hear the words. As my shadow fell across the doorway he looked up, flicking his black hair from his face.

I spoke casually. ‘Master Brocket seemed much angered with Josephine just now.’

‘Yes, sir,’ he instantly agreed.

‘Has he ever shouted at her like that before?’

‘He – he likes to keep us in order.’ His look was puzzled, as though to say that is the way of things.

‘Do you know, is there some cause of enmity between them? Come, I know you are fond of Josephine. If there is a problem I would help her.’

He shook his head. ‘They do seem to dislike each other, sir, but I do not know why. It was not bad at first, but these last few months she is always giving him unpleasant looks, and he never misses a chance to chide her.’

‘Strange.’ I frowned. ‘Have you thought any further about what I said, about your maybe going for an apprenticeship?’

Timothy spoke with sudden vehemence. ‘I would rather stay working here, sir. With Genesis. The streets outside – ’ He shook his head.

I remembered how, until I found him, he had spent most of his early years as a penniless urchin. My home was the only place of safety he had ever known. But it was not right, a young boy knowing nobody his own age. ‘It would not be like before you came here,’ I said gently. ‘I would ensure you had a good master, and you would learn a trade.’ He stared back at me with large, frightened brown eyes, and I went on, a little testily, ‘It does a lad your age no good to be alone so much.’

‘I am only alone because Simon was sent away.’ He spoke defensively.

‘That was to ensure his future, as I would ensure yours. Not many lads get such a chance.’