Lamentation (The Shardlake Series Book 6) (48 page)

‘So you fucking should be. Now wait here while I go and say goodbye to my wife, tell her some story about a witness that needs to be seen urgently. I don’t want her seeing that drawn face of yours again. I’ll call you down.’

‘We’ve an hour and a half,’ I said.

‘Enough, then, to find a tavern, and think and plan properly.’

W
E WALKED INTO THE CITY
, then down towards the river. Barak had donned an old leather jerkin over his shirt, and brought another for me, which I had placed over my doublet once we left the house. It would not be wise to stand out in the poorer areas for which we were headed. Greening’s killers had known that.

‘Have you any gold in your purse?’ he asked.

‘Yes. And some silver.’

‘Gold’s much better.’

We said little more as we walked along St Peter’s Street and into Thames Street. To the south I could see the cranes on the wharves and the river beyond, white with sails. Over to the west the sun was setting. Barak never broke his stride; he had spent all his life in the city and knew every street and alley. Eventually he stopped. A respectable-looking tavern stood where Thames Street intersected with a lane of narrow, tumbledown houses that led down to the river, some of the buildings slanting at odd angles as they had settled, over the decades, into the Thames clay. A little way down the lane I saw a sign marking another, shabbier-looking tavern, painted with the red-and-white cross of St George. It was the Sign of the Flag mentioned in the note.

‘Needlepin Lane,’ Barak said. ‘Mostly cheap lodging houses. Let’s go in here to this tavern; sit by the window.’

The place was busy, mostly with shopkeepers and workers come for a drink at the end of the day. Barak got two mugs of beer and we took seats with a view of the lane; the shutters were wide open this hot evening, letting in the stifling dusty stink of the city. We had scarcely sat when Barak rose again. A solidly built man in a London constable’s red uniform, staff over his shoulder and lamp in hand, was walking by. Later he would patrol the streets to enforce the curfew. Barak leaned over. ‘Your purse. Quick!’

I handed it over. Barak darted outside and I saw him talking with the constable, their heads bent close. At one point the constable turned and stared at me for a moment, then he walked on down Thames Street. Barak returned to the tavern.

‘Right,’ he said, taking his stool. ‘I’ve squared him.’

‘I didn’t see money pass.’

‘He’s good at passing coins unseen. So am I. I told him we’re on official business about some stolen jewellery, and we’re meeting an informant at the house two doors down at nine. Asked him to be ready to come to the house with anyone else he can muster, if I shout.’

‘Well done.’ I knew nobody better at such tasks; Barak’s instincts were always extraordinary.

‘I asked him if he knew who lived there. He said one or two men go there occasionally, but mostly it’s empty. He thinks it might be where some gentleman takes a girl, though if so he hasn’t seen her. You’re four shillings poorer, but it’s worth it.’ He paused. ‘It could well be a house belonging to some courtier, where people meet for unauthorized business. Lord Cromwell had such places; I expect the Queen’s people are keeping that gaoler from the Tower in one.’ He fell silent as a young boy set a candle on our table; outside it was getting dark. Barak took a draught of beer, then stood again. ‘I’m going to take a quick walk up and down the street. See if there are any lights on in that house.’ He left again, returning a few minutes later. ‘The shutters are green, like the note said. They’re closed but I could see a glimmer of light between the slats on the ground floor.’ He raised his eyebrows and smiled. ‘Nothing to do now but wait till the church clocks strike curfew.’ Then he took a long gulp of beer.

‘Thank you,’ I said quietly. ‘I would not have thought of any of that.’

He nodded. ‘I quite enjoyed persuading the constable to back us up, spying out that house. And even that sword fight in the inn, if truth be told, for all it hurt my hand. Old habits die hard.’ He frowned suddenly. ‘But I’ve not the speed and energy I once had. I’ve a good wife, a good job, a child and another on the way.’ He stared into space a moment, then said, ‘Lord Cromwell pulled me out of the gutter when I was a boy. I enjoyed the work I did for him, too, the need for sharp wits and sometimes a sharp knife. But that’s a job for the young, and those with little to lose.’

I quoted a biblical verse that came to my mind: ‘
When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things.
’

‘Never had much chance for childish things.’ Barak took another swig of beer, and looked at me hard. ‘The old ways – I still love that excitement of having to move, think, watch, quickly, on your feet. I’ve realized that again tonight.’ He sat thinking, then looked at me and spoke quietly. ‘I passed my mother in the street, you know, a few months back.’

I stared at him. I knew that after the death of his father, Barak’s mother had quickly married another man, whom he detested; he had been out on the streets alone by the age of twelve. He said, ‘She was old, bent, carrying a pile of twigs for the fire. I don’t know what happened to
him
, maybe he’s dead, with luck.’

‘Did you speak to her?’

He shook his head. ‘She was coming towards me, I recognized her at once. I stopped, I wasn’t sure whether to speak to her or not. I felt sorry for her. But she walked straight past, didn’t recognize
me
. So that was that. It’s for the best.’

‘How could you expect her to recognize you? You hadn’t seen her in over twenty years.’

‘A decent mother would know her own child,’ he answered stubbornly.

‘Did you tell Tamasin?’

He shook his head firmly. ‘She’d press me to look for her. And I won’t.’ His jaw set hard.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘What’s done is done.’ He changed the subject. ‘You realize Nick may not be at that house, if he’s even still alive. These people want
you
, to find out what you know, and they won’t be gentle. After that, they’ll have no use for either of you.’

I met his gaze. ‘I know. But if they are going to interrogate me, it will take time. That’s why I need you to watch. If I don’t come out in twenty minutes, call your new friend the constable. I was going to tell you to go to Whitehall, but this way’s better and faster.’

‘All right.’ He fixed me with his hard brown eyes, and spoke seriously. ‘You have to separate yourself from the Queen. Every time you go near that cesspit they call the Royal Court you end up in danger.’

‘
She
is in danger.’

‘Her own fault, by the sound of it.’

I lowered my voice to a whisper. ‘The King is dying.’

‘I’ve heard that rumour.’

‘It’s more than rumour. I’ve caught glimpses of him, twice. The state he is in – I don’t see how he can last more than a few months.’

‘And then?’

‘Then, if the reformers are in the ascendant, the Queen may be one of those who governs for Prince Edward. She may even be made Regent, as she was when the King led his army to France two years ago. But that book in the wrong hands could kill her.’

Barak inclined his head. ‘Even if she survives, and the reformers win, the Seymours will want to take over. And they’re Prince Edward’s blood relatives, after all. If they do, perhaps the Queen may marry again.’ He looked at me narrowly. ‘Another political marriage, probably, to someone powerful at Court.’

I smiled wryly. ‘Jack, I have never had the remotest hopes for myself, if that’s what is in your mind. Catherine Parr was far above me in status even before she married the King. I have always known that.’

‘Then let this be the last time,’ Barak said, with sudden fierceness.

A
T NINE THE CHURCH BELL
sounding through the deepening dusk signalled curfew, and the tavern emptied. We went outside. I saw the constable on the corner, his lamp lit. A large, younger man stood beside him. ‘Just about to start my patrol, sir,’ he said meaningfully to Barak, who nodded. We left them and walked down Needlepin Lane as far as the Sign of the Flag, where again patrons were dispersing for the night. They were a younger, rougher crowd, several apprentices among them. Barak nodded at a doorway just beyond. ‘I’ll wait there,’ he said. ‘Just out of sight.’

I took a deep breath. ‘Twenty minutes.’

‘I’ll count them off. Good luck.’

‘Thank you.’ I walked on, my legs trembling slightly. I passed a house where a ragged family could be seen through open shutters, eating a late supper by the light of a cheap candle; the next house was the one with the green shutters. Like Barak, I could see a light through the closed slats. Looking up at the upper storey, I glimpsed a faint light there too; someone was watching the street. But they could not have seen Barak from that angle.

I knocked at the wooden door. Immediately I heard heavy footsteps within. The door opened and a short, heavyset man in a stained shirt stared at me. He had a candle in one hand, the other held over the dagger at his waist. Elias’s descriptions of the men who had made the first attempt to break into Greening’s shop had been vague, but this could have been one of them. He was in his late twenties and under bushy black hair his face was square, craggy, with an angry expression that spoke of temper.

‘I am Master Shardlake,’ I said. ‘I received the note.’

He nodded curtly and stepped aside. I entered a room with rushes on the floor, the only furniture a trestle table bearing a large sconce of candles, with stools around. A rickety staircase led to the upper floor. On one of the stools sat Nicholas, his hands bound behind him and a gag in his mouth. He had a black eye, crusted blood on the gag and in his matted red hair. Behind him stood another young man; tall, in gentlemanly clothing – a good green doublet, with embroidery at the sleeves and neck of his shirt. He had keen, foxy features and a neatly trimmed fair beard. The outer half of his left ear was missing; at some point it had been sliced clean off, leaving only shiny scar tissue. He held a sword to Nicholas’s throat; the boy stared at me with frantic eyes.

The man who had let me in closed the door. ‘No sign of anyone else, Gower?’ his companion with the damaged ear asked in cultivated tones.

‘No, Master Stice. And he’s watching above.’ He cocked his head towards the staircase.

The other man nodded, his sword still held to Nicholas’s throat. I thought, they’ve let me know both their names; that doesn’t bode well for us. Stice looked at me then; his grey eyes were cool, appraising. He took the sword slowly away from Nicholas’s throat and smiled.

‘So, Master Shardlake, you came. We didn’t think you would, but our master disagreed. He says you have courage and loyalty both.’

Gower stepped over, looking at me with his angry eyes. ‘Perhaps you like the boy, eh, hunchback? Someone like you won’t have much luck with women. Would have thought you could have done better than this beanpole, though.’

‘Leave him alone, Gower,’ Stice snapped impatiently. ‘We’ve business to conduct, no time for jests.’

I looked at Stice contemptuously. ‘What have you done to Nicholas?’

‘We had to knock him out to get him here. And he wasn’t very cooperative when he woke up. Gower had to give him a lesson in manners.’

‘I have come as you asked. Release him.’

Stice nodded. ‘You can have him, though Leonard here would have relished preparing his head to send you.’ He glanced at Gower. ‘Full of funny ideas is Leonard. He thinks you’re a sodomite.’ I would not have dared to mock the man like that, but he took it from Stice, who reached behind Nicholas and untied the gag, then used his sword to slice through his bonds. Gower went and stood beside Nicholas, hand held meaningfully on his knife, as the boy pulled the gag from his mouth. Eventually he spoke in a dry, hoarse voice. ‘I’m so sorry, sir.’

‘It is my fault,’ I said quietly. ‘I led you into danger.’

‘I’d been to a tavern last night,’ he croaked.’ I was walking home when I was knocked out from behind. When I woke up I was here. Where are we?’