Lamentation (The Shardlake Series Book 6) (75 page)

Chapter Forty-four

W
E WERE LED TO THE
Common Stairs. The guards got into their boat, leaving us in the midst of all the removals. As a large, ornate cabinet was heaved out of the door by four men a drawer fell open and a little mouse jumped out onto the landing stage. It stood for a moment in the forest of legs, not knowing where to run, till someone saw it and kicked it into the river.

I managed to hail a passing wherry. We sculled downriver, away from Whitehall; I hoped for ever. The three of us sat in silence, still recovering from our ordeal. I noticed a tear on Edward’s cheeks: he was weeping, silently. The boatman looked between us curiously.

I spoke quietly to Philip. ‘Can you look after him?’

‘I will take him to my home, do what I can.’ He looked sadly at his client. ‘Will you come with me, Edward?’

Edward looked at him. ‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘I know what must be done now.’ He shook his head in anguish. ‘The disgrace, the disgrace to my wife and children.’

‘We can talk about that later. When you are rested. About what God requires of you.’

He shook his head violently. ‘I shall never rest again. I do not deserve it.’

I said to Philip, ‘I must go to my house.’ I needed to speak to Timothy; I could not imagine that he had betrayed me, but I must know.

We rounded the bend in the river. In the distance, past the riverside houses and the docks, the square solid shape of the Tower was visible. I turned away.

I
FOUND
T
IMOTHY AT
his accustomed place in the stables, sitting on an upturned pail eating bread and cheese. He jumped up as I entered, astonishment and relief on his face. ‘Sir! Thank the Lord you are back! We thought you—’ He broke off.

I stood, weary and dishevelled, looking down at him. ‘I am released,’ I said quietly.

‘We none of us knew why – ’

‘I have been questioned by the King’s Privy Council. Do you know how serious that is?’

‘All know that,’ he answered quietly.

‘It was, among other things, about an allegation that I owned forbidden books.’

Timothy stepped backward, his eyes widening, and my heart sank as I began to believe that, after all, he had given me up. But I kept my voice low. ‘Do you remember an afternoon, about three weeks ago, when Martin and Agnes and Josephine were out? I told you to turn visitors away, as there was something I needed to do.’

He backed away another step, up against the wall. He looked frail and thin, his arms and legs like twigs. Genesis looked round, sensing something strange between us. I asked, ‘Did you watch me that afternoon, Timothy? Did you see what I did in the garden?’

The boy nodded, misery on his face. ‘You burned some books, sir. I came into the house and watched you, from a window. I know I shouldn’t have, but I – I wondered what was so secret, sir.’

‘There is a surfeit of secrets in this world,’ I said, angrily now. ‘And stable-boys spying on their masters can cause grave trouble. Had you heard of the King’s proclamation?’

He looked frightened. ‘What proclamation, sir? I know only that all must obey his commands.’

‘He recently made a proclamation forbidding ownership of certain books. I had some, and that was what I burned. In the garden, that day.’

‘I – I didn’t know they were forbidden, sir.’

Standing there, the boy looked pathetic. And the thought came to me, he is but thirteen, and thirteen-year-olds are nosy. I asked, very quietly, ‘Who did you tell, Timothy?’

He hung his head. ‘Nobody, sir, nobody. Only when Master and Mistress Brocket came back, Mistress Brocket said something had been burned in her vegetable garden, it looked like papers. Master Brocket went and stirred them round, brought back a few unburned pieces. I was in the kitchen. I saw him. He knew I had been alone here that afternoon, sir, and he asked who had been burning papers. He said he would strike me if I lied, so I told him it was you.’

‘Martin,’ I said heavily. So, Josephine had been right about him all along. And he was not just a thief, he meant to do me harm. ‘You let me down, Timothy,’ I said sternly. ‘I shall talk with you again. But first,’ I added grimly, ‘I must speak to Martin.’

He called after me, ‘I didn’t mean for anything to happen to you, sir, I swear. If I had known you might be arrested – ’ His voice rose to a howl behind me as I walked away to the house.

M
ARTIN
B
ROCKET
was in the dining room, polishing the silver, running a cloth round a large dish which had belonged to my father. He regarded me, as usual, with cold eyes and a humble smile. ‘God give you good afternoon, sir.’ Evidently he had decided, with deferential tact, not to refer to my arrest at all.

‘Put that down, Martin,’ I said coldly. The shadow of an emotion, perhaps fear, crossed his face as he laid the silver dish back on the table. ‘I have been talking to Timothy. Apparently the boy told you he saw me burning books in the garden.’

I discerned only the slightest hesitation, then Martin answered smoothly, ‘Yes, sir. Agnes saw the burned papers and I asked Timothy about it. I thought he might have been up to mischief.’

‘Somebody has,’ I answered flatly. ‘I was questioned about those burned books at the Privy Council this morning.’

He stood stock-still, the cloth still in his hands. I continued, ‘Nobody knew what I had done, save the friend who was questioned with me.’ Still Martin stood like a statue. He had no answer. ‘Who did you tell?’ I asked sharply. ‘Who did you betray me to? And why?’

He laid the cloth on the buffet with a hand that had suddenly begun to tremble. His face had paled. He asked, ‘May I sit down?’

‘Yes,’ I answered curtly.

‘I have always been a faithful servant to my employers,’ he said quietly. ‘Stewardship is an honourable calling. But my son – ’ his face worked for a moment – ‘he is in gaol.’

‘I know that. I found Agnes crying one day.’ He frowned at that, but I pressed him. ‘What has that to do with what you did?’

He took a deep breath. ‘Rogue though I know my son John is, I feared he might die for lack of food and care in that gaol if I did not send him money, and I could only get him out of it by paying off his debtors.’ His eyes were suddenly bright with anguish and fear.

‘Go on.’

‘It was in early April, not very long after Agnes and I came to work for you. John had had a fever of the lungs in that vile place last winter, and nearly died. We were at our wits’ end.’

‘You could have come to me.’

‘It is for me to care for Agnes and John – me!’ Martin’s voice rose unexpectedly, on a note of angry pride. ‘I would not go running to you, my master, soft though I saw you were with Josephine and the boy.’ There was a note of contempt in his voice now. There, I thought, that was why he disliked me. He had an iron view of the place and responsibilities of servants and masters. It had led him to betray me rather than ask for help.

He pulled himself together, lowering his voice again. ‘I had arranged to have what money I could scrape together delivered to John in prison by a merchant of Leicester who travels between there and London, and who knew my story.’ He took a long breath. ‘One day, as I was leaving his London office, a man accosted me. A gentleman, a fair-haired young fellow wearing expensive clothes.’

I stared at him. ‘Was he missing half an ear by chance?’

Martin looked startled. ‘You know him?’

‘Unfortunately I do. What name did he give?’

‘Crabtree.’

‘That is not his real name. What did he say?’

‘That he was an acquaintance of the merchant, had heard of my son’s trouble and might be in a position to help. I was puzzled. I know there are many tricksters in the city, but he was well-dressed and well-spoken, a gentleman. He took me to a tavern. Then he said he represented someone who would pay well for information about you.’

‘Go on.’ Martin closed his eyes, and I shouted, ‘Tell me!’

‘He wanted me to report your movements generally, but especially if you had any contact with the Queen’s household. Or any radical reformers.’ He bowed his head.

I persisted. ‘And this was in April?’

‘Yes. I remember the day well,’ he added bitterly. For the first time he looked ashamed.

I ran my hands through my hair. Stice, the servant of Richard Rich who I had reluctantly worked with, had been spying on me since the spring. But as I thought it through, it began to make sense. April was when the hunt for heretics linked to the Queen was getting going. Rich knew I had worked for her; if he was able to link me to religious radicals, he might be able to incriminate her by association. This could have been a small part of his and Gardiner’s campaign to destroy her. But of course he would have found nothing. Then, after the campaign against the Queen failed in July, and Rich found me hunting for Greening’s murderers – and, as he thought, Anne Askew’s book – he could easily have switched from spying on me to using me.

Yet it did not add up: I had not burned my books till the end of July, when Stice and I were already working together, and if it was actually Rich who brought that matter to the Privy Council, then why had he helped me today, when it was likely to bring him into bad odour with Gardiner? But the paths Rich followed were so sinuous, it could all still be part of some larger plan. I had thought him sincere this morning, but Rich could never, ever be trusted. I had to talk this through with Barak.

Martin was looking at me now, a twitch at the corner of his mouth. ‘Crabtree gave me the money I needed to start to pay down the debts. But only little by little, and all the while the interest was mounting. Agnes, she was at the end of her tether.’

‘I know.’

‘And Crabtree kept demanding information.’ Brocket looked at me in a sort of desperate appeal. ‘I was bound to him, he could expose what I had done, if he chose.’

‘That is the problem with being a spy. Where did you meet?’

‘In a house, a poor place, barely furnished. I think it was used for business.’

‘In Needlepin Lane?’

He shook his head. ‘No, sir, it was at Smithfield, hard by St Bartholomew’s Hospital.’

‘Exactly where?’

‘In a little lane off Griffin Street. Third house down, with a blue door and a Tudor rose above the porch.’

It did not surprise me that Rich kept more than one place for secret meetings. He owned half the houses round St Bartholomew’s.

‘I suppose Agnes and I must go now, sir,’ Martin said quietly.

‘I take it she knows nothing of this.’

‘No, sir. She would not have let me do it. She would have argued, it would have upset her mightily – women, they do not understand the hard necessities men can be driven to.’ He attempted a quick half-smile, man to man, as though we could at least agree on the vagaries of women. I stared back at him coldly. Though he recognized how dishonourably he had behaved, he had still not apologized. And he had disliked me from the beginning, as I disliked him. That made the next thing I said easier.

‘You will not leave yet, Martin. The game is not quite played out. A game involving the highest in the realm, which your betrayal has involved you in. When did you last meet Crabtree?’

He began to look worried. ‘Last Wednesday. I meet him once a week at the house near St Bartholomew’s, to give him what information I have. If there is urgent intelligence I am to leave a message that I wish to see him at a tavern nearby. I did that when I learned you had been burning books.’ He had the grace to lower his head as he said that.

‘For now you will say and do nothing. We shall go on apparently as before. I may need you to go to the tavern with a message, I do not know yet.’

He looked seriously worried now. ‘Could Agnes and I not just leave now?’

‘No. And if you go before I say you can, I will ensure you never work again. Now, I have to send a message to Hampton Court.’

Martin looked frightened. He must have realized Stice was connected to the heresy hunt, that politics was involved, but he had doubtless preferred not to think about it. ‘Is that understood?’ I asked sternly.

‘Yes, sir. I will do as you command.’ He took a deep breath, and before my eyes his face composed itself into its normal expressionless mask. He rose from his chair, a little shakily, and took up the silver bowl.