Lamentation

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.

The 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.’

‘No, sir.’ He bowed his head.

I sighed. ‘We shall talk about it again.’

He did not answer.

I went to my room, where Josephine had left bread, cheese and bacon, and a mug of beer. I sat down to eat. Outside, the garden was green and sunny; at the far end my little summer pavilion was pleasantly shaded. A good place to go and set my tumbling thoughts in order.

I saw there was a new letter from Hugh Curteys on the table. I broke open the seal. Hugh had been promoted, I read, to a permanent position with one of the English trading houses, and was now thinking of a merchant’s career. The letter went on to give the latest news of Antwerp:

I wondered if Greening’s three friends would also make for the Continent. Lord Parr should arrange for a watch to be kept at the docks, though I reflected gloomily that it might already be too late. I read the rest of Hugh’s letter:

I put the letter down. I thought, John Bale, Bilious Bale. Indeed he was a great thorn in the side of Gardiner and his people. As well for him that he was safe abroad.

I went into the garden, with pen, ink and paper and a flagon of wine, and sat in the shade of the pavilion. The shadows were lengthening but the air was still warm, and it would have been a pleasure to close my eyes. But I must get my thoughts in order.

I began by writing a chronology of recent events, beginning with the Queen’s writing of the Lamentation during the winter. It had been in June, she said, that she had shown the completed manuscript to Archbishop Cranmer in her Privy Chamber, and argued with him when he said she should destroy it.

Then, on the 5th of July, came the first attack on Greening’s premises, witnessed by Elias. By two roughly dressed men, one with half an ear sliced off. Then, on the 6th, the Queen discovered the manuscript was missing, stolen while she was with the King, at some time between six and ten that evening. Nobody would have known in advance that the King would call for her, which implied that someone had been waiting for their chance, with a duplicate key ready. I shuddered at the thought of someone in the Queen’s household watching and waiting for an opportunity to betray her.

I turned my mind back to the key. The Queen had kept it round her neck at all times, so surely there had to be a duplicate. And that must have been made either by her locksmith, or somebody who had got hold of the original key before it was given to the Queen. Tomorrow’s visit to Baynard’s Castle would be important.

I leaned back, thinking of those I had questioned at Whitehall. I could not see either of the pages or Mary Odell taking the book. But I was not so sure of Jane Fool. I had a feeling she was less stupid than she pretended, though that in itself was not proof of guilt. And she served the Lady Mary as well as the Queen. I remembered Mary Odell’s account of the strange behaviour of the guard on duty the night the manuscript was stolen. I must see what Lord Parr turned up there.

I looked up at the green branches of the large old elm beside the pavilion. The leaves moved in the faint breeze from the river, making a kaleidoscope of pretty patterns on the pavilion floor. I looked over at the house, shaking my head. For the most important question remained unanswered: how could anyone have learned that the Lamentation existed at all?

I wrote down the next important date. The 10th of July. The murder of Armistead Greening; the stolen manuscript of the Lamentation grabbed from his hand by two men who had come to kill him and hide the deed by setting his shed on fire. Different men from the earlier attack, on the 5th, though again young and roughly dressed. One of the earlier attackers seemed to have worn an embroidered sleeve, the mark of a gentleman. I remembered what Okedene’s old servant had said about the man from the first group, who was missing half an ear. It looked like a slash from a sword, not the great hole you get from having your ear nailed to the pillory. So he had probably been in a sword fight; and the only people who were allowed to carry swords were those of gentlemen status, like Nicholas. I thought, what if both attacks were carried out by people of high status, dressed like commoners to escape notice? What if all four attackers were working for the same person? Yet that left unresolved the central problem that, at the time of the first attack, the Lamentation had not yet been stolen. Could both sets of attackers have been after something else and found the Lamentation by chance?

After Greening’s murder, his associates had, except for Elias, fled. They had first been questioned by the constable, and all had alibis. Had they left because they were frightened of religious persecution, I wondered, or for some other reason? Only poor Elias had stayed because his mother and sisters needed him, and he had been killed by the same people who killed Greening.

And then there was that new mystery: Elias’s dying words to his mother. Killed for Anne Askew. I wondered, had Greening’s group had some association with her before her capture?

I thought more about Greening’s group of friends. According to Okedene, apart from Greening himself and Elias, there had been one or two people who came from time to time, but the core of the little fellowship remained the three men who had vanished. I wrote down ‘McKendrick, the Scottish soldier. Curdy, the candlemaker. Vandersteyn, the Dutch trader.’ Religious radicals, meeting for potentially dangerous discussions. Possibly sacramentarians, or even Anabaptists. And somehow, the Lamentation had come into Greening’s hands.

The radical groups were well known to be disputatious, often falling out among themselves. Okedene had overheard them arguing loudly. I thought, what if they had somehow stolen the manuscript and planned to print it as proof that the Queen sympathized with religious radicalism? They might even have thought it would stir up the populace in support of their stance, so popular was the Queen. Of course, the notion was mad — the only result would be the Queen’s death. But the religious radicals were often ignorant and naive when it came to actual political realities.

I stood up, pacing to and fro. This, I told myself, was pure speculation. And the person Okedene had heard them arguing over just before Greening’s murder was not the Queen, but this mysterious Jurony Bertano, that they called the ‘agent of the Antichrist’, who was soon to arrive, but about whom nobody at court appeared to know anything. I wrote the name down phonetically, as I was unsure of the spelling, and decided I would ask Guy about the possible nationality of its owner.

Then I wrote another, final name: Bealknap. What he had said was a complete mystery, and a worrying one. He had seemed certain that both the Queen and I had an ill fate in store. But I crossed out his name; his deathbed words had, surely, referred to the heresy hunt and his hope to live to see me and the Queen caught up in it.

I put down my pen, and stared over the garden, almost completely in shadow now. I thought of the Queen. That evangelism of hers, that desire to share her faith, had caused her to forget her habitual caution and common sense. She regretted it now, was full of guilt. The Lamentation itself might not be strictly heretical, but she had shown disloyalty to Henry by writing it in secret. That would not be easily forgiven. The King had not allowed her to be prosecuted without evidence, when Gardiner was after her, but if that manuscript were to be given to him — or, worse still, printed in public... I shook my head at the thought of what her fate might be then.