Lamentation

Chapter Twenty

Skelly showed Okedene in. He wore a light wool doublet and his face was red and sweating, as though he had been running. As Skelly closed the door behind him I saw Barak looking in at us curiously. I stood. ‘Master Okedene, what is it?’ I wondered with a thrill of horror whether, as I had feared might happen, he or his family had been attacked.

The printer slowly regained his composure. The constant physical activity of his trade meant he had to be fit, but he was not young any more. ‘Master Shardlake,’ he said quickly, ‘I’ve come to see you about that note you sent. To tell you I am leaving London. I am selling the business and putting the proceeds into my brother’s farm, out in Norfolk. I have feared for my wife and children since the night poor Armistead was murdered.’ He frowned at Nicholas, doubtless remembering his part in provoking Elias’s flight. He did not know his former apprentice was dead.

‘I am sorry,’ I said. I saw how the lines of strain and worry on his face had deepened since we last met.

He raised a hand. ‘Never mind that now,’ he said. ‘There is no time.’

‘No time for what?’ Nicholas asked.

‘I stopped on the way here to buy a glass of beer — I was thirsty, it is a warm day. At the sign of Bacchus near St Paul’s. It is a big inn —’

‘I have been there,’ I said.

‘Inside, I saw two men sitting at a table by the window. I am sure it was the men who killed Armistead, even though they were wearing gentlemen’s clothes today; the Bacchus is a respectable place.’ He took another deep breath. ‘I have never been able to get my old assistant Huffkyn’s description of them out of my mind. Two young men, both big and tall, one fair and with a wart on his brow and the other near bald, young as he is. I have feared to see them ever since. Those murderers,’ he added bitterly, ‘sitting quietly supping beer in full view of everyone.’ He looked from me to Nicholas, then squared his shoulders. ‘I ran all the way here. The inn is less than fifteen minutes if we go fast.’

Nicholas said, ‘The authorities—’

‘There is no time, boy!’ Okedene snapped. ‘They must be taken before they leave. A citizen’s arrest!’ I saw he was eager to take the chance to capture Greening’s killers himself, and perhaps to lift the cloud of worry from his family. ‘Master Shardlake, have you any other people here who could help us?’ he asked. ‘Perhaps that bearded man in your outer office?’

I sighed. Okedene was right, this might be our only chance. But these were killers, young, fit men, experienced in violence. Nicholas might give a good account of himself but Okedene was no youngster, while I would be of little use in a fight. Nor would Skelly. That left Barak, whom I had sworn to involve no further. But here was a chance to take the killers, present them to Lord Parr myself. Nicholas and Okedene looked on impatiently as I considered. Then I crossed to the door and asked Barak to join us. He rose from his desk, an odd mixture of anticipation and reluctance flashing across his face.

I explained that Master Okedene had been a witness to the murder I was investigating, and he had just seen the killers at the Bacchus Inn. I said, ‘These are dangerous fellows. I doubt we could take them without you. I’ve no right to ask you to come, and if you say no, I’ll understand.’

Barak took a long, deep breath. ‘Is this connected with the — other matter? With Baynard’s Castle?’

I nodded slowly. ‘This may be our one chance to settle both matters.’

Barak bit his lip. Through his shirt he fingered his father’s old Jewish mezuzah, which he wore round his neck as constantly as the Queen had worn the key round hers. Then he said, ‘Have we weapons enough? Young Nick wore his sword into work today, showing off as usual. I have a good knife.’

‘And I,’ Okedene said.

‘Mine is somewhere,’ I said.

‘Then let’s go,’ Barak said. ‘I’ve been out of things a while, but I haven’t forgotten how to fight.’

An ill-assorted quartet, we made our way along Fleet Street under a hot mid-morning sun, and under the city wall at Newgate. Skelly had stared as we left; Barak told him cheerfully that if Mistress Slanning called she was to be requested kindly to go and boil her head in a pot. Nicholas loped along, hand on his sword, eyes agleam, clearly looking forward to the fray. There was a reassurance in the presence of his weapon, which I knew Nicholas took pains to keep well-sharpened. But the men we would face were dangerous. I dreaded the thought of anything happening to Nicholas or to Barak, who was stepping along purposefully, his face set and watchful. Okedene and I had to hurry to keep up with them both.

‘What’s the layout of this place?’ Barak asked Okedene.

‘A door from the street, one big room with tables inside, a serving hatch with the kitchen behind. They serve food as well as drink. There’s a door to a little garden at the rear, with more tables.’

‘There’ll be one to the kitchens too,’ Barak said. ‘Where are they sitting?’

‘At a table in an alcove by the window.’

‘Good,’ Nicholas said. ‘Then we can surround them, cut off any escape.’

Barak nodded approvingly. ‘Well done, boy.’

‘My swordsmanship teacher was a soldier in the French wars in the twenties. He always said, knowing the ground is essential in a fight.’

‘He was right.’

Okedene looked at Barak curiously. ‘You have much knowledge of such matters for a law clerk.’

Barak glanced at me. ‘Wasn’t always a law clerk, was I?’

We arrived at the Bacchus. It was one of the respectable London taverns where travellers stayed, and families of the middling sort sometimes went for weekend meals or celebrations. Through the open shutters we could see two men sitting at a big round table in the window, heads together, deep in conversation. As Okedene had said, they answered Huffkyn’s description exactly. Both wore good clothes, slashed doublets and shirts, lace collars showing. Like Stice at the first attack on Greening, these two had pretended to be poor men when they went out set on murder.

It was a slack time of day, with only a few other people sitting at tables — tradesmen discussing business, by the look of them.

‘Are you sure it’s them?’ I asked Okedene.

‘Huffkyn’s description is etched in my mind.’

Barak said, ‘Did you notice if they have swords?’

‘I didn’t see. I didn’t like to watch too long. They could have them under the table.’

‘They’re wearing gentlemen’s clothes,’ Nicholas said. ‘They’re entitled to carry swords.’

Barak looked at him seriously. ‘Then you may need to use yours, Nicky boy. And these fellows may dress well now, but they won’t act like young gentlemen in combat. You ready?’

‘Ready and able,’ he answered haughtily.

‘I doubt the clientele will interfere,’ Barak said. ‘They’ll all be scared shitless.’

I took a deep breath, fingering the knife at my belt. ‘Come on, then.’

We stepped over the threshold, into a smell of beer and pottage. One or two people glanced at my lawyer’s robe, which I had kept on to lend our group an air of authority. We walked straight to the table where the two young men sat in the alcove, still talking intently. My heart pounded. Both, I saw, indeed had swords in their scabbards, lying on the benches beside them. As we approached I thought I heard the bald man mention the name Bertano.

The two broke off their talk and looked sharply up at us; hard, hostile faces. The bald one was in his late twenties, large, well-built and handsome, but with more than a touch of cruelty round the fleshy mouth. The fair one with the wart on his brow had narrow, greyhound-like features, and his expression held the same cold intensity as a hunting dog’s.

Loudly enough for the other patrons to hear, I said, ‘Gentlemen, we are making a citizen’s arrest upon you, for the murder of Armistead Greening on the tenth of this month.’

The fair man tensed, his eyes narrowing to slits, but the bald fellow looked at us with large, unreadable brown eyes, and then laughed. ‘Are you mad?’ he asked.

‘That we aren’t,’ Okedene said, raising his knife. ‘You were seen running with a bloody club from Armistead Greening’s workshop after killing him.’

There was a murmur of voices from the other tables. A couple got up hastily and left.

‘You’re not the authorities,’ the fair man growled.

‘We do not need to be,’ Nicholas answered, putting his hand to his sword. ‘Not for a citizen’s arrest.’

The bald man laughed. ‘What are you, a law student, by your little robe? Scratchy clerks come to arrest us?’

I said, ‘I am Matthew Shardlake, Serjeant at Law, charged by the victim’s family with investigating the murder under the coroner.’

The two glanced at each other, and I realized with a shiver that they had recognized my name. They looked over our little group more closely, weighing us up. The fair-haired man quietly slipped the hand furthest from us towards his sword, then jerked back as Nicholas swept his own sword from its scabbard and pointed it at the man’s throat, a glint of sunlight on the razor-sharp edge. ‘Don’t dare move, churl,’ he said, ‘or I’ll slit you. Hands on the table.’ I had wondered whether, when it came to it, Nicholas’s bravado would be matched by action. Now I knew.

The fair man sat stock-still. He looked at me, eyes boring into mine. ‘You’d do best to let us go,’ he said very quietly, ‘or there’ll be big trouble from those above us. You’ve no idea who you’re dealing with, hunchback.’

‘I can make a guess,’ I said, thinking of Richard Rich. ‘In any case, you’re under arrest.’

Both men were looking at me now. With his right hand Barak reached swiftly under the table on the bald man’s side, his left holding the knife on the table. ‘I’ll take your sword, matey,’ he said.

Then, so quickly I could not follow with my eyes, the man pulled a knife from his belt and stabbed it straight through the muscle between the first two fingers of Barak’s left hand, pinning it to the table. Barak yelled and dropped his knife with a clatter. Nicholas turned instinctively, and the narrow-faced man pushed his sword arm away with one hand, grabbing his own from under the bench with the other and slashing at Nicholas with it.

Both had moved with astonishing speed, and for a terrible second I thought Nicholas was lost, but he had raised his own sword in time to parry. Barak, meanwhile, reached for the knife pinning his hand to the table and, with another yell, managed to pull it out. Blood welled up. At the same moment the bald man reached for his sword, but Okedene, who had brought out his own knife, thrust it to the hilt into his shoulder. Quickly I pulled out my own weapon and held it to his throat. Barak could do no more than clutch at his hand.

For a moment I thought we had won, for Nicholas seemed to have the fair man at a disadvantage trying to fight from behind the table. But then with his free hand he reached down and grasped the table’s underside. Despite his slim build he was strong, for he managed to tip the table right over on us, sending pewter tankards flying. Nicholas, staggering back, dropped his sword. The fair man slashed at him, catching him on the chest so that blood gushed out. Okedene, caught by the table, fell over with a yell. The fair-haired man jumped from the alcove. His companion, clutching at his shoulder, reached down with his free hand and took up Nicholas’s sword.

Both made for the door, the fair man slashing at a potman who stood gaping at the scene; he jumped back frantically and a woman screamed. The two men turned in the doorway, menacing us with their swords for a moment, the face of the dark-haired man white with pain, Okedene’s knife still in his shoulder. Then they turned and ran. I stood looking after them. There was nothing I could do alone. Barak and Nicholas were both hurt, though thank heaven not severely, and Okedene was only now stumbling to his feet, pale and groaning.

The innkeeper appeared with two assistants, each bearing a cudgel. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he asked angrily. ‘Fighting and near murder in my inn. I’ll have the constable on you!’

‘Didn’t you hear us say we were trying to arrest two murderers?’ I shouted with sudden violence. I took a deep breath and swallowed, for what had happened must have terrified both staff and patrons. I took out my purse and produced a sovereign — one of those Bealknap had given me. I held it up.

‘This should more than cover your trouble.’

The innkeeper looked at it hungrily.

I said, ‘It’s yours if you answer a couple of questions. Have these men been here before?’

‘A few times these last weeks. They always sit talking in that corner after ordering something to eat. And I know their names; I remember because once a man came for them, a messenger from somewhere. He asked if Master Daniels and Master Cardmaker were here. Said it was urgent. Then he saw them sitting in the alcove and went over to them. I didn’t like the look of them. An innkeeper knows when people may be trouble. By Mary, I was right there,’ he added bitterly, looking at the overturned table, the spilled beer on the floor, the deserted room. A few frightened faces peered in from the garden.

I took a deep breath. Learning their names like this was a great piece of luck, though it did not make up for the fact we had lost them, and that Barak and Nicholas had been hurt. I wondered, who had sent that messenger?

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘We’ll go.’ Barak was sitting down, his face white, wrapping his hand tightly with a handkerchief. Nicholas had undone his shirt, revealing a pale but muscular torso. To my relief he had suffered no more than a superficial cut. Colour was returning to Okedene’s face.

‘I must take you and Nicholas to Guy at once,’ I told Barak.

‘How the fuck am I going to explain this to Tammy?’ he said thickly.

I helped him to the door. Outside I turned to Okedene. ‘Sir, will you come with us?’

The printer shook his head. ‘No, Master Shardlake, and I will have no more of this business. I should never have come to you. I will hasten with the sale of my printworks. Thank you for your care in sending that note, but please let us alone now.’ He looked again at my injured companions, then walked slowly away.