Sovereign

Chapter Forty-six

BARAK AND TAMASIN returned in the afternoon. Barak came to my room where I was resting. He looked exhausted.

‘I haven’t been able to lay hold of my mate on Cheapside,’ he said. ‘He’s on a job out of town. He won’t be back till tomorrow.’

I put a hand to my sore jaw. I must visit Guy soon, have it looked at. ‘Not breaking into a house, I hope.’

‘No. He’s a locksmith, as it happens. Fitting locks for a new house in the country. Why d’you always assume all my contacts are criminals?’

‘I am sorry.’ I pulled back my sleeve, displaying the rusty manacle. ‘I’ve put some grease on it to ease the chafing, but it stinks and makes my shirt messy. I won’t feel properly free of the Tower till this thing is off.’

‘I’ll try him again tomorrow. I was told he would be back then.’

‘Thank you.’ I looked at his tired face, his wet hair. Outside it was still raining. ‘Did Tamasin go to Whitehall?’

‘Yes. She was told there were to be rearrangements in the Queen’s household, she should go back in a few days.’ He looked at me seriously. ‘She is afraid to return, given that questions are being asked of the Queen’s ladies.’

‘Not the servants, like Tamasin?’

‘No, but she fears it may come to that, considers it better just to melt away into the background. I think she’s right.’

‘But she will lose the chance of getting a job in the household. The best-paid work in the land for a servant.’

He shrugged. ‘She’s afraid, especially after seeing what they did to you. She’ll find something else. And she still has a little of her grandmother’s money left, she says.’

‘That has lasted her well.’

‘Ay.’ He sighed. ‘I spoke with my old mate.’

‘Any luck?’

He frowned. ‘Seems there’s a possible candidate. I’ve got to go back tomorrow.’

‘Who?’

‘He wouldn’t say. But I was told he is a professional man, whatever that might mean.’ He broke off at a knock on the door. Tamasin came in.

‘I am sorry you have lost your place, Tamasin,’ I said gently.

‘Yes.’ She stood there, looking exhausted.

‘Stay a few days longer,’ I said. ‘Both of you. Until – well, until things are clearer. Perhaps you may find work at court again.’

‘When the Queen is dead?’ She spoke in a bitter tone I had never heard. ‘Perhaps to be a servant in the household of a new Queen, watching to see how long she will last, what secrets I may accidentally hear that could get me into trouble?’ She shook her head emphatically. ‘No, I will never go back to work there, whatever they pay.’

‘All right, Tammy,’ Barak said, but she went on.

‘They say at Whitehall Lady Rochford has gone mad in the Tower, screams and raves and can make no sensible answer. The poor Queen is held at Hampton Court, Jesu knows what state she is in. Still, a woman must smile and be cheerful, must she not?’ She twisted her face into a parody of a girlish smile, then turned and ran from the room.

THAT EVENING Giles and I dined quietly in the parlour, listening to the rain buffeting down outside. Barak had been with Tamasin in her room all afternoon. Joan’s face had been sour but I was past caring.

It was Giles’s first meal out of bed and he seemed better. I told him about the state of the orchard and he agreed I ought to go to the Inn Treasurer the next day. ‘Otherwise they will say you did not give them proper notice if your garden does flood.’ He smiled. ‘You know what lawyers are like.’

‘You are right. I want them to dig a trench halfway down that slope, to catch the water. It should be done now, this rain seems never-ending.’ I sighed. ‘And it is time I showed my face.’

NEXT MORNING I rose early and, after breakfast, made ready to walk to Lincoln’s Inn. Tamasin and Barak had gone out together, Tamasin to look for a room, Barak to find the lockpicker – and to find out about Tamasin’s father. It had stopped raining for now but there were pools of water everywhere in Chancery Lane, and slippery clumps of wet leaves in the muddy roadway. I picked my way along carefully. There was a cold wind too; winter was truly begun. There was a barber in Chancery Lane and I decided to take advantage of his services first, to make myself look presentable. I sat in his chair, conscious of that damned manacle still on my wrist, which I did my best to hide under my sleeve. His conversation was of the strange doings at Hampton Court. Rumours were flying around now, that the Queen had been arrested, that she had been found to be a spy, or in bed with everyone from a scullery boy to Cranmer himself. The barber retold these gems of gossip with relish. ‘’Tis like the days of Anne Bullen again,’ he said cheerfully. I told him I was sure it was all untrue, then went on to Lincoln’s Inn.

It felt strange to pass under the Great Gate again, to see the solid red-brick buildings of Gatehouse Court, the barristers passing to and fro. Acquaintances nodded to me as I made my way to the Treasurer’s office, but I was eager to press on and conclude my business. As the Treasurer disclaimed all responsibility for the flood at first, I sharply reminded him of the laws of nuisance and before I left I had the promise that a trench would be dug on the morrow. I returned to my chambers feeling slightly more cheerful.

Two solicitors were passing by; they paused and eyed me curiously. I frowned; my hand was in the pocket of my robe, the manacle well hidden.

My clerk Skelly was busy at his desk. He greeted me with a genuine enthusiasm that disarmed me, his eyes shining behind his glasses. ‘I have prayed for you, sir,’ he said. ‘Out among those wild heathens. And now you are returned to us. But your face is swollen, sir.’

‘A bad tooth,’ I said. And indeed it was throbbing again. So at least rumours about my imprisonment had not reached Lincoln’s Inn. They would soon enough, though. ‘How is the work?’ I asked. I had parcelled my cases out among barristers I knew and trusted to deal with while I was away.

‘No real problems, sir. Brother Hennessy won in Re. Cropper last week.’

‘Did he? Good.’ I paused. ‘I have heard there have been officials from the Privy Council at the Inns, making enquiries to do with the spring conspiracy.’

‘Not here, sir.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Maybe up at Gray’s Inn.’

IT WAS EARLY AFTERNOON before I brought myself up to date. Yes, I thought, there is enough business here for me to pick up and be quite busy. And the payment Cranmer had promised would mean I could clear the debt on my father’s estate. There was a letter waiting from the mortgagee asking when he would be paid, and I wrote a terse reply saying he would not have to wait long. Then I went over to the dining hall for lunch.

I had decided I would walk up to Gray’s Inn that afternoon, and over my meal I thought more about Martin Dakin. What if he spurned the idea of mending his quarrel with Giles, as he might, given what family quarrels can be like. Again I wondered if my concern for the old man was linked to my guilty feeling that I had let my father down. But no, I thought, this is the only right thing to do.

As I walked to the gate I saw Bealknap approaching from his chambers. I wondered if he had seen me from his window. ‘Brother Shardlake!’ He greeted me cheerfully. ‘I hear you have had some adventures since we last met – some trouble with His Majesty at York, was it not? And a sojourn in the Tower.’ His eyes went to my right hand, where the damned manacle had slipped down and was visible. ‘Goodness me,’ he said mildly.

‘My time in the Tower is not generally known about yet. Richard Rich told you, no doubt. He had me put there.’

‘Your face is swollen, Master Shardlake,’ Bealknap said with fake concern. I had a sudden memory of the torture chamber, the crack as the tooth was broken off, the terror. I blinked, then glared at my opponent. His eyes slid away from meeting mine.

‘You know the Guildhall have settled your case,’ he said with that gentle smile of his. ‘Each side pays their own costs. Doubtless you will have a large bill for the Guildhall. Mine is being defrayed by the Court of Augmentations.’

‘By Rich.’

‘By the court. Because of their interest in the case. Well, it has been an interesting result.’ He removed his cap, made a mocking, exaggerated bow and walked on.

‘Next time it will be a fair fight,’ I shouted after him. ‘And I will beat you! I will best you yet, Bealknap!’ He did not turn.

I WALKED UP Chancery Lane to Gray’s Inn, just the other side of Holborn. The rain still held off although the sky was grey and heavy. I asked for Garden Court at the porter’s lodge and was directed to a building on the other side of the courtyard. As I walked across, looking at the barristers going to and fro, I thought that Bernard Locke’s contact, the one he was to give the papers to, could be here – unless he had been taken. I went through the door and found myself in an outer office, where a plump little clerk looked up from his desk.

‘Good afternoon,’ I said. ‘Matthew Shardlake, from Lincoln’s Inn. I am seeking a brother who works in Garden Chambers. Martin Dakin.’

The clerk sat upright. ‘Oh,’ he said. He looked surprised, then flustered.

‘You know the name?’

‘Yes, sir, but…’ He got up slowly, his eyes still on my face. ‘If you would wait a moment, perhaps you should speak to Brother Philips. Excuse me.’

He went across to a door, knocked and went in. I stood waiting. Anxiety clawed at me. The clerk had looked startled, concerned. Has Dakin been taken in for questioning, I wondered. I looked around the room, its tables piled with papers tied up in pink ribbon. This was where Bernard Locke had practised too. I remembered that last sight of him in the Tower, his broken limbs and burned face, and shivered.

The clerk reappeared in the doorway. ‘Brother Philips would like a word, sir.’ He stood aside to let me enter, looking relieved to be passing me on.

Inside a room very like my own, a plump middle-aged barrister had risen from behind a desk. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes. He bowed, then looked at me with an expression of concern.

‘Brother Ralph Philips,’ he said. His accent revealed him as a man of the north.

‘Brother Matthew Shardlake, of Lincoln’s Inn.’

‘You are seeking Brother Martin Dakin?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do not think me impertinent, sir, but – might I ask your connection?’

‘I am a friend of his uncle, Brother Giles Wrenne of York. He fell out with his nephew years ago, and has come to London to put things right. I have been with the Progress in York. Brother Wrenne came back with me, he is at my house in Chancery Lane.’ I paused. ‘He is aged, and not well.’

‘Ah.’ Brother Philips sighed heavily.

‘What has happened?’ I asked, more sharply than I should. ‘Has he been taken for questioning about the northern conspiracy? I know there have been enquiries among the lawyers.’

He gave me a keen look. ‘Yes, they have been here. We have all been questioned.’ He sighed again. ‘But no one has anything to hide, and certainly not Brother Dakin.’ He smiled, a strange sad smile.

‘Then what?’

‘Martin Dakin is dead, sir. He died the winter before last, from a congestion of the lungs.’

‘Oh no,’ I breathed. ‘Oh no, that is too hard.’ All Giles’s efforts, all his hopes, the journey that had taken such a toll on him. All for nothing.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ Brother Philips came round his desk, looking concerned.

‘Yes. Forgive me. It was a shock. I had not expected…’ So that was what Locke had meant, in the Tower. Martin Dakin was safe because he was dead. And he had been using the past tense to refer to Dakin, not himself. I stifled a groan. Then a ray of hope struck me. ‘Had he a wife, any children?’

‘I fear not.’ Brother Philips shook his head. ‘He had no relatives I knew of, and I never heard mention of an uncle.’

‘They had fallen out.’ I looked at him. ‘So he had no one.’

‘Not that I know of. The Inn Treasurer took charge of his belongings when he died.’ He hesitated. ‘I should say, sir, Brother Dakin and I were not close.’

‘No.’

Brother Philips hesitated. ‘He was a very strong reformer, brother, and not many in these chambers are.’

‘But I thought he was an arch-conservative.’

‘He was once. But he was won over by the evangelical preaching at a local church.’ Brother Philips smiled sadly again. ‘Many who were hot for one side have turned and became equally hot for the other. It has happened much these last few years.’

‘Yes, it has.’

‘But Brother Dakin was a good lawyer, and an honest man.’

I nodded dumbly.

‘The Inn Treasurer would have made enquiries, seen to the disposition of his estate. If you enquire there…’

‘Yes. Yes, perhaps I should.’

‘Can I offer you some wine before you go, brother?’ He still looked concerned. ‘I see you have had a shock, perhaps you should sit down.’

‘No. No, I will go to the Treasurer. Thank you, brother, thank you for your help.’ I bowed and took my leave.

What an irony, I thought. A reformer, the last person to want any connections to the northern conspiracy.

THERE WAS A BENCH under a tree nearby. The wood was wet but I sat there nonetheless. Poor Wrenne, this would be a dreadful blow for him. I was glad, though, that I had come to Gray’s Inn; at least I could break the news gently to him, at home. I looked up as a big man in a lawyer’s robe passed by. Black beard, black hair. Surely it was Maleverer. Then the man’s features settled into those of a different, older man. He gave me a puzzled look and hurried inside.

A drop of water landing on my hand brought me back to myself. The rain again. I got up. The wretched manacle was chafing at my wrist still. I rubbed it and checked to make sure the thing was out of sight, then enquired of a passing clerk where the Treasurer’s rooms might be found. I made my way across to them, doused yet again by pelting rain.

The Treasurer was a tall, stooped man, suspicious of a barrister from another chambers come making enquiries. When I explained my mission, though, he became sympathetic and invited me into his comfortable rooms.

‘I am wary of all enquiries about members of the Inn these days,’ he told me.

‘Ah yes. The enquiries about the conspirators.’

‘Many barristers have been questioned in recent days. Robert Aske practised here, you know. God rot him and all these malcontents. Inns are for practising law, not conspiring against the King.’

He led me through into an office where an elderly man sat working through papers. ‘Brother Gibbs would have dealt with the matter. He is retired from practice, but helps me out.’

The old fellow rose and bowed, peering at me from behind thick-lensed spectacles. He looked almost as ancient as Brother Swann from Hull.

‘Brother Shardlake here is trying to trace relatives of a Brother Martin Dakin,’ the Treasurer told him. ‘He died the winter before last. He had no wife or children.’

The old man nodded sagely. ‘Ah yes, I remember. The Inn administered the estate. Yes, it is sad when a brother dies without family. But he did have a relative, as I recall.’

‘He did?’ I said eagerly. I thought, even some bastard child would be better than nothing.

The old man put a finger to his chin. ‘Yes, yes he had. I think so.’

I controlled my impatience as Brother Gibbs began ferreting through a pile of papers on a shelf.

‘I will leave you, sir,’ the Treasurer said.

‘Yes, yes, thank you. I am obliged.’

I turned to find Brother Gibbs holding up a packet of papers and smiling. ‘Here it is.’ He pulled out a will. ‘Martin Dakin, died the tenth of January 1540. At his request all his possessions were sold, and the proceeds, together with his savings – a goodly sum, I see –’ he scanned the will – ‘yes, he left fifty pounds to St Giles’ church in Cripplegate.’ He looked at me over his spectacles, disapproval on his face. ‘A very reforming church. Some say heretical.’

‘Yes, yes. And the rest?’

‘All to a single legatee.’

‘Who?’

‘See for yourself, sir.’

The old man handed me the will. I read the name of the legatee. My mouth fell open with shock.

‘This legatee claimed the property?’

‘Oh yes.’ The old man frowned. ‘All was done properly.’

‘I am sure it was.’

And now I knew, I knew it all. Who had knocked me out at St Mary’s, who had helped Broderick to die. And the identity of the one who now held the documents that could topple the throne.