Lamentation

by C. J. Sansom

  ‘True.’

  ‘Both children gave evidence at the inquest. They said their stepfather had visited the ship, and then said he wanted to take a walk to see what goods might be available on other ships that had come in, and they should go back to the servants, which they did. Not uncommon for a merchant to do on a Sunday, though apparently the wharves were not busy that day.’

  ‘Was this lawyer you met involved in the inquest?’

  ‘No. But he met Deborah Cotterstoke once more afterwards, when he visited the house to help with formalizing the documentation for probate after the funeral. He said he remembered her as being in a piteous state of grief, which was unsurprising in a woman who had lost two husbands in little over two years, and the children also appeared shocked and stunned.’

  ‘Did she ever come back to see him?’

  Coleswyn shook his head. ‘He wrote to her asking if she wished to make a new Will, but she did not reply. He heard a little later that she had lost the child she had been carrying at that time, again not surprising, given her sad circumstances.’ Philip sighed. ‘He remembered seeing her and the children in the streets from time to time. Then she sold the business and her son, my client Edward, decided to seek a different trade.’

  ‘And she never married again?’

  ‘No. Apparently she made a point of wearing sober clothes for the rest of her life.’

  I considered. ‘Are you saying a third party may have been involved in Master Cotterstoke’s death?’ I caught my breath. ‘Or even one of the children? The coroner would only have their word that their stepfather was alive when they returned to the servants.’ I frowned. ‘Or that old Mistress Cotterstoke held them both responsible for her husband’s death? All the evidence indicates she came to dislike both her children; we have said before that the wording of the Will looks like an attempt to set them against each other.’ I looked at Philip. ‘These are horrible thoughts.’

  ‘They are. But given the Will their stepfather made, the children and his wife Deborah had no reason to dislike or distrust him.’ He looked at me seriously. ‘But I have been struggling with my conscience as to whether I should go and speak to the old servant, Goodman Vowell. I have no authority from my client, but . . .’

  I smiled sadly. ‘You would pluck up the roots of this madness.’

  ‘I wonder if their stepfather’s death has something to do with this carapace of hatred between them. And each has said they could do great damage to the other.’

  ‘I remember how old Vowell seemed distraught at Edward and Isabel’s quarrel at the inspection,’ I said. ‘He was obviously upset by their behaviour.’

  ‘But I do not see that I have the right to go and question him.’

  ‘You looked out the coroner’s report. And if Isabel’s behaviour now involves some possible threat to us both – ’ I raised my eyebrows.

  ‘A madwoman’s bluster.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Let me consider this further, Matthew. Let me pray on it.’

  I would rather that he had gone to the Cotterstoke house at once and taken me with him. But I was not in a position to insist. I rose from my stool.

  ‘When you decide, let me know. And let us keep each other informed of anything else concerning this case that may affect us – personally.’

  He looked up, fixing me with his clear blue eyes. ‘Yes. I promise.’

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  LATER THAT DAY I called in at Treasurer Rowland’s office, only to be told he was in a meeting. On Monday I called again and this time the clerk said he was out, though passing his window on the way in I was sure I had caught sight of his long, black-robed figure leaning over his desk through the half-open shutters. When I went out again the shutters were closed. I wondered uneasily whether Rowland was avoiding me.

  That day in the refectory I dined with another barrister I knew slightly; he planned to hire a wherry on the morrow and take his family on a trip down beyond Greenwich. As Rowland had told me last month, virtually all the King’s ships, fifty or so, were coming to the Thames to form a line from Gravesend to Deptford, past which the admiral’s ships would sail, and they were starting to arrive. ‘They say the Great Harry is already moored at Deptford,’ my colleague said. ‘All those ships that were at Portsmouth last year, and saw off the French.’

  ‘The Mary Rose will not be there.’

  ‘Casualty of war, Brother Shardlake,’ he said portentously. ‘Casualty of war.’

  ON TUESDAY, the 10th, at the end of the working day, I invited Barak and Nicholas to take a mug of beer with me in the outer office. Skelly had gone home. Thoughts about the missing Lamentation still constantly buzzed in my head, and I thought a talk with them might give me some perspective. Barak asked if I had heard any more from the palace.

  ‘Not for over a week now.’

  He shook his head. ‘Someone’s still holding on to that book. But who, and whyever not reveal it to the King, if they wish to harm the reformers?’

  ‘I wish I knew.’

  ‘And this Bertano,’ Nicholas added. ‘He must be here, if what Leeman said was true. We are well into August now.’ He sighed and his green eyes looked inward for a moment. Lord Parr had had Leeman’s body removed by the men he had sent to fetch me to the palace on the night of the shooting; fortunately, the students had not returned until the morning. I was sure that, like me, Nicholas would never forget Leeman’s face, suddenly destroyed in front of us.

  I said, ‘We know now that the Anabaptists had the book. And Leeman was right, one of them was a spy; nobody else knew about the Lamentation. It must have been either Curdy, who is dead, or McKendrick who escaped. Or both. And whoever it was, they were working for someone at court, they must have been.’

  ‘One of the big men,’ Barak agreed. ‘But there’s still the question of who – and why have they not yet shown their hand?’ He looked at me quizzically. ‘Do you still rule out Rich?’

  ‘I’d never rule out Rich. But whoever it is, it’s dangerous for them to wait. As soon as that book came into anyone’s possession it was their duty to take it to the King. And if whoever stole it wants to anger Henry, and thus help the negotiations with Bertano to succeed, the best plan would have been to give it to him as soon as possible.’

  ‘If Bertano exists,’ Barak said. ‘We’re not even certain of that. And if he does, I’m still convinced the King would never surrender the Royal Supremacy.’

  ‘Lord Parr thinks the arrival of someone such as this Bertano fits with the comportment of certain councillors recently. And we know there is a house reserved for diplomats at Charing Cross, which apparently is being guarded by the King’s men.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Nicholas, ‘the best moment to reveal the book has surely passed, as you say. And I hear the Queen is to feature prominently at the ceremonies to welcome the French admiral. That must be a sign she is back in favour.’

  Barak grunted. ‘Thomas Cromwell was at the height of his power when he fell. He was made Earl of Essex, then a few weeks later suddenly hauled off to the Tower and executed.’

  Nicholas shook his head. ‘What sort of mind does the King have?’ He asked the question in a low voice, despite the safety of my office.

  ‘A good question,’ I answered. ‘Lord Parr and I have spoken on it. He is impressionable, suspicious, and if he turns against someone, ruthless and relentless. A man who thinks he is always right, and who believes what he wants to believe. He would see the Queen’s hiding the book and concealing its theft from him as a betrayal, almost certainly. And yet – he still loves her, has never wanted to lose her. He made Gardiner’s people pay when they called her a heretic without the evidence for it.’

  ‘None of this helps us with the question of who has the book, though,’ Barak said.

  ‘No,’ I agreed. ‘It doesn’t.’

  ‘What about my idea of a double agent?’ Nicholas asked. ‘Someone who told his masters about the book but then, before it could be taken, got it for himself, killing Greenin
g in the process?’

  ‘To what end?’ Barak asked.

  ‘Perhaps to smuggle it safely abroad.’

  I said, ‘If so, the only one who could have it now is McKendrick. Wherever he is.’

  A sudden knock at the door made us all jump. The relief in the room was palpable when, in answer to my call to enter, Tamasin came in.

  We all stood. After the business of bows and curtsies Tamasin smiled at us. ‘So this is how you fathom out the secrets of the law.’ Barak and I laughed, though Nicholas frowned a little at the latitude she allowed herself. But she and I were old friends, and Tamasin had never been a shrinking violet.

  Barak said mock severely, ‘We allow ourselves a little relaxation at the end of a hard day; a fine thing when women squirrel their way in to chide us for it.’

  ‘Perhaps it is needed. Seriously, Jack, if you are finished I wondered if you would come with me to Eastcheap Market, to see if there are any apples in.’

  ‘’Tis late. And you know there are none ripe yet; only the dregs of last year’s poor harvest, expensive for all they are shrunk and wrinkled.’

  ‘I have such a craving for them.’ She gave Nicholas an embarrassed glance. ‘There may be some from France, now we are trading again.’

  ‘God help my purse,’ Barak said. But he put down his mug.

  ‘I should leave too,’ I said. ‘There are some papers in my office I should take home. Wait while I get them, then I can lock up.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Tamasin said. She turned to my pupil. ‘And how are you, Master Nicholas?’

  ‘Well enough, Mistress Barak.’

  ‘Jack tells me you do not lose papers and knock things over the way you used to,’ she said mischievously.

  ‘I never did,’ Nicholas answered a little stiffly. ‘Not much, at least.’

  In the office I sorted out the papers I wanted. When I opened the door to the outer office again Nicholas had left, and Tamasin had seated herself on Barak’s desk. He was gently winding a strand of blonde hair that had escaped from the side of her coif round his finger, saying quietly, ‘We shall scour the market. But the craving will cease gnawing soon; it did last time.’

  I coughed. We all went out. As I watched them set off into the late summer afternoon, bickering amiably as usual, that moment of intimacy between them, caught thus unexpectedly, clutched somehow at my heart. I felt sadly aware of the lack of anything like it in my own life. Except casting a fantasy at the Queen of England, like the most callow boy courtier at Whitehall.

  I HAD A QUIET DINNER on my own, good food cooked by Agnes and Josephine and served by Martin with his usual quiet efficiency. I looked at his neat profile. What had he been doing that day Josephine saw him going through my desk? The uncomfortable thought came to me that Josephine was heavy-footed, and it would not be difficult for Martin to ensure she was not near before doing something illicit again. But I thought, more likely he had simply yielded to a momentary temptation, to see if he could find some money for his son. Temptation which, in any case, he had resisted, for I had carefully gone over my accounts and no money had ever gone missing.

  Afterwards, it still being light, I took the papers I had brought home out to my little pavilion in the garden. They concerned a Court of Requests case for the autumn, a dispute between a cottager and his landowner over the cottager’s right to take fruit from certain trees. As with all these cases the landlord was rich, the cottager penniless, the Court of Requests his only recourse. I looked up to see Martin approaching across the lawn, his footsteps soundless on the grass, a paper in his hand.

  He bowed. ‘This has just come for you, sir. Brought by a boy.’

  He handed me a scrap of paper, folded but unsealed. ‘Thank you, Martin,’ I said. My name was drawn in capitals. I remembered uneasily the note telling me of Nicholas’s kidnap.

  ‘Can I fetch you some beer, sir?’

  ‘Not now,’ I answered shortly. I waited till he had turned his back before opening the paper. I was surprised but relieved to see that it was written in Guy’s small spiky hand.

  Matthew,

  I write in haste from St Bartholomew’s Hospital, where I do voluntary work. A man, a Scotchman, was brought in two days ago suffering from bad knife wounds, and is like to die. He is delirious, and has spoken all manner of strange things. Among them he has mentioned your name. Could you come, as soon as you get this note?

  Guy

  This had to be McKendrick, the only one of the Anabaptist group to escape the fight at the wharf. He must have been attacked after his flight, and very recently by the sound of it. I stood up at once, then as I walked to the stable, realized that Guy had simply signed his name, not prefixed it with the customary farewell of good fellowship, Your loving friend.

  I FETCHED GENESIS and rode up to Smithfield. I had not been there since Anne Askew’s burning over three weeks before. I remembered noticing then how what was left of the old monastic precinct of St Bartholomew’s was hidden by the new houses built by Rich.

  It had been market day at Smithfield, and the cattle-pens were being taken away, boys with brooms clearing cow dung from the open space. Farmers and traders stood in the doorways of the taverns, enjoying the evening breeze. Ragged children milled around; they always gathered at the market to try and earn a penny here or there. The awful scene I had witnessed last month had taken place right here. One might have thought some echo would remain, a glimpse of flame in the air, the ghost of an agonized scream. But there was, of course, nothing.

  I had never been to the hospital, which gave directly onto the open ground of Smithfield. I tied Genesis at the rail outside, paying one of the barefoot urchins a penny to watch him, and went inside. The large old building was in a dilapidated state, paint and plaster flaking – it was seven years now since the dissolution of the monastic hospital. I asked a fellow who had lost half a leg and was practising walking on crutches where Dr Malton might be. He directed me to the main ward, a large chamber with perhaps twenty beds in two long rows, all occupied by patients. I walked to the far end, where Guy in his physician’s robe was attending to a patient. Beside him was his assistant, plump old Francis Sybrant.

  They looked up as I approached. The patient in the bed was a girl in her teens, who whimpered as Guy wound a bandage round her calf, her leg held up carefully by Francis. Two wooden splints had already been bound to the leg.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Matthew,’ Guy said quietly. ‘I will be with you in a moment.’ I watched as he completed winding the bandage. Francis lowered the girl’s leg slowly down onto the bed, and Guy said to her quietly, ‘There, you must not move it now.’

  ‘It pains me, sir.’

  ‘I know, Susan, but for the bone to knit you must keep it still. I will call again tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. May I have my rosary, to pass the time – ?’ She broke off, looking at me anxiously.

  ‘Master Francis will give it to you,’ Guy replied. He turned to his assistant. ‘Give her some more of the drink I prescribed later. It will ease her pains.’

  ‘I will, Dr Malton.’

  Guy stepped away. ‘I have put the man I wrote of in a private room.’

  I followed him down the ward. ‘What happened to the girl?’

  ‘She assists at the cattle market for a few pennies. A frightened cow pressed her against the side of an enclosure. It broke her leg.’

  ‘Will it mend?’

  ‘It may, if she is careful. The bone did not come through the skin, so the leg will not go bad. I would be grateful if you would forget that she asked for a rosary. There are those who think this hospital still stinks of the old religion. Francis was once a monk here, by the way. He helps here still, through Christian charity.’

  I looked at Guy in surprise. But there was no reason why his assistant should not be an ex-monk; there were thousands in England now. I replied, frowning, ‘You know I would never do such a thing as mention that child’s rosary to anyone.’

  ‘It doe
s no harm to put you in remembrance that it is not just radicals who have to be careful these days in what they do, and what they say.’

  ‘I do not forget it.’

  He gave me a hard look. ‘And for myself, I take no note of words spoken by patients who sound impiously radical. As you will shortly see.’ I took a deep breath. There was no give in my old friend nowadays.

  HE LED ME INTO A SIDE WARD. Like the main chamber it was but poorly equipped, a little room with a small window containing only a truckle bed with an old thin blanket and a stool. The window was open to let in air; the sound of voices drifted faintly in from Smithfield.

  I recognized the man within at once: McKendrick, whom I had last seen running from the wharfside. He had been a physically powerful man, and had proved himself to be a fierce fighter. He looked utterly different now. His square face was covered with sweat, white as paper, and his cheeks were sunken. He tossed uneasily on the bed, making it creak, his lips moving in delirious muttering. Guy closed the door and spoke quietly. ‘He was fetched in the day before yesterday. It is a strange story: a group of apprentices were hanging about outside one of the taverns near Cripplegate, around curfew, when all of a sudden a man rushed out of an alley into their midst. He was covered in blood and they caught a glimpse of two men pursuing him. Whoever they were, they turned tail when they saw the crowd of apprentices. They brought him here. It is a miracle he lived at all: he had been stabbed, thrice. He must have fought his pursuers and managed to run away. But the wounds have gone bad. He cannot live long; I think he will die tonight.’ Guy gently lifted the blanket and under the man’s shift I saw three wide wounds on his chest and abdomen. They had been stitched, but around two of the wounds the skin was swollen and red, and the third had a yellowish hue.