by C. J. Sansom
Guy stood and recited his impressive medical qualifications, the jurors staring curiously at his brown skin. He spoke of how he believed Roger had been rendered unconscious using the drug called dwale, then carried to the fountain where his throat had been cut.
'He was alive when he went in,' he said. 'He died from a massive loss of blood, not drowning. That means' — he hesitated - 'that means his throat was cut, then he was held over the fountain until he died, and then was thrown in.'
There was silence in the courtroom for a moment, as the full horror of the scene Guy described sank in. Then Harsnet asked, 'How long was he dead before he was found?'
'Some hours. Rigor mortis would be delayed by the cold.' He looked at me. 'And I believe a skin of ice had had time to re-form on the fountain.'
'It had,' I said.
I glanced across Barak to Dorothy, who sat with Margaret on Guy's other side. She was quite still, her face expressionless. She seemed smaller somehow, as though shrinking into those heavy black clothes.
Harsnet frowned at Guy. 'What object could anyone have in creating such a terrible spectacle? A man dead in a fountain of blood.'
Guy spread his hands. 'I cannot say.' Again I thought, that phrase is familiar. A fountain of blood. But from where?
'A ghastly thing.' Harsnet shook his head; he looked troubled. He then rose slowly. 'Jurors,' he said quietly, 'you will now accompany me to view the body. Dr Malton, please come too in case there are questions. I see a Brother Shardlake is to identify the body.' He looked at me. 'That is you?'
'Yes, master coroner.'
He gave me a long, considering stare. 'How long did you know the deceased;'
'Twenty years. I wished to spare his widow.'
Harsnet looked at Dorothy. 'Very well,' he said quietly, and rose to lead us out.
THE JURORS HAD little to say when the sheet was drawn back from Roger's corpse. The incense someone had set to burn in the room could not hide the rising smell of decay. I closed my eyes at the sight of Roger's poor face and though I did not pray often now I begged that his killer be caught, that I be given strength to play my part, and that this time at least God might listen to my plea. I opened my eyes to see one or two of the jurors looking green. Guy showed us the terrible wounds, explained the mechanisms of death again. No one had any questions, and we trooped back to the inquest room. Harsnet looked at us seriously.
'What we have to determine today is how Roger Elliard died. Murder, clearly, but by whom; I would like to call Jack Barak.'
He asked Barak a series of questions about the footprints he had followed.
'The footsteps led to the fountain and then went back in the oppc site direction.' Barak said. 'He was carrying something on the way in, not on the way back. The snow was melting fast but the impressions were quite clear.'
Harsnet looked at him. 'No ordinary man, surely, could carry an unconscious body as far as you have suggested.'
'A very strong and determined man could.'
'You used to work for Lord Cromwell, I believe;' I wondered, how did Harsnet know that;
'I did. Before I became a law clerk.'
'In what capacity;'
'This and that,' Barak answered cheerfully. 'As my master commanded.'
'Sit down,' Harsnet said coldly, clearly not liking Barak's attitude. Beside him, Coroner Browne gave a little smirk. He was taking no part in the proceedings, his presence evidently a mere formality.
Other witnesses were called: the two boys, then I, to attest to the time and circumstances of the body's discovery, then Treasurer Rowland. Asked about Roger's state of mind, he replied clearly and precisely that he was a happy, cheerful man, respected in the profession, with many friends and no enemies anyone knew of.
'He had one enemy,' Harsnet said. 'A vicious and clever one. This killing was planned, with patience and cunning.' I looked at him. He was no fool. 'Someone hated Roger Elliard,' he continued. He turned to Rowland.
'What about this solicitor who wrote to Master Elliard;'
'Fictitious, sir. No one knows anything of a solicitor with the unusual name of Nantwich. I have made enquiries at all the Inns of Court. As no one else seemed to be doing so,' he added, pointedly glancing at Browne. Harsnet frowned at him, but the crotchety old man was hard as teak and his eyes did not waver.
'If I may remind the court of something;' Guy stood and spoke quietly.
'Yes,' Harsnet snapped. I was puzzled. I could understand the coroner becoming a little annoyed by witnesses who kept speaking up, but Rowland's point was not trivial, and Guy's was unlikely to be.
'Sir, even the most skilled physician would find it hard to gauge the dose of this drug. This man has at least a degree of specialized knowledge.'
'He may have,' Harsnet said. 'But unfortunately that does not take us any further. In a case of savage vengeance such as this, I would expect there to be an obvious culprit, yet there seems to be none. With the delays necessitated by Easter, I find it hard to see how this murderer can be quickly caught.'
I looked at him in surprise. It was not for a coroner to discourage investigation like this. I sensed he was uneasy with what he was saying. Browne gave a slight smirk, as though he had expected this outcome.
'We must be realistic,' Harsnet went on. 'I foresee a verdict of murder by person or persons unknown, and I fear that they may remain unknown.'
I was astonished. This was blatant leading of the jury. Yet none of the young men who had been selected dared speak up.
Then I heard a swish of skirts. Dorothy had risen to her feet and stood facing the King's coroner.
'I have not been asked to speak, sir, but if anyone has that right it is me. I will see my husband's murderer caught, though it costs me all. With the help of faithful friends, I will.' She was shaking from head to toe but her voice, though quiet, cut the air like a knife. With her last words she turned to me. I gave her a vigorous nod. She sat down.
I expected some sort of explosion from Harsnet, but he merely sat with his lips pressed into a narrow line. His face had reddened. Browne was grinning at his discomfiture; I would have liked to rise and wipe that smirk from his froggy face. At length, Harsnet spoke.
'I can make allowances for Mistress Elliard's state of mind, I will not censure her. Perhaps we need more evidence before the jury can deliver a verdict. Therefore I will not ask it to deliver a verdict now; the matter will be left open while I undertake an investigation myself-—'
I rose to my feet. 'With the help of the jury, sir, I take it. As is normal?'
'A coroner may investigate without a jury if he feels it appropriate; as I do here. The jurors, like the deceased, are all lawyers. Less heat and more light will be generated if I act alone. Now sit down, sir.'
I sat, but glared at him.
'And now all of you note something, and note it well.' Harsnet looked over the room. He spoke slowly, his accent noticeable. 'I will not have the details of this case hawked around London. There is a royal order going out today banning the printing of any pamphlets on the subject. Everyone here is ordered to keep these matters secret, and discourage those who come to pry, as they will. There is too much loose talk in London now. That is my order, as the King's deputy coroner, and anyone who disobeys it will be punished.' Then he rose, Browne heaving himself to his feet beside him. 'This inquest is adjourned sine die. It will be recalled when I have more evidence. Good morning, gentlemen.' The usher opened the door, and the coroners left. There was an immediate babble of talk.
'This has to be the devil's work. Such a dreadful display, on a Sunday. This killer was possessed—'
I stared round at the young fool of a juror who had spoken. Loose talk, indeed.
'His unnatural strength. That is always seen in cases of pos- session—'
Margaret turned to me. 'We should get my mistress out of here.' And indeed Dorothy looked as though she might faint. I rose and helped Margaret steer her out of the room. Her arm felt light as a bird's; I wondered if she wa
s eating. We led her to a bench and sat her down. Barak and Guy followed. Treasurer Rowland emerged, looking angry. I hoped he might come and offer some words of encouragement to Dorothy but he only gave me a nod and swept away, shoes clicking on the tiles; his concern was with the Inn's reputation and power, not a grieving widow. Turning back to her, I reflected the Inn would want her out of her lodgings before long.
She had closed her eyes, but now she opened them and heaved herself upright. She looked at each of us in turn: me, Margaret, Barak and Guy.
'Thank you for your help, all of you, and for refusing to be swayed from the truth.' She turned to me. 'They won't investigate, will they? They think the killer has got away, and it will be too much trouble.'
'There's something going on. Harsnet wanted the matter kept entirely to himself.'
'Who is that man:'
'I know nothing of him.'
'They want it buried,' she said bitterly. 'Don't they?'
'Well. . .'
'Come, Matthew, I was not married to Roger near twenty years without learning a good deal about the law. They want this dropped and forgotten.'
'It looks like it.' I shook my head. 'If we waste more time the killer may never be found.'
'Will you help me, Matthew, please? I am a woman, they will take no notice of me.'
'I give you my word. I will start by talking to Coroner Harsnet. Guy, will you wait with Dorothy?' I sensed she was holding on by her fingertips. He nodded.
'Then come, Barak.'
'You've taken something on there,' Barak said as he followed me to the Guildhall steps. 'Seems to me finding the killer is all she has to hold on to. I don't know what would happen to her if we fail.'
'We will not fail,' I said firmly.
Outside in the paved square I saw the black-robed figure of Harsnet. He was talking to a tall, strongly built man in his thirties with a long, copper-coloured beard, richly dressed in a green jerkin with gold piping, a shirt decorated with intricate Spanish lacework showing beneath, and a red cap with a white feather worn at a jaunty angle. The scabbard for the sword he wore at his waist was leather decorated with gold. He carried a heavy coat. Normally I would have hesitated in challenging a royal official in public, especially when he was engaged with a man of obviously high status; but I was fired by anger as seldom before in my life.
The two men turned to us as we approached. The bearded man, whose long face was handsome yet with something harsh about it, turned to Harsnet with a smile. 'He was right,' he said. 'Here he is.'
I looked from one to the other, noticing the younger man was sunburned. 'What do you mean, sir?' I asked. 'I do not understand. Who told you what?'
Harsnet took a deep breath. Close to, he looked strained, burdened. 'I was told you might to be unhappy with the verdict, Brother Shardlake.'
'Told? By whom?'
The young man waved at Barak. 'Get rid of your minion and we'll tell you.'
Barak gave him a nasty look, but I nodded. 'Jack, tell Dorothy I may be some time, she had best go home. I will visit her later. Go back with them.'
He went reluctantly back to the Guildhall. I turned to Harsnet, who eyed me keenly. So did his friend. I began to feel uneasy.
'I dare say you have come to ask why I adjourned the hearing,' Harsnet said quietly.
'Yes.' I took a deep breath. 'It seems you do not want the killer discovered.'
The tall man laughed bitterly. 'Oh, you mistake us there, lawyer.' He spoke in a deep, musical voice. 'There is nothing in this world we want more.'
'Then why . . . ?'
'Because this matter has political implications,' Harsnet said. He glanced round to ensure nobody was in earshot. 'I was told you would contest my decision. By Archbishop Cranmer.'
'What?'
He fixed those keen blue eyes on me. 'Do you truly seek to find Master Elliard's killer, above all else?'
A chill had run down my back at Cranmer's name. Somehow Roger's death was involved with high politics, which I had sworn never to involve myself in again. But then I remembered Roger's brutalized corpse, Dorothy's ravaged face.
'Yes,' I said.
The richly dressed man laughed. 'There, Gregory, he has courage after all.'
'Who are you, sir?' I asked boldly. He frowned at my insolence. 'This is Sir Thomas Seymour,' Harsnet said. 'Brother of the late Queen Jane.'
'So watch your manners, churl,' Seymour growled.
I was lost for words for a moment. 'If you questioned my actions,' Harsnet continued, almost apologetic, 'my instructions were to bring you to Archbishop Cranmer.'
'What is this about?'
'Much more than the death of Master Elliard.' He looked me in the eye. 'Something truly dark and terrible. But come, we have a wherry waiting to go to Lambeth Palace.'
Chapter Nine
ONE OF ARCHBISHOP Cranmer's own boats was waiting for us at Three Cranes Stairs, four oarsmen in the Archbishop's white livery in their places. Harsnet told the men to row fast for Lambeth Palace.
After the thaw the river was thronged with white sails as wherries carried customers to and fro; heavy barges pulled upriver, blowing horns to warn smaller craft out of the way, all under a pale blue sky, the river breeze light and cool. But I thought of the depths beneath us that had spewed up those giant fish.
Behind us I saw London Bridge with its crowds of houses and shops, the great bulk of the Tower looming beyond. Atop the arch at the south end of the bridge long stakes thrust into the sky, the heads of those who had defied or angered the King set atop them mercifully indistinct. Among them, still, those of my old master Thomas Cromwell and those of Dereham and Culpeper, alleged lovers of the executed Queen Catherine Howard. I remembered Thomas Culpeper at York, in all his peacock pride and beauty, and shuddered at the thought that now I was sailing back into the world of the King's court.
'Ay, 'tis still cold,' Seymour said, mistaking my tremor. He had wrapped his heavy coat around him. I studied him covertly. I knew he was the younger brother of Henry's third queen, Jane Seymour, who died giving birth to his heir Prince Edward. It was said she was the only one of his five wives that Henry mourned. Seymour's older brother, Edward, Earl of Hertford, held high office at court, and had been appointed Lord Admiral of the Navy. Barak had told me that
Sir Thomas was something of an adventurer; he would never be trusted with a place on the Privy Council, but he had been awarded a number of lucrative monopolies and had recently been ambassador in Austria where the emperor was fighting the Turks. Lord Hertford, with Cranmer, was one of the few serious reformers to have survived on the Privy Council after Cromwell's fall three years before. He was known as a serious and capable politician, and a successful military commander who had led the campaign against Scotland the previous autumn; his brother Thomas, though, had the reputation of an irresponsible ladies' man. Looking at his handsome face I could believe it: the way he wrapped his coat round himself, gently stroking the long fur collar while his eyes roved over the water, the full lips held in a half smile under the heavy, fashionably long brown beard, all spoke of a sensualist. Harsnet, with his rugged features, serious eyes and worried expression, was an entire contrast. As the boat bobbed through the choppy water of mid-river I wondered fearfully what Thomas Seymour could have to do with poor Roger.
We reached the far bank in silence and sculled quickly down to Lambeth Palace. We pulled past the empty niche where the statue of St Thomas Becket had stood, that all the London boatmen bowed to; that image of an archbishop who had defied a king now removed and destroyed. We passed the Lollards' Tower where heretics were held. I recalled Cranmer's brutal gaoler whom I had met in York, and shuddered anew. Cranmer, knowing Cromwell had trusted me, had forced me into undertaking a dangerous mission there; yet his conscience had pricked him afterwards and led him to find me my position at Requests. Now, it seemed, I would meet that passionate, troubled, God-haunted man again.
I REMEMBERED the plain oaken door of Cranmer's study from my last v
isit. Harsnet knocked and entered, and I followed him and Seymour inside.
The Archbishop of Canterbury sat behind a large desk, wearing a white robe with a black stole, his head with its greying dark hair bare. He looked strained and worried. The twin furrows on his cheeks had deepened in the last year, drawing the corners of his full mouth downward. Cranmer was far from an extreme reformer, but he was always under threat from the conservatives at court. Many of them would have had him burned if they could. The King's long affection for him was all that kept him safe. His large blue eyes were as I remembered, full of passion and conflict.
Another man stood beside him, wearing a plain but expensive dark robe. His prominent nose, long face and athletic frame were so like Thomas Seymour's that it could only be his brother. Yet where Thomas was handsome, the same elements, slightly recast, made Lord Hertford an ugly man. His eyes were large and protuberant, the face too long and thin, the long beard straggly. Yet I sensed a depth of character and purpose in the plainly dressed Hertford that his brother lacked. I recalled that it was he who, with Cranmer, had sent Adam Kite to the Bedlam when Richard Rich wanted a worse fate for him. Sir Thomas removed his cap with a flourish and seized his brother's hand. 'It is good to see you, Edward.' He turned to Cranmer and bowed. 'My lord. As you see, we have brought him.'
'Yes, Thomas.' Cranmer's tones were weary, and there was dislike in the look he gave the younger Seymour. He turned to me and gave me one of his characteristic sad smiles.
'Well, Matthew Shardlake, we meet once again on strange business. Serjeant Shardlake,' he added, reminding me of the rank I had gained through his patronage.
He turned to Harsnet. 'Is it as we feared?'
Harsnet nodded. 'Yes, my lord. Exactly the same as the other.'
Cranmer exchanged a look with Lord Hertford, then stared for a moment into the dancing flames of the wood fire burning in the grate. These, I realized, were worried men. The two most powerful reformers at court, working together. Cranmer turned to me, forcing a smile. 'Well, Matthew, how is the Court of Requests?'
