by C. J. Sansom
A hand on my shoulder made me jump. I looked up at the anxious face of the tall student who had helped me. ‘Please, sir,’ he asked tremulously. ‘What shall we do? People will be coming in soon.’
I rose shakily to my feet and took a deep breath. ‘Go and tell the gatekeeper to rouse the constable, who must fetch the coroner. Can you do that, lad?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The boy nodded and ran off towards the lodge. I turned and stared again at that great stone bowl of bright red water. The sun was almost fully risen now, bringing an unaccustomed warmth but showing the corpse and the fountain in their full horror. The other boy, who was leaning against the fountain, his back to that awful red water, was shivering violently. ‘You,’ I said, ‘will you run across the court to my chambers - see, there where there is already a light? My assistant is there; tell him to come at once. His name is Barak.’
The boy gulped, nodded and staggered away. I looked up at the windows of the Elliards’ quarters. There were no lights; I prayed Dorothy was still abed. I realized with sinking heart that I would have to tell her that Roger was dead. I could not leave that task to some stranger.
Moments later, to my relief, I saw Barak running towards me; the student was following more slowly. His mouth fell open when he saw the body by the fountain.
‘Judas’ bowels! What the devil’s happened here?’ He looked red-eyed and smelled of drink; he must have been out all night again. But for all that there was no one I would rather have by me now. ‘Roger Elliard is dead,’ I said, my voice shaking. ‘He has been murdered.’
‘Here?’ Barak asked disbelievingly.
‘During the night. Someone cut his throat and put him in the fountain.’
‘Jesu.’ Barak bent gently, twitched back the corner of my coat and stared at the dead face. He quickly replaced the coat. He looked at the fountain. ‘His throat must have been cut in there. There’s no blood on the ground.’ He frowned, puzzled. ‘And no signs of a struggle in the snow. Unless . . .’ he hesitated.
‘What?’
‘Unless he did it himself. Didn’t you say he feared he was ill?’
‘He wasn’t ill, not seriously. I took him to Guy on Thursday. Do you think anyone would kill himself like this, in the middle of Gatehouse Court?’ I heard my voice rising. ‘Don’t be so stupid! Roger was as content as any man I know. He had everything to live for! He was planning a campaign to build a hospital, he was happily married to the best of women—’ I realized I was shouting, and broke off. I put one hand to my damp brow and raised the other in a gesture of apology.
‘I am sorry, Jack.’
‘It’s all right,’ he said quietly. ‘You’ve had a shock.’
‘No,’ I said, and heard my voice tremble. ‘I am angry. This was meant as a terrible display.’
Barak thought for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘If those students hadn’t come by, he would have been found when the resident barristers left chambers to go to the Easter services.’
I looked again at the body. I clenched my fists. ‘Who could do such a monstrous thing to a good and peaceful man, cut his throat and let him to bleed to death in there? On Easter day. And why?’
I heard a murmur of voices. Three or four barristers had emerged from their quarters and were approaching. Perhaps they had heard my shouting. At the sight of the body one cried, ‘By Our Lady!’
A tall elderly man in a silk robe pushed through. I was relieved to see the Treasurer, Rowland. His unbrushed white hair stuck up over his head.
‘Brother Shardlake?’ he asked. ‘What is going on? The porter roused me—’ He broke off, looked at the covered body, then his eyes bulged in horror at the red fountain.
I told him what I knew. He took a deep breath, then bent and uncovered Roger’s face again. I fought an urge to tell him to leave him alone. There was a murmur of horror from the onlookers, a dozen of them now. I saw Bealknap among them. Normally eager for scandal, he stood looking on silently, still pale and sick-looking. I thought, Dorothy will hear their gabbling, I must tell her. Then Barak spoke quietly at my elbow. ‘There is something you should see. Over here.’
‘I must tell Roger’s wife—’ I said.
‘You should see now.’
I stood undecided for a moment, then nodded. ‘Master treasurer,’ I said. ‘Could you excuse me for a moment?’
‘Where are you going?’ he asked crossly. ‘You and those boys, you were the first finders, you must stay for the coroner.’
‘I will be back in a minute. Then I will tell Mistress Elliard what has happened. I am a friend.’
The old man turned as he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a newly arrived student approaching the body. ‘Get back, you crawling clerk!’ he shouted. I took the chance to get away.
Barak led me to a point twenty feet away. ‘See these footprints?’ he asked.
I looked down. Around the fountain the students and I had churned the snow to slush, and the onlookers had left a mess of prints converging on the murder scene. But Barak was pointing to a separate double trail, one approaching and another leading away from the fountain, that went round the side of the building where the Elliards lived. It was the spot where I had heard the unknown intruder a week before.
Barak bent to study the footprints. ‘Look how deep the ones leading to the fountain are. Deeper than the ones returning. Like he was carrying something heavy.’
‘I heard someone there on New Year’s Night,’ I breathed. ‘He got over the wall—’
‘Let’s follow the prints.’
‘I have to tell Dorothy—’
‘These will melt soon.’ In truth the morning sun had brought the first real warmth of spring; I could hear meltwater dripping from the eaves. I hesitated, then followed Barak round the side of the building.
‘They look like prints of a man of ordinary size,’ Barak said.
‘Bigger than Roger, anyway.’
The footprints went up to the wall, then turned sharply right. They ended at a heavy wooden door. ‘He got through here,’ Barak said.
‘He came over the wall last time. If it was him the other night.’
‘He wasn’t carrying a body then.’ Barak tried the gate. ‘It’s locked,’ he said.
‘Only the barristers have keys. The orchard is on the other side, then Lincoln’s Inn Fields. I’ve got a key, but it’s in chambers.’
‘Help me up,’ Barak said. I made a stirrup of my hands and Barak climbed up, resting his elbows on top of the wall. ‘The footsteps go on into the orchard,’ he said. He jumped down. ‘He carried poor Master Elliard in from the orchard? Jesu, he must be strong. Tell me which drawer the key’s in and I’ll run and get it.’
I hesitated. ‘I should go back. It should be me that tells Dorothy. The fountain is visible from her window—’
‘I’ll go by myself. But I must go now, before the footprints melt.’
‘You don’t know what you may find at the other end,’ I cautioned.
‘He’s long gone. But I’ll follow the footsteps as far as they go. We need to find out all we can. You know as well as I that if a murderer is not taken quickly, he is often never found.’ He took a deep breath. ‘And this is no normal killing, done for money or lust. The killer knocked him unconscious then carried him into Lincoln’s Inn and put him in the fountain. He was still alive when his throat was cut or he wouldn’t have bled. He must have knocked him out hard enough to keep him unconscious for a good time but not hard enough to kill him. That’s very chancy. What if he had woken and started struggling? It looks like some sort of awful vengeance.’
‘Roger hadn’t an enemy in the world. Was it another barrister? Only a member of Lincoln’s Inn would have a key to that door.’
‘We should go now, sir.’ Barak looked at me seriously. ‘If you are to tell the lady.’
I nodded, biting my lip. Barak squeezed my arm, an unexpected gesture, then began running back to Gatehouse Court. I followed more slowly. As I rounded the corner I heard a
woman’s scream. I felt a violent shiver down my spine as I started to run.
I was too late. In the middle of the growing crowd around the fountain, Dorothy, dressed in a nightgown, was kneeling on the wet ground by her husband’s body, wailing piteously, a howl of utter desolation. My coat had been removed from Roger’s head; she had seen that awful face. She wailed again.
I RAN TO HER, knelt and grasped her by the shoulders. Under the thin material her skin was cold. She lifted her face to me; she looked utterly stricken, her eyes wide, mouth hanging open, her brown hair wildly disordered.
‘Matthew?’ she choked.
‘Yes. Dorothy - oh, you should not have come out, they should not have let you see . . .’ I glared accusingly at the crowd. People shuffled their feet, looking embarrassed.
‘I could not stop her,’ Treasurer Rowland said stiffly.
‘You could have tried!’
‘That is no way to talk to me—’
‘Shut up,’ I snapped, anger bursting out again. The Treasurer’s mouth fell open. I lifted Dorothy up. As soon as she stood she began trembling. ‘Come inside, Dorothy, come—’
‘No!’ She fought me, trying to break loose. ‘I cannot leave Roger lying there.’ Her voice rose again.
‘We must,’ I said soothingly. ‘For the coroner.’
‘Who - killed him?’ She stared at me, as though trying to seize hold of something to make sense of the horror around her.
‘We will find out. Now come inside. Treasurer Rowland will ensure no one does anything disrespectful. Will you not, sir?’
‘Yes, of course.’ The old man actually looked sheepish. Dorothy allowed me to lead her inside, where Roger’s clerk, Bartlett, stood in his office doorway, looking shocked. He was a conscientious middle-aged man who had come with Roger from Bristol.
‘Sir?’ he asked in a whisper. ‘What - what has happened? They say the master is murdered.’
‘I fear so. Listen, I will come down to you later and see what should be done with his work.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Dorothy was staring at Bartlett as though she had never seen him before. Again I took hold of her arms, leading her gently up the wide staircase to their rooms. Old Elias stood in the open doorway, half dressed, his white hair standing on end. A young maid in a white apron and coif stood beside him.
‘Oh, my lady,’ the maid said in an Irish accent. She turned her tearful face to me. ‘She had just got up, sir, she must have gone through to the front and looked from the window. She screamed and ran out and—’
‘All right.’ I studied the girl. She was plump and dark-haired. She seemed sensible, and genuinely upset for her mistress. Dorothy would have to rely on her much in the days to come. ‘What is your name?’ I asked.
‘Margaret, sir.’
‘Do you have some strong wine, Margaret?’
‘I’ve some aqua vitae sir. I’ll get it. Sir - out there - is it truly the master?’
‘Yes, I am afraid it is. Now please, get the aqua vitae. And fetch your mistress a thicker gown. She must not get cold.’
I led Dorothy into the parlour and sat her in a chair before the fire. I looked round, remembering my pleasant evening there a week before. Dorothy sat trembling. She had passed, I realized, from horror to shock.
The maid returned, draped a warm gown round Dorothy’s shoulders and passed her a glass of spirits, but Dorothy’s hand trembled so much I took it from her fingers.
‘Stay,’ I said to Margaret. ‘In case she needs anything.’
‘The poor master . . .’ Margaret brought a stool to her mistress’s side and sat on it heavily, herself shocked.
‘Come,’ I said gently to Dorothy. ‘Drink this, it will help you.’ She did not resist as I held the glass to her lips, helping her drink as though she was a child. Her face was pale, her plump cheeks sagging. I had told her at the banquet that she looked years younger than her age. Now she was suddenly haggard and old. I wondered with sorrow if her warm, impish smile would ever return.
Her face grew pink from the spirit and she seemed to come slowly back to herself, though she still trembled.
‘Matthew,’ she said quietly. ‘They said you found Roger.’
‘Some students did. I came on them, helped them lift the body out.’
‘I came into the parlour and heard a noise outside.’ She frowned, as though remembering something from a long time ago. ‘I saw the fountain all red, the people standing there, and I thought, what on earth has happened? Then I saw the body on the ground. I knew it was Roger. I recognized his boots. His old leather boots.’ She gulped and I thought she would start crying but instead she looked at me with eyes full of anger.
‘Who did this?’ she asked. ‘Who did this cruel wicked thing? And why?’
‘I do not know. Dorothy, where was Roger yesterday evening?’
‘He - he was out. His new pro bono client.’
‘The same client he went to see on Thursday? When I left him after we had visited Dr Malton he said he was going to see a pro bono client. He said he had had a letter about the case.’
‘Yes, yes.’ She gulped. ‘It came on Tuesday, from some solicitor. Yes. I remember. A man called Nantwich.’
‘Did Roger say where he was writing from?’
‘Somewhere by Newgate, I think. You know those jobbing solicitors, half of them haven’t even got proper offices. He had heard Roger did free work for poor people. He asked if Roger could meet his client at a tavern in Wych Street on Thursday evening, as the man worked during the day.’
‘Did you see the letter?’
‘I did not ask to. I thought it odd, asking to meet in a tavern, but Roger was curious about it, and you know how good-natured he is.’ She stopped dead and gave a sobbing gasp. For a second, talking, she had forgotten Roger was dead and the horror hit her with renewed force. She stared at me wildly. I clutched her hand. It felt cold.
‘Dorothy. I am so sorry. But I must ask. What happened at the meeting?’
‘Nothing. The man never turned up. But then another letter arrived, pushed through the door on Good Friday, apologizing that the client had not been able to get to the tavern and asking Roger to meet him yesterday night, at the same place. I did not see that letter either,’ she added in a small voice.
‘And Roger went, of course.’ I smiled sadly. ‘I would not have done.’ Something struck me. ‘It was cold last night. He would have worn a coat.’
‘Yes. He did.’
‘Then where is it?’ I frowned.
‘I do not know.’ Dorothy was silent for a moment, then went on. ‘I was surprised when it got to ten o’clock and he had not returned. But you know how he would get caught up in something and stay talking for hours.’ Would, not will. It had sunk in properly now. ‘I was tired, I went to bed early. I expected him to come in. But I drifted off to sleep. I woke in the small hours, and when he wasn’t beside me I thought he had bedded down in the other bedroom. He does that if he comes in late, so as not to disturb me. And all the time—’ She broke down then, burying her head in her hands and sobbing loudly. I tried to think. The client had asked to meet Roger at Wych Street, on the other side of Lincoln’s Inn Fields. The easiest way to get there was to go through the orchard. So he would have taken his key to the orchard door. But why had the man not turned up on Thursday? My heart sank at the thought that Roger, like any barrister, would have taken his letter of instruction with him. There was little chance it would have been left on the body, and the coat he would have worn was gone. But at least we had the name, Nantwich. An uncommon one.
I looked at Dorothy, my heart full of pity. Her sobs ceased. She glanced at me and I saw an anger in her eyes that reflected my own.
‘Who has done this?’ she asked quietly. ‘Roger did not have an enemy in the world. Who is this devil?’
‘I will see him caught, Dorothy. I promise you.’
‘You will make sure?’
‘I will. On my oath.’
She s
crabbled for my hand, gripped it fiercely. ‘You must help me with things now, Matthew. Please. I am alone.’
‘I will.’
Her face crumpled suddenly. ‘Oh, Roger!’ And then the tears came again, great racking sobs. Margaret put an arm round her mistress, while I held her hand. We were still there, like some pitiful tableau, when Elias came in to say the coroner was below, and must see me at once.
ARCHIBALD BROWNE, the Middlesex coroner, was an old man and a sour one. He was one of the old corrupt breed, who would leave a body lying stinking in the street for days till someone paid them to hold an inquest, not one of the more competent paid officials the Tudors had brought in. Small, bald and squat, his round face was pitted with smallpox scars. When I came out he was standing beside the Treasurer, arms in the pockets of his thick coat, looking down at Roger’s body. Passers-by stopping to stare were being moved on with curt gestures from Treasurer Rowland. I saw the sun had melted most of the snow now. I wondered wearily where Barak was.
Rowland gestured to me. ‘This is Brother Matthew Shardlake,’ he told Browne. ‘He had the constable roused.’
‘I hope I’ll get more sense out of him than those two lads.’ Coroner Browne grunted. He turned bleary eyes on me. ‘You’ve spoken with the widow?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How is she?’
‘Weeping,’ I said shortly.
‘I’ll have to question her. You can come with me if you know her. Now, tell me what in Jesu’s name has happened.’
I told him about finding Roger’s body, about Barak following the footprints and what Dorothy had told me about the strange client.
‘Nantwich?’ Treasurer Rowland frowned. ‘I’ve never heard of him. I thought I knew most of the solicitors.’
Browne’s eyes narrowed as he studied me. ‘Shardlake, I know that name.’ He grinned. ‘You’re the Lincoln’s Inn man the King made mock of at York a couple of years ago, aren’t you? I recognize the description.’
Of a hunchback, I thought. That story would haunt me, I knew, till I died. ‘We need to find out who Roger was meeting,’ I said coldly.
