by C. J. Sansom
‘wickedness before.’
‘It preys on me, too. I have seen many men - too many - killed for political reasons. But this is different. I sense this man enjoys what he does.’
‘I think that is so.’
‘How could someone possibly do such things and believe they are carrying out God’s will?’ Cranmer burst out with sudden emotion. ‘Is it some blasphemous mockery of religion, inspired directly by the devil? Gregory Harsnet believes so.’
‘I do not know, my lord. I try not to think too hard on that.’
‘Fire,’ he said quietly. ‘It is a terrible way to die. The heretics I have pleaded with, begged with to recant, I frightened them by telling them of the skin shrivelling, the fat melting, the hissing and crackling.’ He closed his eyes and sighed. ‘I would have saved them if I could, but the King is always adamant for the harshest punishments. Once it was Catholics he thought to persecute, but he is returning more and more to the old ideas in religion. A Catholicism without the Pope. And he gets harder to persuade each year.’ He shook his head, closed his eyes for a moment, then gave me a sudden piercing look. ‘Can you bear this?’ he asked.
‘Yes, my lord. I have sworn to avenge my poor friend. I will hold to that. I will find courage.’
He smiled wryly. ‘Then so must I. Catherine Parr still holds out, you know, she will not give the King an answer. She is frightened, poor woman, hardly surprising given it is scarce a year since Catherine Howard went to the block. Yet I must urge her friends to persuade her to yield, for the influence she could have on the King.’
‘She will be in danger.’
‘Yes.’ He nodded firmly. ‘That is what we must all face, for the sake of Jesus’ truth. He endured the worst horror of all, for us.’ The Archbishop sat silent a moment longer; frightened, sad, compassionate, yet implacable. Then he bade me go. ‘Solve this. Find him.’
BARAK AND HARSNET were waiting for me in the corridor. Harsnet was pacing up and down, frowning. Barak sat on a chair, one leg jigging nervously. He looked impatient, angry, frightened. Harsnet looked at me curiously. ‘He wanted a few words about the murders,’ I said. ‘They disturb him.’
‘Does he too feel the devil is in this?’
‘He does not know, nor do I. It is not a speculation that can profit us,’ I added sharply. I turned to Barak. ‘Come, we are going to Yarington’s house.’
We went outside, where a couple of the palace guards joined us: big men in helmets with swords at their waists, for the Archbishop’s palace needed guarding as much as that of any other great man of state. We went down to the pier and took the Archbishop’s barge back to town, then walked up to Yarington’s church through the city; dark and silent now, for it was past curfew, the constables raising their lanterns in the faces of late travellers. They bowed when they saw our fine clothes and the uniformed guards.
‘I was scared shitless when I saw that man burning,’ Barak said. ‘That poor bastard burning like a candle, for a minute I really thought he’d been set alight by some supernatural power.’
‘It was fish oil,’ I said brusquely. ‘This stuff about devilry does not help us.’
We reached the church, silent and empty now, the windows blank and dark. We walked a little way until we found a fine rectory, set in a well-kept little garden. Harsnet banged loudly on the door. Flickers of light appeared at a window as someone lit a candle, and a man’s voice called ‘Who is it?’ through the door in a scared voice.
‘We come on Archbishop Cranmer’s business,’ Harsnet answered. There was the sound of bolts being drawn back, and the door opened to reveal a small, elderly fellow, his scant grey hair disordered and his nightshirt tucked hastily into his breeches. His eyes widened with fear at the sight of the guards.
‘Is it the master?’ he asked. ‘Oh, God, he hasn’t been arrested?’
‘It’s not that. You men, stay outside,’ Harsnet told the guards, then walked past the old man into a little hallway, doors and a staircase leading off. I followed. ‘Are you his servant?’
‘His steward, sir. Toby White. What has—’
‘Why should he be arrested?’ Harsnet asked sharply.
‘They say Bonner will arrest all godly men,’ he answered, a little too quickly I thought. I did not like the steward; he had a mean look.
‘Who else lives here?’
The servant hesitated then, eyes darting rapidly between me and Harsnet. ‘Only the boy, and he’s abed in the stable.’
‘I am afraid I have bad news, Goodman White,’ Harsnet said. ‘Your master died this evening.’
The old man’s eyes widened. ‘Died? I didn’t know where he was, I was starting to worry, but - dead?’ He stared at us incredulously.
‘He was murdered,’ Harsnet said. The steward’s eyes widened. ‘When did you last see him?’
‘He had a message late yesterday afternoon. A letter. He said he had to go and see a fellow cleric. He didn’t say where. I thought he must have stayed overnight.’
‘What happened to the letter?’
‘Master took it with him.’
Harsnet looked at me. ‘Like Dr Gurney and your friend.’ He turned back to the trembling servant. ‘You knew he was going to the reopening of the church tonight?’
‘Yes, sir. I thought perhaps he’d gone straight there.’
Harsnet stood silent a moment, thinking. I saw the servant glance quickly at the staircase, then away again.
‘Perhaps we should look over the house,’ I said.
‘There’s nobody here,’ the servant said, too quickly. ‘Just me.’
‘If your master had forbidden books,’ I said, ‘we do not care about that.’
‘No, but—’
Harsnet looked at him suspiciously. ‘Give me that candle,’ he said firmly. The old man hesitated, then handed it over. ‘Stay here,’ Harsnet told him. ‘Barak, keep an eye on him.’ The coroner inclined his head to me, and I followed him up the stairs.
THE FIRST ROOM we looked into was a study, well-thumbed books lying among papers and quills on a big desk. I picked one up, peering at it to try to make out the title. Institutes of the Christian Religion, by John Calvin. I had heard of him: one of the most radical and uncompromising of the new generation of continental reformers.
Harsnet held up a hand. ‘I heard something,’ he whispered. He pointed across the corridor to another door, then marched across and threw it open. A shrill scream came from within.
It was a bedroom, dominated by a comfortable feather bed. A woman lay there, naked; a girl, rather, for she was still in her teens, smooth-skinned and blonde-haired. She grabbed the blankets and pulled them up to her neck. ‘Help!’ she shouted. ‘Robbers!’
‘Quiet!’ Harsnet snapped. ‘I am the King’s assistant coroner. Who are you?’
She stared at us with wide eyes, but did not reply.
‘Are you Yarington’s whore?’ There was anger in his voice.
‘What is your name, girl,’ I asked quietly.
‘Abigail, sir, Abigail Day.’
‘And are you the minister’s woman? There is no point in lying.’
She reddened and nodded. Harsnet’s face twisted in disgust. ‘You seduced a man of God.’
A look of defiance came into the girl’s face. ‘It wasn’t me did the seducing.’
‘Don’t you bandy words with me! A creature like you in a minister’s bed. Do you not fear for your soul? And his?’ Harsnet was shouting now, his face filled with anger. I had grown to respect and almost like the coroner these last few days but the terrible events of the evening were bringing out another side of him: the hard, implacable man of faith.
The girl made a spirited reply, her own fear turning to anger. ‘Keeping body and soul together’s been all I’ve worried about since my father was hanged,’ she answered fiercely. ‘For stealing a gentleman’s purse.’ There was bitter contempt in her voice. ‘It killed my mother.’
Harsnet was unaffected. ‘How long have you been here?’
he snapped.
‘Four months.’
‘Where did Yarington pick you up?’
She hesitated before answering. ‘I was in a house down in Southwark where he used to come. We get many ministers down there,’ she added boldly.
‘They are weak men, and you tempt them to fall.’ Harsnet’s voice shook with anger and contempt.
This was wasting time. ‘Did you ever hear of a whore called Welsh Elizabeth?’ I asked her.
‘No, sir.’ She looked from one to the other of us, frightened again. ‘Why, sir, why?’
‘Your master is dead,’ Harsnet said bluntly. ‘He was murdered, earlier tonight.’
Abigail’s mouth opened wide. ‘Murdered?’
He nodded. ‘Get some clothes on. I’m taking you to the Archbishop’s prison. There’ll be some more questions. Nobody will miss you,’ he added brutally. ‘And after this you’ll find yourself whipped at the cart’s tail as a whore, if I have anything to do with it.’
‘It’s only some questions about your master,’ I said as the wretched girl began to cry. ‘Come, pull yourself together and get dressed. We shall be downstairs.’ I took Harsnet’s arm and led him out.
Outside, he shook his head sorrowfully. ‘The snares the devil sets to pull us down,’ he said.
‘Men are men,’ I answered impatiently. ‘And always will be.’
‘You are a cynic, Master Shardlake. A man of weak faith. A Laodicean.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘That phrase comes from Revelation.’
Harsnet blinked, frowned, then raised a hand. ‘I am sorry. I am - affected by what we saw tonight. But do you realize, if Yarington hadn’t been keeping that whore he wouldn’t have died tonight? He was killed for his hypocrisy, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes. I think he was.’
Harsnet closed his eyes wearily, then looked at me. ‘Why did you ask about Welsh Elizabeth?’
‘That was what the cottar Tupholme’s woman was called. I wondered if the killer might have got his information through a whorehouse. About the two carnal sinners punished with death,’ I added. ‘It’s clear now that Yarington did fit the pattern.’
‘Yes he did.’ Harsnet’s face set hard. ‘I’ll find out what house she was at.’
‘Be gentle with her, please. Nothing will be served by harshness here.’
He grunted. ‘We’ll see.’
THE STEWARD TOBY was sitting in the kitchen, together with a scared-looking boy of around ten, ragged and smelling of the stables, with dirty brown feet. He stared at us, wide-eyed, from under a mop of brown hair.
‘Who is this?’ Harsnet asked.
‘Timothy, sir, the stable boy,’ Toby said. ‘Stand up for your betters, you silly little shit.’ The boy stood, his legs trembling.
‘Leave us, boy,’ Harsnet said. The child turned and scurried out.
‘Well,’ Harsnet said sarcastically. ‘So much for there being nobody at home.’
‘He paid me well for keeping her presence quiet,’ Toby said, his voice surly.
‘You connived at sin.’
‘Everyone sins.’
‘Who else knew?’ I asked.
‘No one.’
‘People must have seen the girl coming in and out,’ I said.
Toby shook his head. ‘He only let her go abroad after dark. It was easy enough in the winter, she didn’t want to go out anyway in the snow and ice. I wondered how he’d keep her secret now the days were getting longer, and spring coming. He’d probably have kicked her out soon.’ He smiled sardonically, showing yellow stumps of teeth. ‘He had a good excuse to keep folk away, his precious copies of Luther and that new one, Calvin.’
‘How long were you with your master?’ Barak asked.
‘Five years.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I was paid to be a loyal servant, not question my master’s deeds. That’s what I did.’ He paused. ‘How did he die? Was he robbed? You can’t move in London for sturdy beggars these days.’
‘No,’ Harsnet answered noncommittally. ‘You can’t.’
Toby shook his head sadly. Yet I sensed he had had no great affection for his master.
‘So he found the girl in the stews?’ I asked.
Toby shrugged. ‘I think he went there often. Funny thing, since he brought Abigail here you’d think he’d be happier, but he only ranted against sin more and more. Bad conscience, I suppose. Religious folk are mighty strange, I say. I just go to services as the King commands.’
‘What about the boy? He must have known she was here.’
‘I told him to keep his mouth shut or he’d lose his place. He wouldn’t dare do anything - he’s an orphan and he’d end on the streets if he was kicked out of here. Master kept her well hidden. If the churchwardens had found out he’d have been defrocked.’
‘We have reason to believe whoever killed him knew he had the girl here,’ I said.
Toby sat up, alarmed. ‘I told you, I said nothing to anybody—’
‘Then who else could have known?’ Harsnet asked. ‘Who came here?’
‘If he had business to conduct he met people in the church. No one came into the house but me, I had all the cleaning of it. If I went out I left Timothy with instructions to tell callers to come back later. He’s bright enough, he knew what to do.’
Harsnet got to his feet. ‘You are coming with me, Goodman White. You and the girl can spend a night in the Lollards’ Tower, see if you remember any more. Jacobs!’ he called. One of the guards came in. Toby looked at him in fear.
‘I’ve done nothing,’ he said, his voice rising.
‘Then you’ve naught to fear,’ Harsnet replied, as the guard lifted the old man to his feet.
I rose. ‘I think I’ll question the stable boy,’ I said.
Harsnet nodded. ‘Good idea.’
I went out to a little yard at the side of the house. Candlelight winking through an open door led me to the stable. The boy sat there on an upturned bucket beside a straw mattress, leaning against the side of a big grey mare and stroking it. I saw a crude straw bed in one corner. He looked up, terrified, his dirty face stained with tear-tracks. I felt the softening I always did when faced with lonely, unhappy children.
‘Are you Timothy?’ I asked gently.
‘Yes, sir,’ he whispered. ‘Sir, Toby says Master is dead. Did a bad man kill him?’
‘I am afraid so.’
‘What is happening to Master Toby?’
‘He is going with the coroner. I would like to ask you some questions.’
‘Yes, sir?’ Soothingly as I had spoken, he still looked frightened. Hardly surprising, a group of strangers clattering in at near midnight.
‘You know about Abigail, the woman who lives here?’ I asked.
He did not reply.
‘Were you told to keep it secret? It does not matter now.’
‘Toby said Master would beat me if I ever mentioned her name. Master did hit me once, for swearing. But I wouldn’t have told, sir, she was kind to me for all Toby said she was a great sinner. Sir, what will happen to Abby? Will she be all right?’
Not if Harsnet has his way, I thought. I took a deep breath. ‘You told no one about her? You will not be punished for telling the truth.’
‘No. No, I swear I didn’t. On the Bible, sir, on the Bible if you wish. I told no one about her. I liked her being here. She was kind, sometimes this last winter she would give me pennies, let me sit by the fire indoors if Master and Toby were out, She said she knew what it was to be cold and hungry.’ His eyes filled with tears again. I guessed he had had no kindness from Yarington nor from the steward. Only from the whore.
I sensed there was something more, something he was keeping back in his fear. But if I told Harsnet of my opinion, the boy would be dragged with the others to the Archbishop’s prison. And something within me rebelled at that, I could not do it.
‘Master Shardlake!’ Harsnet’s voice called from outside, making the boy jump.
‘I must go now, Timothy,’ I said. �
�But I will come and see you tomorrow. You will be without a place now your master is dead. Toby said you have no family.’
‘No, sir.’ He sniffed. ‘I will have to go a-begging.’
‘Well, I will try to find you a place. I promise I will come again tomorrow, and we will talk more, eh? For now, close the stable door and go to sleep.’
‘I told the truth, sir,’ he said. ‘I told nobody about Abigail.’
‘Yes, I believe you.’
‘Did the constables catch the man who killed Master?’
‘No. Not yet. But they will.’
I left the stable. Outside, I bit my lip. What if he ran away? But he would not, not with the prospect of another place. He knew something, and it would be easier to find out what it was once he had got over his initial shock.
‘Master Shardlake!’ Harsnet called again impatiently from the open doorway.
‘Yes, I am coming!’ Suffer the little children, I thought bitterly.
I JOINED HARSNET, who had gone down the street and stood looking at the church with Barak.
‘How did the killer know about Yarington’s whore?’ He sighed. ‘I’ll have the girl and that servant questioned hard, but I don’t think they know anything. What about the boy?’
‘He told no one about Abigail. I said I’d come and see him again tomorrow, when he’s calmer. He will be without a place now. I told him I’d try and find him one.’
He looked at me curiously. ‘Where?’
‘I don’t know yet.’
‘I hope you can. Or if he lives he’ll grow to be another beggar starving in the streets and threatening the peace.’ He shook his head. ‘I would they could be cared for, and brought to God.’ His anger seemed to have passed.
‘My friend Roger was starting up a subscription among the lawyers for a poor men’s hospital.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘That is needed. Preachers too. The beggars are utterly devoid of the fear of God. I’ve seen that in my work.’
‘They are outcasts.’
‘So were our Lord and his disciples. But they had faith.’
‘They thought a better world was about to come.’
