by C. J. Sansom
'Justice may be tempered with mercy,' I ventured. 'That is an important principle, in earthly law at least.'
Broughton nodded, but did not speak again as he led us outside. 'What time should I come on Monday?' he asked as we parted at the church door.
'The hearing is set for ten, the Court of Wards at Westminster. If you could come early.'
Broughton bowed and returned to the dim interior of the church. As we walked through the lych gate Barak turned to me. 'Justice? He won't see that in the Court of Wards.' He gave a bitter laugh. 'Only harsh judgement, like he says God gives.'
'If Michael Calfhill deserves to be in Hell, perhaps even the Court of Wards' judgement is better than God's. Come, let's change the subject. We are talking heresy in the street.'
* * *
MICHAEL CALFHILL'S lodgings lay at the other end of the city, in the warren of streets down by the river. The afternoon was well on as we turned into a narrow alley, where high old dwellings with overhanging eaves had been converted into lodging houses, old paint flaking onto the muddy ground. Chickens rooted in the dust. At a tavern on the corner a group of seven or eight apprentices in their late teens, many with swords at the belts of their blue robes, gave us hostile looks. The tallest, a fair-haired, heavy-set lad, fixed me with a hard stare. Perhaps he thought my lawyer's robe the uniform of a French spy. Barak put a hand to his own sword and the boy turned away.
Barak knocked on an unpainted wooden door. It was answered by a pretty young woman, an apron over her cheap wool dress. She smiled at him in recognition before giving me a deep curtsey. This must be Michael's downstairs neighbour; I guessed Barak had charmed her.
'I've brought Master Shardlake, Sally,' he said lightly. 'The lawyer that has an interest in poor Michael's affairs. Did Constable Harman give you the key?'
'Yes, sir. Come in.'
We followed her into a damp hallway, through an inner door into her lodging, a small room with dirty rushes on the floor, a table and a bed. An old iron key lay on the table. There was no glass in the windows, and the slats in the shutters were open. I saw the apprentices watching the house. Sally followed my gaze. 'They've been hanging around there for days,' she said. 'I wish they'd go away.'
'What guild are they from?' I asked. 'Their masters should keep them under better control.'
'I don't know. A lot of apprentices have lost their places with goods so dear. My husband worked as a messenger for the German traders at the Steelyard, but there's no trade now with ships being impounded everywhere. He's out looking for work.' Her face was weary.
Barak picked up the key. 'Can we have a look?'
'Yes. Poor Michael,' she added sadly.
I followed Barak up a flight of narrow stairs. He turned the key in the lock of a battered door at the back of the house. It creaked open. The shutters on the little window were closed, only dim shapes visible. Barak pulled them open. I saw the room was small, patches of damp on the walls. There was a narrow straw bed, a pillow with a torn sheet splayed across it. An old chest beside the bed was open, revealing an untidy heap of clothes. The only other furniture was a scarred table and a chair that lay overturned on the floor. A quill and a dusty, dried-up inkpot stood on the table. Looking up, I saw a strip of white sheet knotted to the roof beam, the end cut.
'Christ's wounds,' I said. 'It's been left as it was when he was cut down.'
'Maybe the coroner ordered it kept as it was for the jury's inspection.'
'Then forgot to tell the landlord he could clear it. That sounds like Coroner Grice.' I stared around the miserable room where Michael had spent his last days. Barak went to the chest and started searching the contents. 'There's only clothes here,' he said. 'Clothes and a few books. A plate and spoon wrapped up in a cloth.'
'Let me see.' I looked at the books—Latin and Greek classics, a tutor's books. There was also a copy of Roger Ascham's Toxophilus, his treatise on archery that the Queen told me the Lady Elizabeth was reading. I said, 'They should have taken all these things as exhibits.'
'The coroner was only here five minutes.' Sally was standing in the doorway. She looked around the room sadly. 'Isn't that why you're here, sir, to question the careless way the coroner handled matters?'
'Yes, that's right,' Barak said before I could reply. Sally looked round the room. 'It's just as I saw it that night. Constable Harman forced the door open, then he cried out. Samuel ran up to see what was happening and I followed.' She stared bleakly at the strip of linen hanging from the beam. 'Poor Master Calfhill. I've seen a hanging, sir, and I saw from his face he'd strangled slowly, not broken his neck.' She crossed herself.
'What was he wearing?'
She looked at me in surprise. 'Just a jerkin and hose.'
'Was he carrying anything at his belt? They would have exhibited it at the inquest.'
'Only a purse, sir, with a few coins, and a little gold cross his mother recognized as his at the inquest. Poor old woman.'
'No dagger?'
'No, sir. Samuel and I noticed he never wore one.' She smiled sadly. 'We thought him foolish. Master Calfhill didn't understand how rough it can be down here.'
I looked at Barak. 'So what did he use to cut up the sheet to hang himself?' Turning back to Sally, I asked, 'Did they say anything about that at the inquest?'
She smiled sadly. 'No, sir. The coroner just seemed to want to get through everything quickly.'
'I see.' I looked at the roof-beam again. 'What was Michael like, Sally?'
'Samuel and I used to jest that he lived in a world of his own. Walking about in fine clothes, which isn't really safe round here. I would have thought he could have afforded better lodgings. But he didn't seem to care about the dirt or the rats. He seemed lost in thought most of the time.' She paused, then added, 'Not happy thoughts. We used to wonder if he was one of those whose minds are perplexed about religion. Samuel and I just worship the way the King commands,' she added quickly.
'The constable told me he had some trouble with the corner boys,' Barak said. 'Was it the ones outside?'
She shook her head. 'I didn't hear that. It can't have been them. Those boys have only been there these last few days.'
'One question more,' I said. It was something no one had mentioned so far. 'What did Michael Calfhill look like?'
She thought. 'He was small, thin, with a comely face and brown hair. It was starting to recede though I doubt he was thirty.'
'Thank you. Here, for your trouble in helping us—'
She hesitated, but took the coin. She curtsied and left, closing the door behind her. Barak had gone over to the window. 'Come and look at this,' he said.
I went over. Directly underneath was the sloping roof of an outhouse, covered with mossy tiles, above a small yard. 'Someone could have climbed up there easily,' Barak said. 'I could get up, even now with all my easy living.' He patted his stomach.
I looked out. From here I could see the river, busy as ever with barges carrying equipment down to the sea. 'There are no tiles off the roof,' I said. 'They look old, someone climbing up would surely have dislodged a few.' I turned back to the room, looked up at the beam. 'If someone climbed up into the room and grabbed him in bed, there would have been a struggle.'
'Not if they knocked him out as he slept, then strung him up.'
'That would have left a mark on his head. The jury would have seen it at the viewing of the body.'
'Not if it was above the hairline, and they didn't look hard.'
I considered carefully. 'Remember what this case is about. The management of some lands down in Hampshire, maybe a fee for marrying off Hugh Curteys. In three years the boy will reach his majority and the lands will be his. Would Nicholas Hobbey order Michael killed just to protect that? When he could hang for it? A man with status and a family?'
'Maybe Michael discovered something Hobbey would hang for anyway.'
'Like what?'
'What about the missing knife?'
'It could have been lost or stolen
in that shambles Grice calls the coroner's office.' I smiled. 'Come, have we not become too ready to see murder everywhere after all we have seen these last few years? And remember, the suicide note was in Michael's hand.'
'I still think there's a smell of bad fish here.'
'There's certainly a smell of rats. Look at those droppings in the corner.'
'Why would Michael leave his mother's house and come to a dog hole like this?'
I considered this. 'I don't know. But I see nothing here pointing to murder, except the absence of the knife, and that could easily have been lost. What we must do now is concentrate on Monday's hearing.' I took a last look round the miserable room, and the thought crossed my mind that Michael might have been punishing himself in some way by leaving his mother. But for what? My eye went to the strip of cloth again, and I shuddered. 'Come,' I said to Barak, 'let's get out of here.'
'Do you mind if I talk to the constable again?' he asked as we descended the stairs. 'I know where he'll be, in the tavern I took him to before. It's a few streets away. Maybe he will remember about the knife.'
'Won't Tamasin be waiting for you?'
'I shan't be long.'
* * *
WE RETURNED the key to Sally and left the house. It was dusk now; looking down between the houses I saw the river shining red in the setting sun. The corner boys had gone.
'Can you prepare a draft deposition and take it to Broughton this evening?' I asked Barak. 'Then come to chambers tomorrow at nine. Mistress Calfhill is coming in.'
'All right.' He took a deep breath. 'Will you let me know when you get word from Carver?'
'At once.'
Barak went down towards the river, while I turned for home. As I walked along, I thought again about Michael's death. Barak had a nose for foul play.
I passed a dark alley, then jerked upright at a sudden rush of footsteps behind me. I turned quickly but got only a glimpse of young faces and blue robes, before a bag stinking of old vegetables was put over my head. Several pairs of hands seized me, hauling me into the alley. Robbers; like Michael I had carelessly advertised my wealth.
My back was slammed up against a stone wall. Then to my horror I felt hands around my neck, lifting me off the ground. My arms were held firm; my legs kicked helplessly against the stone. I was strangling, hanging. Then a hard youthful voice spoke into my ear.
'Listen to me carefully, master hunchback.'
I gasped, gagged. Little red flashes began to appear in the pitch darkness inside the bag.
'We could have you dead in a minute,' the voice continued. 'Remember that and listen hard. You drop this case, you forget about it. There's people who don't want this matter taken further. Now, tell me you understand.' The pressure at my neck eased, though other hands still gripped my arms hard.
I coughed, managed to gasp a yes.
The hands released me, and I dropped to the muddy ground in a heap, the bag still over my head. By the time I clawed it off they had gone. I lay in the dark alley, taking great sucking breaths to get some air back into my lungs. Then I leaned over and was violently sick.
Chapter Eight
I MADE MY WAY home painfully, pausing occasionally for I felt dizzy. By the time I stumbled through my front door my neck was so swollen it was painful to swallow. I went up to Guy's room. When he answered the door I could scarcely speak, my voice a croak. He made me lie down and applied a poultice, which brought some small relief. I told him I had been robbed, and he gave me a sharp look when he saw my purse was still at my belt; I felt guilty, but I had decided to keep what had happened to myself for now.
Guy told me to lie down and rest, but a short time later there was a knock at my door. Coldiron looked at me curiously as he told me I had a late visitor, Alderman Carver. I told him to show Carver into the parlour. Wearily, I went downstairs.
The set of Carver's plump face told me he had brought no good news. He, too, stared at my neck. 'Forgive my voice, sir,' I croaked. 'I was attacked earlier. Robbers.'
Carver shook his head. 'There are more and more robberies with so many constables away at the war. The times are mad. And I fear I have been unable to get a release for your man Barak.'
'But his wife—'
'I have spoken to Mayor Laxton and he has talked to Goodryke. But he is adamant he wants Barak. He has the bit truly between his teeth; Barak must have sorely annoyed him. Says the King has ordered sharp dealing with impertinence. Laxton said we could appeal to the Privy Council, but they are under orders from the King to veto any softness.'
'And I can't plead for the Queen to intervene with the King. My name has no favour with him.'
'His worship suggested one possible way forward.' Carver raised his eyebrows. 'Deal with the matter by stealth. Perhaps Barak could disappear somewhere for a while. He'll get orders very soon for swearing in.'
'He has already.'
'If he doesn't turn up, it's the council that would be asked to send constables to find him. Well—' he gave a politician's calculating smile—'they need not try too hard. And if he is gone, well . . .'
'But where? Neither Barak nor his wife have any relatives alive. I have some in the Midlands, but Tamasin is seven months gone with child, she could not travel. And what if they come after him later for desertion? It's a capital offence.'
'Goodryke himself will be gone to the wars soon, surely.' Carver spread his plump, beringed hands. 'I can do no more, sir.'
'I understand. I will have to talk to Barak. Thank you for what you have done, sir, I am grateful.' I hesitated, then added, 'I wonder if I could impose on you further for some information. In connection with a case. You have sat on the Common Council many years.'
'Indeed. Near twenty.' Carver's plump figure swelled with pride.
'I hear the council has been negotiating with the King to take over the Bedlam.'
'For some time. We are trying to get the King to fund hospitals under the city's control; taking over the Bedlam would be part of the scheme.'
'The wardenship has been in the King's gift many years. I know Sir George Metwys holds it now. I know George Boleyn held the wardenship before, till his execution. Might you remember who held it before him? I need to go back to 1526.'
Carver thought. 'I believe it was Sir John Howard. I remember now, he died in office.'
So that connection to Ellen was gone. But any secret arrangements would have been passed on to subsequent wardens. 'One more thing, Alderman. Do you remember a man who was in the Mercers' Guild some years ago? Nicholas Hobbey.'
He nodded slowly. 'Yes, I remember Master Hobbey. He worked his way up as an apprentice and set himself up in a small way of business. He did not involve himself much in Guild matters, though, his great interest was making money. He involved himself in importing dyestuffs, I remember, and his business suffered when the King broke from Rome and exports from the continent were embargoed. He closed his business and retired to the country.'
'I heard a rumour he was in debt about the time he moved.'
'I seem to remember people saying that.' Carver looked at me sharply. 'Sir, I should not really give you information on Guild members—'
'I am sorry, perhaps I should not have asked. But I am acting for the orphan son of another Guild member, who died some years ago and is now Master Hobbey's ward. John Curteys.'
Carver nodded sadly. 'I remember Master Curteys. A pleasant fellow, though a little stiff in religion. I did not know him well.'
'Well, sir, I thank you for your help.' I smiled. 'I will not forget my promise about a donation to the Guild.' I coughed and rose. 'Forgive me, but I should get back to bed.'
Carver stood and bowed. 'Take care of yourself, sir.' He shook his head. 'These times—'
* * *
NEXT MORNING I walked to work slowly and painfully, for my neck and throat still hurt. As I crossed Gatehouse Court I nodded to a couple of acquaintances, who fortunately were at a sufficient distance not to see the raw bruised flesh above my collar.
From my window I saw Barak striding across Gatehouse Court. I thought again how he was putting on weight. He knocked at my door and entered, then stared at my neck. 'God's nails! What happened to you?'
I told him in my still creaky voice. 'It's worse than it looks,' I concluded.
'Jesus. Who were they? Those lads hanging around outside Michael's house?'
'I didn't see. They made sure of that, jumping me from behind.'
'Is this Hobbey's work?'
'I don't know. Someone must have paid them well. Though there was little enough risk, there's no law left on the streets.'
Barak said, 'I wonder if Hobbey is in London.'
'If he isn't he has had no time to organize this. I only went on the court record two days ago.'
'What about Dyrick? He'll have been notified you're acting.'
'I doubt a barrister would risk his career by getting involved in something like this. Though it's not impossible.'
'When would he have got the papers saying you were on the record?'
I considered. 'Yesterday morning, I would guess. Whoever it was, they organized it fast.'
Barak looked at me keenly. 'Do you think the little arseholes meant to kill you?'
'They weren't so little. But no, I doubt it. Just to scare me off.'
'I still think someone could have killed Michael Calfhill.' Barak fixed me with his brown eyes. 'You shouldn't go to Portsmouth,' he said intently. 'Certainly not alone.'
'I agree. I have decided to talk to the Queen. I sent a message to Warner yesterday evening. She will find someone to travel with me if she thinks I should go.'
'So you'll still go if she wants you to.'
'I don't like a bunch of bluecoats trying to intimidate me.'
'Mistress Calfhill is due soon. Will you tell her what happened to you?'
'No. It would only frighten her without good cause. I'll see her, then I'll go down to the Temple and see Brother Dyrick. I sent a message last night.'
