Dark Fire (42 page)

‘I’m Hal.’ A burly man in his forties, with a bald head and big gnarled hands, spoke up. Keen blue eyes stared at me from his red, dirt-streaked face.

‘I wanted to talk to you about a new drink that was brought from the Baltic shores some months ago. I understand you had a part in trying to sell it.’

‘I might have done,’ he said. ‘Why is Lord Cromwell interested?’

‘Mere curiosity,’ I said. ‘He is interested in how it was made.’

‘There were others who were interested. Others who threatened me.’

‘Who?’ I asked sharply.

‘A man who called himself Toky.’ Miller spat on the floor. ‘Bold as a savage for all his poxy looks.’

‘The earl can offer you his protection,’ Barak said.

‘What was his interest in this stuff?’ I asked.

‘He wanted to buy it from us.’

‘Did he now?’

‘Ay.’ Miller sat silent a moment, then leaned forward, resting his big arms on the table. ‘Last autumn I was offered a place on a ship one of the Merchant Adventurers was
running up to the Baltic Sea. You know they’re trying to open trade up there, break the Hanseatic League’s monopoly?’ I nodded. ‘My mates told me to stay on the colliers and
I wish I had. We were three weeks crossing the North Sea and sailing up the Baltic and once we were there we daren’t stop at the German ports in case the Hanse merchants had us arrested. We
were hungry and damned cold by the time we’d sailed up to the wild parts where the Teutonic Knights rule. By Christ, it’s dismal up there. Nothing but pine forests right down to the
shore. The whole sea freezes over in winter—’

‘You made landfall?’ I asked.

‘Ay, at a place called Libau. The Polacks there were keen to trade with us. We took on a cargo of furs mainly, and some other curiosities Captain Fenchurch had never seen, like a strange
doll that you open up to find other dolls inside. And a barrel of this stuff called wodky the Poles drink. We crewmen tried a little, but the stuff burned like fire. Just a cupful made us sick as
dogs. Captain Fenchurch brought half a barrel back with him, though.’

As the soldier St John once brought another barrel back from Constantinople, I thought. ‘What happened to it?’

‘Captain Fenchurch paid us off in London. With the costs of the voyage he’d made little profit even with the furs, and he’d no plans then for another. So I went back to the
colliers. But he gave me a bottle of the Polish stuff as a keepsake and I brought it here. Remember that night, Robin?’

‘I’ll not forget it in a hurry.’ One of the others, a young fair-haired fellow, took up the tale. ‘Hal came in and told us all about the Poles, their long beards and
pointy fur hats and the dark forests, then he brought out this bottle of pale stuff and passed it round, saying it was what the Poles drank. You warned us it was strong stuff though, Hal, told us
only to take a sip.’

‘You knew better, though, Robin,’ one of the others said, laughing.

‘I thought I did,’ the fair-haired fellow replied. ‘I took a long swig at the bottle and, by Our Lady, I thought my head was going to burst. I spat the stuff straight out,
right across the table. It was winter and dark, there were candles on all the tables. The stuff hit the candle and knocked it over and then – by Jesu—’

‘What?’

‘The whole table caught light. The stuff should have put the candle out, but the whole top of the table burst into a strange blue flame. You can imagine the effect it had. Everyone jumped
up – all over the tavern people were shouting out and crossing themselves. Then the fire died as quickly as it started, leaving hardly a mark on the table. It was this very one.’ He
laid a hand on the scuffed table-top, which was indeed unmarked.

‘It was like witchcraft,’ Hal Miller said. ‘After that I threw the stuff away.’

I frowned. ‘You said this was in the winter.’

‘Ay, January. I remember we weren’t looking forward to the long voyage up the coast in the storms.’

‘When did the man Toky approach you?’

Miller’s eyes were watchful again. ‘Later that month, when we got back from Newcastle. The story had got around, see, about a foreign drink that could catch fire. He came here one
night with another, a big man. Strutted in as though he owned the place and came right up to us. His big mate was carrying an axe – half the tavern emptied at the sight of it. He said
he’d been asked to get some of this stuff, said his master would pay.’

‘Did he say who his master was?’

‘No, and we didn’t ask. He said he’d pay good money, though. He didn’t believe me at first when I said I’d chucked the bottle off Queenhithe dock. Started to get
threatening, but he went away when I gave him Captain Fenchurch’s address. I was sorry I did, but I was afraid. I enquired after Fenchurch later, from one of his servants. Fenchurch had told
the servant he’d managed to sell the barrel on and made a handsome profit.’

‘Who to?’

‘The servant knew no more. The pock-faced man, I assumed.’

‘Marchamount? Bealknap? Bryanston? Do any of those names ring any bells with you?’ I did not add Rich or Norfolk’s names, for everyone in London knew those.

‘No, sir, I’m sorry.’

‘Where does Captain Fenchurch live?’

‘On the Bishopsgate Road, but he’s abroad again. He’s taken a ship to Sweden. He asked me to join him, but I’ve had enough of these devilish places. He won’t be
back till the autumn.’

Then at least he had not been killed too. ‘Thank you, anyway.’ I nodded to Barak, who took out his purse and passed some coins to Miller. ‘If you think of anything more,’
he said, ‘you can reach me by way of the landlord.’

I led the way outside, halting a little way from the inn. The Vintry crane stood outlined against the starlit sky like the neck of a huge swan. I looked out over the dark river.

‘Stumped again,’ Barak said. ‘If only that arsehole captain hadn’t gone abroad.’

I raised a hand. ‘Think of the dates, Barak,’ I said excitedly. ‘Master Miller causes a great stir in the tavern in January. That’s three months after the Greek Fire was
found at Barty’s, but two months
before
the Gristwoods contacted Bealknap as the first step in getting to Cromwell. What were they doing in those months?’

‘Building and testing the apparatus?’

‘Yes.’

‘And trying to produce more Greek Fire, using the formula? The Polish stuff must be part of it.’ Barak looked excited.

‘Or perhaps they heard the story of the fiery liquid, and sent Toky down here to try and get some to see if it could be of use.’

‘But they must have known what they needed and what materials. They had the formula.’

‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? So Toky’s paymaster, whoever it was, was involved at a very early stage. Working
with
the Gristwoods. Months before the approach to
Cromwell.’

‘That doesn’t make sense. If he was working with the Gristwoods, why have Toky kill them?’ He stared at me. ‘Perhaps the Gristwoods went to Cromwell behind their first
sponsor’s back, perhaps they were looking for a better offer.’

‘Then why wait until two months after the approach to Cromwell to kill them? And if the person behind the killings is one of our suspects, the Gristwoods wouldn’t use any of them as
an intermediary to Cromwell.’ I raised my eyebrows. ‘I must talk to Bealknap, Barak. We need to lay hold of him.’

He gave me a serious look. ‘What if Toky’s got to him already? Shit, they got to the founder just before we did – what if Bealknap’s dead too?’

‘I’d rather not think of that. Come on, we can check at Lincoln’s Inn before we go home.’ I cast a glance back at the gloomy tavern. It was a strange place. It struck me
that it was only at night that London showed its true, sinister face.

At Lincoln’s Inn there was only a note from Godfrey to say Bealknap had not returned. His door was padlocked and next morning, when I went in again, it was still locked. His locks and the
guards at the gatehouse protected his chest of gold, but of Bealknap himself there was still no sign. And six days left now.

I
T WAS TURNING INTO
a frustrating morning. After going to Lincoln’s Inn to find no trace of Bealknap again, I had
ridden over to Guy’s, but my note was still on his door. Why could people not stay in one place, I thought as I rode to my next port of call, the house where Cromwell had sent the Gristwoods
and Kytchyn, to keep them out of sight.

The house was in a poor street near the river, with flaking paint on the doors and shutters, which were closed despite the heat of the morning. I tied up Genesis and knocked at the door. A large
man in a dun-coloured smock opened it. He stood in the doorway, eyeing me suspiciously.

‘Yes?’

‘My name is Matthew Shardlake. I had the address from Lord Cromwell.’

He relaxed. ‘Ay, sir, I had word you would be coming. Come in.’

‘How are our guests?’

He made a grimace. ‘The old monk’s not too bad, but that woman’s a termagant and her son’s crazy to get out. Any idea how long they’re to be kept here?’

‘It shouldn’t be more than a few days.’

A door opened and Goodwife Gristwood emerged. ‘Who is it, Carney?’ she asked nervously. She looked relieved when she saw it was only me. ‘Master lawyer.’

‘Ay. How are you, madam?’

‘Well enough. You can go, Carney,’ she said in a peremptory tone. The big man made a face and walked away. ‘He’s an impertinent fellow,’ Madam Gristwood said.
‘Come into our parlour, sir.’

She led me into a hot shuttered room, where her son sat at a table. He stood when I entered. ‘Good day, sir. Have you come to tell us we may go? I want to be back at my work—’

‘I am afraid there is still danger, Master Harper. A few days more.’

‘It’s for our safety, David,’ his mother said reprovingly. Goodwife Gristwood had got over her shock, it appeared, and recovered her natural character as one who would rule any
roost she landed in if she could. I smiled.

‘I would like to get back to my house, though,’ she said. ‘It has been decided David is to live with me there. He earns enough at the foundry to keep us both. Then when the
market improves we shall sell the place. We shall have money then, eh, David?’

‘Yes, Mother,’ he said obediently. I wondered how long it would be before, like Michael, he kicked against the traces.

‘Where is Master Kytchyn?’ I asked. ‘I need to see him.’

Goodwife Gristwood snorted. ‘That creeping old monk? In his room, I should think. Upstairs.’

I bowed to her. ‘Then I shall go up. I am glad you and your son are safe.’

‘Yes.’ Her face softened again for a moment. ‘Thank you, sir. You have kept faith with us.’

I mounted the stairs, oddly touched by Goodwife Gristwood’s unexpected thanks. She had not asked about Bathsheba Green, perhaps she did not care any more now she had her son. I saw that
only one door on the upper floor was closed and knocked quietly. There was silence for a moment, then Kytchyn’s voice called hesitantly, ‘Come in.’

He had been praying, I saw, for he was still rising slowly to his knees. I saw the bulge of a bandage on one arm through the thin stuff of his white cassock. His thin face was pale, drawn with
pain.

‘Master Shardlake,’ he said anxiously.

‘Master Kytchyn. How is your arm?’

He shook his head sadly. ‘I do not have the use of my fingers as I did. But at least the arm has not gone bad, I must be thankful for that.’ He sat on the bed with a sigh.

‘How do you find it here?’

He frowned. ‘I do not like that woman. She tries to rule the place. Women should not do that,’ he said definitely. I realized he had probably had few dealings with women over the
years, so Goodwife Gristwood must terrify him. How at sea in the world he was.

‘It should not be for much longer, sir.’ I smiled encouragingly. ‘There is something I would ask you.’

The scared look returned to his face. ‘About Greek Fire, sir?’

‘Yes. A question only.’

His shoulders slumped and he sighed heavily. ‘Very well.’

‘They are clearing out the graves at Barty’s now.’

‘I know. I saw that the day we met there. It is a desecration.’

‘I am told there was an old custom there that people buried in the precincts would have something personal buried with them, something that related to their lives on earth. The friars, and
the patients in the hospital too.’

‘That is true. Many times I have been at vigil for a dead brother. Before they laid him in his coffin they laid a symbol of his life on the body, carefully, reverently.’ Tears
appeared in the corners of his eyes.

‘I wondered if the old soldier, St John, might have had some of the Greek Fire buried with him.’

Kytchyn stood up, looking interested now. ‘It is possible. Yes, I suppose if the monks knew of anything that defined his life it would be that. And they would not know Richard Rich would
come and desecrate the graves,’ he added bitterly.

I nodded. ‘Then I think I should find it before Rich goes digging there. I hope there is time. He has ordered the things they find in the graves be brought to him.’

Kytchyn looked at me. ‘Ah yes. Some will be gold or silver.’

‘Yes.’ I returned his gaze. ‘Master Kytchyn, something has troubled me. The monks hid that barrel, and the formula. They knew what Greek Fire could do.’

Kytchyn nodded seriously. ‘Ay, they did. That motto.’

‘ “
Lupus est homo homini.
” Man is wolf to man. But, if they knew that, why did they keep the damned stuff? Why not destroy it? If they had, none of this trouble would
have come on any of us.’

A sad flicker of a smile crossed Kytchyn’s face. ‘Struggles between Church and State did not begin with the king’s lust for the Bullen whore, sir. There have often been –
differences.’

‘That is true.’

‘St John was at Barty’s in the days of the wars between York and Lancaster. Unstable, warlike times. I imagine the monks kept Greek Fire in case they should find themselves under
threat and could use it as a bargaining tool. We had to be politicians, sir. Monks always were. Then, when the Tudors restored stability to the land, Greek Fire was forgotten. Perhaps
deliberately.’