Lamentation (The Shardlake Series Book 6) (25 page)

‘It is good to see Josephine so happy,’ Agnes said.

I smiled at her. ‘It is.’

She hesitated, then added, ‘She has told me a little of her past. She owes you much.’

Martin appeared behind her from inside the house, moving quietly as usual. He looked down the path, where Josephine and Goodman Brown were just turning onto the roadway. A disapproving look. So the dislike between Martin and Josephine was mutual, I thought. I wondered what was behind it. Martin spoke sharply to his wife, ‘Never mind them. Have you told Master Shardlake of his visitor?’

Agnes put a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, I am sorry—’

Her husband cut across her. ‘The young lawyer gentleman who called two nights ago is come again. He still will not give his name.’ Martin frowned at the breach of etiquette. ‘I told him you would be back shortly for lunch. He is waiting in your study.’

‘Thank you.’ I went quickly inside. In the study, the slight figure of William Cecil sat in a chair, his thin face thoughtful and worried. He rose and bowed as I entered.

‘I am sorry to disturb you on the Lord’s Day, sir,’ he said quickly, ‘but there has been a serious development.’

‘You visited Greening’s friends? Lord Parr said you would.’

‘I did. But all are fled from their lodgings. They have disappeared, all three. Nobody knows where.’ He sighed heavily. ‘But it is the apprentice, Elias, that we need to talk about.’

‘Have you found him?’

Cecil took a deep breath, fixed his protuberant eyes on me. ‘What is left of him. His mother found him last night, in the alley next to their house, beaten about the head and weltering in his own blood.’ A spasm crossed his face.

‘Jesu.’

‘There was something he managed to say to her, a woman’s name, just before he died.’

‘What was it?’ I dreaded to hear the Queen’s name. But instead Cecil said, ‘Anne Askew. He managed to say, “Killed for Anne Askew”.’

Chapter Fourteen

E
LIAS
’
S
MOTHER LIVED IN
one of the narrow lanes between Paternoster Row and St Paul’s Cathedral, whose great shadow and giant steeple loomed over the poor tenements below. Cecil and I walked there from my house.

On the way, talking quietly, he told me what had happened. ‘Lord Parr asked me to speak to Greening’s three friends. He told me about Greening’s murder, that there was no suspect yet, but there were delicate political ramifications and he wanted you to talk to them. I understand he has told you more.’ He looked at me, and I saw a quick flash of curiosity in his large eyes.

‘A little more. This must have been a busy day for you,’ I concluded, sympathetically.

‘It has. My wife was unhappy at me working on the Sabbath, but I told her needs must.’

‘Did you know any of Greening’s friends yourself?’ I asked.

‘No,’ he answered, a little curtly. ‘But a friend in my congregation knows Curdy, the candlemaker. It appears Curdy may be a sacramentarian, his family are certainly old Lollards, like Greening. He may even be an Anabaptist, though that is probably rumour.’ He gave me a hard, unblinking look. ‘Though be clear, Master Shardlake, I have never spoken for sacramentarianism, and I have nothing but loathing for these Anabaptists, who would overthrow all, interpreting the Bible after their own wild fantasies. The fact they may have played with such ideas does not mean Greening and his friends held them, of course.’ For all his youth, Cecil spoke like an older, more experienced man.

‘That is true.’

‘All Greening’s friends lived around Paternoster Row and the cathedral. I went out very early this morning; I thought it the best time to catch them, before church service. The exiled Scots preacher, McKendrick, lived in a cheap room he rented from Curdy, who was a widower. Curdy apparently was a friendly, jovial man, a journeyman, who worked with other candlemakers. McKendrick, on the other hand, had a reputation for surliness. And he is a big man, and an ex-soldier, so people tended not to get into quarrels with him.’

‘These two friends of Greening’s are very different people.’

‘Which implies common religious affinities. In any event, when I arrived at Curdy’s house both were gone. According to Curdy’s housekeeper, they vanished overnight nearly a week ago, taking hardly anything with them.’

‘Fled somewhere, then.’

‘Unquestionably. The other friend of Greening’s, the Dutchman Vandersteyn, is in the cloth trade, an intermediary for the Flanders wool buyers. He had a neat little house of his own, but when I got there his steward told me the same story; his master gone suddenly, taking only a few possessions.’

‘Could they have been afraid of sharing Greening’s fate?’

‘Perhaps. Or if they were sacramentarians they might have feared the attentions of Bishop Gardiner’s men. If that is the case, the Lord alone knows where they are.’

I remembered young Hugh’s letter, the story of the refugees arriving in the Low Countries, fearing persecution. And Vandersteyn hailed from Flanders.

Cecil continued, ‘Then I decided to call on the apprentice Elias’s mother, to see what news she had, or whether perhaps he had come home. I found her outside, on her knees, frantically washing blood off the wall of the alleyway.’

‘Dear God.’

‘She has two little daughters. Her husband died of quinsy last year.’

‘Perhaps that was why Elias took another job rather than leaving the district as the others seem to have done.’

‘Mayhap.’ Cecil took a deep breath. ‘Elias’s mother told me that in the small hours of last night, she heard her son shouting for help outside. She rushed out, like a good mother.’ He sighed again and shook his head. ‘She saw him killed. Let her tell you the story herself. She has taken the body into the house. Jesu, the sight of it turned my stomach.’

‘Has she told the authorities?’

‘No. Because of what Elias said to her before he died.’

‘The name Anne Askew?’

‘Yes.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Quiet now, look there.’

We were passing along Paternoster Row. All the shops were shut for the Sabbath. However, a man in a black doublet was walking slowly along the sunlit street, peering into the shop windows. Cecil smiled sardonically. ‘I know him. One of Bishop Gardiner’s spies, trying to spot forbidden titles no doubt, or dubious-looking visitors to the printers.’

We walked past him. Looking back at him from a safe distance, I asked Cecil, ‘Have you worked for the Queen’s Learned Council for long?’

‘Two years only. Lord Parr has been good enough to favour me.’

For Cecil’s abilities, I thought; there was no doubting those. And for his reformist sympathies too, most likely. ‘Where are you from?’ I asked. ‘I thought I caught a trace of Lincolnshire. My pupil is from there.’

‘Well divined. My first wife came from there, too, like me, but sadly God took her to Him in childbirth, though He left me our son.’

I looked at him. His was an unremarkable face, but for those powerful, protuberant eyes which I had noticed seldom blinked, and that line of three moles running down one cheek. Yet he had been married, widowed and remarried, and become a confidant of the highest in the land, all by his mid-twenties. For all his ordinary looks and reserved manner, William Cecil was a man out of the common run. ‘We turn down here,’ he said abruptly.

We walked into a narrow alley, made darker by the shadow of the cathedral, onto which it backed. Chickens pecked in the dust. Cecil stopped in front of a door with flaking paint. Beside it, almost blocking the dusty alleyway, stood a cart, a tarpaulin slung over it. Cecil knocked gently at the door: two short raps then a long pause till the next, obviously a prearranged signal.

T
HE DOOR WAS OPENED
by a woman in her forties, as short and spare as Elias had been large and burly. She wore a shapeless grey dress and had not even put on a coif, her dark hair hastily knotted behind her head. Her eyes were wide with horror and fear. On her cuffs I saw flecks of red. She stared at me, then Cecil. ‘Who’s this?’ she asked him fearfully.

‘Master Shardlake. A lawyer. And, like me, one who would not have people persecuted for their opinions. May we come in, Goodwife Rooke?’

Her shoulders slumped helplessly, and she nodded. She led us into a poorly furnished parlour where two thin little girls of about eight and nine sat at table. The younger had her mother’s small, birdlike features, the elder Elias’s heaviness of face and body. Both stared at us in fear. I noticed a bucket and scrubbing brush on the floor, a discarded apron, stained red, rolled into a ball beside it.

‘Girls,’ Goodwife Rooke said gently. ‘Go and wait upstairs in our bedroom. But do not go in your brother’s room. Do you swear?’

‘I swear,’ the elder girl said. She took her sister’s hand and they sidled past us. Their footsteps sounded on a wooden staircase. Goodwife Rooke sat down.

‘It is no thing for his sisters to see,’ she said. ‘Nor a mother either,’ she added, her voice breaking.

‘Do the girls know?’ Cecil asked gently.

‘Only that Elias has been hurt, not that he is dead. I had a mighty job keeping them in our room last night, while I was heaving his body up the staircase. The noise made the girls call out to ask what was happening.’ She rested her brow on a trembling hand for a moment, then looked at us desperately. ‘I don’t know what to
do
, sirs.’

Cecil said, ‘We shall try to help you. Now, can you tell this gentleman what happened?’

‘If it is not too much,’ I added reassuringly.

‘After seeing it, telling is little,’ she answered starkly, and took a deep breath. ‘My husband died last year. Elias, thankfully, had his job with Master Greening. But he spent too much of his spare time there, talking with Master Greening and his friends. Some of the things he said they discussed – ’ her eyes flickered between us – ‘they were dangerous.’

Cecil prompted, ‘About faith and the Bible being the only keys to Grace, you told me, and questioning whether the social order was ordained by God.’

She nodded. ‘I was angry with Elias for speaking of such things in front of his sisters. His father would have beaten him. Yet – ’ her voice softened – ‘my son was young, angry over the injustice in the world, full of newfound ideas. He was a good boy, he did not drink or roister, and his wages kept all of us.’ She ran her hands through her hair. ‘I do not know what will happen to us now. The girls – ’

‘I shall see what can be done,’ Cecil said gently.

‘What happened last night?’ I asked after a moment.

She looked at me. ‘It was around ten, the girls were in bed, thank God, and I was about to go up myself. I was worried, for Elias had not come home the night before. He had been surly, distracted, since poor Master Greening’s murder. Then I heard his voice outside, shouting, “Help! Mother!”’ She shook her head desperately. ‘Almost the last words he ever said, and they were too late. I think he had been hanging around the house, checking to see whether it was safe to come home.’ She swallowed. ‘I threw open the door at once. Two men were running from the alleyway. One carried a cudgel. They ran past me, past that cart outside, and disappeared. I looked into the alley. There was my son. His head – ’ she squeezed her eyes shut. ‘There was blood, blood everywhere. Yet he was still just alive; he grasped my hand. He said, “Tell them, tell my friends, I was killed for Anne Askew.” And then,’ she added starkly, ‘he died. I don’t know how I found the strength but I dragged him indoors and upstairs and laid him in his room. I should have gone to the constable, I know, but after what he said – that name – ’ Her voice fell to a whisper. ‘Anne Askew. The one who was burned on Friday.’ She looked at us. ‘Elias wanted to go to the burning, shout cries of encouragement to the poor souls there. I think his friends persuaded him he would only end in the fire himself.’ Her eyes grew angry. ‘He would not be the first young apprentice to be burned these last few years.’

‘No,’ Cecil said. ‘But they, and Elias, are safe now from the evils of this world, in Jesus’ arms.’ The words could have sounded trite, but he spoke them with quiet sincerity.

Goodwife Rooke pleaded again, desperately, ‘What should I
do
, sirs?’

Cecil took a deep breath. ‘Say nothing to the coroner, not yet. If people ask, say Elias never came back.’

‘Lie to the officials?’

‘Yes. For now. We have powerful friends, we can protect you from any trouble. Do not ask us more just now, but rest assured we shall hunt down Elias and Master Greening’s murderers.’

I glanced at Cecil. ‘They may be the same people. Could you describe them, Goodwife Rooke?’

She spoke in a dead tone. ‘I could not see them clearly, it was dark. They were dressed roughly, like vagrants. Both young and strong. One, though, was near-bald. He looked at me for a second. A strange, wild look. It sore frightened me. He carried a club.’ The poor woman put her face in her hands and shook violently. Then she seemed to collect herself; she glanced upstairs towards her daughters. ‘Please,’ she whispered, ‘keep them safe.’

Cecil nodded.

I asked, ‘That cart outside. Have you any idea who it belongs to?’