Lamentation (The Shardlake Series Book 6) (29 page)

‘It is here?’

‘In one of the rooms nearby.’

We led Barwic to the chamber, where he examined the chest carefully. ‘Yes, I made this lock, and fitted it to the chest, back in the spring.’ I gave him the key and he studied it. ‘Yes, this is it.’

‘And you made no copies?’ Barak asked.

Barwic frowned, obviously annoyed at being questioned by someone junior. ‘On the Queen’s instructions,’ he answered. ‘It was unusual, but those were her majesty’s orders. The chest was brought to my workshop. The lock was as old as the chest, though serviceable enough. I made the new lock and key, tested them, then took the key and chest back to Whitehall by myself, as instructed. I gave the key directly into the hands of Lord Parr.’

‘Normally, though, you would make a spare key, in case the original was lost?’

‘Yes, and send both keys to the Chamberlain.’ His calmness deserted him and his voice rose. ‘I did as I was ordered, sir, simply that.’

‘I have to question everyone connected with this chest,’ I answered mildly.

‘I am a senior craftsman.’ Barwic rallied a little. ‘I was Chairman of the Carpenters’ Guild last year, responsible for its part in all the ceremonies and processions, and raising troops for the war.’

I nodded slowly. ‘An honourable duty. Did you know what was kept in the chest?’

‘They told me jewels and personal possessions. Sir, if you are accusing me—’

‘I accuse you of nothing, good Master Barwic.’

‘Ay, well, I am not used to being questioned like this.’ He spread his hands. ‘Perhaps someone was able to make an impression of the Queen’s key. If so, they could open the lock, if the duplicate were made carefully enough. Someone in that great warren, the Queen’s household. Surely she did not wear it all the time. I am a man of honest reputation, sir,’ he added. ‘Ask all who know me. A simple carpenter in his workshop.’

‘Like Our Lord himself,’ Barak said, straight-faced.

B
ARAK ACCOMPANIED ME
back out into the courtyard, the guard assigned us walking a little behind. ‘Jesu,’ Barak said. ‘All that just to clothe a few women.’

‘More than a few, I think. The ladies are granted the cloth, but pay for the work themselves.’

He stood rocking on his heels. ‘That cofferer, he looked worried.’

‘Yes. And he was Chairman of his guild last year. That’s an expensive business, as he said.’

‘He’ll be well paid in this job.’

‘It would be an expense, even so. And with the value of money falling, and all the taxes to pay for the war that are due this year, everyone has to be careful. He may have need of money.’ I slowed. ‘Could he have made a second copy for someone else? He did not know the Queen wore the only key constantly round her neck.’ I considered. ‘I think we’ll let him sweat a little.’

‘It would be a dangerous matter, stealing from the Queen. He’d hang if he was caught.’

‘We both know the things people are capable of risking for the sake of money. Especially those who have gained status and wish to keep it.’

Barak looked at me askance. ‘You said
we’ll
let him sweat a little.’

‘A slip of the tongue, I’m sorry. I told you, I just wanted your help with the chest and lock.’

He looked around the courtyard. Another cart was unloading. ‘Jesu,’ he said again, ‘all this to keep fine clothes on the backs of great ladies. Just as well we didn’t bring Tamasin. We’d never have got her out.’

‘Remember she doesn’t know you’re here. And would be displeased if she did.’

‘I won’t forget. What do you want to see the embroiderer for?’

I sighed. He was interested now; he would not easily let it go. ‘I’m only trying to trace a piece of fine silk sleeve Nicholas found, that may be connected to the case,’ I answered. ‘The embroiderer may be able to help me, perhaps suggest who might have made it.’

‘If he gives you a name you may need someone to pay him a visit.’

‘I think that might be a job for Nicholas. He found the sleeve, after all.’

Barak looked disappointed, then nodded. ‘You’re right, it’s a job for a junior.’

‘And now I have an appointment with the embroiderer.’

He fingered his beard, reluctant to leave, but I raised my eyebrows. ‘All right,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders, and quickly walked away to the gate.

I
NODDED TO THE GUARD
and he took me back into the hall, knocking at another side door before entering. Within, a man was working at a desk set close by the window to get the best light. He was embroidering flowers on a piece of fabric, flowers so tiny he needed to look through a large magnifying glass on a stand. To my surprise, he was a big, black-bearded fellow, though I saw his fingers were long and delicate. He stood up at my entrance, wincing a little. For a man of his height, a life spent constantly hunched over was a recipe for a bad back.

‘Master Gullym,’ I asked, ‘the Queen’s head embroiderer?’

‘I am.’ His voice had a Welsh lilt.

‘Matthew Shardlake. I am investigating the theft of a jewel from the Queen.’

‘I’d heard something about a ring gone missing.’ Gullym sounded curious, but unlike Barwic, unconcerned. But of course he was not under any suspicion. I took the piece of torn silk and laid it on the desk. ‘We think this may belong to the thief. Is there any way of identifying who made it?’

Gullym picked up the scrap of silk, wrinkling his features in distaste, for it was a little dirty now. ‘Looks like an English design,’ he said. ‘Very fine, expensive. Someone in the embroiderers’ guild made it, I’d warrant.’ Carefully he slid the delicate silk he was working on from under the magnifying glass and replaced it with the piece of cuff. ‘Yes, very well made indeed.’

‘If the maker of this piece could tell me who commissioned it, it might help us. They would gain the favour of the Queen,’ I added.

Gullym nodded. ‘I can write you a list of names. Perhaps a dozen embroiderers in London could have made this. It was done recently, I would say, that design of little vines has only been popular this year.’

‘Thank you.’

With slow, deliberate steps, Gullym crossed to a desk, wincing again as he moved. He took quill and paper and wrote out a list of names and addresses, then handed it to me. ‘I think these are all the people who might help you.’ He smiled complacently. ‘I have been in the guild since I came to London thirty years ago, I know everyone.’

I looked at the list. Someone would have to visit all these London shops.

‘Thank you, Master Gullym,’ I said. ‘By the way, I could not help but notice you have some problems with your back.’

‘Goes with the job, sir.’

‘I do, too, as perhaps you may imagine.’

Gullym nodded tactfully.

‘There is a physician who has helped me much. He practises down at Bucklersbury, Dr Guy Malton.’

‘I have been thinking I should see someone. It gets bad in the afternoons.’

‘I can recommend Dr Malton. Tell him I sent you.’

Chapter Seventeen

T
HAT EVENING
,
AFTER DINNER
, I rode down to Bucklersbury to visit Guy. We had not parted on the best of terms three nights before, and I wanted to try and mend fences. I also hoped he might tell me about that name, Bertano.

The cloud had disappeared during the afternoon and the sun was out again, setting now, casting long shadows on the row of apothecaries’ shops. Although Guy had come originally from Spain and qualified as a physician in the great French university of Louvain, his status as a foreigner – a Moor – and a former monk, had meant a long struggle for acceptance as a member of the College of Physicians. Before qualifying, he had practised as an apothecary and, although he now had a large practice and the status of an English denizen and could have moved to a good-sized house, he preferred to stay here; partly because of his old monkish vow of poverty, and because he was getting old and preferred the familiar.

As I dismounted and tied Genesis to the rail outside his house, I reflected that, apart from Guy, all my friends and contacts now were either reformers or people who preferred to keep out of the religious struggles. But I knew there were plenty in London, and many more in the countryside, who would welcome a return to the Catholic church.

Francis Sybrant, the plump, grey-haired man of sixty who served as Guy’s general assistant these days, answered my knock. I liked Francis; he had worked for a neighbouring apothecary and when the man’s business failed last year had come to work for Guy. He was grateful to have found a new berth at his age. A cheerful fellow, he was a good counter to Guy’s habitual melancholy.

‘Master Shardlake.’ He bowed.

‘God give you good evening, Francis. Is Master Guy at home?’

‘In his study. Working with his books as usual of an evening.’ He led me down the narrow hall, knocking gently on the door of Guy’s study. Guy was sitting at his desk, reading his copy of Vesalius, with its gruesome anatomical diagrams, using the light of a candle to compare what was on the page with a human thigh bone he held up. He put it down carefully and stood. ‘Matthew. This is a surprise.’

‘I hope I am not interrupting you.’

‘No. My eyes are getting tired.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Francis says I should get spectacles, but I cannot face the thought somehow.’

‘I am sorry I had to leave you so suddenly on Friday. After we – ’ I hesitated – ‘disagreed.’

He smiled sadly. ‘That argument resounds all over England, does it not?’

‘I was not myself that day.’

‘I understand. You still look tired. A glass of hippocras?’

‘That would be welcome. I have been working hard.’

Guy called to Francis, who fetched two mugs of warm spiced wine. I sat looking into mine then said, ‘My old foe Stephen Bealknap is dead. A growth in his guts.’

Guy crossed himself. ‘God pardon him.’

I smiled sadly. ‘He did not want God’s pardon. I was with him near the end, he said he had no faith. He has left all his money to build a great memorial to himself in Lincoln’s Inn chapel.’

‘Had he no family?’

‘Nor friends. Nor God.’

‘That is sad.’

‘Yes.’ I looked into my wine again, then pulled myself together. ‘Guy, there is a piece of information I seek. About a foreign name. I have only my Latin and poor French, and with your experience of languages I hope you may be able to help me.’

‘If I can.’

‘In strict confidence.’

‘Of course.’

‘It has come up in the context of something I am working on. Reported second-hand. The name sounds foreign, and may be mispronounced, but I wondered if you could guess its origin.’

‘What is the name?’

‘Jurony Bertano. Could it be Spanish?’

He smiled. ‘No. That is an Italian name. The first name is Gurone, spelt
G
-
U
-
R
-
O
-
N
-
E
.’

‘Close enough then.’

‘One of the Italian merchant community in London, perhaps?’ ‘Possibly.’ I gave him a serious look. ‘But I cannot discuss the matter.’

‘I understand. The rules of confidentiality.’

I nodded unhappily. We were silent for a moment. Then I said, ‘You know, on the way here I was thinking how few Catholic or traditionalist friends I have now. These last years most people have withdrawn into one circle or the other, have they not? Often without even thinking about it?’

‘For safety, yes, sadly they have. I have few patients among the radicals or reformers. My practice began with people from – dare I say my side, and they refer their friends to me, and so it goes on. It is probably much the same with you.’

‘It is. Though, by the way, I have recommended you to someone else with back troubles. An embroiderer from the Queen’s court.’

He smiled. ‘A reformist sympathizer, then.’

‘I have no idea.’ I looked up at him. ‘Do you ever doubt, Guy, that your view of God is the right one?’

‘I have been prey to doubt all my life,’ he said seriously. ‘For a time, as once I told you, I doubted God’s very existence. But I believe that if faith and doubt battle together within a human soul, that soul becomes the stronger and more honest for it.’