by C. J. Sansom
‘No. He was a happy man.’
‘Then it’s a strange one.’ He shook his head. ‘A fountain turned to blood.’ He addressed the Treasurer. ‘You should get that drained.’
I frowned. That phrase, a fountain turned to blood. I had heard it before somewhere, I was sure.
‘Where’s this man of yours who went to follow the prints?’ Browne asked.
‘I don’t know. He set off half an hour ago.’
‘Well, have him report to me when he comes back. I shall have to visit the King’s coroner before impanelling a jury.’ I recalled that the King was at Whitehall now, and cursed the fact. Any murder within twelve miles of the royal residence and outside the City of London boundary - even just outside, like Lincoln’s Inn - came under the authority of the King’s coroner. He would have to be involved along with Browne.
‘That will cause delay,’ I said.
Browne shrugged. ‘Can’t be helped.’
‘How long will it take to impanel a jury?’
‘Depends if the King’s coroner agrees to impanel a jury of lawyers. And it’s Easter Sunday. Doubt we’ll get an inquest before the middle of the week.’
I set my lips. It was vital in any murder to investigate at once, before the trail went cold. As Barak had said, most murders were solved quickly or not at all.
‘I think the lawyers of the Inn will want the inquest to be held as soon as possible,’ I said. ‘As one of their own is involved.’
Treasurer Rowland nodded in agreement. ‘Yes, we shall want an inquest soon.’
‘We need to hunt this solicitor Nantwich. Could you do that, sir - just a general query under the Treasurer’s authority?’
Rowland nodded. ‘Yes. That must be done.’
‘And if I may suggest something else,’ I said to the coroner, pressing home my advantage. ‘The manner of his death is so strange, apparently knocked unconscious and kept that way till he was put in the fountain, it might be good to have the body opened.’ It was a grim thought, but Guy might find something that would help us. ‘I know Dr Malton, who does that duty for the London coroner. His fees are low. I could send him to you.’
‘Oh, that old Moor.’ Browne grunted. ‘And who’s to pay?’
‘I will, if need be. Roger Elliard was my friend. And could I please ask’ - my voice rising - ‘to have him covered up?’
‘All right.’ The coroner casually pulled my coat back over Roger’s face, then turned to me, rubbing his pudgy hands together.
‘What was the deceased’s name again?’
‘Roger Elliard.’
‘Right. I’ll see the widow. That body can be taken away now. Master treasurer, have a cart take it to my shed.’
DOROTHY HAD somewhat recovered her composure when old Elias, dressed now but stricken-faced, led us to her parlour. She sat by the fire, staring into it as she held the maid Margaret’s hand.
‘Dorothy,’ I said gently. ‘This is Coroner Browne. He would ask you some questions, if you feel able.’
The coroner looked at the frieze above the fireplace, the carved animals peering through the branches. ‘My, that is a fine thing,’ he said.
Dorothy stared at it. ‘A piece got broken off when we moved back here,’ she said dully. ‘Roger got it replaced but it was badly done.’ I noticed a corner of the frieze was rather poorly executed, a slightly different colour.
‘It is still fine,’ Browne said, clumsily trying to put Dorothy at her ease. ‘May I sit?’
Dorothy waved him to the chair where I had sat. He repeated the questions about the pro bono client, and asked about Roger’s recent movements, in which nothing else unusual was revealed. I saw the coroner was not taking notes, which worried me. He did not look like a man with great powers of memory.
‘Had your husband any enemies?’ Browne asked.
‘None. He had barristers he did not like particularly, whom he had won or lost against in court. But that is true of every barrister in London, and they do not murder their fellows in’ - her voice faltered - ‘this ghastly, wicked way.’
‘And no question he could have done it himself?’
The bluntness of the question appalled me, but it brought out the best in Dorothy. ‘No, master coroner, none at all. Anyone would tell you the idea he did this to himself is nonsensical. I wish you had had the grace to talk to others before baldly asking me if my husband might have cut his own throat.’ I felt admiration for her; her spirit was returning.
Browne reddened. He rose from his chair. ‘Very well,’ he said stiffly. ‘That will do for now. I must go to the palace, see the King’s coroner.’
He bowed to us stiffly, then left. His heavy footsteps clumped slowly down the stairs.
‘Old fat fustilugs!’ Margaret said warmly.
Dorothy looked up at me. Her red-rimmed eyes were despairing. ‘He does not seem to care,’ she said. ‘My poor Roger.’
‘This is just one more job to him,’ I said. ‘But I promise you, I will be at his heels.’
‘Thank you.’ She laid a hand on my arm.
‘And now I will go down to Roger’s chambers. I will take on what work of his I can. If you wish.’
‘Yes, please. Oh, and someone must write to our son. Tell Samuel.’ Her eyes filled with tears again.
‘Would you like me to?’ I asked gently.
‘I should not ask. I—’
‘No. I will do all I can, Dorothy. For you. For Roger.’
OUTSIDE, TO MY RELIEF, I saw Barak watching as Roger’s body was loaded on to a cart, my coat wrapped round it. He looked downcast. I saw he was carrying a dark coat that I recognized.
‘You found Roger’s coat?’
‘Yes. In the orchard. I thought it must be his, from the size.’
I shivered, missing my own coat. ‘Did you follow the prints?’
‘As far as I could. They led through the orchard into Lincoln’s Inn Fields, but the snow there was pretty well gone.’
‘Was there anything in the pockets?’
‘A set of house keys. The killer must have kept the key to the orchard. And his purse, he left his purse, with near two pounds in it.’
‘Were there any papers? Any notes?’
‘Nothing.’
‘He went to meet a new client at an inn in Wych Lane last night.’
Barak looked over at the wall. ‘Taken somewhere in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, then. That’s a hell of a way to haul a body.’ He looked at me, frowning. ‘What on earth is going on?’
Chapter Seven
TWO DAYS LATER, on the Tuesday after Easter, Barak and I walked down to the river to catch a boat to Westminster. I had on a new coat; I had left my old coat with the coroner; stained as it was with Roger’s blood, I could never wear it again. I had a busy day ahead, five poor men’s pleas to be heard before the Master of Requests. I hoped I would also get a date for hearing Adam Kite’s application.
The morning had a real touch of spring at last, the breeze gentle and moist. Normally that would have lifted my spirits; but not with what lay on my heart now. As we crossed Fleet Street on our way down to Temple Bar, we saw a penitent heretic being led along to St Paul’s. He was dressed in a grey smock and carried a faggot of birch twigs in trembling hands. Ashes had been tipped over his head and shoulders, turning his hair and face grey. A rope was round his neck, and he was led along by one of Bishop Bonner’s men. Three halberdiers followed, wearing swords, the little procession led by a man beating a drum. Passers-by stopped, some jeering and others looking serious. Someone called, ‘Courage, brother!’ and the soldiers looked round angrily. I was taken aback to see that the tethered man was the wild preacher from Newgate market; he must have been taken for unlicensed preaching. He would be brought to St Paul’s Cross where Bonner would preach to him of the evils of heresy. If he were caught again he could burn.
The ice had quite gone from the river now, which was high, the grey water flowing rapidly. The wherrymen had had a hard winter, as always when the river
froze, and the man at the oars of the boat we took at Temple Stairs had a pinched, hungry look. I told him to make for Westminster.
‘The stairs there are broken, sir. The ice has crushed the supports, they’ll have to be replaced.’
‘Whitehall Stairs, then,’ I said with a sigh, not relishing a walk through the Westminster crowds. The man pulled out. I sat staring over the river. I had spent much of the previous day looking through Roger’s cases and giving instructions to his clerk. Then I had written a letter to young Stephen Elliard in Bristol. When I went up to see his mother again in the evening, I found she had retreated into herself and sat staring into the fire, her maid holding her hand. At length she was persuaded away to bed.
‘ ’Eard about those great fish?’ the wherryman asked, interrupting my sad thoughts.
‘What? Oh, yes.’
‘Just bobbed up from under the ice. Almost as big as houses they are.’ He nodded and smiled. ‘I’ve seen ’em.’
‘What are they like?’ Barak asked curiously
‘Grey, with huge heads full of the strangest teeth you ever saw. They’re starting to stink now. They’re cutting them open to get the fish oil, though some say they’re cursed. My vicar claims they are the Leviathan, the great monster from the deep whose appearance portends the Second Coming.’
‘Maybe they’re whales,’ I said. ‘A kind of giant fish that lives in the deep sea. Fishermen speak of them.’
‘This ain’t the deep sea, sir. And they’re bigger than any fish could be. Giant heads they’ve got. I’ve seen them, like half London.’
The boat pulled up at Whitehall Stairs. We walked under the Holbein Gate and down into King Street. I kept a hand on my purse, for Westminster was as disorderly a place as could be found in England. Ahead of us loomed the vast bulk of Westminster Abbey, dwarfing even its neighbour, Westminster Hall, where most of the courts sat. Behind Westminster Hall lay a warren of buildings, those which had survived the fire a generation ago that destroyed much of the old Westminster Palace. The House of Commons met in the Painted Chamber there, and the Court of Requests was near by.
Around Westminster Hall and the abbey was a chaos of buildings, shops, inns and taverns, serving the lawyers and churchmen and MPs who came to Westminster. Pedlars, hucksters and prostitutes always thronged the streets, and the presence of the Sanctuary at Westminster had long drawn rogues to the area. Westminster’s government was chaotic, for the requests of rich citizens to have it incorporated as a city had always been rejected, and now that the abbey had been dissolved, the old secular powers of the abbot had gone.
PARLIAMENT WAS in session, and King Street was even more crowded and colourful than usual. Shops and houses were set higgledy-piggledy along the road, the large houses of rich traders with their overhanging top stories next to run-down hovels. The street stank of the many tanneries and of the brickworks on the outskirts. I remembered the complaints the judges had made last year, that during their robed annual procession to Westminster Hall they had had to squeeze their way past sheep and cattle being led to the market.
We jostled our way down to Palace Yard, past shopkeepers calling their wares. There were innumerable pedlars, some calling from donkey carts, others with trays of cheap, skimble-skamble stuff round their necks. Barak waved them off if they approached. I saw a gang of ragged but muscular young men watching as a haughty-looking middle-aged man dressed in a long sable-lined coat and a fine doublet slashed to show the silk lining, walked slowly along. An MP up from the country, probably, who knew no better than to parade his wealth in King Street. Had it been after dark, I would not have given much for his chances.
‘The inquest is tomorrow,’ I told Barak. I had a message first thing. ‘I am sorry, I forgot to tell you.’
‘Will I need to be there?’
‘Yes. Dorothy too, poor woman. It will be terrible for her. They were devoted.’
‘Will she be up to the inquest?’
‘I hope so. She is strong. I went in to see her first thing. She is still very quiet, white as a sheet.’ I bit my lip. ‘I hope the pamphleteers do not get hold of the story and start spreading it round the city.’
‘They would love it.’
‘I know. God’s death, that coroner Browne is useless. The inquest should have been yesterday. The killer could be in another county by now.’ I shook my head. ‘I am taking it on myself to visit Guy later, see what he has found about the state of the body.’
A ragged pedlar with a tray of cheap trinkets round his neck stepped into my path. ‘Rings and brooches, sir, for your lady, straight from Venice—’ I sidestepped him. We were almost at New Palace Yard now; the great gate that led to Westminster Abbey precinct was just ahead. The crowds were thicker and as I walked under the gate I almost tripped over a card sharper sitting beside it with his marked cards, calling people to try their luck. We passed into Westminster Yard, the wide space already busy with lawyers. The big clock tower showed half past nine. We were in time, almost.
‘Tammy says you called in a few nights ago,’ Barak said. ‘Came to visit us.’
So she had told him. Was that to pressure me into speaking to him? This was not the time. I made my voice light. ‘I passed the Old Barge on the way home from Guy’s. That tenement of yours is very damp.’
He shrugged, looked sullen. ‘I’d have moved if the baby lived. But it didn’t.’
‘Tamasin seemed a little - downcast.’
‘She should get over the baby, I’ve had to.’ His voice went hard. ‘She’s full of womanish weakness. I don’t know where her old spirit’s gone.’ He did not meet my eyes as he spoke, which was rare for him. I saw that the domed fountain in the centre of the yard, frozen through the winter, was working again, water splashing merrily. I remembered the fountain at Lincoln’s Inn, and closed my eyes for a moment.
THE WHITE Hall was a small chamber. A crowded little entrance hall was set with benches along the walls. There plaintiffs sat huddled, watching the lawyers talking in the body of the hall. Poor folk from all over the country came to have their suits pleaded here, by me and my fellow state-funded barrister, and many wore the homespun clothes of country gruffs. Most seemed overwhelmed to find themselves among these great old buildings, though some had determined expressions. I saw my first client sitting there: Gib Rooke, a short stocky man in his thirties with a square face. He wore a red surcoat, far too gaudy for court. He was frowning at two men who stood talking in the body of the hall. One was a tall, expensively dressed man; the other, to my surprise, was Bealknap. I saw that my old rival looked gaunt in his black gown as he fiddled with some papers in his knapsack. The tall man did not look pleased with him.
‘How now, Gib,’ Barak said, sitting beside Rooke. ‘You’re richly dressed for it.’
Rooke nodded to Barak, then looked up at me. ‘Good day, Master Shardlake. Ready for the fight?’
I gave him a stern look. Having their own barrister went to some of my clients’ heads, and they would take the chance to strut and mock; to their own detriment, for the courts demand sober respect. ‘I am ready,’ I said. ‘We have a good case. If we lose, it may be because the court judges you insolent. So watch your words in there. Dressing like a peacock is a bad start.’
Gib reddened. He was one of the many cottars who had set up market gardens on the Lambeth marshes across the river over the last fifteen years; the growth of London meant an endless demand for food in the city. Draining patches of empty bogland, the cottars squatted there without permission from the owners, who had never developed the land and might live far away. Recently, however, the landlords had realized there were profits to be made, and sought to use the manor courts to turn the cottars out and reap the benefits of their work. Gib had applied to Requests against eviction, citing ancient laws, for which I had been able to find rather shadowy precedents, that if a man occupied land under two acres in extent for a dozen years unchallenged, he could remain.
Gib nodded at Bealknap. ‘That old swine Sir
Geoffrey seems unhappy with his lawyer.’
‘I know Bealknap. Don’t underestimate him.’ And, in truth, he was a clever lawyer. Today, though, he seemed to have a problem with his papers; he was searching frantically through his bag now. Raising his head briefly and seeing me, he whispered to his client, Gib’s landlord, and they moved away.
I sat on the other side of Gib. He looked at me, eyes greedy with curiosity. ‘They say there’s been a terrible murder at Lincoln’s Inn,’ he said. ‘A lawyer found in the fountain with his throat cut. On Easter Sunday.’
It was as I had feared, the story was spreading. ‘The killer will be rooted out,’ I said.
Gib shook his head. ‘They say they don’t know who it is. What a way to kill someone. Ah well, ’tis the times.’
‘I suppose you mean signs and portents,’ I said wearily, remembering the boatman.
Gib shrugged. ‘I don’t know about that. But there have been some nasty killings lately. One of the marsh cottars was found murdered horribly in January. That was another strange one. I wouldn’t be surprised if his landlord killed him,’ he added loudly. People turned to look.
‘If you don’t control your mouth you’ll lose this case,’ I snapped at him.
‘Here’s trouble,’ Barak whispered. Bealknap had left his client and come over to us.
‘May I speak with you, Brother Shardlake?’ he asked. I noticed he was sweating, though the unheated hall was cold.
I stood. ‘Very well.’
We stepped away a few paces. ‘Your client should not make insulting remarks about landlords in the precincts of the court,’ he said pompously.
I raised my eyebrows. ‘Is that all you have to say?’
‘No - no . . .’ Bealknap hesitated, bit his lip, then took a deep breath. ‘There is a problem, Brother Shardlake. I have not filed my client’s title to the land.’
I stared at him, astonished. The most routine piece of a lawyer’s work was to ensure the paperwork was properly filed in court. Many were the stories of junior barristers who failed to get their proper paperwork in on time and found their cases thrown out. But Bealknap had been a lawyer twenty years. For once he actually looked straight at me with his light blue eyes. I saw panic there. ‘Assist me, Brother Shardlake,’ he whispered desperately. ‘Assist a fellow-lawyer. Get the case adjourned. I can file the deeds then.’