by C. J. Sansom
‘Where is the manuscript now?’ I asked.
‘That is our problem,’ Lord Parr said heavily. ‘It has been stolen.’
The Queen looked me in the eye. ‘And if it finds its way to the King’s hands, then likely I am dead and others, too.’
‘But if it does not deny the Mass—’
‘It is too radical for the King,’ the Queen said. ‘And that I should be its author, and have kept it secret from him . . .’ Her voice faltered.
Cranmer spoke quietly. ‘He would see that as disloyalty. And that is the most dangerous thing of all.’
‘I can understand that,’ the Queen said sadly. ‘He would feel – wounded.’
My head reeled. I clasped my hands together in my lap to force my mind to focus, realizing the others were waiting for me to respond. ‘How many copies are there?’ I asked.
The Queen answered, ‘Only one, in my own hand. I wrote it in my bedchamber, secretly, with my door locked.’
‘How long is it?’
‘Fifty pages of small writing. I kept it secure, in the strong chest in my bedchamber. I alone have the key and I keep it round my neck. Even when I sleep.’ She put her hand to her bodice and lifted out a small key. Like the teardrop pearl, it was on the end of a fine chain.
Cranmer said bluntly, ‘I advised her majesty to destroy the book. Its very existence was a danger.’
‘And that was on the ninth of June?’ I asked.
The Queen answered, ‘Yes. I could not, of course, meet with the Archbishop in my bedchamber, so I brought it to this room. It was the only time it has left my bedchamber. I asked all the ladies and servants to leave so our discussion could be private.’
‘And you told nobody about your meeting?’
‘I did not.’
They were all looking at me now. I had slipped into the question-and-answer mode of the investigating lawyer. There was no pulling back from this. But I thought, if this goes wrong, it could be the fire for me as well as for them.
The Queen continued. ‘My Lord Archbishop told me the book must be destroyed. And yet – I believed, and still believe, that such a work, written by a Queen of England, could bring people to right faith.’ She looked at me pleadingly, as though to say: see, this is my soul, this is the truth I have learned, and you must listen. I was moved, but lowered my gaze. The Queen clasped her hands together, then looked between the three of us, her voice quietly sombre now. ‘Very well. I know. I was wrong.’ She added wearily, ‘Such faith in my own powers is itself a token of vanity.’
I asked, ‘Did you return the manuscript directly to your chest?’
‘Yes. Almost every day I would look at it. For a full month. Many times I nearly called you, Uncle.’
‘Would that you had,’ Lord Parr said feelingly.
‘Had it not been summer, had there been fires lit in the grate, once, twice, I would have burned it. But I hesitated, and days lengthened into weeks. And then, eleven days ago, the day after that scene with Wriothesley, I opened the chest and the book was gone. It was gone.’ She shook her head. I realized what a shock that moment must have been to her.
‘When had you last seen it?’ I asked gently.
‘That afternoon I looked over the manuscript again, wondering whether there were changes I might make that would render it safe to publish. Then, in the early evening, the King called me to his private chamber, and I was with him, talking and playing cards, till near ten. His legs were paining him; he needed distraction. Then, when I came to bed, I went to take it out, to look at it, to guide my prayers, and it was gone.’
‘Was there any sign the lock had been tampered with?’
‘No,’ she answered. ‘None at all.’
‘What else was in the chest, your majesty?’
‘Some of my jewels. Legacies from my second husband, and his daughter, dear Margaret Neville, who died this spring.’ A spasm of sadness crossed her face.
Lord Parr said, ‘All those jewels were of considerable value. But nothing apart from the manuscript was removed.’
I considered. ‘And this was the day following the incident with Wriothesley?’
‘Yes. The sixth of July. I have cause to remember recent days very well.’
Lord Parr said, ‘My niece contacted me at once. I was horrified to learn of the existence of the book, and what had happened to it.’
I looked at the old man. ‘I imagine the nature of the theft would make enquiries within the household – difficult.’
He shook his head. ‘We dare tell nobody. But I checked with the guards who had been in and out of the Queen’s bedchamber during those crucial hours. Nothing unusual: two pages to clean, a maid-in-waiting to prepare the Queen’s bed. And Jane her fool, wandering in to see if the Queen was about. Jane Fool is allowed to go everywhere,’ he added crossly. ‘But she has not the wit to steal an apple.’
‘Finding out who was seen to enter the chamber during those hours is important,’ I said. ‘But someone could have found out about the book earlier, and chosen the hours when her majesty was with the King to make the theft.’
‘How could anyone have known,’ the Queen asked, ‘when I wrote it in secret, told no one, and kept it locked away?’
Lord Parr nodded agreement. ‘We cannot see how this has been done – we have not known what to do. We have felt – paralysed.’
The Queen closed her eyes, clutching the pearl round her neck hard. We all watched her with concern. Finally she unclenched her hand. ‘I am all right.’
‘Are you sure?’ Lord Parr asked.
‘Yes. Yes. But you continue the story, Uncle.’
Lord Parr looked at me. ‘It was then,’ he said, ‘that we heard of the murder by St Paul’s.’
‘Murder?’ I asked sharply.
‘Yes, there is murder in this, too. The book was stolen from the coffer sometime on the evening of the sixth of July. At dusk last Saturday, the tenth, a printer in a small way of business in Bowyer Road, hard by St Paul’s, was murdered in his shop. You know how these little places have multiplied round the cathedral these last few years. Printers, booksellers, often just tiny businesses in ramshackle sheds.’
‘I do, my Lord.’ I knew, too, that many printers and booksellers were radicals, and that several had had their premises raided in recent months.
‘The printer was a man called Armistead Greening,’ Lord Parr continued. ‘His shop was one of those little sheds, with only a single printing press. He had been in trouble before for publishing radical literature; he was investigated in the spring but nothing was found against him. Recently he had been printing schoolbooks. Last Saturday evening he was working in his shop. Several of the local printers were at work nearby; they toil away until the last of the light, to make the most use of their presses. Greening had an apprentice, who left at nine.’
‘How do you know these details?’
‘From the apprentice, but mainly from his neighbour, who owns a larger print-shop next door. Geoffrey Okedene. At around nine, Master Okedene was closing down his shop when he heard a great commotion, shouts and cries for help, from Greening’s shed. He was a friend of Greening’s and went to investigate. The door was locked, but it was a flimsy thing; he put his shoulder to it and broke it open. He caught a glimpse of two men running through the other door, at the side – these print-shops get so hot, and full of vile smells from the ink and other concoctions they use, that even small ones have two doors. Master Okedene did not pursue them, for an attempt had been made to set Greening’s print-shop on fire. His stock of paper had been strewn around and set light to. Okedene was able to stamp it out – you may imagine that if such a place caught it would burn like a torch.’
‘Yes.’ I had seen these poorly erected wooden sheds that were built against the cathedral walls or in vacant plots nearby, and heard the loud rhythmic thumping that constantly resounded from them.
‘Only when he had put out the fire did Okedene see poor Greening lying on the earthen floor, his head
beaten in. And, clutched in Greening’s hand, this . . .’ Lord Parr reached into a pocket in his robe and carefully extracted a small strip of expensive paper covered in neat writing and dotted with the brown stains of dried blood. He passed it to me. I read:
The Lamentation of a Sinner, Made by Queen Catherine, Bewailing the Ignorance of her Blind Life.
Most gentle and Christian reader, if matters should be rather confirmed by their reporters than the reports warranted by the matters, I must justly bewail our time, wherein evil deeds be well worded, and good acts evil turned. But since truth is, that things be not good for their praises, but praised for their goodness, I do not . . .
There the page ended, torn off. I looked at the Queen. ‘This is your writing?’
She nodded. ‘That is the opening of my book. Lamentation of a Sinner.’
Lord Parr said, ‘Okedene read it and of course grasped its import from the heading. By God’s mercy he is a good reformer. He brought it personally to the palace and arranged for it to be delivered into my hands. I interviewed him at once. Only then did he call the coroner. He has told him all he saw, except, at my instruction, about this piece of paper. Fortunately, the coroner is a sympathizer with reform, and has promised that if anything comes to light he will inform me. And he has been very well paid,’ he added bluntly. ‘With the promise of more to come.’
The Queen spoke then, an edge of desperation in her voice, ‘But he has discovered nothing, nothing. And so I suggested we come to you, Matthew. You are the only one whom I know outside the court who could carry out such an investigation. But only if you will. I know the terrible dangers—’
‘He has promised,’ Lord Parr said.
I nodded. ‘I have.’
‘Then I thank you, Matthew, from the bottom of my heart.’
I looked at the torn paper. ‘The obvious conclusion is that Greening was trying to keep the manuscript from the intruders, and whoever killed him snatched it out of his hands, but part of the top page tore away.’
‘Yes,’ said Lord Parr. ‘And whoever killed him heard Master Okedene breaking down the door and fled. So desperate were they to avoid identification that they did not even pause to prise the piece of paper from the dead man’s hands.’
‘Or did not notice it at the time, more likely,’ I said.
Lord Parr nodded. ‘You should know that this was not the first attempt on Greening’s life. He lived as well as worked in that hovel, in the most wretched poverty.’ He wrinkled his nose in aristocratic distaste. ‘As I mentioned, he has a young apprentice. Five days before, this boy arrived for work early in the morning and found two men trying to break into the shed. He called the alarm and they fled. From the apprentice’s account they were different men from those who attacked and killed Greening shortly after.’
Cranmer said, ‘Our first thought was that Greening had the manuscript given to him for printing. But that makes no sense. A Catholic might print it, so the book could be distributed around the streets, to the Queen’s ruin, but no reformer.’
‘Yes.’ I considered. ‘Surely if it fell into Greening’s hands and his views were as you say, he would do exactly what Okedene did, return it. Could Greening have been a secret Catholic?’
Cranmer shook his head. ‘I have had discreet enquiries made. Greening was a radical, a known man, all his life. And his parents before him.’ He gave me a meaningful look.
A ‘known man’. That meant Greening’s family belonged to the old English sect of Lollardy. Over a hundred years before Luther, the Lollards had come to similar conclusions about the centrality of the Bible in the cause of salvation, and were known for their radical views about the Mass. Many of them had gravitated to the most extreme edges of Protestantism; with their long history of persecution, they had experience of being an underground community. They were as unlikely as any radicals to wish the Queen harm.
I asked, ‘Is there anything else in the document that could identify it as the Queen’s work?’
‘It is all in the Queen’s hand.’
‘But the work as a whole would not be instantly identifiable, like that opening passage?’
‘Even a superficial reading would identify the author.’ Lord Parr looked at the Queen. ‘It is, after all, a personal confession of sinfulness and salvation. It is obviously the Queen’s work.’ He shook his head. ‘But we have no idea who has it now, or how it came into Greening’s possession. The inquest was held two days ago; it returned a verdict of murder by persons unknown.’
The Queen looked at me. ‘We have been waiting like rabbits caught in a snare for something to happen, for the book to appear on the streets, but there has been nothing for eleven days save silence. We three have fretted day and night over what to do and decided the matter must be investigated, and not by someone closely associated with the court.’ She held my gaze, her eyes full of appeal. ‘And so Matthew, forgive me, my mind turned to you. But even now, I say again, I only ask if you will help me. I do not command; I will not. I have enough blood on my hands through my writing of that book; but for me, poor Greening would still be alive.’ She added sadly, ‘I meant only to do good, but truly the Bible says, “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.”’ She sat back, exhausted.
I said – could only say, ‘How would you have me proceed?’
Cranmer and Lord Parr exchanged a glance. Relief? Hope?
Doubt as to the wisdom of placing this thing in my hands? Lord Parr stood abruptly and began pacing the room. ‘We have a plan, though you must tell us if you see flaws in it. The matter is urgent and I think must be approached from both ends. So far as Greening’s murder is concerned, agents of the Archbishop have spoken with his parents through their vicar. They know nothing of the book, of course, but want the murderer found. They live in the Chilterns, so cannot easily come to London.’
‘The Chilterns, yes.’ I knew the district had long been known for Lollardy.
‘They have willingly given you a power of attorney on their behalf. So far as they are concerned, wealthy friends of their son wish to discover his murderer, nothing more. Now the inquest is over, investigations have been left in the hands of the local constable, a man called Fletcher, a plodder. You will know, Serjeant, that if a murderer is not found within forty-eight hours the constables lose interest, as the chances of finding the perpetrator are slim. I should think Fletcher will be glad if you take over the work from him. Speak to Greening’s apprentice, his neighbours, his associates; look round the workshop. But say nothing about the book. Except to Okedene, who, thank God, is a man who knows how to keep his mouth shut. He is utterly loyal to reform and understands the importance of this.’ Lord Parr looked at me with steely intensity.
‘I will, my Lord.’
‘The other aspect of the mission is to discover who stole the manuscript from here. It has to be someone with access to the Queen’s chamber. You will have to be sworn in as an assistant on the Queen’s Learned Council, as of this afternoon. You will be given a new robe with the Queen’s badge sewn into it; wear the robe when you are making enquiries within the palace. Wear your ordinary robe when you are looking into the Greening murder – there you should not be visibly connected to the Queen.’
‘Very well.’
Lord Parr nodded approvingly. Cranmer glanced at me, then quickly away; a look of pity, I thought, or perhaps doubt.
Lord Parr continued, ‘So far as investigations at the palace are concerned, you are known to have worked for the Queen on legal cases before. The story we will put around is that a valuable jewel, a ring bequeathed to her by her stepdaughter, has been stolen from the Queen’s coffer. Just to be sure, I have taken the ring and have it in safekeeping. It is worth a great deal. The Queen’s closeness to Margaret Neville, too, is well known; everyone will understand her eagerness that it be found. You will have authority to question servants in the Queen’s household about who might have gained access to that coffer. As it happens, some time ago a pageboy stole a jewel from one of the Q
ueen’s ladies and after an investigation was caught. At the Queen’s insistence he was pardoned, because of his youth. People will remember that.’ He looked at me. ‘I would conduct the investigation myself, but for someone of my seniority to be seen taking this on personally would cause surprise. And in this place an outsider can often see things more clearly.’ He sighed. ‘The world of the court is an incestuous one. I am happier on my estates, I confess, but my duty lies here now.’
‘I am known as an enemy to certain on the King’s Council.’ I spoke hesitantly. ‘The Duke of Norfolk; above all, Richard Rich. And I once angered the King himself.’
Cranmer said, ‘Those are old matters, Matthew. And your investigations will be confined to the Queen’s household. If you uncover anything that seems to go wider, tell us and we will deal with it. I will not be returning to Canterbury until this is settled.’
‘Forgive me, my Lord Archbishop,’ I said, ‘but word may still get to Norfolk or Rich. You spoke of spies reporting what Gardiner said to you from the King’s Privy Chamber . . .’
‘Sympathizers,’ Cranmer replied reprovingly, ‘not spies.’
‘But may there not be those within the Queen’s household who sympathize with the opponents of reform? The very fact the manuscript was stolen suggests as much.’
‘That is the strange thing. We guard secrets very carefully in the Queen’s household.’ Cranmer looked at the Queen. ‘Her majesty inspires great loyalty, which was tested during the heresy hunt. We can identify no one who could, or would, have done this.’
There was a moment’s silence, then Lord Parr said, ‘Begin now, Serjeant Shardlake; try to unravel the threads. Go to the printer’s this afternoon. Come back this evening and I will swear you in, give you your robe and brief you further.’
I hesitated again. ‘I am to work entirely on my own?’