by C. J. Sansom
The door was opened by a guard and we walked down that dreadful stone staircase, slick with green algae once we passed under the level of the river. The light came now from torches, stinking with smoke. At the bottom was a barred door which I remembered. My escort called out and a hard, unshaven face appeared behind the bars.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘This gentleman has permission to look at the log.’ Sir Edmund’s note was passed through the bars. The man on the other side looked at it, then closely at me, before turning back to my escort.
‘You’re to wait and take him back?’
‘Yes.’
There was a clank of keys, and the heavy door opened. I went through, into a stink of damp, and entered a long vestibule with bare ancient stone walls, a row of cells with barred windows along its length. It was cold down here, even in high summer. I observed – strange the things one notices at such times – that the layout of the central vestibule had been changed: the desk which was its only furniture was larger than the one that had stood there five years ago, and had been positioned against the wall to allow more space for people to pass. It was covered in papers and a man sat behind it. I saw a large open ledger.
The guard who had let me in looked me up and down. ‘Your purpose, sir?’ he asked in a voice which was quiet but not respectful.
‘Matthew Shardlake, Serjeant at Law.’ I told him the story of the dubious witness. Lying was not easy under his hard, watchful eyes.
‘Well, if Sir Edmund agrees,’ he said reluctantly. ‘But you’re to write nothing down, only look through quickly for the name you seek.’
‘I understand.’
‘My name is Ardengast. I am in charge here.’
Without further comment he led me to the desk. The man sitting behind it was a big, middle-aged fellow in a leather jacket, with an untidy straggling beard. He sat up straight as we approached. Ardengast said, ‘This man is to see the logs from June the twentieth to July the fifth, Howitson. Looking for a witness in a case.’
The man in the leather jacket frowned. ‘It’s not to do with—?’
‘No. Some law matter.’ Ardengast waved dismissively. He glanced again at Walsingham’s note. ‘The name is Edward Cotterstoke. I don’t remember him.’
‘Nor I.’
‘That is the point,’ I said. ‘I think he was lying about being here.’
Ardengast turned to me. ‘I’ll leave you with Howitson, I’ve got business.’ He walked away, unlocked a door at the far end of the chamber, and passed through. From somewhere beyond I thought I heard a distant scream. I looked through the dark barred windows on the doors of the cells. They seemed empty, but who knew what pitiful souls and broken bodies lay within? I thought of Anne Askew alone and terrified in this place.
Howitson pulled the big ledger over to him. I saw there were two columns. One gave the times that prisoners arrived and left and their names, while the other, smaller column was for the signatures of the officers on duty. The writing was poor, scrawled, and I could not read it upside down. Howitson turned over several pages, pausing occasionally to lick his black-stained thumb. Then he leaned back in his chair.
‘No one here called Cotterstoke, sir. I thought as much.’ He looked up with a satisfied smile.
‘Good,’ I said. ‘I suspected the witness was lying. However, I will have to see the book myself. The rules of court require me to testify to what I have seen personally. Simply to repeat what another has told me would be what is called hearsay, and thus inadmissible.’
Howitson frowned. ‘I don’t know about legal rules. But that book is confidential.’
‘I know. And I will only testify that this particular name is not there, nothing else.’ He still looked doubtful. ‘It is the law,’ I said. ‘Sir Edmund said I could see the book.’
‘We have our own laws down here, sir.’ He smiled a little menacingly, an insolent emphasis on the last word.
‘I understand, goodman. If you like I can ask Sir Edmund to be more specific, in writing, to satisfy you.’
Howitson grunted. ‘All right, but be quick. No lingering over names. We’ve had enough rumours getting out of this place.’
‘I understand.’
He turned the ledger round, going back a couple of pages. I ran my eyes quickly over the entries for late June; I was not interested in those. I noticed, however, that there were always two officers present to sign a prisoner in; one was usually Howitson, the other presumably whichever guard was on duty. From the 28th of June a signature more legible than the others began appearing during the afternoons. Thomas Myldmore. He was on duty when ‘Mistress Anne Kyme’, Anne Askew’s married name, appeared on the record.
Howitson brought his big heavy hand down on the ledger. ‘That’s it, sir,’ he said officiously.
‘Thank you. I have seen all I need.’
I stepped away from the desk. As I did so the door at the end of the passage opened again and two men appeared. One was older, wearing an apron darkly stained with I knew not what. The other was young, small and thin, with dark blond hair and an oval face unsuited to the pointed beard he wore. I noticed his shoulders were slumped. The older man began undoing the buckles on his apron, paying me no heed, but when the younger one saw me standing over the ledger his grey eyes widened a little. He came across. Howitson closed the book with a thump and gave the newcomer a glare.
‘I’m going off duty now, Master Howitson,’ the young man said in a surprisingly deep voice.
‘Thank Sir Anthony Knevet you’ve still got a duty to be going off,’ Howitson muttered. The young man looked at my lawyer’s coif and robe. ‘Is there a problem with the book?’ he asked hesitantly.
‘Nothing to concern you, Myldmore,’ Howitson said. ‘Don’t recall anyone by the name of Cotterstoke, do you, being here late June or early July?’
‘No, sir.’
‘There you are then, sir,’ Howitson said to me triumphantly.
‘Then I thank you, sir,’ I said with a little bow. I looked at Myldmore. His eyes were wide, burning yet frightened. ‘Good day, fellow,’ I said and headed for the door, where the veteran stood leaning against the wall outside, gently massaging his leg.
THE GUARD LED ME back to Sir Edmund’s room where he and Lord Parr were talking and laughing, drinking wine. I heard Sir Edmund say, ‘The first time I saw a woman in one of these farthingales, I couldn’t believe it. Waist braced with corsets so tight it looked like you could span it with your hands, and the wide skirt with those hoops underneath – ’
‘Ay, like barrels – ’ Lord Parr looked round as I entered, instantly alert. ‘Find your man, Shardlake?’
‘His name was not there, my Lord, as I suspected. I thank you, Sir Edmund.’
Walsingham was in relaxed mood now. ‘Will you stay for some wine?’
‘I fear I cannot. I have much to do. But I am most grateful to you.’
‘Perhaps I should come with you, Shardlake,’ Lord Parr said. He would want to know what I had found out.
Sir Edmund protested. ‘No, no, my Lord, you have hardly got here – ’
Lord Parr looked between us. Clearly he thought it might look suspicious if he left so soon. He said, ‘One more drink, then, Edmund. Forgive me, though, I must go to the jakes. Master Shardlake, can you help me?’ He made a show of finding it difficult to stand.
‘You cannot take your wine any more, my Lord,’ Sir Edmund called after him teasingly.
Once the door closed behind us, Lord Parr was instantly alert. ‘Well?’ he asked impatiently.
‘The man who was most often on duty when Anne Askew was here is called Myldmore. I saw him; he looked anxious and seemed in bad odour with the fellow at the desk.’
Lord Parr smiled and nodded. ‘Another name for Cecil to investigate. I wonder if he is connected with the others.’ He clapped me on the shoulder. ‘You are a good fellow, Master Shardlake, for all your long face and – well, never mind.’ He spoke with sudden passion. ‘We shall have them, end this game of hood
man blind, and unmask who is at the bottom of it all. I shall be in touch very soon. Good man.’
He went down the corridor, leaving me to walk, as fast as I could, towards the exit and the Tower gates.
Chapter Twenty-two
I WALKED SLOWLY home. It had been a long day, even by the standards of this last week. I was utterly weary. It was still afternoon, but the shadows were beginning to lengthen. Looking down a narrow street leading to the river, I saw a fisherman in a boat, casting a long net that turned the water silver as it splashed into the Thames, sending swans flying to the bank. Normality. I remembered Guy’s words. Why did I keep walking into danger, taking others with me? My feelings for the Queen had led to my involvement in this case; yet it had been the same even before I met her. It went back to Thomas Cromwell, my association with him that first brought me into contact with the high ones of the realm who, like Cromwell himself, sought to use my skills and exploit my obstinate refusal to give up anything I had started. I thought, if I get through this, perhaps it is time to move out of London. Plenty did. I could practise in one of the provincial towns: Bristol, perhaps, or Lichfield, where I had been born and still had cousins. But I had not been there for years; it was a small place and not all of its associations were happy for me.
My musings reminded me of young Timothy and his reluctance to move on. I decided to speak to Josephine; she was fond of the boy. And I resolved, as well, to ask her directly what was the matter between her and Martin Brocket. My steward did not seem like a bully, but I did not see all that went on in my home. No master does.
I arrived home towards five. Martin opened the door to me, his expression deferential as always; I asked if there had been any messages and he told me none. I thought, perhaps I should visit Barak, then decided, better for him to establish a story first with Tamasin. Damn all the lies.
JOSEPHINE WAS IN THE PARLOUR, dusting with her usual care. She rose and bowed as I entered. I looked longingly through the window to my little resting place in the garden, but as I had caught her alone I should take the chance to speak to her. I began in a friendly tone. ‘I have had little chance to talk to you of late, Josephine. How go things with you?’
‘Very well, sir,’ she said.
‘I wanted to speak to you about Timothy. You know I have suggested that when he turns fourteen he should go for an apprenticeship, as Simon did?’
‘That would be a good thing, sir, I think.’
‘And yet he is reluctant to go.’
Her face clouded. She said, ‘He did not have a happy time before he came here.’
‘I know. But that was three years since.’
She looked at me with her clear blue eyes. ‘I think, sir, he sees this house as a refuge.’ She blushed. ‘As do I. But it is not good to cower from the world too long, perhaps.’
‘I agree.’ I paused. ‘What do you think I should do, Josephine?’
She looked at me in surprise. ‘You are asking me, sir?’
‘Yes.’
She hesitated, then said, ‘I should go carefully, sir. Slowly.’
‘Yes. I think you are right.’ I smiled. ‘And you, Josephine, will you be seeing Goodman Brown again soon?’
She blushed. ‘If you are agreeable, sir, he has asked me to walk with him again on Sunday.’
‘If he is agreeable to you, so he is to me.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘If I remember, you met him at the May Day revels. At Lincoln’s Inn Fields.’
‘Yes. Agnes persuaded me to go with her, and to wear a little garland of flowers she had made. Master Brown was standing next to us, he said it was pretty. He asked where we worked, and when he found it was for a barrister he told us that he did, too.’
‘The law was ever good for establishing friendships.’ I thought of Philip Coleswyn. Was he a friend? Perhaps, I thought. I said to Josephine, gently, ‘I think Master Brown is perhaps the first young man you have walked out with?’
She lowered her head. ‘Yes, sir. Father, he did not want me – ’
‘I know.’ There was an awkward silence, then I said, ‘Make sure you behave in a ladylike way, Josephine, that is all I would say. I think you will not find that difficult.’
She smiled, showing white teeth. ‘He asks nothing more, sir.’ She added quickly, ‘Your approval is important to me.’
We stood for a moment, both a little embarrassed. Then I said, ‘You get on very well with Agnes.’
‘Oh, yes,’ she answered brightly. ‘She advises me about clothes. No woman ever has before, you see.’
‘She is a good woman. Martin, I suppose, did not come with you to the revels.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘No, sir. He regards such things as silly.’
‘But he treats you well enough?’
‘Yes, sir,’ she answered hesitantly. ‘Well enough.’
I pressed her, gently. ‘Josephine, I have sensed an – unease – between you and Martin.’
She put the cloth down on the table. Then she took a deep breath and lifted her head. ‘I have been meaning to speak to you, sir, yet I did not know if it was right – and Agnes Brocket has been so good to me – ’
‘Tell me, Josephine.’
She looked at me directly. ‘Two months ago, I went into your study one day to dust, and found Martin Brocket going through the drawers of your desk. Agnes was out, perhaps he thought he was alone in the house. I know you keep your money in a locked drawer there, sir.’
I did, and my most important papers, too. Martin had keys to most places in the house, but not to that drawer, nor the chest in my bedroom where I kept my personal items. ‘Go on,’ I said.
‘He snapped at me to get out, said that he was looking for something for you. But Master Shardlake, he had the look of one uncovered in wrongdoing. I have been battling with my conscience ever since.’
I thought, thank heaven there was nothing in writing about the Lamentation; even the notes I had made in the garden I had destroyed. And, besides, two months ago it had not even been taken. But the news sent a chill down my spine, all the same. And how many times had Martin nosed around without Josephine seeing?
I said, ‘I have never sent Martin to fetch anything from my desk. Thank you, Josephine, for telling me this. If you see him doing something like that again, come to me.’
I had missed no money. But if not money, what had Brocket been looking for? ‘You did right to tell me, Josephine. For now, let us keep it a secret.’ I smiled uneasily. ‘But remember, tell me if anything like this occurs again.’
‘I did not like him from the start, sir, though Agnes has been such a friend, as I have said. Sometimes he speaks roughly to her.’
‘Sadly husbands occasionally do.’
‘And he was always asking about you when he first came, last winter. Who your friends were, your habits, your clients.’
‘Well, a steward needs to find such things out.’ It was true, but I felt uncomfortable nonetheless.
‘Yes, sir, and it was only at first. Yet there has always been something about him I did not trust.’
‘Perhaps because he speaks roughly to Agnes, whom you like?’
Josephine shook her head. ‘No, it is something more, though I am not sure what.’
I nodded. I felt the same.
She said, hesitant again, ‘Sir, perhaps I should not ask – ’
‘Go on– ’
‘If I might say, this last week you have seemed – preoccupied, worried. Have you some trouble, sir?’
I was touched. ‘Merely work worries, Josephine. But thank you for your concern.’
I felt uneasy. I thought of the books I possessed, forbidden by the recent proclamation. They were concealed in my chest, and under the amnesty I had another fortnight to turn them in; I thought, if I do that officially, my name will doubtless go on a list. Better to burn them discreetly in the garden. And I would keep a careful eye now on Master Martin Brocket, too.
THAT EVENING I WAS due to visit Phi
lip Coleswyn.
He lived on Little Britain Street, near Smithfield. I walked there by back lanes to avoid seeing Smithfield itself again. His house was in a pleasant row of old dwellings, with overhanging jettied roofs. Some peddlers and drovers in their smocks were pushing their carts back towards the city from the Smithfield market. They seemed to have many unsold goods; I wondered if the troubles caused by the King’s debasement of the coinage would ever end. A small dog, a shaggy little mongrel, wandered up and down the street whining and looking at people. It had a collar – it must have come to Smithfield with one of the traders or customers, and got itself lost. Hopefully its owner would find it.
I knocked at the door of Coleswyn’s residence, where, as he had told me, a griffin’s head was engraved over the porch. He let me in himself. ‘We have no servants at the moment,’ he apologized. ‘My wife will be doing the cooking tonight. We have a fine capon.’
‘That sounds excellent,’ I said, concealing my surprise that a man of his status should have no servants. He led me into a pleasant parlour, the early evening sunlight glinting on the fine gold and silver plate displayed on the buffet. An attractive woman in her early thirties was sitting with two children, a girl and boy of about seven and five, teaching them their letters. She looked tired.
‘My wife, Ethelreda,’ Coleswyn said. ‘My children, Samuel and Laura.’
Ethelreda Coleswyn stood and curtsied, and the little boy gave a tiny bow. The girl turned to her mother and said seriously, ‘I prefer the name Fear-God, Mamma.’
Her mother gave me a nervous look, then told the child, ‘We want you to use your second name now, we have told you. Now go, both of you, up to bed. Adele is waiting.’ She clapped her hands and the children went to their father, who bent to kiss them goodnight, then they left obediently.
‘My sister has come from Hertfordshire to help with the children,’ Coleswyn explained.
‘I must see to the food.’ Ethelreda got up. She left the room. Coleswyn poured me some wine and we sat at the table.