by C. J. Sansom
‘Very well. Then walk with me now to St Paul’s. The murdered man was a printer. When I am asking people questions, listen hard, and if any questions occur to you, and you think them sensible, you may ask them. As you did with Mistress Slanning yesterday,’ I added. ‘You did well there.’
Nicholas brightened. ‘I wondered if I had gone too far. Whether she might leave you.’
‘That would be a tragedy,’ I answered sardonically. ‘And now, let us go.’ A thought occurred to me. ‘Did you bring your sword with you today?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Nicholas reddened. He liked to wear his sword when walking abroad, it was all part of his swagger.
I smiled. ‘Since your father’s being a landowner decrees you are a gentleman and gentlemen wear swords in public, we may as well turn the sumptuary laws to our advantage. It might impress the people we will be talking to.’
‘Thank you.’ Nicholas retrieved his sword, in its fine leather scabbard, tooled with a design of vine leaves. He buckled it on. ‘I am ready,’ he said.
Chapter Eight
WE WALKED ALONG the Strand, under Temple Bar and down Fleet Street. It was afternoon now, and I was glad of the bread and cheese Tamasin had given me earlier. Nicholas’s natural walk was a fast lope, and I told him to slow down a little, reminding him that lawyers are men of dignity and should walk gravely. We crossed the Fleet Bridge, and I held my breath at the stink of the river. A rooting pig had fallen in and was thrashing about in the mud. Its owner stood knee-deep in the green, scummy water, trying to get it out.
We passed the Fleet Prison where, as always, the dirty hands of prisoners stretched through the bars seeking alms, for if no one brought them food, they starved. I thought of Anne Askew in Newgate, being brought money by the Queen’s ladies. From there she had gone to the Tower to be tortured, and then to the stake. I shuddered.
We went under the city wall at Ludgate, the great edifice of St Paul’s Cathedral ahead, its soaring wooden spire reaching five hundred feet into the blue sky. Nicholas looked at it with wonder. ‘No building so fine in Lincolnshire, eh?’ I said.
‘Lincoln Cathedral is beautiful, but I have only seen it twice. My father’s estate is down in the southwest of the county, near the Trent.’ I caught a bite of anger in the boy’s voice when he mentioned his father.
Beyond Ludgate, Bowyer Row was busy with trade. A butcher had set up a stall on which lay some stiff-looking, greenish meat. Prices were so high these days that stallholders could get away with selling rancid meat. To attract customers, he had set a live turkey in a cage at the end of his stall. People paused to stare at this extraordinary bird from the New World, like a gigantic chicken, with enormous brightly coloured wattles.
An elderly peddler approached us, his tray full of pamphlets newly purchased from the printers. He leered at us. ‘Buy my new-printed ballads, sirs. Full of naughty rhymes. The Milkmaid and the Stallion Boy, The Cardinal’s Maidservants.’ Nicholas laughed and I waved the man aside. Another peddler stood in a doorway, an old arrowbag full of canes over his shoulder. ‘Buy my fine jemmies!’ he called. ‘Buy my London tartars! Well soaked in brine! Teach wives and sons obedience!’
A group of seven or eight little children, ragged shoeless urchins, ran towards us. I had glimpsed the sharp knife one boy was carrying. ‘Cutpurses,’ I murmured to Nicholas. ‘Watch your money!’
‘I saw them.’ He had already clapped a hand to his purse, grasping his sword hilt with the other. We looked directly at the children and, realizing we had guessed their intent, they ran off to one side instead of crowding round us. One shouted, ‘Crookback devil!’, another, ‘Carrot-head clerk!’ At that Nicholas turned and took a step towards them. I put a hand on his arm. He shook his head and said sadly, ‘People were right to warn me; London is a wild sea, full of dangerous rocks.’
‘That it is. In more ways than one. When I first came to London I, too, had to learn things for myself. I am not sure I have ever got used to the city; I sometimes dream of retiring to the country, but distractions will keep coming.’ I looked at him. ‘One thing I should tell you. The murdered man and his friends were religious radicals. I take it dealing with such people will not be a problem for you.’
‘I worship only as the King requires,’ Nicholas said, repeating the formula of those who would be safe. He looked at me. ‘In such matters I wish only to be left in peace.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘Now, turn up here, we are going to visit the constable first, in Ave Maria Lane.’
AVE MARIA LANE was a long narrow street of three-storey buildings, a muddle of shops, houses and tenements, all with overhanging eaves. I noticed a couple of booksellers’ shops, their publications laid out on a table in front, watched over by blue-coated apprentices with wooden clubs to deter thieves. Most of the books were aimed at the upper end of the market – Latin classics and French works – but among them there was also a copy of Becon’s new Christian State of Matrimony, which urged women to quiet and obedience. Had it not been so expensive I might have bought a copy for Barak as a jest; Tamasin would throw it at his head. I wished I had not had to dissemble with him earlier.
‘The constable is called Edward Fletcher,’ I told Nicholas. ‘He lives at the sign of the Red Dragon. Look, there it is. If he is not at home we shall have to try and find him about his business.’
The door was answered by a servant, who told us Master Fletcher was in and ushered us into a little parlour, with a desk and chairs all heaped with papers. Behind the desk sat a thin man of about fifty in the red doublet and cap of a city constable. He looked tired, on edge. I recognized him; he had been one of the constables who carried the faggots to the fires the day before.
‘God give you good morrow, Master Fletcher,’ I said.
‘And you, sir.’ He spoke deferentially, impressed no doubt by my robe. He stood and bowed. ‘How may I help you?’
‘I am here about the murder last week of Armistead Greening, God pardon his soul. I understand the coroner has put you in charge of the investigation.’
Fletcher sighed. ‘He has.’
‘I am Serjeant Matthew Shardlake, of Lincoln’s Inn. My pupil, Master Overton. Master Greening’s parents are sore grieved at his loss, and have asked me to assist in the investigations, with your permission. I have a power of attorney.’ I passed the document to him.
‘Please sit, sirs.’ Fletcher removed papers from a couple of stools and laid them on the floor. When we were seated he regarded me seriously. ‘You will know, sir, that if a murderer is not caught within the first two days, and his identity is unknown, the chances of finding him are small.’
‘I know it well. I have been involved in such investigations before, and understand how difficult they are.’ I glanced at the papers piled around. ‘And I know how heavy the duties are for the city constables in these days.’ I smiled sympathetically. ‘Investigating a brutal murder must be yet one more burden.’
Fletcher nodded sadly. ‘It is indeed.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘If you would take on the investigation I should be grateful.’
I nodded. I had read the man aright; many London constables were lazy and venal but Fletcher was conscientious and hopelessly overburdened. And affected, perhaps, by what he had had to do yesterday. The burning.
‘I would keep you informed of any developments, of course,’ I said. ‘And you would be the one to report any discoveries to the coroner.’ And take the credit, I implied.
He nodded.
‘Perhaps I could begin by asking you what you know of the circumstances of the murder. My pupil will take notes, if you will permit.’ Nicholas took quill and paper from his satchel. Fletcher gestured to him to help himself from his inkwell, then folded his arms and sat back.
‘I was visited somewhat after nine on the evening of the tenth, just as the light was fading, by one of my watchmen. He told me that a printer of Paternoster Row, Armistead Greening, had been murdered, and also reported the hue and cry raised by his neighbour, Master
Okedene, who discovered the body. I sent a message to the coroner and went across to Paternoster Row. Okedene was there, looking in a bad state. He said he had been working late in his print-shop with his assistant, using the last of the light, when he heard a loud cry for help from Greening’s works next door, then bangs and shouts. Master Okedene is a man of some substance, but Greening was in a small way of business, his workshop little more than a wooden hut.’
‘Not a very secure place, then?’
‘No indeed. Master Okedene told me that when he ran to investigate the door was locked, but he forced it open, just in time to see two men, big ragged-looking fellows, run out of the side door. Master Okedene’s assistant, an old man, had stayed in the doorway of Okedene’s shop, but saw the two men run out and climb over the wall behind the shed, into a garden. He gave a good description. Master Okedene would have pursued them, but he saw the print-shop had been set alight, a lamp dropped on a pile of paper.’
‘They wanted to burn the place down?’ Nicholas asked.
I said, ‘If it burned down and a charred body were found in the ruins, Greening’s death might have been attributed to his accidentally setting the place on fire.’
Fletcher nodded. ‘That was my surmise. In any event, Master Okedene saw the fire and hurried to put it out before it reached more papers and the inks and other materials printers use. They are very flammable, a fire could have spread to his place.’
I nodded agreement. Fire in summer was one of the terrors of London, and probably a greater terror still among printers.
‘Then he saw Master Greening lying in a pool of blood by his press, his head staved in.’ The constable frowned. ‘I was a little annoyed with Master Okedene, because after giving me his statement he went off and disappeared for several hours. At the inquest he said he had been so shocked by what had happened that he had had to get away and have a drink, and had wandered down to one of the taverns by the river that stay open after curfew.’ The constable shrugged. ‘Still, he told me all he knew before he left, and he is known as an honest man.’ I reminded myself: during those hours, Okedene was actually at Whitehall Palace.
Fletcher hesitated, then continued, ‘I should tell you, I was already under orders to keep a watch on Master Greening. He was known for having extreme views in religion, and radical friends. Three years ago he was closely questioned by Bishop Bonner about some books of John Bale, which were smuggled in from Flanders; there were reports that Greening was one of the distributors. But nothing was proved. It is a strange thing, though, that while his shop is small, with only one press and one apprentice, he has been able to keep the business going for some years, though you will know how risky the printing trade is.’
‘Indeed. You need money to invest in the equipment. And once you have printed a book you must sell many copies to recoup any profit.’
Fletcher nodded agreement. ‘And he was a young man, only thirty, and his parents I believe are not rich.’
‘Small yeoman farmers only, I understand.’
The constable gave me a look of sudden suspicion. ‘And yet they can afford to hire a serjeant at law.’
‘They have connections to someone I owe a favour to.’
Fletcher studied me closely, then continued. ‘Greening’s known acquaintances were questioned, including some other radicals the Bishop has ordered us to keep an eye on. All had alibis, and no motive for killing him. He kept no money at the shop. He lived there, slept on a little truckle bed in a corner. There were several shillings in his purse, untouched. He was unmarried, and seems to have had no woman.’
I asked, ‘What sort of radical was he?’
Fletcher shrugged his shoulders. ‘He and his friends were thought to be sacramentarians, maybe other things. I have heard it said Greening’s parents were Lollards from generations back. And old Lollards might be Anabaptists today. But no proof was ever found.’ Fletcher gave me another suspicious look, perhaps wondering if I were a radical myself.
I said lightly, ‘My pupil was just saying on the way here, it should suffice simply to worship as the King commands.’
‘Yes,’ Fletcher agreed. ‘Safer that way, too.’
‘What about his apprentice?’
‘A hulking, insolent fellow, I wouldn’t be surprised if he were another radical. But he was at home with his mother and sisters on the night of the murder, and all agree he got on well with his master. Master Okedene has taken on the boy now.’
‘And the two men Master Okedene’s assistant saw?’
‘Vanished into thin air. From the descriptions they’re not local men. I’d have taken it for a random attack by some beggars, hoping perhaps to steal some paper, which of course has some value – but for one thing . . .’
‘What is that?’
The constable frowned. ‘It was not the first attack on Greening.’ I looked surprised, as though hearing the news for the first time. ‘The apprentice, young Elias, told me that, some days before, he came to work early to find two men trying to break in, smash the lock. He shouted to waken Master Greening, who was asleep within, and called out, “Clubs!”, which as you will know brings any apprentice within reach to aid one of his fellows. The two men fled at once. And according to young Elias’s description, they were not the same men who killed Greening. He sticks to that.’ Fletcher spread his arms. ‘And that is all. The inquest returned its verdict of murder yesterday. I was asked to continue the investigation, but I have no further leads nothing to investigate.’
‘Do you have the names of the suspected radicals Greening associated with?’
‘Yes. There were three.’ Fletcher rummaged among his papers and wrote down the names and addresses of three men. We leaned over the desk as he pointed at each in turn. ‘James McKendrick is Scotch; he works at the docks, used to be a soldier but turned into one of those radical preachers the Scotch have thrown out of their kingdom. Andres Vandersteyn is a cloth merchant from Antwerp; he trades between there and London – they say in forbidden books as well as cloth. The third, William Curdy, is a candlemaker, moderately prosperous. They all attend church regularly on Sunday and are careful what they say in public, but they were all friendly with Greening and sometimes used to meet together at his shop. And they were friends with other radicals of various sorts.’
‘How do you know?’ Nicholas asked.
‘Informers, of course. Mine and the Bishop’s. And I am told that these three have not been at their homes lately.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘They may be keeping out of the way of officialdom.’
Nicholas said, ‘A strange group to meet together. A Dutch merchant trading with the Low Countries would be of gentleman status, a candlemaker would be the middling sort, but a poor printer and a dockworker are from quite a different class.’
‘Some radicals believe social divisions between men are wrong,’ I replied. ‘But meeting together is not an offence.’
‘Nor being Dutch, nor a Scotch exile,’ Fletcher said. ‘More’s the pity, for both groups are often radicals.’ He sighed, shook his head at the restrictions that bound his work, then added, ‘Nonetheless, the Bishop’s men raided Greening’s place back in April – ’
‘I did not know that,’ I said, leaning forward.
‘They raided several print-shops in search of some pamphlets by John Bale that had appeared in London. Printed somewhere in the city. Nothing was found anywhere.’
Yet somehow the most dangerous book in the kingdom had found its way into that shop. ‘What do you think happened, Master Fletcher?’ I asked.
‘Greening obviously had enemies who were out to kill him. But no one seems to know of any. Perhaps there was a falling-out with another radical group; these people will turn from love of each other to hatred over the tiniest point of doctrine. The descriptions of the two sets of people who tried to break in tally with nobody known locally, and this is a close-knit district. You can see why the investigation is at a standstill.’
I nodded sympathetically. ‘If you
would not object, I would like to question Master Okedene and his assistant. And the apprentice. Perhaps these friends of Greening’s. And I would like to look at Master Greening’s shop, too. Is there a key?’
Fletcher produced a small key from his desk. ‘I put a new padlock on. You may as well keep this for now. The shop is at the sign of the White Lion. I wish you well.’ He waved his hands at the papers littered around. ‘As you see, I am burdened with duties. This year I have had to hunt for heretics as well as criminals, though the hunt for the former seems to have died down now.’ He looked me in the eye. ‘I saw you at the burning yesterday, on your horse; your friend looked set to faint.’
‘I saw you, too.’
‘I have to carry out the duties the mayor gives me,’ he said defensively, though for a moment his eyes looked haunted.
‘I understand.’
He gave me a hard look. ‘You will report anything you find in this case back to me, remember. I have jurisdiction under the coroner.’
‘All and anything I discover,’ I lied. ‘By the way, what happened to the body?’
‘It couldn’t be kept lying around till his parents were able to get here from the Chilterns; not in summer. He was buried in the common pit.’
WE WALKED UP Ave Maria Lane into Paternoster Row; a longer, wider street, which was the centre of England’s small but growing printing trade. There were several more booksellers, some with printer’s shops above, and a few smaller print-shops; as Fletcher had said, some were mere sheds fixed to the side of buildings, or erected on small plots of land leased from the owner. I thought of Greening’s possible involvement with the printing of forbidden books by John Bale. Once a favourite of Lord Cromwell’s, but now the most detested of radicals, Bale was hidden in exile somewhere in Flanders.
‘What did you think of Fletcher?’ I asked Nicholas.
‘He was at the burning?’
‘Yes. Doing his duty,’ I added heavily.