by C. J. Sansom
‘I would rather die than carry out such a duty.’
It was an easy thing for a young man of means to say. ‘I do not think he liked it,’ I observed.
‘Perhaps. I noticed his fingernails were bitten to the quick.’
‘Well spotted. I did not see that. Noticing things, that is the key in this business. We will make a lawyer of you yet. And what did you make of the murder?’
Nicholas shook his head. ‘Two attacks, as Fletcher said; that sounds like Greening had enemies. Or perhaps he had something precious in his shop – something more than paper and ink.’ I looked at the boy sharply; he had come a little too close to the mark for my comfort with that observation. ‘Gold, perhaps,’ Nicholas went on, ‘that the thieves managed to take before they were interrupted.’
‘If people have gold they spend it, or deposit it somewhere safe; only misers hoard it at home.’
‘Like your friend Bealknap? I have heard he is such a one.’
‘He is not my friend,’ I answered shortly. Nicholas reddened, and I continued more civilly, ‘Greening does not sound like such a man.’
‘No, indeed.’ Nicholas added, ‘The constable looked overworked.’
‘Yes. In some ways London is a well-policed city. The constables and watchmen look out for violence, and violations of the curfew. If a few taverns open after hours they wink at it, so long as the inn keepers do not let customers get violent.’ I looked at Nicholas and raised my eyebrows. His own tavern sword fight had become an item of gossip round Lincoln’s Inn, to my discomfort. He reddened further.
I went on, ‘The constables check that people obey the sumptuary laws regarding the clothes that may be worn by men of each station, though again they wink at minor infringements. And they run informers to report on crime and religious misdemeanours. But when it comes to investigating a murder requiring a long-term, detailed investigation, they have not the resources, as Fletcher said.’
‘I confess I do not fully understand about the different types of radical,’ Nicholas said. ‘Sacramentarians and Lollards and Anabaptists, what are the differences?’
‘That is something it is as well to know in London. But lower your voice,’ I said quietly. ‘Open discussion of these matters is dangerous. Sacramentarians believe the bread and wine are not transformed into the body and blood of Christ during the Mass, which properly should be regarded only as a remembrance of Christ’s sacrifice. By law, to express that belief is heresy. In most of Europe such opinion is new, but in England a man called John Wycliffe propounded similar doctrines more than a century ago. Those who followed him, the Lollards, were persecuted, but Lollardy has lived on here and there, in small secret groups. The Lollards were delighted, of course, by the King’s break with Rome.’
‘And the Anabaptists?’
They were one of the religious sects that sprang up in Germany twenty years ago. They believe in going back to the practices of the earliest Christians; they are sacramentarians, but they also believe that the baptism of children is invalid, that only adults who have come to knowledge of Christ can be baptized. Hence “Anabaptists”. But also, and most dangerously, they share the belief of the earliest Christians that social distinctions between men should be abolished and all goods held in common.’
Nicholas looked astonished. ‘Surely the early Christians did not believe that?’
I inclined my head. ‘Looking at the Scriptures, there is a good argument they did.’
He frowned. ‘I heard the Anabaptists took over a city in Germany and ran it according to their beliefs, and by the end blood was running in the streets.’ He shook his head. ‘Man cannot do without authority, which is why God has ordained princes to rule over him.’
‘In fact, the Anabaptists were besieged in Münster, the Protestant Prince allying with Catholic forces to take the city. That was the real cause of the bloodshed. Though I have heard that yes, the Anabaptists’ rule inside the city had become violent. But afterwards most of them renounced violence. They were run out of Germany and Flanders, too; a few from Flanders came here across the North Sea. The King burned those he could find.’
‘But there could still be others?’
‘So it is said. If they exist they have been forced underground as the Lollards were. Anyone with a Dutch name is looked at askance these days.’
‘Like that friend of Greening’s the constable mentioned? Vandersteyn?’
‘Yes.’
Nicholas’s brow furrowed. ‘So the Anabaptists have renounced violence, but not the belief that rulers must be put down?’
‘So it is said.’
‘Then they remain a great danger,’ he said seriously.
‘They are a useful bogey.’ I looked at Nicholas. ‘Well, now you have seen what a murder enquiry begins to look like. It is seldom an easy thing to investigate, nor safe.’
He smiled. ‘I am not afraid.’
I grunted. ‘Fear keeps you on your toes. Remember that.’
ALL THE SHOPS and printworks in Paternoster Row had little signs outside: an angel, a golden ball, a red cockerel. The sign of the White Lion, crudely painted on a board, hung outside a one-storey wooden building which was made to seem all the poorer by the fine-looking house which stood next to it. That must be the neighbour, Okedene’s. I used the key to open the padlock the constable had fixed to the splintered door, and pushed it open. It was dim within. There was a second door at the side of the shed, with a key in the lock, and I got Nicholas to open it. It gave onto a weed-strewn patch of ground. I looked round the shed. The single room was dominated by a large printing press in the centre, the press itself raised on its screw, the tray of paper empty. Nailed to the walls, cheap shelves held paper, ink and solutions in bottles, and blocks of type in boxes. A harsh smell permeated the place.
In one corner was a pile of printed pages, and others had been hung on lines to dry. I looked at the top page: A Goodly French Primer. I glanced at the pages hanging to dry: Je suis un gentilhomme de l’Angleterre. J’habite à Londres . . . I remembered such stuff from my schooldays. Greening had been printing a schoolbook for children. There was a straw bed in a corner, a blanket and pillow. Beside the bed was a knife and plate with some stale bread and mouldy cheese. Greening’s last meal.
‘Nicholas,’ I said, ‘would you look under the printing press and see if there is any type in the upper tray? I am not sure I could manage it.’ If there was, I would have to get the boy to detach the tray somehow, so that I could see if it was the same type used in printing the French book, or something else; had Greening been planning to print the Lamentation?
Nicholas twisted his long body under the press and looked up with an easy suppleness I envied. ‘No print in the tray, sir. It looks empty.’
‘Good,’ I said, relieved.
He rose and stood looking around. ‘What a poor place. To have to live as well as work here, amidst this smell.’
‘Many live in far worse conditions.’ Yet Nicholas was right, a man who was able to keep a printer’s business going should have been able to afford a home. Unless his business was failing; perhaps he had not been sharp enough for this competitive trade. Lord Parr had said Greening’s parents were poor, so where had he got the capital to buy the press and other equipment to start the business? I saw, by the bed, a dark stain on the floor. Blood, from the injuries Greening had received. Poor fellow, not yet thirty, now rotting in the common graveyard.
There was a plain wooden coffer beside the bed. It was unlocked, and contained only a couple of stained leather aprons, some shirts and doublets of cheap linen, and a well-thumbed New Testament. No forbidden books; he had been careful.
Nicholas was bending over a little pile of half-burned papers on the floor. ‘Here’s where they tried to start the fire,’ he said.
I joined him. ‘Under the shelf of inks. If Okedene hadn’t come the place would have gone up.’ I picked out one of the half-burned pieces of paper ‘. . . le chat est un animal méchant . . .’ ‘Pages from the book he wa
s printing,’ I said.
Nicholas looked around the room. ‘What will happen to all this?’
‘It belongs to his parents now. The power of attorney gives me the right to take out probate on their behalf. Perhaps you and Barak could deal with that. The author will have paid Greening to print his book, that money will have to be repaid. Otherwise the materials will be sold and the proceeds given to his parents. The printing press will be worth something.’
I looked at the paper on the shelf. Not a large stock, but with nearly all paper in England imported, it had a market value, and as Fletcher had suggested, it would be worth stealing, as would the working type. But it hardly explained two attempted burglaries by separate parties.
I went to the side door and stepped outside, pleased to be away from the harsh fumes, and looked out. The little patch of weedy ground ended at a brick wall, seven feet high. I had a thought. I needed to speak to Okedene on his own, without Nicholas. Besides myself, Okedene was the only other person outside the palace walls who knew of the Lamentation.
‘Nicholas,’ I said, ‘go and look over that wall.’
He did so, pulling himself up easily. ‘A garden,’ he said. ‘In little better state than the ground this side.’
‘Will you climb over, see where those men might have gone after they killed Greening, whether they left any traces? Then join me at Okedene’s house.’
He looked worried. ‘What if the owners see me poking about in their garden?’
‘Make some excuse.’ I smiled. ‘A good lawyer should always be able to think on his feet.’
Chapter Nine
MASTER OKEDENE’S establishment was a three-storey house. The bottom floor was a bookshop, volumes displayed on a table outside. They were varied; from Eliot’s Castle of Health to little books on astrology and herbs, and Latin classics. There were a couple of prayer books, approved ones, small volumes no larger than a man’s hand, which one could carry as one walked. From the upper floors came a thumping, clacking sound: newly inked pages would be put under the press, it would be rapidly screwed down, the page taken out and a new one inserted. An old man stood in the doorway, guarding the bookshop; he was stringy and arthritic-looking, his hands knotted. He studied me warily; he would have seen Nicholas and me enter Greening’s shed.
I smiled. ‘God give you good morrow, goodman. I am a lawyer, representing the parents of the late Master Greening.’
He took off his cap, revealing a bald pate beneath. ‘God pardon his soul.’ He gave a wheezing cough.
‘I have authority from Constable Fletcher to investigate the matter. Would you be Master Okedene’s assistant, that saw the two men run from the building?’
‘I am, sir,’ he answered more cheerfully. ‘John Huffkyn, at your service.’
‘I am Master Shardlake. Would you tell me what happened?’
He nodded, clearly pleased to tell his story again. ‘It was evening, I was helping Master Okedene run the press. He is printing a book on the voyages to the New World, with woodcuts showing the wondrous creatures there. A big contract. We were working till the light was done.’ He sighed. ‘Now that Master Okedene has taken on that lump Elias as apprentice, I am put to mind the shop during the day.’ He paused. ‘But thirty years in this business have worn my joints to shreds. And my chest—’
‘That night . . .’ I said, bringing him back to the point.
‘Work had just finished, we were pinning up pages to dry overnight. The windows were open and we heard a commotion next door. Cries, then a loud shout for help. Master Okedene and I looked at each other. Master Greening could occasionally be heard in loud discussions with his friends, but these were sounds of violence. We ran downstairs. The master ran next door, but I stayed in the doorway. With my poor bent limbs and bad chest I could be of little assistance . . .’ He looked ashamed.
‘I understand,’ I offered solicitously.
‘From here I saw it all. Master Okedene battered the door in, and a second later I saw two men run out of there.’ He pointed to Greening’s side door. ‘As I told them at the inquest, they were both in their twenties, dressed in dirty wadmol smocks. Vagrants, they seemed to me, masterless men.’ He made a grimace. ‘Both carried nasty-looking clubs. They were strongly built; one was tall and, young as he was, near bald. The other was fair-haired and had a big wart on his forehead; it was visible even in the poor light. Both had raggedy beards.’
‘You observed well.’
‘My eyes at least are still sound. I would be glad to identify them, help see them hang. Master Greening was a good neighbour. I know he was a radical, but he was quiet, he wasn’t one of those who buttonholes people and starts preaching at them, putting them in danger of the law. He did no man harm – that I know of,’ he added, looking at me sharply.
‘I have heard no ill spoken of him.’
Huffkyn continued, ‘When the two men had gone I went across to the shed, for I could smell burning. Master Okedene was putting out a fire, a heap of papers set alight on the floor, and poor Greening was lying there. A dreadful sight, the top of his head bashed in, blood and brains spilling out.’ He shook his head.
‘Thank you, Goodman Huffkyn.’ I took out my purse and gave him a groat. ‘And now, if I may, I would speak to your master. Can I go in?’
‘Of course. He is at work with Elias, on the first floor.’
I WALKED THROUGH the shop and went upstairs. The rhythmic thumping was louder now. The whole first floor had been knocked into one room, a larger equivalent of poor Greening’s. Again there were shelves of paper and chemicals, printed pages in piles, more hung up on ropes stretched across the room, like linen on drying day. Although the shutters were open, the chamber was hot and smelled of heavy leaden dust; I felt sweat on my brow.
Two men were working at the press. Both wore stained leather aprons. A tall, clean-shaven, grey-haired man in his fifties was smoothing out a fresh piece of paper on the bottom tray. Holding the handle of the great screw above the upper tray, where the inked letters were set, was a large, strongly muscled boy of about eighteen, with a dumpish, heavy countenance. They looked round as I entered.
‘I am Master Shardlake,’ I said quietly. ‘I have been sent to investigate poor Master Greening’s murder.’
The older man nodded. ‘Geoffrey Okedene,’ he said. ‘I had a message to expect you. Let us go to the book-binding room. Elias, we will be down in a while.’
The boy looked at me directly for the first time. His brown eyes were afire with anger. ‘It was a wicked, godless thing,’ he said. ‘Good Christian people are no longer safe in these days.’
‘Keep your place, boy.’ Okedene frowned at him, then led me up to the top floor, where a middle-aged woman sat at a table, carefully sewing pages into a binding of thick paper. Okedene said, ‘Could you go down to the kitchen for a few minutes, my dear? I need a private word with this gentleman of the law. It concerns the contract for the new book. Perhaps you could take Elias a jug of ale.’
‘I heard you chide Elias just now. That boy needs a whipping for his insolent tongue.’
‘He is strong and works hard, that is what matters, sweetheart. And the loss of his old master hit him hard.’
Mrs Okedene rose, curtsying to me before stepping out. The printer closed the door behind her. ‘My wife knows nothing of this matter,’ he said quietly. ‘You have come from Lord Parr? He said he would send someone.’
‘Yes. You acted well that night, Master Okedene.’
He sat at the table, looking at his work-roughened hands. He had a pleasant, honest face, but it held lines of worry. ‘I had a note from Whitehall that a lawyer would be coming. They asked me to burn it, which I did.’ He took a deep breath. ‘When I saw the words on that page poor Greening held – I am no sacramentarian, but I have ever been a supporter of reform. I had work from Lord Cromwell in his time. When I saw the title page of that book, I knew it was a personal confession of sinfulness and coming to faith, such as radicals make these day
s, and could be dangerous to her majesty, whom all reformers revere for her faith and goodness.’
‘How did you gain access to Whitehall Palace?’
‘There is a young apprentice printer living on the street who is known as a fiery young radical. As is often the case with such young men, he has contact with other radicals among the servants at court. I went to him, told him I had hold of something the Queen’s councillors should know about. He told me of a servant I should approach at Whitehall, and thus I was led to Lord Parr himself.’ He shook his head wonderingly.
‘Is this boy friendly with Elias?’
‘No. Elias tended to mix only with Master Greening and his circle.’ Oakdene passed a hand across his brow. ‘It is hard to find oneself suddenly inside Whitehall.’
I smiled sympathetically. ‘It is.’
‘It was – frightening.’ He looked at me. ‘But I must do what I can, for conscience’s sake.’
‘Yes. Lord Parr is grateful to you. He has asked me to take up the investigation into the murder, which the coroner has all but abandoned. I have told the constable and everyone else – including my own pupil, whom I have set to search the gardens behind Greening’s shed – that I am acting on behalf of Greening’s parents. I took the liberty of questioning Goodman Huffkyn, and I would like to speak to Elias as well. I understand he thwarted an earlier attempt to break in.’
‘So he says, and Elias is truthful, if unruly.’
‘You must not speak of that book to him or anybody else.’
He nodded emphatically. ‘By our Lord, sir, I know how much discretion this matter demands. Sometimes good Christians must speak with the wisdom of the serpent as well as the innocence of the dove, is it not so?’
‘In this matter, certainly. Now, would you tell me in your own words what happened that night?’
Okedene repeated what Huffkyn had told me about hearing a noise and rushing outside. ‘As I ran up to the shed, I heard Master Greening call out to someone to leave him alone. I think he was fighting them. I tried the door and found it locked so I put my shoulder to it. It gave way at once.’