Coincidence

by C. J. Sansom

  I looked at him. For more than a year I had been the one in charge, showing him the ways of the law, but suddenly he was Lord Cromwell’s man of action again, keen and alert. I nodded reluctantly and felt for my dagger. ‘Come on then.’

  Barak led the way along the wall. The mist was thinning now, a pale sun showing through. Sure enough, a short way beyond the cart a little door was set in the wall. It had a big keyhole and I wondered if it was locked, but when Barak pushed the door it opened with the same rusty creak I had heard earlier. Drawing his sword, he pushed the door wide. We stepped in.

  ‘Look,’ he breathed. He pointed down at a fresh set of footprints. The damp smudges went from the door across the church. I strained to look, twisting my head, for a large pillar blocked our view.

  ‘I can’t see anything,’ I whispered.

  ‘Let’s just follow the footprints. They’re very recent – whoever made them was in the damp grass for a good while.’

  ‘So there was someone.’

  Barak nodded. ‘Dodged into the church when he heard you coming, and ran. He’s probably gone out one of the main doors now.’

  I shook my head. ‘If I was him, knowing there was about to be a great hue and cry, I’d have hidden in the church until the crowds were gone. Jesu knows there are enough dark spaces.’

  Barak took a firm grip of his sword. ‘Let’s follow those prints.’

  The marks on the tiled floor were faint but visible. They crossed the breadth of the church, intersecting with the trail of mud and dung left by those taking the shortcut along the length of the nave, then continued, fainter, on the other side to where a large internal doorway stood, its arch decorated with scenes from the life of Christ. The door was open a little, and the wet smudges ended there.

  Barak smiled. ‘Got him,’ he whispered. ‘This’ll be a feather in our caps.’ He stepped back, then kicked the door wide, the crash echoing and re-echoing around the great abandoned church. We looked in. An elaborately decorated vestibule lay ahead, with a low vaulted ceiling supported by wide carved pillars. Ahead, another archway led to a large inner room, lit by a big stained-glass window that had survived and through which daylight filtered dimly; probably the chapterhouse. We stepped inside, watching the pillars carefully lest our quarry had concealed himself behind one.

  ‘Come on!’ Barak called out. ‘We’ve got you! Give yourself up!’

  ‘Stay by the door,’ I suggested. ‘I’ll go and find those soldiers.’

  ‘No, I fancy taking this one myself.’

  ‘Barak!’ I said. ‘Be sensible!’ But he was already moving round the room, sword held out before him. I pulled out my dagger, peering into the corners. The anteroom was ill-lit, it was difficult to see. Then Barak let out a sudden yell.

  ‘Jesu Christ!’

  I ran across to where he stood in the doorway to the inner room. It was empty, all the furniture removed, but round the walls stood two tiers of men, dressed in brightly coloured robes. I saw white hair, long beards, pink faces and glinting eyes. I stood with my mouth open for a second, then laughed.

  ‘They’re statues, Barak. The prophets and apostles.’ They were so lifelike in the dim light that his astonishment was understandable. ‘Look, that’s Moses in the blue robe. Jesu, even his lips are painted to look real —’

  We both whirled round at a patter of footsteps, just in time to glimpse the hem of a dark robe disappearing through the door before it slammed shut with a bang. As we raced up to it we heard the sound of a key turning. Barak grasped the handle frantically.

  ‘Shit!’ he cried. ‘He’s locked us in!’ He tugged again, but it was no good.

  I set my lips. ‘Then it’s us who are trapped now, while he gets away.’

  We walked back into the chapterhouse, where there was more light. Barak’s face was red with embarrassment.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘That was my fault. Charging in here without a thought like an arsehole, then crying out at those statues, pox on them. He must have been hiding in one of those corners, you’d have seen him but for my foolishness.’ There was real distress in his face.

  ‘Well, it’s done now,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not the man I was,’ he said with sudden, bitter anger.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’d never have made a mistake like that a couple of years ago. I’ve had too much soft living at Lincoln’s Inn.’ He set his teeth. ‘How are we going to get out of here?’

  I looked up at the stained-glass window. ‘There’s only one way. You’ll have to climb up those statues, break the window and call for help. Use your sword-hilt.’

  He set his lips. ‘They’ll be laughing at us from one end of St Mary’s to the other.’

  ‘I doubt Maleverer will be laughing. We need to see him as soon as possible.’

  ‘Better get on with it, then.’ Barak took a deep breath, then climbed up the statue of Moses. Balanced on his stone head, he shinned up the figure of St Mark above him. He had not, at any rate, lost his agility. Balanced on the stone head of the apostle, he put one arm round a decorated pillar and then, with the hilt of his sword, leaned over and dealt the nearest pane of glass a heavy blow. It shattered, the noise echoing round the chapterhouse. I winced. He smashed the one next to it, then leaned out of the window and shouted ‘Help!’ in a great bellow that echoed round the chapterhouse. I winced again. He yelled twice more, then called down to me. ‘They’ve seen us. People are coming.’

  AN HOUR LATER we stood before Maleverer’s desk in his office at the King’s Manor. On the way in we had seen a crowd of people standing round Oldroyd’s horse lying still on the ground. I recoiled at the sight of a wide stream of blood running across the yard; Maleverer’s orders had been carried out. Inside the manor, there was a smell of wood shavings. The sound of sawing came from outside Maleverer’s office, for elaborate works of decoration were going on in the manor house too, making it fit for the King. I told Maleverer our story. He listened with that hard, angry expression that seemed fixed on his face. A big hairy hand toyed with an inkwell as though he would crush it in his palm. A tall thin man in a silk lawyer’s robe and the coif of a serjeant at law at his elbow; he had been called in and introduced to me as Archbold, the King’s coroner, with jurisdiction to investigate all deaths on royal property.

  Maleverer was silent a moment after I finished, running a finger along the flat edge of his beard. ‘So the man spoke against the King and Queen. Well, that’s common enough up here. There should have been more hanged last spring. You should hear some of the things our informers tell us.’

  ‘Yet I felt, sir, that the glazier was trying to tell me something important. And there must have been some reason he was killed.’

  ‘If he was,’ Maleverer said. ‘What if this person in the church was just someone passing through, who was frightened by that oaf running in with his sword?’ He gave Barak a look of disfavour.

  ‘I don’t think so, Sir William.’ This was not the reaction I had anticipated. ‘The footprints led from the door near the cart to the chapterhouse. I suspect the person had a key to both, and planned to go into the church from the beginning, so he would not be seen. And that is another thing. Who would have keys to the church?’

  Maleverer grunted. ‘The monks probably took copies before they left, so they could come back and steal.’ He studied me. ‘So, then. Are you one of those lawyers who likes ferreting about after puzzles and mysteries? You have the pinched look of such a funny-ossity.’ His Yorkshire accent strengthened as he used a dialect term I did not understand but could guess was uncomplimentary. I did not answer.

  ‘You haven’t done very well, have you, letting him get away? Did you see nothing of what he looked like?’

  ‘Only the hem of a dark robe.’

  Maleverer turned to the coroner. ‘Have you ever heard that name the glazier mentioned? Blaybourne?’

  ‘No, sir.’ He looked at me with sharp blue eyes. ‘Mayhap it was the man who pushed the
glazier into the cart, if anyone did. Some fellow guildsman he quarrelled with.’

  Maleverer nodded. ‘More than likely.’ He leaned across the desk. ‘Brother Shardlake, the King and his Progress will be here in three days. Every official here is working all hours to get everything ready for His Majesty, to ensure all goes smoothly. Especially the submission of the town councillors and the local gentry. What we do not have time for is a lot of fuss about some stupid workman who fell, or was pushed, into his cart of glass. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ I felt disappointment, but also relief. I had discharged my duty and it was up to Maleverer to decide what if anything was to be done. But his next words made my heart sink.

  ‘Since you like mysteries, you can investigate the glazier’s death on the coroner’s behalf.’

  Archbold smiled and nodded. ‘An excellent idea, sir. I’ve no one else to spare.’

  ‘Go to the man’s house, talk to his friends, find if he had any enemies.’ Maleverer turned to the coroner again. ‘There will have to be a formal investigation, won’t there?’

  Archbold nodded. ‘I fear so, Sir William. We can’t just leave it, though if it wasn’t an accident it’s probably some quarrel among the guildsmen, like I say. But we have to be seen doing something. We don’t want the city made even more hostile.’

  ‘There we are then. Brother Shardlake and his assistant can deal with it.’ Maleverer delved into his robe, produced a large iron key and laid it on the table. I picked it up reluctantly. ‘That’s all he had on him, apart from a purse with a few groats. His house key, probably. Bring the results of your enquiries to me. And it would be good if the evidence supported death by misadventure, you understand?’ He smiled then, showing big yellow teeth. ‘I’ll report to the Duke of Suffolk, tell him it will be settled quietly.’

  ‘But Sir William,’ I said. ‘I am a witness. It would not be proper —’

  ‘Pox on what’s proper. I want this out of the way. We can empanel a jury from among the workmen here.’

  ‘I have to prepare the petitions for the King,’ I ventured.

  ‘Then you’ll have to work round the clock like the rest of us,’ Maleverer answered bluntly. He turned to Archbold. ‘Master coroner, will you leave us a moment? Take him –’ he waved at Barak – ‘with you.’ They bowed and went outside, leaving Maleverer staring coldly at me. I sensed his dislike, and I wondered whether it was the contempt big hearty fellows will sometimes have for deformity. His eyes narrowed.

  ‘You have another task as well, don’t you?’ he asked. ‘At the castle? Don’t gawk at me like a new-landed fish. I sit on the Council of the North, I know everything. You know how delicate the political position is. You will obey me to the letter in this matter of the glazier, do you understand? Get it out of the way quick.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I answered heavily. So Maleverer was one of the trusted men on the Council of the North, whom Cranmer had told me of. I wondered if he knew what Broderick was accused of.

  He gave his harsh smile again. ‘As for your other task, it is probably a good idea for someone to keep an eye on Master Radwinter from what I hear of him. How is Broderick, have you seen him?’

  ‘Yesterday. He has an infected burn, I ordered a physician fetched.’

  ‘Good. But one thing, Brother Shardlake.’ He pointed a big square finger at me. ‘Apart from watching for Broderick’s welfare, you keep that long nose of yours out of that matter. Right out.’ He stared hard at me again. ‘I don’t like long noses. I cut them off sometimes, and the heads as well.’

  Chapter Six

  I FOUND BARAK STANDING ON the steps of the manor house, looking across the courtyard. The day’s work had begun and was continuing at the same breakneck pace. Visible progress had been made on the two pavilions; through the open doors I could see workmen finishing the interior decorations. Nearby, frames were being erected for three enormous tents, carts loaded with huge canvases standing by. The mist had cleared, leaving a grey sky.

  ‘They took the horse away.’ Barak nodded over to the wall, where a man with a brush and pail was washing away the blood.

  ‘Killing the poor beast was unnecessary,’ I said. I told him of Maleverer’s orders. ‘I wish I’d kept my mouth shut after all. Now I’m landed with this task, and if I find evidence Oldroyd was murdered I’ll be less popular than ever.’

  ‘Where do we start?’

  ‘At the Guildhall, I suppose. I should liaise with the city coroner. And if poor Oldroyd was a master glazier they’ll be able to put us in touch with his guild, and perhaps tell us where he lived.’

  Barak nodded. He still had a gloomy look, I saw, and I remembered his sudden outburst in the church. I must talk to him later on. ‘Let’s get started, then,’ I said with a sigh.

  ‘We’re due to meet old Wrenne at ten.’

  ‘Damn it, so we are. I’ll send a message to say we’ll be late. I must visit the prison as well, to see if Radwinter’s brought a doctor to Broderick.’

  ‘Master Shardlake!’ I turned at the sound of a familiar voice, and saw Tamasin Reedbourne approaching from the direction of the church. She was accompanied by the sour-looking woman who had been with Lady Rochford the day before. I set my teeth; was there no avoiding this importunate girl? She came up to us.

  ‘There is no time to stand talking, Tamasin,’ her companion said disapprovingly.

  ‘But these are the gentlemen who saved the Queen’s doucets yesterday. And Master Shardlake came to my aid today, when the horse ran at us.’

  The older woman looked at me curiously. ‘You are the lawyer that found that man’s body?’

  ‘I am, madam.’ I bowed. ‘Matthew Shardlake. And you are Mistress Marlin, I believe.’

  I was surprised by the angry look that came into her large brown eyes. ‘And how, sir, do you know that?’

  ‘Master Craike mentioned your name after we saw you yesterday.’

  ‘Did he?’ Again that cynical, humourless smile. ‘Yes, I am Jennet Marlin, I attend on Lady Rochford as you saw yesterday.’ She looked at me. ‘They say you got yourself locked in the chapterhouse afterwards and had to call for help.’

  I looked at her evenly. ‘Indeed we did.’

  ‘How did that come about?’

  ‘I am not at liberty to say,’ I answered coldly.

  ‘A man of mystery,’ she said, turning away. ‘Come, Tamasin, we must see what they are about in the Queen’s kitchen.’

  Tamasin smiled at us, her smile lingering on Barak. ‘The King and Queen are having their own privy kitchens installed in the abbot’s house,’ she said proudly. ‘We are helping with the arrangements, as I told you earlier.’

  ‘Come on!’ Mistress Marlin walked away with a swish of skirts. There was an odd stiffness about her gait, as though her body was held tight with tension. If she had a fiancé in the Tower she would have much to worry about. Tamasin spoke quickly to Barak. ‘Will you be dining in the hall tonight?’

  ‘I don’t know, mistress. We haven’t even had time for breakfast yet.’

  ‘But you will be entitled to bouche of court. Do you not have dockets?’

  ‘Not yet,’ I said.

  ‘I will get some for you.’

  ‘We will not be dining till late,’ I said. ‘We have a busy day.’

  ‘Say six, then?’

  ‘That will be fine,’ Barak said. ‘Six o’clock.’

  Tamasin curtsied quickly and went to join her mistress. They disappeared into the house. I shook my head. ‘That girl is the most pert creature I have ever come across.’

  ‘Her mistress is a rude bitch.’

  ‘Yes, she is. These royal women-servants seem to think they can take any liberty. And that young Tamasin has set her sights on you.’

  Barak smiled. ‘Can’t say I mind. Not short of spirit, is she?’

  ‘Come,’ I said. ‘Let’s see if there’s anywhere in this great warren where we can arrange for messages to be sent.’

  A guard directed us to
a tent where boys were running in and out, carrying papers. A whole system for sending messages around the city had been set up. The man in charge seemed reluctant to get word to Wrenne, but mention of Maleverer’s name worked wonders, and a lad was despatched with a scribbled note.

  We fetched our outdoor clothes and made our way to the gate to Bootham. People were scurrying in and out under the barbican and one of the King’s soldiers was arguing with a dusty-looking couple who had stepped down from a poor wagon covered with sacks. Both wore baggy smocks of strange design, green squares of different sizes intersecting across a russet background.

  ‘We heard they were crying out for all the produce as they can get for the King’s visit!’ the man said in the accent of a Scotchman.

  ‘No Scotch in the city while the King’s here, no vagabonds,’ the guard said implacably.

  ‘But we’ve driven from Jedburgh. We’ve the year’s oat harvest here.’

  ‘Then serve it to thy border reivers that steal our cattle. Turn round and be off. No Scotch!’

  The couple remounted their wagon wearily. The guard winked at us as we approached. ‘Keep the barbarians out, eh?’ A Yorkman by his accent, he looked pleased with himself. I reflected that yesterday Brother Kimber had used the same word about the northern English.

  We walked back into the city. The Guildhall was only a few streets away, in a square next to another abandoned monastery, the roof gone. How full this city must have been of monks and friars. The Guildhall was busy as the King’s Manor, a scurry of people going in and out. It was an imposing building, though far smaller than its counterpart in London. I asked the guard at the door where I might find the city coroner.

  ‘He’s not here, maister.’ The man looked at us curiously. ‘But Recorder Tankerd is within.’ He let us pass, into a big hall with a splendid hammerbeam roof where merchants and officials stood talking as officials bustled in and out of side-rooms. I asked a passing clerk where I could find the Recorder; the title of the city’s chief legal officer was the same as in London.