C. Sansom - Lamentation

I felt sorry for the old man. I looked at Philip. ‘I think we have learned all we need, Brother Coleswyn.’

‘Yes, we have.’ Philip looked at Vowell. ‘You should have spoken before.’

I said, ‘He is right that it can do no good to rake it all up now. Not a matter of a possible murder, so many decades ago, with no evidence to reopen the case.’

Philip stood silent, thinking.

‘What will you do, sir?’ Vowell asked him tremulously.

He shook his head. ‘I do not know.’

We stood outside in the stables, with the horses. I said, ‘It may be that the children, or one of them, put Master Cotterstoke into the water. Clearly Goodman Vowell thinks so.’

‘And their mother. It seems clear now: she made that Will to start a new quarrel. It was revenge.’

‘But there is still no new evidence to overturn the coroner’s verdict.’

‘I think that is what happened, though.’

‘So do I. Two children, grieving for the father, believing they might be disinherited by their mother’s new husband — ’

‘Quite wrongly,’ Philip said severely.

‘They did not know that. Perhaps it started with little tricks, then they encouraged each other to go further, and as they spoke constantly of the rejection and betrayal each felt, maybe they drove each other to — a sort of madness.’

‘Who put him in the water?’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Whoever did it was a murderer.’

‘This all remains speculation,’ I said emphatically. ‘Likely, but not certain. Master Cotterstoke’s drowning could still have been an accident. And the old man is right. Who could benefit from this being exposed, after forty years? And remember, you have a duty of confidentiality to your client. You can only break it if you think he is about to commit a crime, and that is hardly likely.’

Philip set his mouth hard. ‘It is a matter of justice. I shall question Edward directly. And if he cannot satisfy my doubts, I shall cease acting for him and report the circumstances to our vicar. You are right about the lack of evidence, but if it is true he must still be brought to see the state of his soul. How could a man who had done such a thing ever be one of the Elect? Our vicar must know.’

‘And Isabel? There is no point taking this tale to Dyrick. He wouldn’t care. I know him.’

Philip looked at me. ‘You would have me let sleeping dogs lie?’

I thought for a moment, then said, ‘I think so. In this case.’

Philip shook his head decisively. ‘No. Murder cannot go unpunished.’

Next day I went again to ask Treasurer Rowland for a copy of his letter to Isabel Slanning, and to see whether she had replied. I had done much thinking about what old Vowell had told Philip and me. It seemed all too possible that, forty years before, Isabel or Edward, or both, had killed their stepfather. Again I remembered Isabel’s words to me, weeks ago, about her brother: If you knew the terrible things my brother has done. But what could be achieved by confronting them now, without new evidence? I knew Philip would be seeing Edward, perhaps had done so already. I had an uneasy feeling that the consequences of that old tragedy might ripple out anew.

My uneasiness was not assuaged when Rowland’s clerk told me the Treasurer would not be available for appointments until Monday. It struck me that there was something a little furtive in the clerk’s manner. I made an appointment for that day; it was three days hence, but it was at least a firm commitment.

LATER THAT MORNING I was working in chambers, researching a precedent in a yearbook so that when the new term started next month I should have everything prepared. There was a knock at the door and John Skelly entered. His eyes behind his thick spectacles had a reproachful look, as often this last month. Not only had I frequently been out of the office, leaving the work to fall behind, but I knew he was conscious that Barak and Nicholas and I shared some secret he knew nothing about. It was better he did not, and safer for him, a married man with three children. But I knew he must feel excluded. I must talk to him, thank him for the extra work he had done for me, give him a bonus.

I smiled. ‘What is it, John?’

‘There is a visitor for you, sir. Master Okedene. The printer who came before.’

I laid down my book. ‘What does he want?’ I asked a little apprehensively, remembering how his last visit had led us to the tavern and the fight with Daniels and Cardmaker.

‘He says he has come to say goodbye.’

I told him to show Okedene in. He looked older, thinner, as though his strong solid frame was being eaten away by worry. I invited him to sit.

‘My clerk says you are come to bid me farewell.’

He looked at me sadly. ‘Yes, sir. I have sold the business and we are moving in with my brother, at his farm in East Anglia.’

‘That will be a great change in your life.’

‘It will. But my family have never been at ease since Armistead Greening’s murder and Elias’s disappearance. I hear Elias has never been found, nor those others who used to meet with Master Greening.’

I hesitated before replying, ‘No.’

He looked at me sharply, guessing I knew more than I was saying. I wondered what rumours were circulating among the radicals. Okedene sat, rubbing his brow with a strong square hand, before speaking again. ‘I have not told my family of our encounter with Armistead’s killers in that tavern, but knowing those people are still out there only makes me feel more strongly than ever that we are not safe. We must think of our children. Every time I see the ruin of Master Greening’s workshop it reminds me, as it does my wife.’

‘Ruin? What do you mean?’ I sat up.

‘You do not know, sir? The print-shop took fire, two weeks ago, in the night. A young couple, workless beggars, had got in there, and one of them knocked over a candle. You remember the building was all wooden; it burned quickly. Poor Armistead’s press, the only thing of value he had, destroyed; his trays of type no more than a lumps of useless lead. If we and the other neighbours had not rushed out with water to quench the flames, it could easily have spread to my house. And others.’

Okedene had spoken before of the printers’ fear of fire. I knew how quickly it could spread in the city in summer. Londoners were careful of candles in a hot dry season such as this.

Okedene added, ‘And those two killers are still in London. The fair one and the dark.’

I sat up. ‘Daniels and Cardmaker? You have seen them?’

‘Yes. I hoped they might have left the city, but I saw them both, in a tavern out near Cripplegate last week. I was passing; it was market day and very busy, they did not see me. But I would never forget those faces. I thought of coming to you then, but after what happened last time I felt myself best out of the business.’

‘I understand. I have heard nothing more of them since the day of the fight.’ I thought again of the feeling I had had of being followed at the wharf, the chink of a footstep on stone.

‘All is settled,’ Okedene said firmly. ‘We go next week. We have sold the works to another printer. But I thought I would come to tell you I had seen those men. And to ask whether there has been any progress in finding who was responsible for killing Armistead Greening? Those two thugs were employed by someone else, were they not?’ His eyes fixed on mine. ‘Someone important? Someone who, perhaps, is still protecting them, for they still dare to show their faces in the taverns.’

I bit my lip. I had learned much since first meeting Okedene: who Bertano was, how the Queen’s book had been stolen, what had happened to the others in Greening’s group. But not the answer to the most important question, the one he had just asked. Who was behind it all?