C. Sansom - Lamentation

Nicholas immediately brightened up. ‘To catch a villain, that is a worthy task.’

I answered seriously, ‘If I take you with me on these enquiries, you must keep everything you hear entirely confidential. This is not a matter for discussion in the taverns. That could lead me, and you, into trouble.’

‘I know that cases must be kept confidential, sir,’ he answered a little stiffly. ‘Any gentleman must respect that.’

‘None more than this one. I have your promise?’

‘Of course, sir,’ he said in an injured tone.

‘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.

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.’