C. Sansom - Lamentation

‘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 was 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.’

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.