C. Sansom - Lamentation

‘It sounds as though you and Anys might have rubbed along together quite happily.’

‘That is not enough.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Many would disagree, but I think like you, it is not.’

‘The poor have it easier,’ he said bitterly. ‘They may marry for love.’

‘Only when they can afford to, and that is often later than they would wish these days. As for the effects of the war, the taxation and the ruin of the coinage — well, your father still has his manor house, but his poor tenants will find it hard to pay the rent and eat.’

Nicholas shook his head firmly. ‘Now the war is over, prosperity will surely return. And the security of everyone depends on people staying within the ranks to which they were born. Otherwise we would have the anarchy of the Anabaptists.’

That bogey again. I said, ‘I confess that the more I see of mankind, the more I think we are all of one common clay.’

He considered for a moment, then said, ‘My family have been gentlefolk by birth for centuries. Since before the Conquest, my father says; since the Norsemen settled Lincolnshire. It is our heritage to rule.’

‘They became gentlefolk by conquest alone. The Norsemen took plenty from the English, as did the Normans. That is how most of our families become wealthy; I know, I am a property lawyer, I spend much time dabbling in ancient deeds.’

‘Land may be taken honourably in warfare, sir.’

‘As the Normans doubtless did from your Norse ancestors. You may have had more land once.’

‘Too late to fight for it now, I suppose. A pity, perhaps.’ He smiled.

I was starting to like Nicholas; he was showing signs of wit, and for all his upholding of gentlemanly conformity, he had himself defied convention. I said, ‘Well, we shall have the chance to talk more of land and who owns it as the new law term approaches. But now I must go home for lunch.’

‘Has there been any further progress on the murder of the printer?’ Nicholas asked.

‘No.’ I raised a finger. ‘And remember, do not speak of it.’

‘You have my promise as a gentleman.’

‘Good.’ My eye was drawn to Bealknap’s window. After lunch, I would lie down for an hour or two; I needed to rest. Then I would return.

I went home. As I walked up the path, Josephine appeared in the doorway in her new dress, a young man in a sober doublet at her side. Agnes Brocket held the door open, smiling at them, while Timothy stood at the corner of the house, looking on nosily. Josephine’s companion was in his early twenties, slim, dark-haired and moderately handsome; this must be the young man she was walking out with. She blushed as I approached, and the boy doffed his cap and bowed.

‘I am Edward Brown, sir. Servant to your brother-in-the-law, Master Peter Henning.’

‘Ah, yes. A good man. I was sorry to hear his wife died — some months ago, was it not?’

‘In December, sir. My master was much affected. He is thinking of retiring, going home to Norfolk.’

‘I hope he will not,’ Josephine ventured.

‘I thank you for permitting me to take Josephine out walking,’ Goodman Brown said.

I smiled at Josephine. ‘I am glad to see her getting out and about. You are going to Lincoln’s Inn Fields, I believe. It should be pleasant there today.’

‘Watch you take good care of her,’ Agnes said from the doorway.

‘I will.’

I turned to Timothy. ‘Did you need to speak to me, lad?’

‘I–I just wanted to tell you Genesis will need some more hay.’

‘Then get some tomorrow,’ Agnes said. ‘And for now, be off.’

Timothy scurried away. Josephine and young Brown looked at each other and smiled. Timothy had permission from me to buy new hay whenever it was needed; it was obvious he had come to have a look at Goodman Brown. That the young fellow seemed amused rather than annoyed was another mark in his favour.

I stood with Agnes and watched the two walk down the gravel path. Then I heard a sound, from up the road at Lincoln’s Inn. The slow tolling of a bell. I felt a shiver down my spine. It was the dead-bell, sounded when an Inn member died: that must surely mean Bealknap. I would not now get the chance to question him again; even in death, he had cheated me.

‘It is good to see Josephine so happy,’ Agnes said.

I smiled at her. ‘It is.’

She hesitated, then added, ‘She has told me a little of her past. She owes you much.’

Martin appeared behind her from inside the house, moving quietly as usual. He looked down the path, where Josephine and Goodman Brown were just turning onto the roadway. A disapproving look. So the dislike between Martin and Josephine was mutual, I thought. I wondered what was behind it. Martin spoke sharply to his wife, ‘Never mind them. Have you told Master Shardlake of his visitor?’

Agnes put a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, I am sorry-’

Her husband cut across her. ‘The young lawyer gentleman who called two nights ago is come again. He still will not give his name.’ Martin frowned at the breach of etiquette. ‘I told him you would be back shortly for lunch. He is waiting in your study.’

‘Thank you.’ I went quickly inside. In the study, the slight figure of William Cecil sat in a chair, his thin face thoughtful and worried. He rose and bowed as I entered.

‘I am sorry to disturb you on the Lord’s Day, sir,’ he said quickly, ‘but there has been a serious development.’

‘You visited Greening’s friends? Lord Parr said you would.’

‘I did. But all are fled from their lodgings. They have disappeared, all three. Nobody knows where.’ He sighed heavily. ‘But it is the apprentice, Elias, that we need to talk about.’

‘Have you found him?’

Cecil took a deep breath, fixed his protuberant eyes on me. ‘What is left of him. His mother found him last night, in the alley next to their house, beaten about the head and weltering in his own blood.’ A spasm crossed his face.

‘Jesu.’

‘There was something he managed to say to her, a woman’s name, just before he died.’

‘What was it?’ I dreaded to hear the Queen’s name. But instead Cecil said, ‘Anne Askew. He managed to say, “Killed for Anne Askew”.’

Elias’s mother lived in one of the narrow lanes between Paternoster Row and St Paul’s Cathedral, whose great shadow and giant steeple loomed over the poor tenements below. Cecil and I walked there from my house.

On the way, talking quietly, he told me what had happened. ‘Lord Parr asked me to speak to Greening’s three friends. He told me about Greening’s murder, that there was no suspect yet, but there were delicate political ramifications and he wanted you to talk to them. I understand he has told you more.’ He looked at me, and I saw a quick flash of curiosity in his large eyes.

‘A little more. This must have been a busy day for you,’ I concluded, sympathetically.

‘It has. My wife was unhappy at me working on the Sabbath, but I told her needs must.’

‘Did you know any of Greening’s friends yourself?’ I asked.

‘No,’ he answered, a little curtly. ‘But a friend in my congregation knows Curdy, the candlemaker. It appears Curdy may be a sacramentarian, his family are certainly old Lollards, like Greening. He may even be an Anabaptist, though that is probably rumour.’ He gave me a hard, unblinking look. ‘Though be clear, Master Shardlake, I have never spoken for sacramentarianism, and I have nothing but loathing for these Anabaptists, who would overthrow all, interpreting the Bible after their own wild fantasies. The fact they may have played with such ideas does not mean Greening and his friends held them, of course.’ For all his youth, Cecil spoke like an older, more experienced man.