C. Sansom - Lamentation

‘No,’ Cecil said. ‘But they, and Elias, are safe now from the evils of this world, in Jesus’ arms.’ The words could have sounded trite, but he spoke them with quiet sincerity.

Goodwife Rooke pleaded again, desperately, ‘What should I do , sirs?’

Cecil took a deep breath. ‘Say nothing to the coroner, not yet. If people ask, say Elias never came back.’

‘Lie to the officials?’

‘Yes. For now. We have powerful friends, we can protect you from any trouble. Do not ask us more just now, but rest assured we shall hunt down Elias and Master Greening’s murderers.’

I glanced at Cecil. ‘They may be the same people. Could you describe them, Goodwife Rooke?’

She spoke in a dead tone. ‘I could not see them clearly, it was dark. They were dressed roughly, like vagrants. Both young and strong. One, though, was near-bald. He looked at me for a second. A strange, wild look. It sore frightened me. He carried a club.’ The poor woman put her face in her hands and shook violently. Then she seemed to collect herself; she glanced upstairs towards her daughters. ‘Please,’ she whispered, ‘keep them safe.’

Cecil nodded.

I asked, ‘That cart outside. Have you any idea who it belongs to?’

She shook her head. ‘I never saw it before last night.’

I exchanged a glance with Cecil. Greening’s killers — and it was obvious from Goodwife Rooke’s description that it was they who had also killed Elias — might have learned that Elias had vanished, and been waiting around the alley lest he came home, a cart ready to remove the body. Had the boy not managed to shout out, he would never have been seen again.

Cecil said, ‘I will arrange to have Elias’s body taken away.’

For the first time, Goodwife Rooke looked hostile. ‘Is my son to have no proper funeral?’

‘It is safest, believe me. For you and your daughters.’

‘And as we have told you,’ I added, ‘Elias’s death will not go unpunished.’

She bowed her head.

‘And now, might Master Shardlake look at Elias’s body?’ Cecil took her hand. ‘We will say a prayer.’

She looked at me angrily. ‘See what was done to my poor son.’ She addressed Cecil. ‘Was he killed for his beliefs? Was Master Greening?’

‘As yet we do not know. But it may be.’

Goodwife Rooke was silent. She knew she was at our mercy. ‘Come, Master Shardlake,’ Cecil said quietly.

‘Do not let my daughters see,’ Goodwife Rooke called after us with sudden passion. ‘If you hear them outside Elias’s room, send them downstairs. They must not see that.’

Elias lay face up on a straw bed in a tiny bedroom, the afternoon sun full on his bloodied face. He had been struck on the right cheekbone, hard enough to shatter it, for splintered shards of white bone showed through the dark mess of his face. He had also been struck on the top of the head, his hair a mess of gore. The shutters were open and blowflies had entered and settled on his head. In sudden anger I waved them away.

‘Head wounds make much blood,’ Cecil observed — calmly enough, though he stayed a couple of feet from the bed.

‘He was killed the same way as Greening,’ I said. ‘Struck on the head. And that cart and tarpaulin were almost certainly arranged to take him away. They didn’t want a great hue and cry.’ I looked at the body again. I thought of Bealknap, lying in his bed. But he had been rotten with sickness, ready to die, whereas Elias had been but eighteen, full of young life. I turned to Cecil. ‘Did you believe what you said, about Elias being safe in the arms of Jesus?’

The young lawyer looked stung. ‘Of course. Do you wish to say a prayer with me now, as I told his mother we would?’ he asked stiffly.

‘No,’ I answered, and asked bluntly, ‘What do you plan to do with the corpse?’

‘Lord Parr has some contacts. I should think he will arrange to have it buried out on the Lambeth marshes.’

I looked at him. ‘Lord Cromwell used to do that, with inconvenient bodies. I remember.’

Cecil looked at me hard with those protuberant eyes. ‘In high politics, Serjeant Shardlake, there are always people who work in the dark. You should know that. Do you want a commotion about the murder of two radical Protestant printworkers? Men with possible links to the Queen? There must be a link, mustn’t there, or Lord Parr would not be involved?’

I nodded reluctantly, turning away from the sight of Elias’s shattered head. ‘What of Greening’s three friends, Master Cecil? What if they are dead too?’

He shook his head. ‘The evidence suggests they all fled their homes. They may have learned that the two men who killed Greening were about.’

I nodded agreement. That sounded right. ‘I want something done for that poor woman.’

‘As I said, I will ask Lord Parr.’

‘It is what the Queen would wish. Send someone soon,’ I added.

We left goodwife Rooke sitting wearily at her table and went back outside. We examined the cart; it was just a cheap wooden one, the tarpaulin old. But it was not valueless; it was unlikely someone would have just left it in these streets.

We walked slowly back to Paternoster Row. ‘Why did Elias not flee with those others?’ Cecil asked.

‘Because he had a mother and two sisters to support, and could not just abandon them.’

He nodded agreement. ‘I will report back to Lord Parr now. He will probably want to talk to you when you go to the Queen’s Wardrobe tomorrow morning. With your assistant, the one who used to work with Lord Cromwell,’ he added, looking at me curiously.

‘Cromwell was a hard and ruthless man. But he had beliefs. If he could see how those he promoted turned out — Paget, Rich, Wriothesley, helping Gardiner fight against everything he believed in.’ I shook my head.

‘The balance on the Privy Council is about to change. Lord Hertford and Lord Lisle return from France soon. With the peace treaty well ensured. That will be a feather in their caps with the King.’

‘Will the peace hold?’

‘Oh, I think so. The coinage is so debased now that any English money is distrusted in Europe. The German bankers who lent the King so much to finance the war will allow him no more.’ He smiled sadly. ‘England is bankrupt, you see.’

‘Bankrupt indeed,’ I said ruefully.

‘But if we can solve this matter without trouble to the Queen the reformists may begin to turn things round.’ His manner was neutral, detached, but I realized William Cecil knew a very great deal. He fixed me again with those staring eyes, then raised his cap and bowed. ‘God give you good evening, Master Shardlake.’ He turned away, heading for the river and a wherry to Whitehall.

I walked home through the quiet streets, thinking hard. Two men were dead now, three had fled, and I was no nearer to a solution to the problem of who had stolen the Queen’s book, or why. I felt very alone. I had been unable to say too much to Cecil; he did not know about the missing book. The only ones I could talk to honestly were Lord Parr and the Queen.

When I reached Chancery Lane I turned into Lincoln’s Inn; I had to confirm whether that tolling bell had been for Bealknap. The porter was sunning himself in the gatehouse doorway. He bowed. ‘God give you good morrow, Serjeant Shardlake.’

‘And you. I heard the chapel bell tolling earlier.’

He spoke in a pious voice. ‘Master Stephen Bealknap has died, God’s mercy on his soul. The woman who was nursing him has ordered the coffin already.’ He inclined his head towards the courtyard. ‘It’s just been brought in. They’ll take him to the coroner’s till the funeral, as there’s no family.’