C.J. Sansom - Revelation

'The inquest is tomorrow,' I told Barak. I had a message first thing. 'I am sorry, I forgot to tell you.'

'Will I need to be there?'

'Yes. Dorothy too, poor woman. It will be terrible for her. They were devoted.'

'Will she be up to the inquest?'

'I hope so. She is strong. I went in to see her first thing. She is still very quiet, white as a sheet.' I bit my lip. 'I hope the pamphleteers do not get hold of the story and start spreading it round the city.'

'They would love it.'

'I know. God's death, that coroner Browne is useless. The inquest should have been yesterday. The killer could be in another county by now.' I shook my head. 'I am taking it on myself to visit Guy later, see what he has found about the state of the body.'

A ragged pedlar with a tray of cheap trinkets round his neck stepped into my path. 'Rings and brooches, sir, for your lady, straight from Venice—' I sidestepped him. We were almost at New Palace Yard now; the great gate that led to Westminster Abbey precinct was just ahead. The crowds were thicker and as I walked under the gate I almost tripped over a card sharper sitting beside it with his marked cards, calling people to try their luck. We passed into Westminster Yard, the wide space already busy with lawyers. The big clock tower showed half past nine. We were in time, almost.

'Tammy says you called in a few nights ago,' Barak said. 'Came to visit us.'

So she had told him. Was that to pressure me into speaking to him? This was not the time. I made my voice light. ‘I passed the Old Barge on the way home from Guy's. That tenement of yours is very damp.'

He shrugged, looked sullen. 'I'd have moved if the baby lived. But it didn't.'

'Tamasin seemed a little — downcast.'

'She should get over the baby, I've had to.' His voice went hard. 'She's full of womanish weakness. I don't know where her old spirit's gone.' He did not meet my eyes as he spoke, which was rare for him. I saw that the domed fountain in the centre of the yard, frozen through the winter, was working again, water splashing merrily. I remembered the fountain at Lincoln's Inn, and closed my eyes for a moment.

THE WHITE HALL was a small chamber. A crowded little entrance hall was set with benches along the walls. There plaintiffs sat huddled, watching the lawyers talking in the body of the hall. Poor folk from all over the country came to have their suits pleaded here, by me and my fellow state-funded barrister, and many wore the homespun clothes of country gruffs. Most seemed overwhelmed to find them- selves among these great old buildings, though some had determined expressions. I saw my first client sitting there: Gib Rooke, a short stocky man in his thirties with a square face. He wore a red sur- coat, far too gaudy for court. He was frowning at two men who stood talking in the body of the hall. One was a tall, expensively dressed man; the other, to my surprise, was Bealknap. I saw that my old rival looked gaunt in his black gown as he fiddled with some papers in his knapsack. The tall man did not look pleased with him.

'How now, Gib,' Barak said, sitting beside Rooke. 'You're richly dressed for it.'

Rooke nodded to Barak, then looked up at me. 'Good day, Master Shardlake. Ready for the fight?'

I gave him a stern look. Having their own barrister went to some of my clients' heads, and they would take the chance to strut and mock; to their own detriment, for the courts demand sober respect. 'I am ready,' I said. 'We have a good case. If we lose, it may be because the court judges you insolent. So watch your words in there. Dressing like a peacock is a bad start.'

Gib reddened. He was one of the many cottars who had set up market gardens on the Lambeth marshes across the river over the last fifteen years; the growth of London meant an endless demand for food in the city. Draining patches of empty bogland, the cottars squatted there without permission from the owners, who had never developed the land and might live far away. Recently, however, the landlords had realized there were profits to be made, and sought to use the manor courts to turn the cottars out and reap the benefits of their work. Gib had applied to Requests against eviction, citing ancient laws, for which I had been able to find rather shadowy precedents, that if a man occupied land under two acres in extent for a dozen years unchallenged, he could remain.

Gib nodded at Bealknap. 'That old swine Sir Geoffrey seems unhappy with his lawyer.'

'I know Bealknap. Don't underestimate him.' And, in truth, he was a clever lawyer. Today, though, he seemed to have a problem with his papers; he was searching frantically through his bag now. Raising his head briefly and seeing me, he whispered to his client, Gib's landlord, and they moved away.

I sat on the other side of Gib. He looked at me, eyes greedy with curiosity. 'They say there's been a terrible murder at Lincoln's Inn,' he said. 'A lawyer found in the fountain with his throat cut. On Easter Sunday.'

It was as I had feared, the story was spreading. 'The killer will be rooted out,' I said.

Gib shook his head. 'They say they don't know who it is. What a way to kill someone. Ah well, 'tis the times.'

'I suppose you mean signs and portents,' I said wearily, remembering the boatman.

Gib shrugged. 'I don't know about that. But there have been some nasty killings lately. One of the marsh cottars was found murdered horribly in January. That was another strange one. I wouldn't be surprised if his landlord killed him,' he added loudly. People turned to look.

'If you don't control your mouth you'll lose this case,' I snapped at him.

'Here's trouble,' Barak whispered. Bealknap had left his client and come over to us.

'May I speak with you, Brother Shardlake?' he asked. I noticed he was sweating, though the unheated hall was cold.

I stood. 'Very well.'

We stepped away a few paces. 'Your client should not make insulting remarks about landlords in the precincts of the court,' he said pompously.

I raised my eyebrows. 'Is that all you have to say;'

'No no . . .' Bealknap hesitated, bit his lip, then took a deep breath. 'There is a problem, Brother Shardlake. I have not filed my client's title to the land.'

I stared at him, astonished. The most routine piece of a lawyer's work was to ensure the paperwork was properly filed in court. Many were the stories of junior barristers who failed to get their proper paperwork in on time and found their cases thrown out. But Bealknap had been a lawyer twenty years. For once he actually looked straight at me with his light blue eyes. I saw panic there. 'Assist me, Brother Shardlake,' he whispered desperately. 'Assist a fellow-lawyer. Get the case adjourned. I can file the deeds then.'

'If you file them now the judge might hear you. The plaints office is open.'

'I have lost them,' Bealknap said, a sudden frantic blurt. 'I appeal to you, Shardlake. I was going to bring them today, I thought they were in my bag. I have been ill! Dr Archer has purged me again and all last night my arse was in a bloody sweat—'

Many lawyers would have helped him for the sake of the fellowship of the bar; but I had always set my face against such arrangements at a client's expense.

'I am sorry, Bealknap,' I said quietly. 'My duty is to my client.'

Bealknap let out a sound between a sigh and a groan. Then he leaned forward, almost hissing. 'I knew you would not help me, you — you bent-backed toad. I won't forget this!'

I saw his client, standing a little way off, eyeing Bealknap curiously. Without a word I turned and went back to Barak and Gib Rooke.

'What was that about?' Barak asked. 'He looked ready to fly at you.'

'He hasn't filed proof of title. He's lost the deeds somewhere.'

Barak whistled. 'Then he's in the shit.' I set my lips. Bealknap's insult only strengthened my determination to stand by Gib Rooke, who for all his bravado was a mere child in the face of the law.