C. Sansom - Dark Fire

I took a deep breath. 'Very well. You know where I'll be. And ask if he can find somewhere safe for the Gristwoods.'

Barak nodded, then gave me a warning look. 'So far we've had more requests for him than information.'

'I know, but we're doing all we can.'

'You'll have to ride to Lady Honor's house alone.'

'It is still light.'

'Afterwards I'll find that tavern where Bealknap met my stepfather. It'll keep me occupied while you're at the banquet.'

'Very well.'

'Are you sure you don't want to have a crack at that well later? After the banquet?'

I shook my head. 'I'll be too tired, I have to get some sleep. I have to pace myself, Barak,' I added irritably. 'I've more than ten years on you. Just how old are you, by the way?'

'Twenty-eight in August. Listen, I've been trying to puzzle something out. I can understand whoever organized the killing of the Gristwood brothers keeping the formula close, perhaps to sell abroad when things have quietened down. But why try to kill the founder Leighton? Why kill everyone associated with this?'

'They could have killed Leighton just as a way of getting to the apparatus. We know they've no care for life.'

'And they're keen to get you. They don't seem to like you being on the case.'

I frowned. 'But is that just because I might uncover who is behind this, the person who is paying these rogues? Or is it that they fear I might find something out about Greek Fire? Is that why those books have gone?'

Barak's eyes widened. 'You can't still think it may all be a fraud, surely? Not after what you've seen and heard?'

'There's something that's not right. I must go to the Guildhall, find copies of those books.' I clutched at my head. 'God's death, there's so much to do.'

'It beats me what you can hope to find from a lot of old books.' He sighed. 'Four possible suspects now. Bealknap and Rich. Marchamount. And Lady Honor. Make sure you question her tonight.'

'Of course I will,' I snapped.

Barak gave his sardonic smile. 'You're sweet on her, you're still a man of juice under all that learning.'

'You've a coarse tongue. Besides, as you pointed out yourself, she's out of my league.' I looked at him. He had mentioned seeing a girl on the first night he came to my house, but beyond that I knew nothing of what women there might have been in his life. Many, I guessed, for all the fears of the French pox these days.

He lay back on the bed.

'Bealknap and Rich,' he said again, 'Marchamount and Lady Honor. One or more of them a murdering rogue. So much for people of rank being honourable, not that I ever believed it.'

I shrugged. 'The idea of raising oneself up to gentle rank has always seemed a worthy thing to me. But perhaps that ideal will turn to dust, like Erasmus's hopes of a Christian commonwealth. In these whirling days, who knows?'

'Some things last,' he said. He smiled. 'I said I'd show you this, remember?'

'What?'

Barak sat up and unbuttoned his shirt. There was something gold on the end of a chain, glittering against his broad chest. It wasn't a cross, it looked more like a little cylinder. He lifted the chain over his head and proffered it. 'Take a look.'

I examined the cylinder. The surface had been engraved once but the gold was worn almost smooth with time. 'It's been passed down my father's family for generations,' he said. 'It's supposed to be to do with the Jewish religion. My father called it a mezzah.' He shrugged. 'I like to have it by me, to bring me luck.'

'The workmanship is fine. It looks very old.'

'The Jews were kicked out more than two hundred years ago, weren't they? One of them must have kept it when he converted and passed it down. A reminder of the past.'

I turned it over in my hands. Tiny as it was, the cylinder was hollow, with a slit down one side.

'Father said they used to put a tiny scroll of parchment in there and put the mezzah by the door.'

I handed it back. 'It's remarkable.'

Barak replaced it, buttoned up his shirt and got up. 'I must be gone,' he said briskly.

'And I should get ready. Good luck with the earl.'

As the door shut behind him, I turned to the window and looked out over my parched garden. The clouds were so heavy now that although only it was only late afternoon it was dim as dusk. I unlocked my chest and began reaching for my best clothes. Somewhere, away over the Thames, a distant rumble of thunder sounded.

LADY HONOR'S HOUSE WAS in Blue Lion Street off Bishopsgate. It was a big old four-storey courtyard house, the front giving directly onto the street. It had been sumptuously refurbished in the recent past. I could see why it was known as the House of Glass; new diamond-paned windows had been put in along the whole frontage, with the Vaughan family crest in some of the centre panes. I studied it: a rampant lion with sword and shield, the epitome of martial virtues. There was something feminine about the overall effect, however; I wondered if the work had been done since Lady Honor's husband died.

The front door was open, with liveried servants standing outside. Although I was dressed in my uncomfortable best, I worried that I would appear an unsophisticated fellow for I was unused to mixing in such high company. I pulled a little ruff of silk shirt above the collar of my doublet to display the needlework.

I had ridden Chancery to the banquet; the old horse appeared recovered from his recent exertions and trotted along happily enough. A lad took the reins as I dismounted and another servant bowed me through the front door. He led me through a richly decorated hall into a large inner courtyard. Here too all the rooms had large glass windows, and heraldic beasts had been carved on the walls as well as the Vaughan crest. There was a fountain in the middle of the courtyard, with just enough water emerging to make a merry, tinkling noise. Opposite, a large banqueting hall occupied the first floor. Candles flickered behind the open windows, casting ever-changing shadows on the people moving to and fro within, and there was a merry clatter of cutlery. It struck me that if Lady Honor had been involved in the Greek Fire business, it was certainly not because she needed money.

The steward led me up a broad flight of stairs to a room where bowls of hot water were set out on a table with a pile of towels. The bowls, I saw, were gold.

'You will wash your hands, sir?'

'Thank you.'

Three men were already standing washing; a young fellow with the Mercers' Company badge on his silk doublet and an older man in a white clerical robe. The third man, who looked up with a beaming smile on his broad face, was Gabriel Marchamount. 'Ah, Shardlake,' he said expansively, 'I hope you have a sweet tooth. Lady Honor's banquets positively drip with sugar.' Evidently he had decided to be affable tonight.

'Not too sweet, I must watch my teeth.'

'Like me you still have a full set.' Marchamount shook his head. 'I cannot abide this fashion for women to blacken their teeth deliberately so people will think they live off nothing but fine sugar.'

'I agree. It is not pretty.'

'I have heard them say the pains in their mouth are worth it, if people respect them more.' He laughed. 'Women of Lady Honor's class, though, women of real estate, would disdain such effect.' He dried his hands, replacing the showy emerald ring on his finger and patted his plump stomach. 'Come then, let us go in.' He took a napkin from a pile and flung it over his shoulder; I followed his example and we went out to the banqueting chamber.

The long room had an old hammerbeam ceiling. The walls were covered with bright tapestries showing the story of the Crusades, the papal tiara carefully stitched out where the Bishop of Rome was shown blessing the departing armies. Big tallow candles, set in silver candleholders, had been lit against the dark evening and filled the room with a yellow glow.