К Сэнсом - Dissolution

‘A letter has just come, sir. From Lord Cromwell.’

‘Thank you, Joan.’ I took the thick letter from her and turned it over in my hands. It was marked ‘Most secret’.

‘Sir,’ she said hesitantly. ‘May I ask you something?’

‘Of course.’ I smiled at her; her plump face was anxious.

‘I have wondered, sir, is all well with you? You appear troubled. And Master Mark, is he safe down there on the coast?’

‘I hope so,’ I said. ‘I do not know about his future, though, he does not want to return to Augmentations.’

She nodded. ‘That does not surprise me.’

‘Doesn’t it, Joan? It did me.’

‘I could see he was unhappy there. I have heard it is a wicked place full of greedy men, if you will forgive me.’

‘Perhaps it is. But there are so many such places. If we were to avoid them all and just sit by our fires, we should all be beggars, should we not?’

She shook her head. ‘Master Mark is different, sir.’

‘Why different? Come, Joan, he has beguiled you as he does all women.’

‘No, sir,’ she said, stung. ‘He has not. Perhaps I see him more clearly than you. He has as gentle a nature as I have ever seen under that amiable surface, injustice pains him. I have wondered whether in a way he sought his disgrace with that girl, to get away from Westminster. He has strong ideals, sir, sometimes I think he has too many to survive in this harsh world.’

I smiled sadly. ‘And I thought I was the one with high ideals. “And the veil was lifted from mine eyes.”’

‘Pardon, sir?’

‘Nothing, Joan. Do not worry. I must read this.’

‘Of course, I beg pardon.’

‘No need. And, Joan – I thank you for your care.’

I TURNED TO the letter with a sigh. It contained notes made by Singleton and letters to Cromwell about his progress with Mark Smeaton. They made it clear a coldly calculated plan had been set to trap the young musician with perjured evidence and kill him. Alleging the queen had bedded with someone of such humble origins would be particularly shocking to the public, Singleton said, so it was important to have him in the net. He referred to Smeaton mockingly as a silly creature, a lamb to be led to the slaughter. At Cromwell’s house they had smashed his lute against the wall before his eyes and left him naked in a cellar all night, but it had taken torture to make him swear a false confession. I prayed he was safe in heaven.

There was a memorandum from Singleton about the boy’s family. His mother was dead and there was only his father; no other male relatives at all. John Smeaton had an older sister out in the country somewhere, but there had been a quarrel and he had not seen her for years. Singleton told Cromwell the lack of relatives with connections would make it easier to deal with the boy as they liked, without questions raised.

I put the letter carefully back in its envelope. I recalled Singleton’s funeral, the sight of the coffin lid shutting on his face, and I confess now I was glad. I called for the horse to be brought round; it was time to set out for Whitechapel. I was glad to get into my coat and step out of doors again, with a goal to follow. It released me from the whirling chaos in my mind.

IT WAS A LONG RIDE out to Whitechapel, well beyond London Wall; a fast-growing area, filled with the wattle-and-daub hovels of the poor. Thin smoke from a hundred fires rose into the still air. Here the bitter weather was more than just a serious inconvenience; looking at the pinched, hungry faces I reflected that for some here this would be one hardship too many. Such wells as they had must have frozen, for I saw many women carrying pails of water up from the river. I had changed into my clothes of cheapest cloth, for gentlemen were not always safe out here.

The street where Smeaton had had his forge was one of the better ones, housing several workshops. Singleton’s papers said he had lived in a two-storey building next to a smithy and I found it readily enough. It was no longer a carpenter’s; the shutter covering the shopfront had been nailed down and painted over. I tied the nag to a post and rapped on the flimsy wooden door.

It was opened by a poorly dressed young man with untidy black hair framing a pale, hollow-cheeked face. He asked what I wanted without much interest, but when I said I was a commissioner from Lord Cromwell’s office he shrank away, shaking his head.

‘We’ve done nothing, sir. There’s nothing here to interest Lord Cromwell.’

‘You are not accused of anything,’ I said mildly. ‘I have some enquiries, that is all. About the last owner of this place, John Smeaton. There will be a reward for those who help me.’

He still looked dubious, but invited me inside. ‘Excuse my home, sir,’ he muttered, ‘but I’ve no work.’

In truth it was a sorry chamber he led me into. It had obviously been a workshop in the recent past, for it consisted only of one long, low room, the brick walls blackened with years of soot. A carpenter’s bench now served as a table. It was cold; the fire consisted of a few stony coals that gave off as much smoke as heat. Apart from the bench there was no furniture save a few battered chairs and straw mattresses on the floors. Around the poor fire three thin children sat huddled together with their mother, who nursed a coughing baby in her lap. They all looked up at me with sullen, indifferent expressions. The room was dim, the only light coming from a small rear window now the old shopfront was nailed up. The place smelt strongly of smoke and urine, and the whole scene filled me with a chill sadness.

‘Have you been here long?’ I asked the man.

‘Eighteen months, since the old owner died. The man who bought it lets us this room. There’s another family in the living quarters upstairs. The landlord’s Master Placid, sir, he lives in the Strand.’

‘You know who the old owner’s son was?’

‘Yes, sir. Mark Smeaton, that lay with the great whore.’

‘I presume Smeaton’s heirs sold it to Master Placid. Do you know who they were?’

‘The heir was an old woman. When we moved in there was a pile of Master Smeaton’s belongings, some clothes and a silver cup and a sword –’

‘A sword?’

‘Yes, sir. They were in a pile over there.’ He pointed to a corner. ‘Master Placid’s man told us John Smeaton’s sister would be coming to collect them. We were not to touch them or we’d be out.’

‘Nor did we, sir,’ added the woman by the fire. Her child coughed harshly and she hugged it to her. ‘Quiet, Fear-God.’

I fought to suppress my excitement. ‘The old woman? Did she come?’

‘Yes sir, a few weeks later. She was from the country somewhere, she seemed nervous in the city. Her lawyer brought her.’

‘Do you remember her name,’ I asked eagerly, ‘or what part of the country she came from? Might it have been a place called Scarnsea?’

He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I only remember she was from the country somewhere. A little fat woman, past fifty, with grey hair. She only said a few words. They picked up the bundle and the sword and left.’

‘Do you remember the lawyer’s name?’

‘No, sir. He helped her with the sword. I remember her saying she wished she had a son she could give it to.’

‘Very well. I would like you to look at my sword – no, don’t be alarmed, I’m only taking it out to show you – and tell me if this might be the one the woman took.’ I laid it out on the bench. The man peered at it and his wife came over, still hugging the child.

‘That looks like it,’ she said. She eyed me narrowly. ‘We did take it out of its scabbard, sir, but only to have a look, we didn’t do anything with it. But I recognize that gold-coloured handle, and those marks on the hilt.’