C Sansom - Sovereign

‘But I thought he was an arch-conservative.’

‘He was once. But he was won over by the evangelical preaching at a local church.’ Brother Philips smiled sadly again. ‘Many who were hot for one side have turned and became equally hot for the other. It has happened much these last few years.’

‘Yes, it has.’

‘But Brother Dakin was a good lawyer, and an honest man.’

I nodded dumbly.

‘The Inn Treasurer would have made enquiries, seen to the disposition of his estate. If you enquire there…’

‘Yes. Yes, perhaps I should.’

‘Can I offer you some wine before you go, brother?’ He still looked concerned. ‘I see you have had a shock, perhaps you should sit down.’

‘No. No, I will go to the Treasurer. Thank you, brother, thank you for your help.’ I bowed and took my leave.

What an irony, I thought. A reformer, the last person to want any connections to the northern conspiracy.

THERE WAS A BENCH under a tree nearby. The wood was wet but I sat there nonetheless. Poor Wrenne, this would be a dreadful blow for him. I was glad, though, that I had come to Gray’s Inn; at least I could break the news gently to him, at home. I looked up as a big man in a lawyer’s robe passed by. Black beard, black hair. Surely it was Maleverer. Then the man’s features settled into those of a different, older man. He gave me a puzzled look and hurried inside.

A drop of water landing on my hand brought me back to myself. The rain again. I got up. The wretched manacle was chafing at my wrist still. I rubbed it and checked to make sure the thing was out of sight, then enquired of a passing clerk where the Treasurer’s rooms might be found. I made my way across to them, doused yet again by pelting rain.

The Treasurer was a tall, stooped man, suspicious of a barrister from another chambers come making enquiries. When I explained my mission, though, he became sympathetic and invited me into his comfortable rooms.

‘I am wary of all enquiries about members of the Inn these days,’ he told me.

‘Ah yes. The enquiries about the conspirators.’

‘Many barristers have been questioned in recent days. Robert Aske practised here, you know. God rot him and all these malcontents. Inns are for practising law, not conspiring against the King.’

He led me through into an office where an elderly man sat working through papers. ‘Brother Gibbs would have dealt with the matter. He is retired from practice, but helps me out.’

The old fellow rose and bowed, peering at me from behind thick-lensed spectacles. He looked almost as ancient as Brother Swann from Hull.

‘Brother Shardlake here is trying to trace relatives of a Brother Martin Dakin,’ the Treasurer told him. ‘He died the winter before last. He had no wife or children.’

The old man nodded sagely. ‘Ah yes, I remember. The Inn administered the estate. Yes, it is sad when a brother dies without family. But he did have a relative, as I recall.’

‘He did?’ I said eagerly. I thought, even some bastard child would be better than nothing.

The old man put a finger to his chin. ‘Yes, yes he had. I think so.’

I controlled my impatience as Brother Gibbs began ferreting through a pile of papers on a shelf.

‘I will leave you, sir,’ the Treasurer said.

‘Yes, yes, thank you. I am obliged.’

I turned to find Brother Gibbs holding up a packet of papers and smiling. ‘Here it is.’ He pulled out a will. ‘Martin Dakin, died the tenth of January 1540. At his request all his possessions were sold, and the proceeds, together with his savings – a goodly sum, I see -’ he scanned the will – ‘yes, he left fifty pounds to St Giles’ church in Cripplegate.’ He looked at me over his spectacles, disapproval on his face. ‘A very reforming church. Some say heretical.’

‘Yes, yes. And the rest?’

‘All to a single legatee.’

‘Who?’

‘See for yourself, sir.’

The old man handed me the will. I read the name of the legatee. My mouth fell open with shock.

‘This legatee claimed the property?’

‘Oh yes.’ The old man frowned. ‘All was done properly.’

‘I am sure it was.’

And now I knew, I knew it all. Who had knocked me out at St Mary’s, who had helped Broderick to die. And the identity of the one who now held the documents that could topple the throne.

THE RAIN WAS lashing down harder than ever, and I had to bend my head to stop the water running from my cap into my eyes as I walked back up Chancery Lane. When I left the Treasurer’s office I had returned to Lincoln’s Inn and gone to the library. I had sat there for hours, thinking, puzzling, while the short November afternoon deepened to dusk and lamps were lit along the tables. In the end I believed I had worked it all out. And then there was nothing left but to go home.

It was quite dark as I walked down Chancery Lane with a heavy heart. Flickering squares of candlelight from house windows were reflected in puddles whose surfaces danced with raindrops. I pulled my coat tight about me, the wretched manacle digging into the raw wet skin of my wrist.

I stumbled through my front door, dripping onto the rush matting. Joan was crossing the hall; she turned to look at me, shading her lamp. ‘Master Shardlake! You are soaked, sir! What rain, I fear what may be happening out in that orchard. Let me find you some clean clothes -’

‘No,’ I said, pulling off my sodden cap. I leaned against the door for a moment, breathing hard. ‘I am all right. Are Jack and Mistress Reedbourne in?’

‘Not yet, sir.’ She sniffed. ‘They said they would be back before dark, but I’ll warrant she’s made him find some warm tavern to cuddle in.’

‘Oh.’ I was taken aback; I had assumed they would have returned by now, that they would be here. I had been preparing what I would say.

‘Master Wrenne came down a little while ago,’ Joan said. ‘He asked for some food. I’ve taken him a pottage in the parlour.’

I hesitated. The sensible thing to do would be to go upstairs and change. Then I shivered, suddenly and violently.

‘Are you all right?’ Joan asked, her face full of concern.

‘Just – tired.’

‘There is a good fire lit in the parlour.’

‘I can dry myself there.’ I forced a smile. ‘And I am hungry. ‘Thank you, Joan.’

She looked at me doubtfully a moment longer, then went upstairs. I locked the front door; Barak had his own key and could let himself back in. I crossed to the parlour. I paused there, overcome with a weariness that seemed to drain what little energy I had left. Then I took a deep breath and opened the door.

Giles was sitting at the table, supping Joan’s good pottage. A large bowl steamed on the table. In the candlelight his face looked tired, seamed with deeper lines as his face grew slowly thinner. He looked up at me with concern.

‘Matthew! You look half drowned. You will catch an ague.’

‘The rain has come on heavy again.’

‘I know. Will it never end?’ He gestured to the black squares of the window, against which we could hear it pattering. ‘I think Barak and young Tamasin are still out in it.’

I went and stood with my back to the roaring fire, feeling it warm my legs.

‘Did you speak to them at Lincoln’s Inn?’ he asked. ‘Will they dig the trench?’

‘Yes, it took some argument but they promised.’

‘There is steam rising from your clothes. You should change. You look exhausted, you will catch a fever.’

‘I must eat before I do anything else.’

‘Here, have some pottage.’

I took a plate from the buffet, filled it from the bowl and sat opposite him. But after all I did not feel like eating. ‘Are you feeling better?’ I asked.