‘Certainly.’
I sighed. ‘This other matter makes the Cotterstoke case look – trivial.’
‘It is trivial.’
I smiled sadly. ‘Yes. Though not to our clients, unfortunately.’
I showed him out, and through the window watched his trim stocky figure as he walked away to the gate. Then my eyes turned to Bealknap’s shuttered chambers, and I took a deep breath.
Chapter Thirteen
I WENT ACROSS THE COURTYARD to the building that housed Bealknap’s chambers, remembering his odd behaviour at the end of last year, those unexpected overtures of friendship, which I had rejected because he was not to be trusted. I knocked at the door and a porter answered. ‘I have called to see Brother Bealknap.’
He looked at me gloomily. ‘According to his nurse this may be the last day anyone will visit him. I will take you up.’
We climbed a long wooden staircase, passing other chambers, empty on the Sabbath. Very few barristers, save Bealknap, lived in chambers. I had not been inside his rooms for years; I remembered them only as untidy and dusty. He was rumoured to keep his great chest of gold there, running his fingers through the coins at night.
The porter knocked and the door was opened by an elderly woman in a clean apron, a short coif over her grey hair.
‘I am Serjeant Matthew Shardlake.’
She curtsied. ‘I am Mistress Warren. Master Bealknap has employed me to nurse him. He received your note.’ She continued in the same cool, disinterested tone, ‘He has a great growth in his stomach, the doctor says he has little time left now. The end will come in the next day or two.’
‘Has he no family who might be summoned?’
‘None he wished to contact. I think there was some falling-out, many years ago. When I asked him, he said he had not seen his family since the old King’s time.’
I thought, that was near forty years past. Bealknap must have been only in his teens at the time. Another old family quarrel perhaps, such as the one I had just been discussing.
The old woman looked at me curiously. ‘You are the only one he has asked to see. Other than the doctor and the builder, no one has been to visit.’ Builder? I thought. ‘Apart from the priest,’ she added. ‘Master Bealknap received the last rites this morning.’ His death, then, was truly close. ‘I will take you in,’ Mistress Warren said, leading me along a dusty hallway. She lowered her voice. ‘He refuses to have his shutters open, I do not know why. I warn you, his room smells bad.’
She spoke true. As she opened the door to a half-dark chamber a fusty smell of unwashed skin and diseased, rotten breath hit me like a blow. I followed her in. The room was poorly furnished, with a chest for clothes, a couple of wooden chairs, a bed and a crowded table filled with bottles and potions. The bed, at least, was large and comfortable-looking.
Bealknap had always been thin, but the figure under the covers was skeletal, the skin stretched tight over his skull, his ears and big nose prominent, the hands that lay on the sheet like white claws.
‘I think he is asleep,’ Mistress Warren said quietly. She bent over the dying man. ‘Yes, asleep. Each time I think to find him gone, but he still breathes.’ For the first time I heard a note of human sympathy in her voice. She shook Bealknap’s shoulder gently. His eyes opened, those forget-me-not-blue eyes that had always roved around, never quite meeting yours. But today he stared right up at me, then smiled effortfully, showing his yellow teeth.
‘Brother Shardlake.’ His voice was scarce above a whisper. ‘Ah, I knew if I sent you the gold, you would come.’
I brought one of the chairs over to the bed. Bealknap looked at the nurse. ‘Go, Mary,’ he said curtly. She curtsied and left.
‘Is there anything I can get you?’ I asked.
He shook his head wearily. ‘No. I just wanted to see you one last time.’
‘I am sorry to find you in this condition.’
‘No,’ he said softly. ‘Let us speak the truth. You have always hated me, and I you.’
I did not reply. Bealknap’s breath rasped painfully in his chest. Then he whispered, his breath in my face stinking, rotten, ‘What is going to happen now?’
‘None of us can know that for certain, Brother Bealknap,’ I said uncomfortably. ‘We must all hope for God’s mercy on our souls – ’
His eyes stayed fixed on mine. ‘You and I know better than that. I think it is the one thing we agree on. We both know men have no souls, any more than cats or dogs. There is nothing afterwards, nothing. Only darkness and silence.’
I shook my head. ‘I am not so sure as you. There is no way to know for certain. I do not know what or who God is, but – perhaps he exists.’
‘No.’ Bealknap sighed. ‘I have had the rites, but only because that was necessary if my legacy is to be fulfilled.’ He smiled again, and a dreamy quality came into his eyes. ‘All my money, all my gold, is to go to the building of a great marble tomb in the Inn church, gilded and painted, with a stone image of me in my robes atop the tomb edged with gold so that all future generations of Lincoln’s Inn lawyers will remember Brother Stephen Bealknap. I have been arranging the details with the man who will build it.’ He laughed weakly. ‘Treasurer Rowland took much persuading, but gold won the argument, as it wins them all.’
For a moment I could not think what to say. Bealknap must know how he was disliked. Was the commissioning of this memorial a last act of defiance? I thought sorrowfully, a lifetime’s earnings put into such a thing. But something puzzled me. ‘You said you are certain there is no afterlife, yet just now you asked what will happen now.’
He gave a throaty, painful laugh. ‘I did not mean what will happen to me, Matthew Shardlake. I meant, what is going to happen to you?’
‘I do not understand you.’
‘I wanted to live to see what would happen to you.’ He took a breath, winced with pain. ‘Together with your good friend the Queen.’
My eyes widened. All the inn knew that I had not worked for the Queen for a year. What could he know? ‘What are you talking about?’ I asked sharply, leaning over him. Bealknap gave me a look of satisfaction, then closed his eyes. I was angry now, realizing that he was playing games to the end. I shook him, but he had gone back to sleep and did not stir. I looked at him for a long moment. Then I could stand the terrible fug no longer; I was starting to feel sick. I went to the window and threw the shutters wide. The figure on the bed, now caught in full sunlight, lay white and wasted.
The door opened and the nurse came in. She went over to Bealknap, checked his breathing, then crossed to me, looking angry. ‘Master, what are you doing? He wants the shutters closed. If he finds you have opened them he will complain fiercely when he wakes. Please.’
I let Mistress Warren close the shutters again. She looked at Bealknap. ‘You must leave now, sir. Every effort tires him.’
‘There is something I need to ask him.’
‘Then return a little later. After lunch. Come now, please.’ She took my arm, and I let her lead me to the door. From the bed I heard a grunt, then another. Bealknap was dreaming, and from those sounds, not of anything pleasant.
I SAT IN MY ROOM in chambers, nursing a mug of small beer. I had been there for over an hour, trying to make sense of what Bealknap had said. Him, involved in all this? But how? He knew I once worked for the Queen, and must have heard the gossip that she was in trouble. But it was well known by everyone that I had stopped working for her a year ago. No, I thought, it is just that Bealknap knew that I had worked for Catherine Parr, knew she was in trouble as so many did, and hoped I might fall with her. I looked across the sunlit courtyard at the chamber where Bealknap lay. I would have to go over there again later, try to get more information from him. I shook my head. Vicious to the end. I thought of that great memorial Bealknap had planned; it would become a joke, a jest round Lincoln’s Inn. But he would not foresee that. He had always been blind in so many ways.
I heard the outer door of my chambers open, the
n close again. I had locked it when I came back; it must be Barak come in for something. I got up and opened the door. To my surprise I saw Nicholas taking papers from a table to his desk. His freckled face still looked tired, and there was a beer-stain on his robe. He stared at me.
‘Nicholas? Here on a Sunday?’
He looked a little shamefaced. ‘Some notes of cases came in yesterday from the Court of Requests, matters for the Michaelmas term. With your being busy, Barak asked me to summarize them. I was at the Inn for the service, and thought I might as well come in here and do some work.’ To my amusement he looked embarrassed at being caught out coming in to work extra hours. It did not fit with the image he liked to convey.
‘Nicholas,’ I said. ‘I was too sharp with you yesterday. You asked the apprentice Elias that question at the wrong time, and you must learn to judge more carefully. But – I should have made allowance for your youth, your inexperience. I apologize.’
He looked at me in surprise. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Are you getting a taste for the law?’
‘I confess at first I found it – well – boring, but now – it seems less so. There are some matters I find interesting.’
‘Most of all if a hunt for a murderer is involved, eh?’
He smiled. ‘Does that not add some spice?’
‘That is one way of putting it. The law is seldom so exciting, as you know. But it is necessary to see all aspects of it if you are to return to Lincolnshire and help manage your father’s lands.’
The boy’s face fell, the first time I had seen him look sad. ‘I doubt I will go back, sir.’
I realized how little I knew of Nicholas; he had volunteered almost nothing about himself. ‘How so?’ I asked.
He looked at me with his dark green eyes. ‘I was sent to law because my father disapproved of something I did.’ He hesitated. ‘Involving a proposed marriage.’
I nodded sympathetically. ‘You wished to marry someone below your station?’ I knew such cases were not uncommon.
Nicholas shook his head vigorously. ‘No, sir. I am of age, I may marry where I like.’ His eyes flashed with sudden anger, his chin jutting forward.
‘Of course,’ I soothed.
He hesitated. ‘As my father’s only son, the marriage I make is important. Our estates have suffered from the fall in money like so many, the value of our rents has fallen and the tenants can afford no more. A marriage to the wealthy daughter of a neighbouring estate would have brought a valuable dowry.’
‘Yes. I know such arrangements can be – difficult. What is it they say of gentlefolk? Marry first and learn to love later.’
Nicholas’s face brightened a little. ‘You understand, sir. Well, a marriage was planned for me, with the daughter of a large estate near our manor at Codsall.’
‘And you did not like her? Or she you?’ I smiled sadly. ‘Neither position is easy.’
His face set hard. ‘We liked each other very much. But we did not love each other. I am no great catch, and nor in truth was she, so they thought we would go well together.’ He spoke bitterly. ‘So my father and mother put it to me. But Anys and I both desire, in God’s good time, to marry for love. We have seen enough marriages of convenience that have ended in discord. So she and I made a pact, during one of the walks we were encouraged to take in my father’s garden, as they watched us from the windows. We agreed to tell our parents we would not marry. My father was sore angry; he was already discontented with me for spending too much time hunting and hawking rather than helping on the estate, so he sent me here. As a sort of punishment, I think, though I was glad enough to leave the country and see London,’ he added. ‘Anys and I still write to each other, as friends.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Well, sir, now you know me for a truly disobedient fellow.’
‘It sounds as though you and Anys might have rubbed along together quite happily.’
‘That is not enough.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Many would disagree, but I think like you, it is not.’
‘The poor have it easier,’ he said bitterly. ‘They may marry for love.’
‘Only when they can afford to, and that is often later than they would wish these days. As for the effects of the war, the taxation and the ruin of the coinage – well, your father still has his manor house, but his poor tenants will find it hard to pay the rent and eat.’
Nicholas shook his head firmly. ‘Now the war is over, prosperity will surely return. And the security of everyone depends on people staying within the ranks to which they were born. Otherwise we would have the anarchy of the Anabaptists.’
That bogey again. I said, ‘I confess that the more I see of mankind, the more I think we are all of one common clay.’
He considered for a moment, then said, ‘My family have been gentlefolk by birth for centuries. Since before the Conquest, my father says; since the Norsemen settled Lincolnshire. It is our heritage to rule.’
‘They became gentlefolk by conquest alone. The Norsemen took plenty from the English, as did the Normans. That is how most of our families become wealthy; I know, I am a property lawyer, I spend much time dabbling in ancient deeds.’
‘Land may be taken honourably in warfare, sir.’
‘As the Normans doubtless did from your Norse ancestors. You may have had more land once.’
‘Too late to fight for it now, I suppose. A pity, perhaps.’ He smiled.
I was starting to like Nicholas; he was showing signs of wit, and for all his upholding of gentlemanly conformity, he had himself defied convention. I said, ‘Well, we shall have the chance to talk more of land and who owns it as the new law term approaches. But now I must go home for lunch.’
‘Has there been any further progress on the murder of the printer?’ Nicholas asked.
‘No.’ I raised a finger. ‘And remember, do not speak of it.’
‘You have my promise as a gentleman.’
‘Good.’ My eye was drawn to Bealknap’s window. After lunch, I would lie down for an hour or two; I needed to rest. Then I would return.
I WENT HOME. As I walked up the path, Josephine appeared in the doorway in her new dress, a young man in a sober doublet at her side. Agnes Brocket held the door open, smiling at them, while Timothy stood at the corner of the house, looking on nosily. Josephine’s companion was in his early twenties, slim, dark-haired and moderately handsome; this must be the young man she was walking out with. She blushed as I approached, and the boy doffed his cap and bowed.
‘I am Edward Brown, sir. Servant to your brother-in-the-law, Master Peter Henning.’
‘Ah, yes. A good man. I was sorry to hear his wife died – some months ago, was it not?’
‘In December, sir. My master was much affected. He is thinking of retiring, going home to Norfolk.’
‘I hope he will not,’ Josephine ventured.
‘I thank you for permitting me to take Josephine out walking,’ Goodman Brown said.
I smiled at Josephine. ‘I am glad to see her getting out and about. You are going to Lincoln’s Inn Fields, I believe. It should be pleasant there today.’
‘Watch you take good care of her,’ Agnes said from the doorway.
‘I will.’
I turned to Timothy. ‘Did you need to speak to me, lad?’
‘I – I just wanted to tell you Genesis will need some more hay.’
‘Then get some tomorrow,’ Agnes said. ‘And for now, be off.’
Timothy scurried away. Josephine and young Brown looked at each other and smiled. Timothy had permission from me to buy new hay whenever it was needed; it was obvious he had come to have a look at Goodman Brown. That the young fellow seemed amused rather than annoyed was another mark in his favour.
I stood with Agnes and watched the two walk down the gravel path. Then I heard a sound, from up the road at Lincoln’s Inn. The slow tolling of a bell. I felt a shiver down my spine. It was the dead-bell, sounded when an Inn member died: that must surely mean Bealknap. I would not now g
et the chance to question him again; even in death, he had cheated me.
‘It is good to see Josephine so happy,’ Agnes said.
I smiled at her. ‘It is.’
She hesitated, then added, ‘She has told me a little of her past. She owes you much.’
Martin appeared behind her from inside the house, moving quietly as usual. He looked down the path, where Josephine and Goodman Brown were just turning onto the roadway. A disapproving look. So the dislike between Martin and Josephine was mutual, I thought. I wondered what was behind it. Martin spoke sharply to his wife, ‘Never mind them. Have you told Master Shardlake of his visitor?’
Agnes put a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, I am sorry—’
Her husband cut across her. ‘The young lawyer gentleman who called two nights ago is come again. He still will not give his name.’ Martin frowned at the breach of etiquette. ‘I told him you would be back shortly for lunch. He is waiting in your study.’
‘Thank you.’ I went quickly inside. In the study, the slight figure of William Cecil sat in a chair, his thin face thoughtful and worried. He rose and bowed as I entered.
‘I am sorry to disturb you on the Lord’s Day, sir,’ he said quickly, ‘but there has been a serious development.’
‘You visited Greening’s friends? Lord Parr said you would.’
‘I did. But all are fled from their lodgings. They have disappeared, all three. Nobody knows where.’ He sighed heavily. ‘But it is the apprentice, Elias, that we need to talk about.’
‘Have you found him?’
Cecil took a deep breath, fixed his protuberant eyes on me. ‘What is left of him. His mother found him last night, in the alley next to their house, beaten about the head and weltering in his own blood.’ A spasm crossed his face.
‘Jesu.’
‘There was something he managed to say to her, a woman’s name, just before he died.’
‘What was it?’ I dreaded to hear the Queen’s name. But instead Cecil said, ‘Anne Askew. He managed to say, “Killed for Anne Askew”.’