Coincidence

  The events of the day seemed to have put us in a rare mood for confidences, there in the huge desecrated vault of the church, the swish of straw and crowing of fighting cocks echoing in the background. ‘I dream of my father sometimes,’ Barak said. ‘When I was small he always wanted to hold me and I would squirm away because I could not stand the smell of his trade. The emptying of cesspits. I often dream he comes to me with arms outstretched, but I catch the smell of him and draw back as I did then, I cannot help myself. Then I wake with that smell in my nostrils. I thought of it when they brought that apprentice into Maleverer.’ He fingered his breast, where I knew he carried the ancient mezuzah his father had bequeathed him. ‘Perhaps such dreams are sent to punish us,’ he concluded softly. ‘To remind us of our sins.’

  ‘You are a Job’s comforter.’

  ‘Ay.’ He rose. ‘ ’Tis this grim place.’

  ‘I wonder what will happen to that boy.’

  ‘Young Green?’

  ‘That was a cruel humiliation Maleverer visited on him, sending him bare-arsed into the town.’

  Barak suppressed a laugh. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘but it did look funny. The Yorkers will probably sympathize. He’ll find another place. Come, shall we get some supper before you retire?’

  ‘Yes.’ I rose and we walked to the far door.

  He turned to me. ‘I am sorry for causing you to lose the papers, more than I can say.’

  I clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Come, no recriminations. There is no point.’

  We went to look at the horses, complimenting the stable boy on how well they were cared for, then went and ate companionably in the refectory. As we walked we were both on the alert, looking into shadowed corners. The refectory was busier and noisier than the night before. The carpenters, their work done, were in boisterous mood. If they were allowed into the town tonight there would be revelry and probably bloody noses too. I was tired again, glad to return to my cot. Barak said he was going into the town, ‘to see what I can see’.

  ‘No adventures.’

  ‘No, I’ll save those for Tamasin tomorrow. Shall I wake you at six in the morning?’

  ‘Ay.’ He left me then, and I sank into a deep and thankfully dreamless sleep, disturbed only when the lawyers and clerks returned late and went to bed. Yet it was not Barak who woke me next morning but a soldier, a hand shaking me roughly awake. It was still dark, he carried a lamp. I stared at him. It was young Sergeant Leacon. His face was serious. My heart leaped in terror, and I feared for a second that Maleverer might have put me under arrest.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I have been sent to escort you to York Castle, sir, at once,’ he said. ‘The prisoner Broderick, he has been poisoned.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  IT WAS STILL ONLY five in the morning as we marched through a dark and silent York. Barak had been woken when Leacon roused me and I asked him to accompany us; whatever awaited us at the castle, I wanted another pair of eyes to see. The town constables, roused by our footsteps, shone their lamps at us but retreated again at the sight of Leacon’s red uniform. I shivered and drew my coat round me, for a cold gusting wind had risen.

  ‘Who brought you the news?’ I asked the young sergeant.

  ‘A messenger sent by the captain of the castle guard. He said the prisoner had been poisoned and seemed like to die, and you were asked for at once. I thought it best to come myself as we must cross the city. The constables would stop you otherwise.’

  ‘Thank you.’ By the light of his lamp I could see a worried expression on Leacon’s boyish face. ‘I put you to much trouble, I fear.’

  ‘I was called to Sir William yesterday, asked for the details of your arrival at St Mary’s with that box. He questioned me closely.’ He hesitated, looking at the bruise on my head. ‘He told me you were attacked. The guards at St Mary’s have been warned to be triply attentive. The King arrives tomorrow.’

  The castle tower reared up on its hill, outlined against a sky which was just beginning to lighten. We hurried on to where torches burned brightly on the drawbridge; we were expected and quickly gained admittance. I thanked the sergeant and told him to go back to St Mary’s. Barak watched him return across the drawbridge.

  ‘He must think trouble surrounds us everywhere we go.’

  We hurried across the bailey to the guardroom. The door was open, light spilling into the yard. The hard-looking fellow who had met me on my previous visits was standing in the doorway, looking worried.

  ‘I’ll take you up, sir,’ he said at once.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Master Radwinter came into the guardroom not an hour ago, said the prisoner was taken ill. He suspected poison, said to send for you and the physician. The physician’s just gone up.’

  So Radwinter had summoned me. To protect his back, perhaps, share the blame if Broderick died. I set my lips tight as we followed the guard up the damp spiral staircase. The door to Broderick’s cell was open. Inside, by the light of a lamp set on the floor, a stout man in a black fur-trimmed robe and close-fitting cap was bent over the bed. The sour stink of vomit filled the room. Radwinter stood looking on, holding another lamp high. He turned as we came in. His face was pale against his black beard. He had dressed hurriedly; he looked far from his usual dapper self and his eyes had a look of fear and anger. He stared at Barak, who met his gaze unflinchingly. ‘Who’s that?’ he snapped.

  ‘My assistant, Barak. He is privy to everything, by the Archbishop’s authority. How is Sir Edward?’

  It was the physician who answered, rising and turning to me. He was in his fifties, the hair under his cap grey, and I was glad to see his broad face seemed intelligent. ‘This man has undoubtedly been poisoned. Master Radwinter tells me he heard the prisoner fall heavily from his bed, from his own room underneath, about an hour ago.’

  ‘You are the physician who examined the prisoner two days ago?’

  ‘I am, sir.’ He bowed. ‘Dr Jibson, of Lop Lane.’

  I leaned round him to get a view of Broderick. He lay on his pallet, the long chains slack across his body. His beard was wet with vomit, his face a ghastly white.

  ‘Will he live?’

  ‘I hope so. Whatever he was given, he seems to have vomited it all up.’ The physician glanced at a half-full pail on the floor. A cup and a wooden bowl, both empty, lay there as well. ‘Are those for his food?’

  ‘Yes,’ Radwinter said. ‘He had his supper late last night.’

  Dr Jibson frowned. ‘Then I would have expected him to vomit before now. But different poisons act in different ways.’ He peered into the stinking pail with professional interest.

  ‘It must have been in his food,’ Radwinter said. ‘There’s no other way. I have been in my room constantly, Broderick’s cell has been locked as always and a mouse could not get past my room without me hearing. And the guards say no strangers have been anywhere near this end of the bailey all day.’

  Dr Jibson nodded. ‘The food seems most likely.’

  ‘His pottage comes from the common cooking pot,’ Radwinter said. ‘I fetch it myself from the guards’ quarters, ’tis a menial task but I can ensure against anything being concealed in the food, like messages.’ His face set hard, and he turned to me. ‘What the doctor says confirms what I thought. I already have the answer to this. The guards’ cook. He used to cook for the monks at St Mary’s Abbey, and he has a shifty air about him. I have had him confined in the guardhouse.’

  The physician looked between us, then spoke seriously. ‘I must warn you, this man is not out of danger. Some poison could still be in his system. He was weak enough before, from his treatment –’ he made a grimace of distaste – ‘and the poor rations he seems to have had, and confinement in this doleful place.’ He looked round the cell. Looking out of the barred windows, I saw dawn had come, the castle keep grey against the lightening sky. Something white moved there, Aske’s skeleton turning in the wind that moaned louder now against the tower.


  ‘It would help if Sir Edward were moved,’ Dr Jibson added. ‘Laid in comfort somewhere.’

  ‘He is too dangerous,’ Radwinter answered firmly. ‘He must be kept secure and chained.’

  The physician looked at me. I hesitated. ‘He does need to be kept secure. But he should be given more blankets, and perhaps a little brazier put here to heat the room.’

  The physician nodded. ‘That would help.’

  ‘Very well,’ Radwinter agreed. He gave me a nasty, sidelong look. Jibson’s comment on the prisoner’s poor diet would not have pleased him.

  Broderick stirred, and I realized he was conscious. How long had he been listening? He looked at me and smiled bitterly. ‘Still careful of my welfare, master lawyer?’ he croaked. ‘Someone was less careful. They sought to end my pain.’ He sighed deeply. I looked into his eyes; the fire had gone out of them, I saw only a terrible exhaustion.

  ‘Do you know how this was done, Broderick?’

  ‘It was the King poisoned me,’ he said, breathing heavily.

  ‘You will tell us,’ Radwinter said threateningly.

  ‘Come, Master Radwinter,’ I said. ‘We should talk. Dr Jibson, will you call again later?’

  ‘Certainly, this afternoon.’ He smiled, and I reflected that on the King’s work he would get a handsome fee.

  We left the cell, Radwinter locking it carefully. ‘Wait in my room, please,’ he said curtly. ‘I will see Dr Jibson out and lock the lower door.’

  Barak and I descended the stairs to the gaoler’s quarters. The clothes from his bed had been thrown hurriedly to the floor but otherwise it presented its usual tidy aspect. I massaged my neck, which had begun to ache.

  ‘So that’s Radwinter,’ Barak said. ‘Professional inquisitor, by the look of him.’ He took up The Obedience of a Christian Man, which lay open on the chair. ‘A twopenny-book man too.’

  ‘Fancies himself an agent of the Lord.’

  ‘There’s enough of them these days. He doesn’t seem that frightening. Looked a bit scared himself up there.’

  ‘Wait till he starts trying to ferret into your mind. But you’re right, this has rattled him.’ I paced the room restlessly. ‘All these precautions are to prevent anyone trying to rescue Broderick; we couldn’t expect someone would try to kill him. Could this be tied to Oldroyd’s death, to those papers? Maleverer said there was some connection between Broderick and that name Blaybourne.’

  ‘Perhaps we should warn Radwinter.’

  ‘No. That’s Maleverer’s job, this will have to go to him.’

  We broke off at the sound of light footsteps on the stairs. Radwinter entered. He closed the door and studied Barak. Then he smiled humourlessly at me, showing his little white teeth. ‘Do you feel you need a man to protect you when you meet with me?’ he asked.

  Even now he was trying to undermine me. ‘Master Radwinter,’ I said, ‘I have no time for games. This is a serious business.’

  ‘I have ordered the blankets and brazier to be brought,’ he said curtly. ‘I will not have that man die under my watch,’ he added angrily. ‘By the throat of God, I won’t!’ He turned to us. ‘I want you to come with me. I am going to question that cook.’

  ‘But surely if it was the cook who provided it he would have fled the scene after adding the poison to his meal,’ Barak observed. ‘He’d be the obvious suspect, he wouldn’t hang around.’

  Radwinter gave him an evil look, then turned to me. ‘You allow your servants to speak on your business?’

  ‘Barak talks sense,’ I answered flatly.

  ‘Does he?’ Radwinter’s eyes went to the bruise on my head. ‘Have you been angering someone else with your caustic manners?’

  ‘I told you before, there is no time for games. Let us see this suspect.’

  ‘Very well.’ Radwinter grasped his bunch of keys tightly. ‘By Jesu, I’ll have the truth from him.’ He waved us out of his room with an angry gesture.

  THE COOK SAT ON a stool in the guardhouse, a soldier either side of him. He was a fat fellow, as good cooks are, with a bald, egg-shaped head. Yet there was a sharpness in his face and in his frightened eyes; Radwinter was right, the man had something shifty about him. The gaoler walked over to the prisoner and stared into his face, smiling grimly. There was a brazier in the room, with a poker sticking out of the charcoal. Radwinter turned quickly, pulled it out and held it up. The cook started, then gulped as Radwinter showed him the glowing tip. It was red-hot, I could feel its warmth faintly from where I stood. The soldiers looked at each other uneasily. Radwinter stroked his neat little beard thoughtfully with his free hand, then said to the cook, softly, ‘Your name?’

  ‘D-David Youhill, sir.’

  He nodded. ‘And you used to work for the monks at St Mary’s.’

  Youhill’s eyes went to the poker, widening in fear. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Look at me when you answer, churl. How long for?’

  ‘Over ten years, sir. I was third cook to the monks.’

  ‘An abbey-lubber then. Soft living and easy work. Must have been a shock when you were put out on the road when that papist den closed.’

  ‘I got work here, sir.’

  ‘And now you have used your post to poison a man the King wants kept alive. You know the punishment for a cook who tries to kill by poisoning the food he cooks? It is to be boiled alive. By order of the King.’ Youhill gulped again; he was sweating now. Radwinter nodded seriously, fixing the man with his merciless eyes. ‘That’s a painful death, I’ll warrant. Though I’ve not seen it done. Yet.’

  ‘But – but I didn’t do anything, sir.’ Youhill broke down suddenly, words tumbling out of him, his eyes staring wildly at the poker. ‘I only made the leek pottage for the guards same as always, with ingredients I bought in town. The prisoner’s food was taken from the common pot, the last of it’s still in the kitchen. If there was poison in there everyone would have had it.’ He turned to the soldiers. ‘Giles, Peter, you’d swear to that.’

  The guards nodded. ‘That is true, sir,’ one said. Radwinter frowned at him.

  ‘I can only tell what I saw, sir,’ he said. ‘The cook had no chance to interfere with the prisoner’s food.’

  ‘And you brought his bowl and cup, maister,’ Youhill said. ‘And his beer was poured from the common barrel as you saw.’

  ‘Who cleans his bowl and cup?’ I asked.

  ‘I do that.’ Radwinter stroked his black beard, then lowered the poker slowly towards the cook’s nose. I decided if it came too near his skin I would intervene. Youhill squirmed in his chair, making little mewling sounds of fear.

  ‘I don’t know how you did it, yet, master cook. But no one else could have. I’ll get it out of you, never fear. You see, I know you servants from the monasteries. You took in the papist ideas that infested those places, then when you were turned out it went to resentment against His Majesty, and if a chance to do ill comes you’ll take it. I’ve had abbey-lubbers brought to me in the Lollards’ Tower. Mostly they’re like you, fat and soft; they break after a little pain.’

  ‘But I hated the monks!’ Youhill burst out. Radwinter halted the poker, six inches from his nose.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I hated them! Hated the way they lived soft and easy while I slept on sacks. I always knew their ceremonies were aimed at nothing more than getting money from gullible folk. I was one of Lord Cromwell’s informers!’

  Radwinter’s eyes narrowed. ‘What nonsense is this?’

  The cook twisted his face desperately away from the heat. ‘It is true,’ he cried, ‘by God’s holy blood! When Lord Cromwell’s commissioners came in ’35 they questioned all the servants; they found I’d been in trouble for drunkenness, though a man may surely take a drink in the town. They asked if I’d pass any snippets of gossip to Lord Cromwell’s office, promised me a good job if the place closed. And they kept their promise, they got me work at the castle. I’m as loyal to the King as any man in England!’

  Radwinter studie
d Youhill, then shook his head slowly. ‘That is too easy a tale, master cook. I see by your face you are a crafty and devious man. But you poisoned my prisoner, and I will have the truth. I’ll have you brought up to my room. Then we shall have another conversation – there is a brazier there as well.’ He thrust the poker back into the coals. ‘Bring him,’ Radwinter ordered the guards. He looked into my disapproving face. ‘Master Shardlake, you will not be needed.’

  Youhill gripped the arms of his chair convulsively. The soldiers looked at each other. Then, to my surprise, Barak stepped forward and addressed the cook. ‘I used to work for Lord Cromwell,’ he said. ‘I did some work with monastery informers back in ’36, learned how the system worked.’

  The relief that came into the cook’s face showed that what he had said was true. ‘Then help me, sir!’

  ‘You would have had to send letters. Can you write?’

  ‘My brother can. I told him what to put.’

  ‘To whom did the letters go?’

  ‘The office of Master Bywater, at the office of the Vicar-General at Westminster,’ he said eagerly. ‘For the attention of Master Wells.’

  Barak turned to us. ‘He speaks true. He worked for Lord Cromwell all right.’

  ‘He could have turned his coat,’ Radwinter said.

  Barak shrugged. ‘True, but he looks too scared to me.’

  ‘And there’s no evidence,’ I added. ‘Also, Master Radwinter, you have no legal authority to torture this man. He may be kept close for now, but he is not to be harmed. I will report to Sir William Maleverer, but I cannot see how this man can have poisoned Broderick.’

  ‘Perhaps the poison wasn’t in his food at all,’ Barak added.

  ‘Ay. Consider what other ways there might have been, Master Radwinter, and I shall too. I will return once I have seen Sir William.’

  OUTSIDE THE WIND was fiercer, whipping more rain in our faces and sending leaves whirling across the bailey. Radwinter followed us out, his face dark with fury, and grasped my arm.