Lamentation (The Shardlake Series Book 6) (15 page)

I said lightly, ‘My pupil was just saying on the way here, it should suffice simply to worship as the King commands.’

‘Yes,’ Fletcher agreed. ‘Safer that way, too.’

‘What about his apprentice?’

‘A hulking, insolent fellow, I wouldn’t be surprised if he were another radical. But he was at home with his mother and sisters on the night of the murder, and all agree he got on well with his master. Master Okedene has taken on the boy now.’

‘And the two men Master Okedene’s assistant saw?’

‘Vanished into thin air. From the descriptions they’re not local men. I’d have taken it for a random attack by some beggars, hoping perhaps to steal some paper, which of course has some value – but for one thing . . .’

‘What is that?’

The constable frowned. ‘It was not the first attack on Greening.’ I looked surprised, as though hearing the news for the first time. ‘The apprentice, young Elias, told me that, some days before, he came to work early to find two men trying to break in, smash the lock. He shouted to waken Master Greening, who was asleep within, and called out, “Clubs!”, which as you will know brings any apprentice within reach to aid one of his fellows. The two men fled at once. And according to young Elias’s description, they were not the same men who killed Greening. He sticks to that.’ Fletcher spread his arms. ‘And that is all. The inquest returned its verdict of murder yesterday. I was asked to continue the investigation, but I have no further leads nothing to investigate.’

‘Do you have the names of the suspected radicals Greening associated with?’

‘Yes. There were three.’ Fletcher rummaged among his papers and wrote down the names and addresses of three men. We leaned over the desk as he pointed at each in turn. ‘James McKendrick is Scotch; he works at the docks, used to be a soldier but turned into one of those radical preachers the Scotch have thrown out of their kingdom. Andres Vandersteyn is a cloth merchant from Antwerp; he trades between there and London – they say in forbidden books as well as cloth. The third, William Curdy, is a candlemaker, moderately prosperous. They all attend church regularly on Sunday and are careful what they say in public, but they were all friendly with Greening and sometimes used to meet together at his shop. And they were friends with other radicals of various sorts.’

‘How do you know?’ Nicholas asked.

‘Informers, of course. Mine and the Bishop’s. And I am told that these three have not been at their homes lately.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘They may be keeping out of the way of officialdom.’

Nicholas said, ‘A strange group to meet together. A Dutch merchant trading with the Low Countries would be of gentleman status, a candlemaker would be the middling sort, but a poor printer and a dockworker are from quite a different class.’

‘Some radicals believe social divisions between men are wrong,’ I replied. ‘But meeting together is not an offence.’

‘Nor being Dutch, nor a Scotch exile,’ Fletcher said. ‘More’s the pity, for both groups are often radicals.’ He sighed, shook his head at the restrictions that bound his work, then added, ‘Nonetheless, the Bishop’s men raided Greening’s place back in April – ’

‘I did not know that,’ I said, leaning forward.

‘They raided several print-shops in search of some pamphlets by John Bale that had appeared in London. Printed somewhere in the city. Nothing was found anywhere.’

Yet somehow the most dangerous book in the kingdom had found its way into that shop. ‘What do you think happened, Master Fletcher?’ I asked.

‘Greening obviously had enemies who were out to kill him. But no one seems to know of any. Perhaps there was a falling-out with another radical group; these people will turn from love of each other to hatred over the tiniest point of doctrine. The descriptions of the two sets of people who tried to break in tally with nobody known locally, and this is a close-knit district. You can see why the investigation is at a standstill.’

I nodded sympathetically. ‘If you would not object, I would like to question Master Okedene and his assistant. And the apprentice. Perhaps these friends of Greening’s. And I would like to look at Master Greening’s shop, too. Is there a key?’

Fletcher produced a small key from his desk. ‘I put a new padlock on. You may as well keep this for now. The shop is at the sign of the White Lion. I wish you well.’ He waved his hands at the papers littered around. ‘As you see, I am burdened with duties. This year I have had to hunt for heretics as well as criminals, though the hunt for the former seems to have died down now.’ He looked me in the eye. ‘I saw you at the burning yesterday, on your horse; your friend looked set to faint.’

‘I saw you, too.’

‘I have to carry out the duties the mayor gives me,’ he said defensively, though for a moment his eyes looked haunted.

‘I understand.’

He gave me a hard look. ‘You will report anything you find in this case back to me, remember. I have jurisdiction under the coroner.’

‘All and anything I discover,’ I lied. ‘By the way, what happened to the body?’

‘It couldn’t be kept lying around till his parents were able to get here from the Chilterns; not in summer. He was buried in the common pit.’

W
E WALKED UP
Ave Maria Lane into Paternoster Row; a longer, wider street, which was the centre of England’s small but growing printing trade. There were several more booksellers, some with printer’s shops above, and a few smaller print-shops; as Fletcher had said, some were mere sheds fixed to the side of buildings, or erected on small plots of land leased from the owner. I thought of Greening’s possible involvement with the printing of forbidden books by John Bale. Once a favourite of Lord Cromwell’s, but now the most detested of radicals, Bale was hidden in exile somewhere in Flanders.

‘What did you think of Fletcher?’ I asked Nicholas.

‘He was at the burning?’

‘Yes. Doing his duty,’ I added heavily.

‘I would rather die than carry out such a duty.’

It was an easy thing for a young man of means to say. ‘I do not think he liked it,’ I observed.

‘Perhaps. I noticed his fingernails were bitten to the quick.’

‘Well spotted. I did not see that. Noticing things, that is the key in this business. We will make a lawyer of you yet. And what did you make of the murder?’

Nicholas shook his head. ‘Two attacks, as Fletcher said; that sounds like Greening had enemies. Or perhaps he had something precious in his shop – something more than paper and ink.’ I looked at the boy sharply; he had come a little too close to the mark for my comfort with that observation. ‘Gold, perhaps,’ Nicholas went on, ‘that the thieves managed to take before they were interrupted.’

‘If people have gold they spend it, or deposit it somewhere safe; only misers hoard it at home.’

‘Like your friend Bealknap? I have heard he is such a one.’

‘He is not my friend,’ I answered shortly. Nicholas reddened, and I continued more civilly, ‘Greening does not sound like such a man.’

‘No, indeed.’ Nicholas added, ‘The constable looked overworked.’

‘Yes. In some ways London is a well-policed city. The constables and watchmen look out for violence, and violations of the curfew. If a few taverns open after hours they wink at it, so long as the inn keepers do not let customers get violent.’ I looked at Nicholas and raised my eyebrows. His own tavern sword fight had become an item of gossip round Lincoln’s Inn, to my discomfort. He reddened further.

I went on, ‘The constables check that people obey the sumptuary laws regarding the clothes that may be worn by men of each station, though again they wink at minor infringements. And they run informers to report on crime and religious misdemeanours. But when it comes to investigating a murder requiring a long-term, detailed investigation, they have not the resources, as Fletcher said.’

‘I confess I do not fully understand about the different types of radical,’ Nicholas said. ‘Sacramentarians and Lollards and Anabaptists, what are the differences?’

‘That is something it is as well to know in London. But lower your voice,’ I said quietly. ‘Open discussion of these matters is dangerous. Sacramentarians believe the bread and wine are not transformed into the body and blood of Christ during the Mass, which properly should be regarded only as a remembrance of Christ’s sacrifice. By law, to express that belief is heresy. In most of Europe such opinion is new, but in England a man called John Wycliffe propounded similar doctrines more than a century ago. Those who followed him, the Lollards, were persecuted, but Lollardy has lived on here and there, in small secret groups. The Lollards were delighted, of course, by the King’s break with Rome.’

‘And the Anabaptists?’

They were one of the religious sects that sprang up in Germany twenty years ago. They believe in going back to the practices of the earliest Christians; they are sacramentarians, but they also believe that the baptism of children is invalid, that only adults who have come to knowledge of Christ can be baptized. Hence “Anabaptists”. But also, and most dangerously, they share the belief of the earliest Christians that social distinctions between men should be abolished and all goods held in common.’

Nicholas looked astonished. ‘Surely the early Christians did not believe that?’

I inclined my head. ‘Looking at the Scriptures, there is a good argument they did.’

He frowned. ‘I heard the Anabaptists took over a city in Germany and ran it according to their beliefs, and by the end blood was running in the streets.’ He shook his head. ‘Man cannot do without authority, which is why God has ordained princes to rule over him.’

‘In fact, the Anabaptists were besieged in Münster, the Protestant Prince allying with Catholic forces to take the city. That was the real cause of the bloodshed. Though I have heard that yes, the Anabaptists’ rule inside the city had become violent. But afterwards most of them renounced violence. They were run out of Germany and Flanders, too; a few from Flanders came here across the North Sea. The King burned those he could find.’

‘But there could still be others?’

‘So it is said. If they exist they have been forced underground as the Lollards were. Anyone with a Dutch name is looked at askance these days.’

‘Like that friend of Greening’s the constable mentioned? Vandersteyn?’

‘Yes.’

Nicholas’s brow furrowed. ‘So the Anabaptists have renounced violence, but not the belief that rulers must be put down?’

‘So it is said.’

‘Then they remain a great danger,’ he said seriously.

‘They are a useful bogey.’ I looked at Nicholas. ‘Well, now you have seen what a murder enquiry begins to look like. It is seldom an easy thing to investigate, nor safe.’

He smiled. ‘I am not afraid.’

I grunted. ‘Fear keeps you on your toes. Remember that.’

A
LL THE SHOPS
and printworks in Paternoster Row had little signs outside: an angel, a golden ball, a red cockerel. The sign of the White Lion, crudely painted on a board, hung outside a one-storey wooden building which was made to seem all the poorer by the fine-looking house which stood next to it. That must be the neighbour, Okedene’s. I used the key to open the padlock the constable had fixed to the splintered door, and pushed it open. It was dim within. There was a second door at the side of the shed, with a key in the lock, and I got Nicholas to open it. It gave onto a weed-strewn patch of ground. I looked round the shed. The single room was dominated by a large printing press in the centre, the press itself raised on its screw, the tray of paper empty. Nailed to the walls, cheap shelves held paper, ink and solutions in bottles, and blocks of type in boxes. A harsh smell permeated the place.

In one corner was a pile of printed pages, and others had been hung on lines to dry. I looked at the top page:
A Goodly French Primer.
I glanced at the pages hanging to dry:
Je suis un gentilhomme de l’Angleterre. J’habite à Londres . . .
I remembered such stuff from my schooldays. Greening had been printing a schoolbook for children. There was a straw bed in a corner, a blanket and pillow. Beside the bed was a knife and plate with some stale bread and mouldy cheese. Greening’s last meal.