Dark Fire (18 page)

His eyes widened and his jaw dropped. If he was acting ignorance, it was a good performance. But lawyers can act better than any mummer in a mystery play.

‘Your chambers, I think.’

Bealknap nodded, stunned into silence, and led the way across Gatehouse Court. He had a room on the first floor of a corner building, up a narrow flight of creaking stairs. His chamber was
plainly furnished, a poor-looking desk and a couple of battered tables heaped untidily with papers. The room was dominated by a huge iron-bound chest that stood in one corner, made of thick boards
and secured by iron bands and padlocks. It was said about the Inns that all the gold Bealknap earned went in there and that he passed his evenings running it through his fingers and counting it. He
hardly spent any, though; it was known that tailors and innkeepers had been chasing him through the courts for years for money he owed.

Bealknap looked at the chest and seemed momentarily to relax. Many lawyers would have been embarrassed to have such stories of miserliness spread about them, but Bealknap seemed not to mind.
Keeping the chest in his office was safe enough for he lived in rooms next door, and with its guards and watchmen the Inn was as safe a place as anywhere in London. Yet I remembered what the
Gristwoods’ killers had made of the chest in Sepultus’s workshop.

Bealknap took off his cap and ran a hand through his wiry blond hair. ‘Will you take a seat, Brother?’

‘Thank you.’ I sat by his desk, casting an eye over the papers. To my surprise I saw the crest of the Hanseatic League on one document, French writing on another.

‘You have business with French merchants?’ I asked.

‘They pay well. The French are having problems with the Custom House these days.’

‘Not surprising as they threaten war on us.’

‘That won’t happen. The king knows the dangers, as the duke was saying at lunch.’ He waved the subject away. ‘In God’s name, Brother, what is this about Michael
Gristwood?’

‘He was found dead yesterday morning at his home. His brother was murdered too. The formula is gone. You know what I am talking about.’

‘My poor friend. This is very shocking.’ His eyes darted all over the room, avoiding mine.

‘Did you tell anyone apart from Serjeant Marchamount about the formula?’ I asked.

He shook his head firmly. ‘No, sir, I did not. When Michael brought me the papers he found at Bart’s I said he should get them to Lord Cromwell.’

‘For payment, though they were the king’s by right. Was that your idea, or his?’

He hesitated, then looked at me directly. ‘His. But I didn’t quarrel with him about that, Brother. It was an opportunity, and only a fool passes those up. I offered to go to
Marchamount for him.’

‘For a fee?’

‘Naturally.’ He raised a hand. ‘But – but Lord Cromwell accepted the position, and I was only a poor intermediary—’

‘You are a shameless fellow, Bealknap.’ I looked at the papers again. ‘You could have taken them to the French, perhaps. They might have offered more to keep this secret out of
Cromwell’s hands.’

He jumped up, agitated. ‘God’s death, that would have been treason! D’ye think I’d take the risk of being gutted alive at Tyburn? You have to believe me.’

I said nothing. He sat down again, then laughed nervously. ‘Besides, I thought the whole thing was nonsense. After I took Michael to Marchamount he paid me and I heard no more till just
now.’ He jabbed a finger at me. ‘Don’t try to involve me in this, Shardlake. I’d no part in it, on my oath!’

‘When did Michael first bring you the papers?’

‘In March.’

‘He waited six months after finding them?’

‘He said he and his brother the alchemist had been experimenting with the formula, making more, building some sort of apparatus to fire the stuff at ships. It made no sense to
me.’

It was a similar tale to Marchamount’s. ‘Ah yes,’ I said, ‘the apparatus. Did they build it themselves, I wonder?’

Bealknap shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. Michael said only that it had been made. I tell you, I know nothing.’

‘They said nothing of where the apparatus, or the formula, were kept?’

‘No. I didn’t even study their papers. Michael showed them to me, but half of them were in Greek and what I could read sounded like nonsense. You know some of those old monks were
jesters? They’d forge documents to pass the time.’

‘Is that what you thought those papers were? A jest, a forgery?’

‘I didn’t know. I introduced Michael to Marchamount and then I was glad to be shot of the matter.’

‘Back to your compurgators, eh?’

‘Back to business.’

‘Very well.’ I rose. ‘That will do for now. You will tell no one Michael is dead, Bealknap, or that we have spoken, or you will answer to Lord Cromwell.’

‘I’ve no wish to tell anyone, I don’t want to be involved at all.’

‘I am afraid you are.’ I gave him a tight smile. ‘I will see you at Westminster Hall on Tuesday for the case. By the way,’ I added with apparent casualness, ‘did
you resolve the problem with your corrodiary?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Strange, I did not think friaries took on pensioners living in.’

‘This one did,’ he said with a glare. ‘Ask Sir Richard Rich if you don’t believe me.’

‘Ah, yes, you mentioned his name at Augmentations. I did not know you had his patronage.’

‘I don’t,’ he answered smoothly, ‘but I knew the clerk had a meeting with Sir Richard Rich. That was why I urged him to hurry.’

I smiled and left him. I was sure I was right about corrodians, I would check. I frowned. There was something about Bealknap’s response to my question about the corrodian that did not ring
true. He had been frightened, but had seemed suddenly confident when he mentioned Richard Rich. Somehow that worried me very much.

I
WALKED TIREDLY DOWN
Chancery Lane to my house. Barak would be back by now. I had enjoyed the respite from his company. I
would have liked nothing better than to rest, but I had said I would go to Goodwife Gristwood’s that day. Another trip across London. But we had only eleven days left now. The words seemed to
echo in time with my footsteps; el-e-ven days, el-e-ven days.

Barak had returned and was sitting in the garden, his feet up on a shady bench and a pot of beer beside him. ‘Joan is looking after you, then,’ I said.

‘Like a prince.’

I sat down and poured myself a mug of beer. I saw he had found time to visit the barber’s, for his cheeks were smooth; I was conscious of my own dark stubble and realized I should have had
a shave before such an important dinner. Marchamount would have mentioned it had I come on less serious business.

‘What luck with the lawyers?’ Barak asked.

‘They both say they just acted as middlemen. What about you? Did you find the librarian?’

‘Ay.’ Barak squinted against the afternoon sun. ‘Funny little fellow. I found him saying Mass in a side chapel in his church.’ He smiled wryly. ‘He wasn’t
pleased to hear what I wanted, started trembling like a rabbit, but he’ll meet us outside Barty’s gatehouse at eight tomorrow morning. I said if he didn’t turn up the earl would
be after him.’

I took off my cap and fanned myself. ‘Well, I suppose we had better be off to Wolf’s Lane.’

Barak laughed. ‘You look hot.’

‘I am hot. I’ve been working while you’ve been resting your arse on my bench.’ I stood up wearily. ‘Let’s get it done.’

We went round to the stables. Chancery had travelled further than he was used to the day before and was unhappy at being led into the sun again. He was old; it was time to think of putting him
out to pasture. I mounted, nearly catching my robe in the saddle. I had kept it on as it lent me a certain gravitas that would be useful in dealing with Goodwife Gristwood, but it was a burden in
this weather.

As we rode out, I went over what I should say. I must find out if she knew anything of the apparatus for projecting Greek Fire; there had been something, I was sure, she had been keeping back
yesterday.

Barak interrupted my reflections. ‘You lawyers,’ he said, ‘what’s the mystery of your craft?’

‘What do you mean?’ I replied wearily, scenting mockery.

‘All trades have their mysteries, the secrets their apprentices learn. The carpenter knows how to make a table that won’t collapse, the astrologer how to divine a man’s fate,
but what mysteries do lawyers know? It’s always seemed to me they know only how to mangle words for a penny.’ He smiled at me insolently.

‘You should try working at some of the legal problems the students have at the Inns. That would stop your mouth. England’s law consists of detailed rules, developed over generations,
that allow men to settle their disputes in an ordered way.’

‘Seems more like a great thicket of words to keep men from justice. My master says the law of property’s an ungodly jumble.’ He gave me a keen look and I wondered if he was
watching to see whether I would contradict Cromwell.

‘Have you any experience with the law then, Barak?’

He looked ahead again. ‘Oh, ay, my mother married an attorney after my father died. He was a fine sophister, flowing with words. No qualifications at all, though, like friend Gristwood.
Made his money by tangling people up in legal actions he’d no knowledge how to solve.’

I grunted. ‘The law’s practitioners aren’t perfect. The Inns are trying to control unqualified solicitors. And some of us try honourably to gain each man his right.’ I
knew my words sounded prosy even as I spoke them, but the sardonic smile that was Barak’s only reply still irked me.

As we passed down Cheapside we had to halt at the Great Cross to let a flock of sheep pass on their way to the Shambles. A long queue of water carriers was waiting with their baskets at the
Great Conduit. I saw there was only a dribble of water from the fountain.

‘If the springs north of London are drying up,’ I observed, ‘the City will be in trouble.’

‘Ay,’ Barak agreed. ‘Normally we keep buckets of water to hand in summer in the Old Barge in case there’s a fire. But there’s not enough water.’

I looked at the buildings around me. Despite the rule they should be made of stone to avoid fires, many were wooden. The City was a damp place in winter – sometimes the smell of damp and
mould in a poor dwelling was enough to make one retch – but summer was the dangerous time, when people feared hearing the warning shout of ‘Fire’ almost as much as the other
summer terror, plague.

I jerked round at the sound of a high-pitched yell. A beggar girl, no more than ten and dressed only in the filthiest rags, had just been thrown out of a baker’s shop. People stopped to
look as she turned and banged on the door of the shop with tiny fists.

‘You took my little brother! You made him into pies!’

Passers-by laughed. Sobbing, the girl slid down the door and crouched weeping at its foot. Someone laid a penny at her feet before hurrying on.

‘What in God’s name is that about?’ I asked.

Barak grimaced. ‘She’s mazed. She used to beg round Walbrook and the Stocks Market with her young brother. Probably kicked out of a monastery almshouse. Her brother disappeared a few
weeks ago and now she runs up to people screaming they’ve killed him. That’s not the only shopkeeper she’s accused. She’s become a laughing stock.’ He frowned.
‘Poor creature.’

I shook my head. ‘More beggars every year.’

‘There go many of us if we’re not careful,’ he said. ‘Come on, Sukey.’

I looked at the girl, still crouched against the door, arms like sticks wrapped round her thin frame.

‘Are you coming?’ Barak asked.

I followed him down Friday Street, then down to Wolf’s Lane. Even on this hot sunny day the narrow street had a sinister look, the overhanging top storeys cutting out much of the sun.
Many houses leaned over at such an angle they looked as though they could collapse at any moment. Under the alchemist’s sign I saw a crude repair had been made to the door with planks and
nails. We dismounted and Barak knocked on the door. I brushed a layer of brown dust from my robe.

‘Let’s see what the pinched old crow has to say for herself this time,’ Barak grunted.

‘For Jesu’s sake, she’s just lost her husband.’

‘Fat lot she cares. All she wants is to get her name on the deeds of this place.’

The door was opened by one of Cromwell’s men. He bowed. ‘Good day, Master Barak.’

‘Good day, Smith. All quiet?’

‘Yes, sir. We’ve had the bodies taken away.’

I wondered where. Did the earl have a place kept aside for inconvenient corpses?

The girl Susan appeared, looking composed now.

‘Hello, Susan,’ Barak said. He gave the girl a wink, making her blush. ‘How’s your mistress?’

‘Better, sir.’

‘We would talk with her again,’ I said.

She curtseyed and led us in. I touched the old tapestry in the hall. It was heavy and smelled of dust. ‘Where did your master get this?’ I asked curiously. ‘It’s a fine
piece of work. Very old.’

Susan gave it a look of distaste. ‘It came from the mother superior’s house at St Helen’s nunnery, sir. Augmentations didn’t want it – it was so faded it had no
value. Great ugly thing, it flaps in the breeze and makes you jump.’

Susan took us into a parlour with another view of the strangely blackened yard, and went to fetch her mistress. It was a large room with fine oak beams, but the furniture was cheap and there was
only a little poor silver on display in the cupboard. I wondered if the Gristwoods had gone beyond their means in buying this house. Michael would not have earned much as an Augmentations clerk and
an alchemist’s income, I guessed, could be uncertain.

Goodwife Gristwood came in. She wore the same cheap dress as yesterday, and her face was stiff with strain. She curtseyed to us perfunctorily.

‘I’m afraid I have some more questions for you, Goodwife,’ I said gently. ‘I hear you have been to see Serjeant Marchamount.’

She gave me a fierce look. ‘I have to look to my own future now. There’s nobody else. I only told him Michael was dead. Which he is,’ she added bitterly.

‘Very well, but you must tell as few people as possible about what happened here. For now.’