‘How is she now?’
‘Quiet again. But she’s cut and bruised herself-’
‘Let’s go and see.’
Joseph looked enquiringly at Barak. ‘A colleague,’ I said, remembering Joseph had seen me ride off with him after the hearing with Forbizer. ‘Do you mind if he comes too?’
He shrugged. ‘No. Anyone who can help.’
‘Come on then,’ I said with a cheerfulness I did not feel. ‘Let’s see her.’ It was only a few days since I had visited Elizabeth, but it felt like far longer.
Once again the fat turnkey led us past the cells where the men lay in their chains, down to the Hole. ‘She’s quiet this morning,’ he said, ‘but she was wild yesterday. Struggled like a demon when the barber came - lucky he didn’t cut her head wide open. We had to hold her still while he used the razor.’
He opened the door and we passed through into a stink even more overpowering than before. My jaw dropped open when I saw Elizabeth, for she scarcely looked human now. She lay crouched in the straw, her face covered with grazes and streaks of blood, and her head had been shaved quite bald, the white dome making an obscene contrast to her dirty, bloodied face. I went over to her.
‘Elizabeth,’ I said calmly, ‘what has happened to you?’ I saw her lip was split, someone had hit her when they were restraining her yesterday. She stared back at me with those vivid dark green eyes. There was more life in them today, angry life. Her gaze flickered past me to Barak.
‘That’s Master Barak, a colleague,’ I said. ‘Did they hurt you?’ I reached out a hand and she shrank back. There was a clanking, and I saw she was manacled to the wall by long chains, heavy gyves on her wrists and ankles.
‘Was it when they took the old woman away?’ I asked. ‘Did that make you angry?’
She did not reply, only continued fixing me with that ferocious stare. Barak knelt close and whispered to me. ‘May I ask her something?’
I looked at him dubiously. But what more harm could he do? I nodded.
He knelt before her. ‘I don’t know what your sorrow is, Mistress.’ His tone was gentle. ‘But if you won’t talk, no one will ever know. You’ll die and people will forget. In time they’ll just give it up as a puzzle and forget it.’
She stared back at him for a long moment. Barak nodded. ‘Was that why the old woman being taken made you angry? The thought you might be ripped out of the world unheard, like her?’ Elizabeth moved an arm and Barak jumped back lest she was about to strike him, but she only scrabbled for something in the filthy straw. Her hand came up holding a wafer of charcoal. She leaned forward painfully, clearing a space in the straw at her feet. I moved to help her but Barak lifted a hand to restrain me. Elizabeth brushed a smear of dried shit from the exposed flagstones and began to write. We looked on in silence as she traced out some letters, then sat back. I leaned forward, wrinkling my eyes to make out the words in the gloom. It was Latin: damnata iam luce ferox.
‘What is that?’ Joseph asked.
‘Damnata,’ Barak said. ‘That means damned, condemned.’
‘It’s from Lucan,’ I said. ‘She had a volume of his in her room. ‘Furious by daylight, having been condemned.’ It refers to some Roman warriors who knew they were about to lose a battle and killed themselves rather than be condemned to defeat.’
Elizabeth sat back against the wall. The effort of writing seemed to have tired her, but her eyes darted between the three of us.
‘What does it mean?’ Joseph asked.
‘I think she means she would rather die by the press than be humiliated by going through a trial she would inevitably lose.’
Barak nodded. ‘That’s why she won’t speak. But that’s silly, girl. You’ll lose the chance to tell your story, maybe get off’
‘So if you were to plead, Elizabeth,’ I said slowly, ‘you would plead not guilty.’
‘I knew it,’ Joseph said. He wrung his hands. ‘Then tell us what happened, Lizzy. Don’t torment us with riddles, it’s cruel!’ It was the first time he had lost patience with her. I could not blame him. For answer Elizabeth only looked down at the words she had written. She shook her head very slightly.
I thought a moment, then bent closer to her, wincing as my knees cracked. ‘I have been to your uncle Edwin’s house, Elizabeth. I have spoken to your uncle and your grandmother, your cousins and the steward.’ I was watching to see if her look changed at the mention of any of those names, but she just continued staring angrily. ‘They all say you must be guilty.’ At that a bitter smile played round the corner of her mouth, the movement causing blood to seep from her cut lip. Then I leaned in close, so only she would hear, and said, ‘I think there is something down the well in the garden, where Ralph fell, that they are trying to hide.’
She shrank back, her eyes full of horror.
‘I propose to investigate it,’ I said softly. ‘And I have been told Ralph was a great worry to his mother. I will find the truth, Elizabeth.’
Then she spoke for the first time, her voice cracked from disuse. ‘If you go there, you will do naught but destroy your faith in Christ Jesus,’ she whispered. The words were followed by a fit of coughing; she doubled over, racked with it; Joseph brought a mug to her lips. She grasped it and swallowed, then sat forward, burying her head in her knees. ’
‘Lizzy!’ Joseph’s voice was trembling. ‘What did you mean? Tell us, please!’ But she would not lift her head.
I stood up. ‘I don’t think she’ll say any more. Come, let’s leave her for now.’ I looked round the Hole. There was a round depression in the filthy straw by the far wall where the old woman had lain.
‘She’ll be ill if she stays down here much longer,’ Barak observed. ‘After what she’s been used to no wonder her wits are affected.’
‘Lizzy, please tell us more!’ Joseph shouted, his control gone. ‘You are cruel, cruel! Unchristian!’
Barak gave him an exasperated look, and I put a hand on the farmer’s trembling shoulder. ‘Come, Joseph, come.’ I knocked at the door and the gaoler led us away, back to the main door. This time it was even more of a relief to be outside again.
Joseph was still agitated. ‘We can’t just leave her there, now she’s started to talk: We’ve only got eight days, Master Shardlake!’
I raised my hands. ‘I have an idea, Joseph. I can’t tell you what it is now, but I hope to find the key to this riddle soon.’
‘She has the key to the riddle, sir, Lizzy!’ He was shouting now.
‘She won’t give it to us. That’s why I’m following other channels!’
‘Other channels. Legal language. Oh, God, what did you say to her in there?’ He shook his head.
I did not want to tell him; it was better Joseph did not know I planned to break into his brother’s garden. I made my voice calm. ‘Joseph, give me till tomorrow. Trust me. And if you visit Elizabeth again, please, in Jesu’s name, do not harangue her. That will only make things worse.’
‘He’s right, you know.’ Barak said.
Joseph looked between us. ‘I haven’t any choice but to do as you say, have I? Though it’s driving me mad, sir, mad.’
We walked to the inn where we had left the horses. The way was narrow and Joseph walked a little way behind Barak and me, his shoulders slumped.
‘He’s near the end of his tether.’ I sighed. ‘But so am I.’
Barak raised his eyebrows. ‘Don’t you start playing the martyr. It’s bad enough with him and her.’
I looked at him curiously. ‘You had the measure of her in there. It was you got her to write that sentence.’
He shrugged. ‘I’ve had some experience of her way of thinking. When I ran away from home I felt all the world had turned against me. It took being arrested to bring me out of it.’
‘It hasn’t done that for her.’
He shook his head. ‘Something bad must have happened to drive her to those depths. Something the girl thinks will never be believed.’ He lowered his voice. ‘We’ll see
what’s in that well tonight.’
Chapter Twenty-four
I SAID FAREWELL TO JOSEPH, promising I should have news for him tomorrow. As I rode down Cheapside to the Guildhall I wondered again what might be down that well. I had to ride carefully to avoid the small boys playing in the puddles, squelching joyously with their bare feet in the ooze even as the puddles shrank around them. I thought of the sun’s fire turning the water to vapour, drawing it upwards from the earth through the hot air. Earth, air, fire, water: the four elements that, combined in a million ways, made up everything under the moon. But what was the combination that produced Greek Fire?
Arriving at the Guildhall, I left Chancery in the stables and went to find Vervey in his shaded office. He was studying a contract with leisurely carefulness, and I found myself envying his peaceful routine. He welcomed me warmly and I gave him the opinion I had written out the previous evening. He read it, nodding occasionally, then looked up at me.
‘You are hopeful, then, of a victory in Chancery?’
‘Ay, though it may be a year before we get there.’
He looked at me meaningfully. ‘We may need to take more than the usual fee to the Six Clerks’ Office up at the Domus.’
‘That may help get the matter listed more quickly. I am going to look at Bealknap’s property this morning, by the way. The Chancery judge will want to know all the circumstances of the nuisance.’
‘Good, good. The council places the highest priority on this. Some of these tenements in the old monastic properties are shocking. Hovels of cheap wood, unsanitary and a fire risk too, with everywhere as dry as tinder.’ He looked out of his window at the clear blue sky. ‘If a fire breaks out people may not be able to get enough water from the conduits to quench it. Then the Common Council will be blamed. We’re trying to stop leaks in the pipes, but some of them run miles from the streams.’
‘I know of a man who is working on repairing the conduits. Master Leighton.’
‘Yes. I have a note to chase him, he was supposed to bring our contractors some new pipes but he hasn’t appeared. Do you know him?’
‘Only by repute. I hear he is a skilled man.’
Vervey smiled. ‘Ay, he’s one of the few founders who knows that type of work. A skilled fellow.’
Probably a dead fellow, but I could not tell him. I changed the subject. ‘I wonder if I might have a look at your library while I am here. Perhaps borrow one or two books if you have them?’
He laughed. ‘I can’t see that we would have anything Lincoln’s Inn does not.’
‘It’s not legal works I’m after. Some Roman history. Livy and Plutarch, Pliny.’
‘I will prepare a note for the librarian. I heard about your friend Godfrey Wheelwright and the Duke of Norfolk.’
It was safe to speak, for Vervey was known as a reformist. ‘Godfrey should be more careful.’
‘Ay, the times grow dangerous again.’ Although we were alone, he lowered his voice. ‘There’s a pair of Anabaptists booked for burning at Smithfield next weekend unless they repent. The council has been asked to help with the arrangements, ensure all the apprentices attend.’
‘I hadn’t heard.’
He shook his head sadly. ‘I fear for the future. But come, let me do this note.’
I had a niggling fear the books might be gone from the Guildhall library too, but they were all there, on the shelf. I grasped them eagerly. The librarian was one of those fellows who believes books should be kept on shelves, not read, but with the aid of Vervey’s note I was able to get past him. He watched sourly as I put the volumes in my satchel. As I walked down the Guildhall steps I felt a little pleased with myself, for the first time in days. Then I almost walked straight into Sir Edwin Wentworth.
Elizabeth’s other uncle seemed to have aged even in the few days since I had seen him, his face lined and drawn with suffering. He was still dressed in black. Beside him walked his elder daughter Sabine, while the steward Needler followed behind, some large account books under one arm.
Sir Edwin pulled up short at the sight of me. For a second he looked as though he had been struck. I touched my cap and made to pass, but he stepped into my path. Needler passed his books to Sabine and stood protectively beside his master.
‘What are you doing here?’ Sir Edwin’s face reddened and his voice trembled with anger. ‘Making enquiries about my family?’
‘No,’ I said mildly. ‘I have a case on with the Common Council.’
‘Oh, yes, you lawyers have your long fingers in every pie, don’t you? You crookbacked churl. How much is Joseph paying you for keeping that murderess alive?’
‘We have not discussed a fee,’ I said, ignoring the insult. ‘I believe your niece to be innocent,’ I added. ‘Sir Edwin, does it not occur to you that if she is innocent, you will kill an innocent person while a guilty one goes free?’
‘Know better than the coroner, do you?’ Needler said boldly.
At his insolent manner, more than Sir Edwin’s insult, something snapped inside me. ‘Do you let your steward speak for you, sir?’ I asked Sir Edwin.
‘David speaks true. He knows as well as I that you will drag matters out as long as you get paid for it.’
‘Have you any idea what death by the press means?’ I asked him. A couple of aldermen walking up the steps stared round at my raised voice, but I took no heed. ‘It means lying for days under heavy stones, in an agony of thirst and hunger, struggling to breathe as you wait for your back to break!’ .
Sabine began to cry. Sir Edwin looked round at her, then turned back to me. ‘How dare you speak of such things in front of my poor daughter!’ he shouted. ‘She aches for her lost brother as I ache for my son! Black-robed, stinking, bent lawyer! You can tell you have no children!’
His face was contorted, spittle gathering at the corners of his mouth. People going up and down the steps had stopped to watch; someone laughed at his tirade of insults. To stop the spectacle making Elizabeth’s name a talking point again, I stepped past Sir Edwin. Needler sidestepped too, blocking my path, but I stared at him fiercely and he gave way. Followed by a host of stares, I walked down the steps and away to the stables.
When I reached Chancery’s stall I found I was trembling. I stroked his head and he nuzzled my hand, hoping for food. Sir Edwin’s fury had been unnerving; there seemed something almost unbalanced in his hatred of Elizabeth. But he had lost his only son and he was right - I had no children, I could only imagine how he must feel. I slung my bag of books over my shoulder, mounted and rode out. Sir Edwin and his party had disappeared.
I rode north towards the City wall, where the former Franciscan priory of St Michael’s lay. It was situated in a street where good houses were mixed in with poor tenements. The street was empty, quiet and shady, St Michael’s halfway along. It was a small place, the church no bigger than a large parish church. The wide doors stood open and, curious, I dismounted and looked in.
I blinked with surprise at the interior. Both sides of the nave had been blocked off with tall, flimsy-looking wooden partitions. There was a series of doors at ground-floor level and rickety steps led up to more doors, making a dozen apartments in all. The centre of the nave had become a narrow passage, the old flagstones strewn with dirt. The passage was dark, for the partitions blocked off the side windows and the only light came from the window at the top of the quire.
Beside the door a couple of iron rings had been hammered into an ancient font. From the piles of dung on the floor I could see this was where horses were tethered. I slung Chancery’s reins round a ring and walked down the central passage. So this was Bealknap’s conversion. It was so rickety it looked as though the construction could come down at any moment.
One of the doors on the upper floor opened. I glimpsed a poorly furnished room, where cheap furniture was lit by rich multi-coloured light from the stained-glass window that now formed the apartment’s outside wall. A thin old woman stepped out and stood at the head of the staircase; it wo
bbled slightly under her weight. She gave my robe a hostile look.
‘Have you come from the landlord, lawyer?’ she asked in a sharp northern accent.
I doffed my cap. ‘No, madam, I represent the City council. I have come to look at the cesspit; there have been complaints.’
The old woman folded her arms. ‘That pit’s a disgrace. Thirty of us share it, those who live here and the others round the cloister. The vapours off it would stun a bull. I’m sorry for them living next door to the church, but what can we do? We have to go somewhere!’
‘No one blames you, madam. I am sorry for your trouble. I hope we may get an order for a proper cesspit to be built, but the landlord is resisting.’
She spat fiercely. ‘That pig Bealknap.’ She nodded at her apartment. ‘We’ve refused to pay him rent till he takes these great windows out and boards them up. We bake with the sun coming through them, the wretched papist things.’
She leaned on the rail, warming to her theme. ‘I’m here with my son and his family, five of us in this one room, and we’re charged a shilling a week! Half the floorboards fell out of one of the tenements last week - nearly killed the poor creatures living there.’
‘Your conditions are clearly bad,’ I agreed. I wondered whether her family was one of the thousands being forced off their land in the north to make way for sheep.
‘You’re a lawyer,’ she said. ‘Can he throw us out if we don’t pay our rent?’
‘He could, but I guess if you withhold your rent Bealknap will negotiate.’ I smiled wryly. ‘He hates losing money above all.’ Speaking thus about another lawyer was professional disloyalty, but where Bealknap was concerned I did not care. The old woman nodded.
‘How do I get to the cesspit?’ I asked.
She pointed up the passage. ‘There’s a little door by where the altar was. The pit’s in the cloisters. Hold your nose, though.’ She paused. ‘Try and help us, sir. This is a hellish place to live!’
‘I’ll do what I can.’ I bowed and walked to the door she had indicated, which hung drunkenly from loose hinges. I felt sorry for the old woman; there was little I could do in the short term with the case going up to Chancery. But if Vervey bribed the Six Clerks’ Office, that might help.