We passed the tapestry, which I saw from the style was very ancient, and mounted a narrow wooden staircase to the first floor. The house’s lopsidedness was noticeable here, some of the stairs were warped and a large crack ran down the wall. There were more bloody footsteps, wet and glinting - this blood had been shed very recently.
At the top of the stairs a number of doors gave off the hallway. They were closed except for the one straight ahead of us. Like the front door it hung off one hinge, the lock smashed in. I took a deep breath and stepped inside.
The chamber was large and well lit, running the whole length of the house. There was an odd, sulphurous smell in the air. I saw the ceiling’s large beams were painted with Latin texts. ‘Aureo hamo piscari,’ I read. To fish with a golden hook.
No one would fish here again. A man in a stained alchemist’s robe lay sprawled on his back over an upturned bench amid a chaos of broken glass pipes and retorts. His face had been completely smashed in; one blue eyeball glared at me from the hideous pulpy mess. I felt my stomach heave and turned quickly to study the rest of the room.
The whole workshop was in chaos, more overturned benches, broken glass everywhere. Next to a large fireplace lay the remains of a large iron-bound chest. It was little more than a heap of broken spars now, the metal bands smashed right through. Whoever had wielded the axe here - and everything pointed to an axe - must have had unusual strength.
Beside the chest Michael Gristwood lay on his back, his body half-covered by a blood-soaked chart of the astral planes that had fallen from the wall. His head was almost severed from his neck; a great spray of arterial blood had stained the floor and even the walls. I blenched again.
‘That the lawyer?’ Barak asked.
‘Ay.’ Michael’s eyes and mouth were wide open in a last scream of astonished terror.
‘Well, he won’t be needing Lord Cromwell’s bag of gold,’ Barak said. I frowned. He shrugged. ‘Well, he won’t, will he? Come on, let’s go back downstairs.
With a last glance at the butchered remains, I followed him down to the kitchen. Susan seemed to have recovered herself somewhat and was boiling a pan of water on the filthy range. Goodwife Gristwood still sat with her hands clenched.
‘Anyone else live here, Susan?’ Barak asked.
‘No, sir.’
‘Is there anyone that could come and sit with you?’ I asked Goodwife Gristwood. ‘Any other relatives?’ Again a momentary sharpness came into her face, then she answered, ‘No.’
‘Right,’ Barak said bluntly. ‘I’m going to the earl. He must say what’s to be done here.’
‘The constable should be told—’
‘Pox on the constable. I’m going to the earl now.’ He pointed at the women. ‘Stay here with them, make sure they don’t leave.’
Susan looked up anxiously. ‘Do you mean Lord Cromwell, sir? But, sir - but we’ve done nothing.’ Her voice rose in fear.
‘Do not worry, Susan,’ I said gently. ‘He must be told. He—’ I hesitated.
Goodwife Gristwood spoke, her voice cold and hard. ‘My husband and Sepultus were working for him, Susan. I know that much, I told them they were fools, that he’s dangerous. But Michael would never listen to me.’ She fixed us with pale blue eyes that were suddenly full of anger. ‘Now see what’s become of him and Sepultus. The fools.’
‘God’s bones, woman,’ Barak burst out. ‘Your husband’s lying slain in his gore upstairs. Is that all you have to say about him?’ I looked at him in surprise, then realized that under his bravado he too was shocked by what we had seen. Goodwife Gristwood merely smiled bitterly and turned her head away.
‘Stay here,’ Barak told me again. ‘I’ll be back soon.’ He turned and left the kitchen. Susan gave me a scared look; Goodwife Gristwood had retreated into herself.
‘It’s all right, Susan,’ I said with an attempt at a smile. ‘You’re not in any trouble. There may be a few questions for you, that’s all.’ She still looked frightened: that was the effect Cromwell’s name had on most people. I set my teeth. What in God’s name had I got involved in? And who was Barak to give me orders?
I crossed to the window and looked out at the yard, surprised to see that both the flagstones and the high walls were stained black. ‘Has there been a fire here?’ I asked Susan.
‘Master Sepultus did experiments out there sometimes, sir. Terrible bangs and hissings there were.’ She crossed herself. ‘I was glad he wouldn’t let me see.’
Goodwife Gristwood spoke again. ‘Yes, we were kept out of our own kitchen when he and my husband were at their foolery.’
I looked again at the scorch marks. ‘Did they go out there often?’
‘Only recently, sir,’ Susan said. She turned to her mistress. ‘I’ll make an infusion, madam, it might ease us. Would you like some, sir? I have some marigolds—’
‘No, thank you.’
We sat together in silence for a while. My mind was racing. It struck me that the formula might still be in the workshop, perhaps even with some samples of this Greek Fire. Now was a chance to look before the room was disturbed further, though I shrank from returning there. I bade the women stay in the kitchen and mounted the stairs again.
I stood in the doorway for a moment, steeling myself to look again at those terrible carcasses. Poor Michael had been in his mid-thirties, I recalled, younger than me. The afternoon sun was shining into the room, a sunbeam illuminating his dead face. I remembered that dinner in Lincoln’s Inn Hall, how I had thought he had the questing, nosy look of an amiable rodent. I turned away from his look of terror.
There was a terrible casualness about the way the two men had been smashed down. It seemed the killers had simply staved in the doors and then felled the brothers like animals, with an axe blow each. They had probably been watching the house, waiting for the women to leave. I wondered if Michael and Sepultus, hearing the front door broken in, had locked themselves in the workshop in a vain attempt to save themselves.
I noticed Michael was wearing a rough smock over his shirt. Perhaps he had been helping his brother. But with what? I looked around. I had never been in an alchemist’s workshop - I gave such people a wide berth, for they were known as great frauds, but I had seen pictures of their laboratories and something was missing. Frowning, I walked over to a wall lined with shelves, my feet crunching on broken glass. One shelf was full of books but the others were empty. From round marks in the dust I guessed jars and bottles had been stored there. That was what I had seen in the pictures, alchemists’ chambers full of bottles of liquids and powders. There was nothing like that here. In the pictures there had also been benches with oddly shaped retorts for distillation - that would explain all the broken glass on the floor. ‘They took his potions,’ I murmured.
I took one of the books from the shelves, Epitome Corpus Hermeticum, and flicked through it. A marked passage read: ‘Distillation is the elevation of the essence of a dry thing, by fire, thus by fire we come to the essence of things, even while all else be consumed.’ I shook my head and put it down, turning to the remains of the chest. I saw that the fireplace and the wall behind it were fire-blackened like the yard.
The contents of the chest lay scattered all over the floor - letters and documents, one or two with bloody thumb prints on them. So the killers had searched through the contents. There was a document dated three years ago, conveying the house to Sepultus and Michael Gristwood, and a marriage contract between Michael Gristwood and Jane Storey drawn up ten years earlier. Under it Jane’s father contracted to leave all his property to his son-in-law on his death, an unusually generous provision.
Something else on the floor caught my eye. I bent down and picked up a gold angel; it had fallen from a leather bag nearby that contained twenty more. The brothers’ money had been left behind. Well, I thought, that was not what the killers were after. I rose, pocketing the coin. Another smell was beginning to overlay the sulphurous stink in the room, the sweet, rich smell of decay. I stepped on
something that crunched under my heel and, looking down, saw I had broken a delicate set of scales. Sepultus’s alchemist’s balance. Well, he would not be needing it now. With a last glance at the bloody remains, I left the room.
JANE GRISTWOOD sat where I had left her, Susan beside her sipping something from a wooden cup. Susan looked up nervously as I came in. I took the gold coin and laid it in front of her mistress. She looked up at me.
‘What’s this?’
‘I found it upstairs, in the remains of your husband’s chest. There is a whole purse of angels there, together with the deeds to the house and other papers. You should keep them safe.’
She nodded. ‘The deeds to the house. I suppose it’s mine now. Great broken-down place; I never wanted it.’
‘Yes, it will come to you now unless Michael had sons.’
‘He had no sons.’ She spoke with sudden bitterness, then looked up at me. ‘You know the law then. You know about inheritance.’
‘I am a barrister, madam.’ I spoke sharply, for her coldness was beginning to repel me as it had Barak. ‘You may care to fetch the gold and those papers; there will be others poking around this house soon.’
She stared at me for a moment. ‘I can’t go up there,’ she whispered. Then her eyes widened and her voice rose to a shriek. ‘Don’t make me go up there; for pity’s sake, don’t make me see them again!’ She began sobbing, a desperate howling like an animal caught in a trap. The girl took her hand again.
‘I will fetch them,’ I said, ashamed of my earlier curtness. I went back upstairs and drew the papers and the gold purse together. In the hot afternoon the smell of death was growing stronger. As I stood up I nearly slipped. I looked down, fearing I had slithered in the blood, but saw there was a patch of something else by the fireplace; a little pool of viscous, colourless liquid that had spilled from a small glass bottle that lay on its side on the floor. I bent down and dipped my finger in it. I rubbed my fingers together, it had a slippery feel. I sniffed. The stuff was odourless, like water. I righted the bottle and replaced the stopper that had fallen off in the struggle and lay nearby. There was no label to identify the thick, clear liquid inside. Hesitantly, I touched the tip of my tongue to it, then jerked back as a stinging, bitter taste filled my mouth, making me gasp and cough.
I heard footsteps outside and crossed to the window, dabbing at my burning mouth. Barak was outside with half a dozen men in Cromwell’s livery carrying swords. I hastened downstairs as they marched in, their feet clumping heavily on the boards as they hurried to the kitchen. As I ran downstairs I heard Susan give a little scream. The men had crowded in; Goodwife Gristwood was frowning at them. Barak saw the little pile of papers I carried. ‘What are those?’ he asked sharply.
‘Family papers and some gold. They were in the chest upstairs. I fetched them for Goodwife Gristwood.’
‘Let me see.’
I frowned as he grabbed the papers. At least, I thought, the churl can read. He opened the bag of gold and examined the contents. Satisfied, he laid the gold and papers before Goodwife Gristwood. She clutched them to her. Barak looked at me.
‘Any sign of the formula up there?’
‘Not that I can see. If it was in that chest they took it.’
He turned to Jane Gristwood. ‘Do you know anything about a paper your husband and his brother had, a formula they were working on?’
She shook her head wearily. ‘No. They told me nothing of what they did. Only that they were engaged on some work for Lord Cromwell. I didn’t want to know.’
‘These men are going to have to search your house from top to bottom,’ he said. ‘It’s important we find that paper. Afterwards two of them will stay here with you.’
She looked at him narrowly. ‘Are we prisoners, then?’
‘They are for your protection, madam. You may still not be safe.’
She removed her coif and ran her fingers though her grey hair, then gave Barak a hard stare. ‘What about my front door? Anyone could get in.’
‘It will be repaired.’ He spoke to one of the retainers, a hard-looking fellow. ‘See to that, Smith.’
‘Yes, Master Barak.’
He turned back to me. ‘Lord Cromwell wants a meeting now. He’s gone to his house in Stepney.’
I hesitated. Barak stepped closer. ‘That’s an order,’ he said quietly. ‘I have told my master the news. He is not a happy man.’
Chapter Eight
RIDING THROUGH the City again after being in that silent house of death, I felt strangely disconnected from the jostling, noisy crowds. We had a long way to go, for Lord Cromwell’s house at Stepney was far beyond the City wall. We paused only to allow a procession past - a cleric in white robes leading a man dressed in sackcloth, ashes strewn over his face and carrying a faggot, the church congregation following behind. Someone whose reformist opinions had been deemed heretical but who had repented, the ashes and the faggot reminders of the burning that awaited him if he relapsed. The man was weeping - perhaps it had been a reluctant recantation - but if he sinned again his body would be weeping blood as the fire shrivelled it.
I glanced at Barak, who was eyeing the scene with distaste. I wondered what his religious opinions were. It had been quite a feat for him to reach Cromwell, collect these men and get back to Queenhithe so quickly. Yet he did not look tired, though I felt exhausted. The procession shuffled past and we moved on. Thankfully the afternoon shadows were lengthening, the overhanging houses bringing a welcome shade to the streets.
‘What’s that in your pocket?’ Barak asked as we rode up Bishopsgate.
I put my hand to my robe and realized that I had slipped Sepultus’s book there without thinking.
‘It’s a book on alchemy.’ I looked at him fixedly. ‘How you watch me. You thought the formula might have been with those papers I gave to Goodwife Gristwood?’
He shrugged. ‘Can’t trust anyone these days, not if you’re in the earl’s service. Besides,’ he added with an insolent smile, ‘you’re a lawyer and everyone knows you have to keep an eye on lawyers. Not to do so would be crassa neglegentia, as you people say.’
‘Gross negligence. You have some Latin then?’
‘Oh yes. I have Latin, and know men of law. Many lawyers are great reformers, are they not?’
‘Ay,’ I replied cautiously.
‘Is it not amusing, then, now that the monks and friars have gone, how the lawyers are the only ones to walk around in black robes, calling each other brother and trying to part people from their money?’
‘There have been jokes against lawyers time out of mind,’ I said shortly. ‘They become tiring.’
‘And they take oaths of obedience, though not of chastity or poverty.’ Barak smiled mockingly again. His mare wove quickly through the crowds and I had to spur poor Chancery to keep up. We passed under the Bishopsgate and soon the chimneys of Cromwell’s impressive three-storey house came into view.
The last time I had been there, on a bitter winter’s day three years before, a crowd of people had been waiting at the side gate. Another crowd was there this hot afternoon. The outcasts of London, shoeless and in rags. Some supported themselves on makeshift crutches, others had the pits and marks of disease on their faces. The number of workless poor in London was growing beyond control; the dissolution had cast hundreds of servants from the London monasteries, and the unhappy patients from the hospitals and infirmaries too, out onto the streets. And pitiful as the doles given by the Church had been, now even those were gone. There was talk of charitable schools and hospitals, arid schemes for state works, but nothing had been done yet. Cromwell, meanwhile, had adopted the wealthy landowner’s custom of distributing his own doles; it strengthened his standing in London.
We rode past the beggars and through the main gate. At the front door a servant met us. He asked us to wait in the hallway, then a few minutes later John Blitheman, Lord Cromwell’s steward, appeared.
‘Master Shardlake,’ he said, ‘welcome. It has
been a long time. Does the law keep you busy?’
‘Busy enough.’
Barak, who had untied his sword and handed it with his cap to a servant boy, came over.
‘He’s waiting for us, Blitheman.’ The steward smiled at me apologetically and led us into the house. A minute later we were outside Cromwell’s study. Blitheman knocked softly and his master called, ‘Enter,’ in a snapping tone.
The chief minister’s study was as I remembered, full of tables covered with reports and drafts of bills, a forbidding place despite the sunlight streaming in. Cromwell sat behind his desk. His manner was different from what it had been that morning; he sat crouched in his chair, head sunk between his shoulders, and gave us a look so baleful it made me shiver.
‘So,’ he said without preliminaries, ‘you found them murdered.’ His voice was cold, intense.
I took a deep breath. ‘Yes, my lord. Most brutally.’
‘I’ve got men searching for the formula,’ Barak said. ‘They’ll take the place apart if need be.’
‘And the women?’
‘They’ll be kept there. They’re both scared out of their wits. They know nothing. I’ve told the men to ask round the neighbouring houses to see if anyone saw the attack, but Wolf’s Lane looks like a place where people take care to mind their own business.’
‘Who betrayed me?’ Cromwell whispered intently. ‘Which of them?’ He stared at me fixedly. ‘Well, Matthew, what did you make of what you saw?’
‘I think there were two men involved and that they broke in with axes. They killed the brothers at once in the alchemist’s workshop, where they were working, then went to a chest that was kept there and smashed it in. There was a bag of gold inside, but they left it untouched.’ I hesitated. ‘My guess is that the formula was there and they knew it.’
There was a grey tinge to Cromwell’s face. He set his thin lips.