Barak leaned back, brushing against me as he did so. He still stared at Toky, but I felt fingers brushing against my belt and realized he was trying to reach my dagger with his bound hands. They had not thought I might be carrying a weapon too. Taking care not to look at Barak, I edged slightly towards him. I felt the dagger withdrawn. Toky had put his head in his hands, Wright’s death had affected him badly. Fletcher was still watching him anxiously.
Barak began sawing at my bonds, then lay still again as Fletcher rose and opened the door. Through the hatchway I could see rain sheeting down from the dark sky, a million tiny waterspouts dancing on the brown river. He closed the door again and returned to the table. Toky sat up. His face was paler than ever, a white oval, the candlelight making tiny pinpoint shadows in the pits of his face.
‘Any sign of them?’ His voice was composed, but I could sense the pain and fury behind it.
‘No. It’ll be a hard ride in this weather.’
Toky nodded, then sat looking down at his hands. He seemed not to want to look at us now. Barak recommenced sawing my bonds, slowly and carefully so that his movements should not attract attention. I bit back a cry as the sharp dagger sliced into my skin, then felt the rope fall away. It was hard not to follow the instinct to pull my chafed hands apart. I flexed my fingers carefully, then palmed the dagger from Barak and began sawing at his ropes in turn, all the while watching our captors. Toky was still absorbed in his thoughts, and Fletcher passed us only an occasional glance. He was restless, jumpy.
Then I heard feet on the stairs. Fletcher got up. I stopped sawing at Barak’s bonds - surely I was almost through now? I risked a glance at him, but Barak kept his face impassive as Fletcher opened the door.
Serjeant Marchamount came in, shaking the water from a heavy coat. He looked down at us. There was a cold brutality I had never seen before in his face, the urbane mask quite fallen away.
‘You did get out of your depth, didn’t you?’
We stared at him open-mouthed. Barak was the first to recover his wits. ‘You’re supposed to be dead,’ he said.
Marchamount smiled. ‘You were getting too close, so I decided I’d better disappear. Just as well we’d kept that founder alive here. Toky and Wright took him to Lincoln’s Inn orchard and hacked the life out of the fool. Then they put my ring on his finger and took the body away on a cart. That hatch is useful for throwing things into the Thames. You’ll be leaving that way.’
‘Wright’s dead,’ Toky said with a grim look at me. ‘They threw him off the roof of St Paul’s. I want my revenge with them.’
‘So it’s him they’re all talking about all over the City,’ Marchamount answered casually. He took off his coat, revealing a fine doublet embroidered with little diamonds. ‘People were talking of some plot to kill Cranmer.’ He looked at Toky. ‘All right,’ he said quietly. ‘Do what you like with them later. I’ve sent Jackson on, by the way. We’ll have to wait a little for a full house: this rain is turning the streets into rivers.’ He sat on the edge of the table, folding his plump hands together. He looked thoughtful. ‘So. Cromwell knows we haven’t been able to make any more Dark Fire, does he? But not our names?’
‘No,’ I said. There was no point in denying that now.
‘Was the alchemy too hard for you?’ Barak asked scoffingly.
For answer Marchamount crossed and struck him savagely across the face. ‘I’m a serjeant, churl, you’ll take a respectful tone when you talk to me.’
Barak stared boldly back at him. ‘That didn’t stop you conjuring up a common fraud. That’s all this is.’
‘No, it is not,’ an aristocratic voice said from the doorway.
Chapter Forty-four
MARCHAMOUNT AND THE two villains bowed deeply as the Duke of Norfolk entered, rain falling from his fur-lined coat, young Jackson following him. I realized he must have been at the banquet as Norfolk’s servant, not Lady Honor’s, and felt relief as well as horror as I understood just how high the plot reached.
Norfolk threw his coat to Fletcher, then stared at me with that cold haughty look of his. There would be no mercy from him, I knew. He walked over to the bale of cloth. Fletcher hastily rose to allow him to sit down.
‘Well, Master Shardlake,’ he said, ‘I’ve had a wet trip across the river in the pissing rain thanks to you.’ He smiled coldly. ‘Yet you did well, considering the forces against you.’ He laughed. ‘More forces than you guessed. I wouldn’t have minded a man like you on my side. But you’ve different loyalties, eh? Now, what does Cromwell know?’
‘He knows by now that the Gristwoods were unable to make Greek Fire,’ I lied.
‘And how did you discover that?’ His tone was conversational.
‘By going back to how it began.’
‘Ah yes, the monk Kytchyn. I expect he’s squirrelled away in one of Cromwell’s safe houses by now?’