‘Where is your mistress?’
‘In the kitchen.’ She took a deep, whooping breath. ‘She went stiff as a board when she saw them, she couldn’t move. I sat her down and said I’d go for help, but when I got to the door I felt faint, I couldn’t go another step.’ She clung to Barak.
‘You’re a brave girl, Susan,’ he said. ‘Now, can you take us to your mistress?’
The girl let go of the door. She shuddered at the sight of the bloody footsteps inside, then swallowed and, clutching Barak’s hand tightly, led the way down the corridor.
‘Two people, by the look of those prints,’ I said. ‘A big man and a smaller one.’
‘I think we’re in the shit here.’ Barak murmured.
We followed Susan into a large kitchen with a view onto a stone-flagged yard. The room was dingy, the fireplace black with dirt and stains of rats’ piss on the whitewashed ceiling. It struck me that Gristwood’s schemings had brought him little profit. A woman sat at a big table worn with years of use. She was small and thin, older than I would had expected, wearing a white apron over a cheap dress. Straggles of grey hair were visible under her white coif. She sat rigidly, her hands clutching the table edge, her head trembling.
‘She’s shocked out of her wits, poor soul,’ I whispered.
The servant crossed to her. ‘Madam,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Some men have come. To help us.’
The woman jerked and stared at us wildly. I raised a soothing hand. ‘Goodwife Gristwood?’
‘Who are you?’ she asked. Something sharp and watchful came into her face.
‘We came on some business with your husband and his brother. Susan said you came home and found the place broken into—’
‘They’re upstairs,’ Goodwife Gristwood whispered. ‘Upstairs.’ She clutched her bony hands together so hard the knuckles whitened.
I took a deep breath. ‘May we see?’
She closed her eyes. ‘If you can bear it.’
‘Susan, stay here and look after your mistress. Barak?’
He nodded. If he was feeling the same shock and fear as I, he gave no sign. As we turned to the door, Susan sat down and hesitantly took her mistress’s hand.
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—’