She shook her head. 'Master Mark is different, sir.'
'Why different? Come, Joan, he has beguiled you as he does all women.'
'No, sir,' she said, stung. 'He has not. Perhaps I see him more clearly than you. He has as gentle a nature as I have ever seen under that amiable surface, injustice pains him. I have wondered whether in a way he sought his disgrace with that girl, to get away from Westminster. He has strong ideals, sir, sometimes I think he has too many to survive in this harsh world.'
I smiled sadly. 'And I thought I was the one with high ideals. "And the veil was lifted from mine eyes."'
'Pardon, sir?'
'Nothing, Joan. Do not worry. I must read this.'
'Of course, I beg pardon.'
'No need. And, Joan — I thank you for your care.'
===OO=OOO=OO===
I turned to the letter with a sigh. It contained notes made by Singleton and letters to Cromwell about his progress with Mark Smeaton. They made it clear a coldly calculated plan had been set to trap the young musician with perjured evidence and kill him. Alleging the queen had bedded with someone of such humble origins would be particularly shocking to the public, Singleton said, so it was important to have him in the net. He referred to Smeaton mockingly as a silly creature, a lamb to be led to the slaughter. At Cromwell's house they had smashed his lute against the wall before his eyes and left him naked in a cellar all night, but it had taken torture to make him swear a false confession. I prayed he was safe in heaven.
There was a memorandum from Singleton about the boy's family. His mother was dead and there was only his father; no other male relatives at all. John Smeaton had an older sister out in the country somewhere, but there had been a quarrel and he had not seen her for years. Singleton told Cromwell the lack of relatives with connections would make it easier to deal with the boy as they liked, without questions raised.
I put the letter carefully back in its envelope. I recalled Singleton's funeral, the sight of the coffin lid shutting on his face, and I confess now I was glad. I called for the horse to be brought round; it was time to set out for Whitechapel. I was glad to get into my coat and step out of doors again, with a goal to follow. It released me from the whirling chaos in my mind.
CHAPTER 29
It was a long ride out to Whitechapel, well beyond London Wall; a fast-growing area, filled with the wattle-and-daub hovels of the poor. Thin smoke from a hundred fires rose into the still air. Here the bitter weather was more than just a serious inconvenience; looking at the pinched, hungry faces I reflected that for some here this would be one hardship too many. Such wells as they had must have frozen, for I saw many women carrying pails of water up from the river. I had changed into my clothes of cheapest cloth, for gentlemen were not always safe out here.
The street where Smeaton had had his forge was one of the better ones, housing several workshops. Singleton's papers said he had lived in a two-storey building next to a smithy and I found it readily enough. It was no longer a carpenter's; the shutter covering the shop-front had been nailed down and painted over. I tied the nag to a post and rapped on the flimsy wooden door.
It was opened by a poorly dressed young man with untidy black hair framing a pale, hollow-cheeked face. He asked what I wanted without much interest, but when I said I was a commissioner from Lord Cromwell's office he shrank away, shaking his head.
'We've done nothing, sir. There's nothing here to interest Lord Cromwell.'
'You are not accused of anything,' I said mildly. 'I have some enquiries, that is all. About the last owner of this place, John Smeaton. There will be a reward for those who help me.'