MICHAEL CALFHILL’S lodgings lay at the other end of the city, in the warren of streets down by the river. The afternoon was well on as we turned into a narrow alley, where high old dwellings with overhanging eaves had been converted into lodging houses, old paint flaking onto the muddy ground. Chickens rooted in the dust. At a tavern on the corner a group of seven or eight apprentices in their late teens, many with swords at the belts of their blue robes, gave us hostile looks. The tallest, a fair-haired, heavy-set lad, fixed me with a hard stare. Perhaps he thought my lawyer’s robe the uniform of a French spy. Barak put a hand to his own sword and the boy turned away.
Barak knocked on an unpainted wooden door. It was answered by a pretty young woman, an apron over her cheap wool dress. She smiled at him in recognition before giving me a deep curtsey. This must be Michael’s downstairs neighbour; I guessed Barak had charmed her.
‘I’ve brought Master Shardlake, Sally,’ he said lightly. ‘The lawyer that has an interest in poor Michael’s affairs. Did Constable Harman give you the key?’
‘Yes, sir. Come in.’
We followed her into a damp hallway, through an inner door into her lodging, a small room with dirty rushes on the floor, a table and a bed. An old iron key lay on the table. There was no glass in the windows, and the slats in the shutters were open. I saw the apprentices watching the house. Sally followed my gaze. ‘They’ve been hanging around there for days,’ she said. ‘I wish they’d go away.’
‘What guild are they from?’ I asked. ‘Their masters should keep them under better control.’
‘I don’t know. A lot of apprentices have lost their places with goods so dear. My husband worked as a messenger for the German traders at the Steelyard, but there’s no trade now with ships being impounded everywhere. He’s out looking for work.’ Her face was weary.
Barak picked up the key. ‘Can we have a look?’
‘Yes. Poor Michael,’ she added sadly.
I followed Barak up a flight of narrow stairs. He turned the key in the lock of a battered door at the back of the house. It creaked open. The shutters on the little window were closed, only dim shapes visible. Barak pulled them open. I saw the room was small, patches of damp on the walls. There was a narrow straw bed, a pillow with a torn sheet splayed across it. An old chest beside the bed was open, revealing an untidy heap of clothes. The only other furniture was a scarred table and a chair that lay overturned on the floor. A quill and a dusty, dried-up inkpot stood on the table. Looking up, I saw a strip of white sheet knotted to the roof beam, the end cut.
‘Christ’s wounds,’ I said. ‘It’s been left as it was when he was cut down.’
‘Maybe the coroner ordered it kept as it was for the jury’s inspection.’
‘Then forgot to tell the landlord he could clear it. That sounds like Coroner Grice.’ I stared around the miserable room where Michael had spent his last days. Barak went to the chest and started searching the contents. ‘There’s only clothes here,’ he said. ‘Clothes and a few books. A plate and spoon wrapped up in a cloth.’
‘Let me see.’ I looked at the books – Latin and Greek classics, a tutor’s books. There was also a copy of Roger Ascham’s Toxophilus, his treatise on archery that the Queen told me the Lady Elizabeth was reading. I said, ‘They should have taken all these things as exhibits.’
‘The coroner was only here five minutes.’ Sally was standing in the doorway. She looked around the room sadly. ‘Isn’t that why you’re here, sir, to question the careless way the coroner handled matters?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Barak said before I could reply. Sally looked round the room. ‘It’s just as I saw it that night. Constable Harman forced the door open, then he cried out. Samuel ran up to see what was happening and I followed.’ She stared bleakly at the strip of linen hanging from the beam. ‘Poor Master Calfhill. I’ve seen a hanging, sir, and I saw from his face he’d strangled slowly, not broken his neck.’ She crossed herself.
‘What was he wearing?’
She looked at me in surprise. ‘Just a jerkin and hose.’
‘Was he carrying anything at his belt? They would have exhibited it at the inquest.’
‘Only a purse, sir, with a few coins, and a little gold cross his mother recognized as his at the inquest. Poor old woman.’
‘No dagger?’
‘No, sir. Samuel and I noticed he never wore one.’ She smiled sadly. ‘We thought him foolish. Master Calfhill didn’t understand how rough it can be down here.’
I looked at Barak. ‘So what did he use to cut up the sheet to hang himself?’ Turning back to Sally, I asked, ‘Did they say anything about that at the inquest?’
She smiled sadly. ‘No, sir. The coroner just seemed to want to get through everything quickly.’