‘Tell me, Josephine.’
She looked at me directly. ‘Two months ago, I went into your study one day to dust, and found Martin Brocket going through the drawers of your desk. Agnes was out, perhaps he thought he was alone in the house. I know you keep your money in a locked drawer there, sir.’
I did, and my most important papers, too. Martin had keys to most places in the house, but not to that drawer, nor the chest in my bedroom where I kept my personal items. ‘Go on,’ I said.
‘He snapped at me to get out, said that he was looking for something for you. But Master Shardlake, he had the look of one uncovered in wrongdoing. I have been battling with my conscience ever since.’
I thought, thank heaven there was nothing in writing about the Lamentation; even the notes I had made in the garden I had destroyed. And, besides, two months ago it had not even been taken. But the news sent a chill down my spine, all the same. And how many times had Martin nosed around without Josephine seeing?
I said, ‘I have never sent Martin to fetch anything from my desk. Thank you, Josephine, for telling me this. If you see him doing something like that again, come to me.’
I had missed no money. But if not money, what had Brocket been looking for? ‘You did right to tell me, Josephine. For now, let us keep it a secret.’ I smiled uneasily. ‘But remember, tell me if anything like this occurs again.’
‘I did not like him from the start, sir, though Agnes has been such a friend, as I have said. Sometimes he speaks roughly to her.’
‘Sadly husbands occasionally do.’
‘And he was always asking about you when he first came, last winter. Who your friends were, your habits, your clients.’
‘Well, a steward needs to find such things out.’ It was true, but I felt uncomfortable nonetheless.
‘Yes, sir, and it was only at first. Yet there has always been something about him I did not trust.’
‘Perhaps because he speaks roughly to Agnes, whom you like?’
Josephine shook her head. ‘No, it is something more, though I am not sure what.’
I nodded. I felt the same.
She said, hesitant again, ‘Sir, perhaps I should not ask – ’
‘Go on– ’
‘If I might say, this last week you have seemed – preoccupied, worried. Have you some trouble, sir?’
I was touched. ‘Merely work worries, Josephine. But thank you for your concern.’
I felt uneasy. I thought of the books I possessed, forbidden by the recent proclamation. They were concealed in my chest, and under the amnesty I had another fortnight to turn them in; I thought, if I do that officially, my name will doubtless go on a list. Better to burn them discreetly in the garden. And I would keep a careful eye now on Master Martin Brocket, too.
THAT EVENING I WAS due to visit Philip Coleswyn.
He lived on Little Britain Street, near Smithfield. I walked there by back lanes to avoid seeing Smithfield itself again. His house was in a pleasant row of old dwellings, with overhanging jettied roofs. Some peddlers and drovers in their smocks were pushing their carts back towards the city from the Smithfield market. They seemed to have many unsold goods; I wondered if the troubles caused by the King’s debasement of the coinage would ever end. A small dog, a shaggy little mongrel, wandered up and down the street whining and looking at people. It had a collar – it must have come to Smithfield with one of the traders or customers, and got itself lost. Hopefully its owner would find it.
I knocked at the door of Coleswyn’s residence, where, as he had told me, a griffin’s head was engraved over the porch. He let me in himself. ‘We have no servants at the moment,’ he apologized. ‘My wife will be doing the cooking tonight. We have a fine capon.’
‘That sounds excellent,’ I said, concealing my surprise that a man of his status should have no servants. He led me into a pleasant parlour, the early evening sunlight glinting on the fine gold and silver plate displayed on the buffet. An attractive woman in her early thirties was sitting with two children, a girl and boy of about seven and five, teaching them their letters. She looked tired.
‘My wife, Ethelreda,’ Coleswyn said. ‘My children, Samuel and Laura.’
Ethelreda Coleswyn stood and curtsied, and the little boy gave a tiny bow. The girl turned to her mother and said seriously, ‘I prefer the name Fear-God, Mamma.’
Her mother gave me a nervous look, then told the child, ‘We want you to use your second name now, we have told you. Now go, both of you, up to bed. Adele is waiting.’ She clapped her hands and the children went to their father, who bent to kiss them goodnight, then they left obediently.
‘My sister has come from Hertfordshire to help with the children,’ Coleswyn explained.
‘I must see to the food.’ Ethelreda got up. She left the room. Coleswyn poured me some wine and we sat at the table.