He looked at me keenly. ‘What is the business?’
‘A printer murdered down by St Paul’s. It is a week now, and no sign of catching the culprit. The coroner’s office is lazy as usual. I have a power of attorney to investigate, from the printer’s parents. They live in the Chilterns.’
‘They gave you the case?’
I hesitated. ‘It came through a third party.’
‘You don’t do jobs like that any more. Could be dangerous.’
‘I felt a duty to take this on.’
‘You look worried,’ he said in his direct way.
‘Please, Jack,’ I answered, somewhat pettishly. ‘There are some aspects to this I must keep confidential.’
Barak frowned. I had never left him out of such a matter before. ‘Up to you,’ he said with a touch of grumpiness.
George, meanwhile, left his father and toddled a couple of steps over to me. I picked him up, only to realize as he laid pudgy hands on my shirt that he had smeared the squashed pea all over it. I set him down again.
‘That’s a mess,’ Barak said. ‘Sorry. But you have to be careful picking him up.’
Tamasin came back with a plate of bread and cheese and a couple of wrinkled apples. ‘Last year’s,’ she said, ‘but they’ve been well stored.’ She saw my shirt and took George. ‘You muttonhead, Jack,’ she scolded. ‘You didn’t give him that pea, did you? He could choke on it.’
‘He hasn’t eaten it, as you can see. Anyway, he tried to eat a slug from the garden last week, and it did the little squib no harm.’
‘Fie, give him here.’ Tamasin reached down and picked up her son, who gave her a puzzled look. ‘You encourage him to trouble.’
‘Sorry. Yes, it’s best to keep out of trouble.’ Barak looked at me meaningfully.
‘If you can,’ I answered. ‘If you can.’
I RODE HOME TO CHANGE my shirt before going down the street to Lincoln’s Inn. I went into the kitchen. Josephine was standing there wearing a dress I had not seen before; of good wool, violet-coloured with a long white collar. Agnes knelt beside her, working at the skirt with pins. Agnes stood hurriedly and both women curtsied as I came in.
‘What do you think of Josephine’s new dress, sir?’ Agnes asked. ‘She got it for her walking out tomorrow. I helped choose it.’
Josephine, as ever, blushed. The dress became her. I could not, though, but reflect how the dye looked pale, washed-out, in comparison with the extraordinary bright colours that I had seen everywhere at Whitehall. But such clothes were all most people could afford.
‘You look fine, Josephine,’ I said. ‘Master Brown cannot fail to be impressed.’
‘Thank you, sir. Look, I have new shoes as well.’ She lifted the dress a little to reveal square white shoes of good leather.
‘A picture,’ I said, smiling.
‘And the dress is finest Kendal wool,’ Agnes said. ‘It will last you many a summer.’
‘Where will you go walking?’ I asked.
‘Lincoln’s Inn Fields. I hope it will be another fine afternoon.’
‘The skies are clear. But now, I must hurry. Agnes, I need a new shirt.’ I opened my robe to reveal a green smudge. ‘My godson,’ I said ruefully.
‘What a mess! I will call Martin.’
‘I can fetch one from the press,’ I said, but Agnes had already called her husband’s name. He appeared from the dining room, clad in an apron. He must have been cleaning the silver for his clothes smelled of vinegar.
‘Could you get a new shirt for Master Shardlake, please, Martin?’ As always when she spoke to her husband, Agnes’s tone was deferential. ‘His little godson has spoiled the one he has.’ She smiled, but Martin only nodded. He seldom laughed or smiled; he seemed one of those men born without a sense of humour.
I went up to my room, and a couple of minutes later Martin appeared with my new shirt. He laid it on the bed and stood waiting. ‘Thank you, Martin,’ I said, ‘but I can put on a shirt myself. I will leave the stained one on the bed.’ Always he wanted to do everything. He looked a little put out, but bowed and left the room.
I changed the shirt and left my bedroom. At the foot of the stairs, I saw Josephine carrying a jug of hot water, held out carefully in front of her so as not to touch her new dress. She took it through the open door of the parlour to where Martin was still cleaning the silver.
‘Put it on the table,’ he said. ‘On the cloth there.’
‘Yes, Master Brocket.’ She turned away, and I saw her give Martin’s back a look of dislike, mingled with contempt, similar to the one she had given him yesterday. It puzzled me. Surely Martin’s cold manner alone was not sufficient to evoke a look like that from someone as good-natured as Josephine.