Beyond Ludgate, Bowyer Row was busy with trade. A butcher had set up a stall on which lay some stiff-looking, greenish meat. Prices were so high these days that stallholders could get away with selling rancid meat. To attract customers, he had set a live turkey in a cage at the end of his stall. People paused to stare at this extraordinary bird from the New World, like a gigantic chicken, with enormous brightly coloured wattles.
An elderly peddler approached us, his tray full of pamphlets newly purchased from the printers. He leered at us. ‘Buy my new-printed ballads, sirs. Full of naughty rhymes. The Milkmaid and the Stallion Boy, The Cardinal’s Maidservants.’ Nicholas laughed and I waved the man aside. Another peddler stood in a doorway, an old arrowbag full of canes over his shoulder. ‘Buy my fine jemmies!’ he called. ‘Buy my London tartars! Well soaked in brine! Teach wives and sons obedience!’
A group of seven or eight little children, ragged shoeless urchins, ran towards us. I had glimpsed the sharp knife one boy was carrying. ‘Cutpurses,’ I murmured to Nicholas. ‘Watch your money!’
‘I saw them.’ He had already clapped a hand to his purse, grasping his sword hilt with the other. We looked directly at the children and, realizing we had guessed their intent, they ran off to one side instead of crowding round us. One shouted, ‘Crookback devil!’, another, ‘Carrot-head clerk!’ At that Nicholas turned and took a step towards them. I put a hand on his arm. He shook his head and said sadly, ‘People were right to warn me; London is a wild sea, full of dangerous rocks.’
‘That it is. In more ways than one. When I first came to London I, too, had to learn things for myself. I am not sure I have ever got used to the city; I sometimes dream of retiring to the country, but distractions will keep coming.’ I looked at him. ‘One thing I should tell you. The murdered man and his friends were religious radicals. I take it dealing with such people will not be a problem for you.’
‘I worship only as the King requires,’ Nicholas said, repeating the formula of those who would be safe. He looked at me. ‘In such matters I wish only to be left in peace.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘Now, turn up here, we are going to visit the constable first, in Ave Maria Lane.’
AVE MARIA LANE was a long narrow street of three-storey buildings, a muddle of shops, houses and tenements, all with overhanging eaves. I noticed a couple of booksellers’ shops, their publications laid out on a table in front, watched over by blue-coated apprentices with wooden clubs to deter thieves. Most of the books were aimed at the upper end of the market – Latin classics and French works – but among them there was also a copy of Becon’s new Christian State of Matrimony, which urged women to quiet and obedience. Had it not been so expensive I might have bought a copy for Barak as a jest; Tamasin would throw it at his head. I wished I had not had to dissemble with him earlier.
‘The constable is called Edward Fletcher,’ I told Nicholas. ‘He lives at the sign of the Red Dragon. Look, there it is. If he is not at home we shall have to try and find him about his business.’
The door was answered by a servant, who told us Master Fletcher was in and ushered us into a little parlour, with a desk and chairs all heaped with papers. Behind the desk sat a thin man of about fifty in the red doublet and cap of a city constable. He looked tired, on edge. I recognized him; he had been one of the constables who carried the faggots to the fires the day before.
‘God give you good morrow, Master Fletcher,’ I said.
‘And you, sir.’ He spoke deferentially, impressed no doubt by my robe. He stood and bowed. ‘How may I help you?’
‘I am here about the murder last week of Armistead Greening, God pardon his soul. I understand the coroner has put you in charge of the investigation.’
Fletcher sighed. ‘He has.’
‘I am Serjeant Matthew Shardlake, of Lincoln’s Inn. My pupil, Master Overton. Master Greening’s parents are sore grieved at his loss, and have asked me to assist in the investigations, with your permission. I have a power of attorney.’ I passed the document to him.
‘Please sit, sirs.’ Fletcher removed papers from a couple of stools and laid them on the floor. When we were seated he regarded me seriously. ‘You will know, sir, that if a murderer is not caught within the first two days, and his identity is unknown, the chances of finding him are small.’
‘I know it well. I have been involved in such investigations before, and understand how difficult they are.’ I glanced at the papers piled around. ‘And I know how heavy the duties are for the city constables in these days.’ I smiled sympathetically. ‘Investigating a brutal murder must be yet one more burden.’
Fletcher nodded sadly. ‘It is indeed.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘If you would take on the investigation I should be grateful.’
I nodded. I had read the man aright; many London constables were lazy and venal but Fletcher was conscientious and hopelessly overburdened. And affected, perhaps, by what he had had to do yesterday. The burning.
‘I would keep you informed of any developments, of course,’ I said. ‘And you would be the one to report any discoveries to the coroner.’ And take the credit, I implied.