He nodded.
‘Perhaps I could begin by asking you what you know of the circumstances of the murder. My pupil will take notes, if you will permit.’ Nicholas took quill and paper from his satchel. Fletcher gestured to him to help himself from his inkwell, then folded his arms and sat back.
‘I was visited somewhat after nine on the evening of the tenth, just as the light was fading, by one of my watchmen. He told me that a printer of Paternoster Row, Armistead Greening, had been murdered, and also reported the hue and cry raised by his neighbour, Master Okedene, who discovered the body. I sent a message to the coroner and went across to Paternoster Row. Okedene was there, looking in a bad state. He said he had been working late in his print-shop with his assistant, using the last of the light, when he heard a loud cry for help from Greening’s works next door, then bangs and shouts. Master Okedene is a man of some substance, but Greening was in a small way of business, his workshop little more than a wooden hut.’
‘Not a very secure place, then?’
‘No indeed. Master Okedene told me that when he ran to investigate the door was locked, but he forced it open, just in time to see two men, big ragged-looking fellows, run out of the side door. Master Okedene’s assistant, an old man, had stayed in the doorway of Okedene’s shop, but saw the two men run out and climb over the wall behind the shed, into a garden. He gave a good description. Master Okedene would have pursued them, but he saw the print-shop had been set alight, a lamp dropped on a pile of paper.’
‘They wanted to burn the place down?’ Nicholas asked.
I said, ‘If it burned down and a charred body were found in the ruins, Greening’s death might have been attributed to his accidentally setting the place on fire.’
Fletcher nodded. ‘That was my surmise. In any event, Master Okedene saw the fire and hurried to put it out before it reached more papers and the inks and other materials printers use. They are very flammable, a fire could have spread to his place.’
I nodded agreement. Fire in summer was one of the terrors of London, and probably a greater terror still among printers.
‘Then he saw Master Greening lying in a pool of blood by his press, his head staved in.’ The constable frowned. ‘I was a little annoyed with Master Okedene, because after giving me his statement he went off and disappeared for several hours. At the inquest he said he had been so shocked by what had happened that he had had to get away and have a drink, and had wandered down to one of the taverns by the river that stay open after curfew.’ The constable shrugged. ‘Still, he told me all he knew before he left, and he is known as an honest man.’ I reminded myself: during those hours, Okedene was actually at Whitehall Palace.
Fletcher hesitated, then continued, ‘I should tell you, I was already under orders to keep a watch on Master Greening. He was known for having extreme views in religion, and radical friends. Three years ago he was closely questioned by Bishop Bonner about some books of John Bale, which were smuggled in from Flanders; there were reports that Greening was one of the distributors. But nothing was proved. It is a strange thing, though, that while his shop is small, with only one press and one apprentice, he has been able to keep the business going for some years, though you will know how risky the printing trade is.’
‘Indeed. You need money to invest in the equipment. And once you have printed a book you must sell many copies to recoup any profit.’
Fletcher nodded agreement. ‘And he was a young man, only thirty, and his parents I believe are not rich.’
‘Small yeoman farmers only, I understand.’
The constable gave me a look of sudden suspicion. ‘And yet they can afford to hire a serjeant at law.’
‘They have connections to someone I owe a favour to.’
Fletcher studied me closely, then continued. ‘Greening’s known acquaintances were questioned, including some other radicals the Bishop has ordered us to keep an eye on. All had alibis, and no motive for killing him. He kept no money at the shop. He lived there, slept on a little truckle bed in a corner. There were several shillings in his purse, untouched. He was unmarried, and seems to have had no woman.’
I asked, ‘What sort of radical was he?’
Fletcher shrugged his shoulders. ‘He and his friends were thought to be sacramentarians, maybe other things. I have heard it said Greening’s parents were Lollards from generations back. And old Lollards might be Anabaptists today. But no proof was ever found.’ Fletcher gave me another suspicious look, perhaps wondering if I were a radical myself.
I said lightly, ‘My pupil was just saying on the way here, it should suffice simply to worship as the King commands.’
‘Yes,’ Fletcher agreed. ‘Safer that way, too.’