‘It belongs to his parents now. The power of attorney gives me the right to take out probate on their behalf. Perhaps you and Barak could deal with that. The author will have paid Greening to print his book, that money will have to be repaid. Otherwise the materials will be sold and the proceeds given to his parents. The printing press will be worth something.’
I looked at the paper on the shelf. Not a large stock, but with nearly all paper in England imported, it had a market value, and as Fletcher had suggested, it would be worth stealing, as would the working type. But it hardly explained two attempted burglaries by separate parties.
I went to the side door and stepped outside, pleased to be away from the harsh fumes, and looked out. The little patch of weedy ground ended at a brick wall, seven feet high. I had a thought. I needed to speak to Okedene on his own, without Nicholas. Besides myself, Okedene was the only other person outside the palace walls who knew of the Lamentation.
‘Nicholas,’ I said, ‘go and look over that wall.’
He did so, pulling himself up easily. ‘A garden,’ he said. ‘In little better state than the ground this side.’
‘Will you climb over, see where those men might have gone after they killed Greening, whether they left any traces? Then join me at Okedene’s house.’
He looked worried. ‘What if the owners see me poking about in their garden?’
‘Make some excuse.’ I smiled. ‘A good lawyer should always be able to think on his feet.’
Chapter Nine
MASTER OKEDENE’S establishment was a three-storey house. The bottom floor was a bookshop, volumes displayed on a table outside. They were varied; from Eliot’s Castle of Health to little books on astrology and herbs, and Latin classics. There were a couple of prayer books, approved ones, small volumes no larger than a man’s hand, which one could carry as one walked. From the upper floors came a thumping, clacking sound: newly inked pages would be put under the press, it would be rapidly screwed down, the page taken out and a new one inserted. An old man stood in the doorway, guarding the bookshop; he was stringy and arthritic-looking, his hands knotted. He studied me warily; he would have seen Nicholas and me enter Greening’s shed.
I smiled. ‘God give you good morrow, goodman. I am a lawyer, representing the parents of the late Master Greening.’
He took off his cap, revealing a bald pate beneath. ‘God pardon his soul.’ He gave a wheezing cough.
‘I have authority from Constable Fletcher to investigate the matter. Would you be Master Okedene’s assistant, that saw the two men run from the building?’
‘I am, sir,’ he answered more cheerfully. ‘John Huffkyn, at your service.’
‘I am Master Shardlake. Would you tell me what happened?’
He nodded, clearly pleased to tell his story again. ‘It was evening, I was helping Master Okedene run the press. He is printing a book on the voyages to the New World, with woodcuts showing the wondrous creatures there. A big contract. We were working till the light was done.’ He sighed. ‘Now that Master Okedene has taken on that lump Elias as apprentice, I am put to mind the shop during the day.’ He paused. ‘But thirty years in this business have worn my joints to shreds. And my chest—’
‘That night . . .’ I said, bringing him back to the point.
‘Work had just finished, we were pinning up pages to dry overnight. The windows were open and we heard a commotion next door. Cries, then a loud shout for help. Master Okedene and I looked at each other. Master Greening could occasionally be heard in loud discussions with his friends, but these were sounds of violence. We ran downstairs. The master ran next door, but I stayed in the doorway. With my poor bent limbs and bad chest I could be of little assistance . . .’ He looked ashamed.
‘I understand,’ I offered solicitously.
‘From here I saw it all. Master Okedene battered the door in, and a second later I saw two men run out of there.’ He pointed to Greening’s side door. ‘As I told them at the inquest, they were both in their twenties, dressed in dirty wadmol smocks. Vagrants, they seemed to me, masterless men.’ He made a grimace. ‘Both carried nasty-looking clubs. They were strongly built; one was tall and, young as he was, near bald. The other was fair-haired and had a big wart on his forehead; it was visible even in the poor light. Both had raggedy beards.’
‘You observed well.’
‘My eyes at least are still sound. I would be glad to identify them, help see them hang. Master Greening was a good neighbour. I know he was a radical, but he was quiet, he wasn’t one of those who buttonholes people and starts preaching at them, putting them in danger of the law. He did no man harm – that I know of,’ he added, looking at me sharply.
‘I have heard no ill spoken of him.’
Huffkyn continued, ‘When the two men had gone I went across to the shed, for I could smell burning. Master Okedene was putting out a fire, a heap of papers set alight on the floor, and poor Greening was lying there. A dreadful sight, the top of his head bashed in, blood and brains spilling out.’ He shook his head.