‘It was locked from inside?’
‘Yes, Master Greening lived there, as you know, and would lock the door at night. I can only guess the people who attacked him knocked at the door, pushed their way in when he answered, then locked the door behind them.’
‘Huffkyn gave me a description of them.’
‘Yes, I only caught the merest glimpse.’
‘He seems a clever old man.’
‘Poor fellow, he has a bad chest, as many of us in the trade do. I am afraid I took the chance, when poor Greening died, to take on Elias and put John Huffkyn to lighter work.’
‘Probably a good arrangement for everyone.’
‘I hope so.’
‘When you entered, apart from that glimpse of the attackers, what did you see?’
‘My eyes were drawn at once to the fire. I had to put it out.’ He looked at me seriously. ‘With all the paper and printing materials in this street, fire is a constant worry. Fortunately the pile of paper had only just started to burn, and I was able to stamp it out. Then I saw poor Greening – ’ he took a long breath – ‘on the floor. I hope never to see such a thing again. And then I saw the torn sheet of paper in his hand – the best quality paper on the market. I read it, and knew this was more than a matter of murder. I heard Huffkyn coming and stuffed the page into my pocket.’
‘Do you think they killed him before they heard you trying to enter?’
He shook his head. ‘When I first put my shoulder to the door Greening was still shouting. But then the noise stopped, save for a horrible crash – I think one of them clubbed him then, and he went down.’
‘And they grabbed the book from his hands,’ I mused, ‘but left behind part of the title page. Probably failed to notice it in their hurry to get out; they set the fire and ran.’
‘I think that might be how it was.’ Okedene shook his head sadly. ‘I wonder whether, had I not broken in just then, they might not have panicked and killed him.’
‘I think they would have killed him in any case, in order to wrest that book from him.’ He nodded sadly. ‘How well did you know Armistead Greening?’ I asked.
‘He came to Paternoster Row five years ago. He said he had come from the Chilterns – he spoke with the accent of those parts – and wanted to set up as a printer. He had been married, he told me, but his wife died in childbirth and the baby, too, so he came to London to seek his fortune. Poor young man, he often had a sad cast of face. He leased that piece of land his shed stands on from the Court of Augmentations – it belonged to a little monastic house whose remains stand on the land behind the shed.’ He smiled sardonically. ‘Ironic, given his religious views. He built the shed himself with a couple of friends. I remember thinking I was glad he had found some friends in London. I did not know him well, he kept to himself, but – I heard and saw things, especially recently.’ He hesitated.
‘Nothing you tell me about him can harm him now. Goodman Huffkyn dropped some hints.’
‘It might harm Elias. If it reached the ears of Gardiner and his wolves.’
‘I report to no one but Lord Parr and the Queen.’
His eyes widened. ‘The Queen herself?’
‘Yes. I knew her when she was Lady Latimer,’ I added, a note of pride in my voice.
‘I think Greening was very radical.’ Okedene looked at me seriously. ‘A known man.’
I drew a sharp breath. The code for the old Lollards and, now, the Anabaptists. Okedene continued, ‘Can you guarantee that nothing I tell you about Elias will get him into trouble?’ He spoke quietly, intently, reminding me again how dangerous it was to discuss radical religion.
I hesitated. I knew Lord Parr, at least, would be quite ruthless if he thought it necessary to protect the Queen. And any mention of Anabaptism would be to shake a stick in a wasps’ nest. ‘Anything that might harm the apprentice I will speak of only to the Queen,’ I answered. ‘Her mercy and loyalty are well known.’
Okedene stood. He looked from the window at Greening’s shed. ‘The walls of that rickety place are thin. Armistead Greening had friends and visitors with whom he would have loud religious discussions. This summer especially, with everyone’s windows open in the hot weather, I would sometimes hear them talking – arguing, rather – sometimes a little too loudly for safety. Mostly it was just a hubbub of voices I heard, the occasional phrase, though the phrases were enough to set my ears pricking. They were an odd mixture of people. Six or seven sometimes, but there were three constant regulars – a Scotsman, a Dutchman and an Englishman, all known as local radicals.’
‘McKendrick, Vandersteyn and Curdy.’
Okedene nodded. ‘I think Master Curdy is quite a wealthy man. Master Greening told me he sent one of his assistants to help build that shed. The Scotsman helped as well; I remember seeing him. A big, strong fellow.’