THE DOOR WAS OPENED by a woman in her forties, as short and spare as Elias had been large and burly. She wore a shapeless grey dress and had not even put on a coif, her dark hair hastily knotted behind her head. Her eyes were wide with horror and fear. On her cuffs I saw flecks of red. She stared at me, then Cecil. ‘Who’s this?’ she asked him fearfully.
‘Master Shardlake. A lawyer. And, like me, one who would not have people persecuted for their opinions. May we come in, Goodwife Rooke?’
Her shoulders slumped helplessly, and she nodded. She led us into a poorly furnished parlour where two thin little girls of about eight and nine sat at table. The younger had her mother’s small, birdlike features, the elder Elias’s heaviness of face and body. Both stared at us in fear. I noticed a bucket and scrubbing brush on the floor, a discarded apron, stained red, rolled into a ball beside it.
‘Girls,’ Goodwife Rooke said gently. ‘Go and wait upstairs in our bedroom. But do not go in your brother’s room. Do you swear?’
‘I swear,’ the elder girl said. She took her sister’s hand and they sidled past us. Their footsteps sounded on a wooden staircase. Goodwife Rooke sat down.
‘It is no thing for his sisters to see,’ she said. ‘Nor a mother either,’ she added, her voice breaking.
‘Do the girls know?’ Cecil asked gently.
‘Only that Elias has been hurt, not that he is dead. I had a mighty job keeping them in our room last night, while I was heaving his body up the staircase. The noise made the girls call out to ask what was happening.’ She rested her brow on a trembling hand for a moment, then looked at us desperately. ‘I don’t know what to do, sirs.’
Cecil said, ‘We shall try to help you. Now, can you tell this gentleman what happened?’
‘If it is not too much,’ I added reassuringly.
‘After seeing it, telling is little,’ she answered starkly, and took a deep breath. ‘My husband died last year. Elias, thankfully, had his job with Master Greening. But he spent too much of his spare time there, talking with Master Greening and his friends. Some of the things he said they discussed – ’ her eyes flickered between us – ‘they were dangerous.’
Cecil prompted, ‘About faith and the Bible being the only keys to Grace, you told me, and questioning whether the social order was ordained by God.’
She nodded. ‘I was angry with Elias for speaking of such things in front of his sisters. His father would have beaten him. Yet – ’ her voice softened – ‘my son was young, angry over the injustice in the world, full of newfound ideas. He was a good boy, he did not drink or roister, and his wages kept all of us.’ She ran her hands through her hair. ‘I do not know what will happen to us now. The girls – ’
‘I shall see what can be done,’ Cecil said gently.
‘What happened last night?’ I asked after a moment.
She looked at me. ‘It was around ten, the girls were in bed, thank God, and I was about to go up myself. I was worried, for Elias had not come home the night before. He had been surly, distracted, since poor Master Greening’s murder. Then I heard his voice outside, shouting, “Help! Mother!”’ She shook her head desperately. ‘Almost the last words he ever said, and they were too late. I think he had been hanging around the house, checking to see whether it was safe to come home.’ She swallowed. ‘I threw open the door at once. Two men were running from the alleyway. One carried a cudgel. They ran past me, past that cart outside, and disappeared. I looked into the alley. There was my son. His head – ’ she squeezed her eyes shut. ‘There was blood, blood everywhere. Yet he was still just alive; he grasped my hand. He said, “Tell them, tell my friends, I was killed for Anne Askew.” And then,’ she added starkly, ‘he died. I don’t know how I found the strength but I dragged him indoors and upstairs and laid him in his room. I should have gone to the constable, I know, but after what he said – that name – ’ Her voice fell to a whisper. ‘Anne Askew. The one who was burned on Friday.’ She looked at us. ‘Elias wanted to go to the burning, shout cries of encouragement to the poor souls there. I think his friends persuaded him he would only end in the fire himself.’ Her eyes grew angry. ‘He would not be the first young apprentice to be burned these last few years.’
‘No,’ Cecil said. ‘But they, and Elias, are safe now from the evils of this world, in Jesus’ arms.’ The words could have sounded trite, but he spoke them with quiet sincerity.
Goodwife Rooke pleaded again, desperately, ‘What should I do, sirs?’
Cecil took a deep breath. ‘Say nothing to the coroner, not yet. If people ask, say Elias never came back.’
‘Lie to the officials?’