He nodded agreement. ‘I will report back to Lord Parr now. He will probably want to talk to you when you go to the Queen’s Wardrobe tomorrow morning. With your assistant, the one who used to work with Lord Cromwell,’ he added, looking at me curiously.
‘Cromwell was a hard and ruthless man. But he had beliefs. If he could see how those he promoted turned out – Paget, Rich, Wriothesley, helping Gardiner fight against everything he believed in.’ I shook my head.
‘The balance on the Privy Council is about to change. Lord Hertford and Lord Lisle return from France soon. With the peace treaty well ensured. That will be a feather in their caps with the King.’
‘Will the peace hold?’
‘Oh, I think so. The coinage is so debased now that any English money is distrusted in Europe. The German bankers who lent the King so much to finance the war will allow him no more.’ He smiled sadly. ‘England is bankrupt, you see.’
‘Bankrupt indeed,’ I said ruefully.
‘But if we can solve this matter without trouble to the Queen the reformists may begin to turn things round.’ His manner was neutral, detached, but I realized William Cecil knew a very great deal. He fixed me again with those staring eyes, then raised his cap and bowed. ‘God give you good evening, Master Shardlake.’ He turned away, heading for the river and a wherry to Whitehall.
Chapter Fifteen
I WALKED HOME THROUGH the quiet streets, thinking hard. Two men were dead now, three had fled, and I was no nearer to a solution to the problem of who had stolen the Queen’s book, or why. I felt very alone. I had been unable to say too much to Cecil; he did not know about the missing book. The only ones I could talk to honestly were Lord Parr and the Queen.
When I reached Chancery Lane I turned into Lincoln’s Inn; I had to confirm whether that tolling bell had been for Bealknap. The porter was sunning himself in the gatehouse doorway. He bowed. ‘God give you good morrow, Serjeant Shardlake.’
‘And you. I heard the chapel bell tolling earlier.’
He spoke in a pious voice. ‘Master Stephen Bealknap has died, God’s mercy on his soul. The woman who was nursing him has ordered the coffin already.’ He inclined his head towards the courtyard. ‘It’s just been brought in. They’ll take him to the coroner’s till the funeral, as there’s no family.’
‘Yes.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘I daresay you won’t miss him that much.’ The porter knew all the doings at the Inn, including my long enmity with Bealknap.
‘We are all equal in death,’ I replied. I thought, when news of Bealknap’s planned monument got out, the porter would have a rich feast of gossip. I walked on to Bealknap’s chambers. The shutters in his room were open now. There was a noise in the doorway as two men manhandled a cheap coffin outside.
‘Light, ain’t he?’ one said.
‘Just as well, on a hot day like this.’
They carried the coffin out of the gate. The sunlit quadrangle was quite empty. It was the custom that when a member of the Inn died his friends would stand outside as the coffin was taken out. But no one had come to mourn Bealknap.
I walked away, up to my house. I was hungry; I had missed lunch again. As I opened the door I heard Martin Brocket’s voice, shouting from the kitchen. ‘You obey me, young Josephine, not my wife. And you account to me for where you’ve been.’
I stood in the kitchen doorway. Martin was glaring at Josephine, his normally expressionless face red. I remembered how her father used to bully the girl, reduce her to trembling confusion, and was pleased to see Josephine was not intimidated; she stared back at Martin, making him redden further. Agnes stood by, wringing her hands, while Timothy was by the window, pretending to be invisible.
‘No, Martin,’ I said, sharply. ‘Josephine answers to me. She is my servant, as you are.’
Martin looked at me. It was almost comical to watch him compose his face into its usual deferential expression. ‘What makes you nip the girl so sharply?’ I asked.
‘My wife – ’ he waved an arm at Agnes – ‘gave the girl permission to walk out with that young man this afternoon without asking me. And she is late back. She told Agnes she would be back at three and it is nearly four.’
I shrugged. ‘It is Josephine’s day of rest. She can come back when she likes.’
‘If she is seeing a young man, I should be informed.’
‘You were. By your wife. And I saw you watch Josephine leave.’
‘But for decorum’s sake, she should be back when she said.’ Martin was blustering now.
‘She is an adult, she can return when she wishes. Mark this, Josephine. If you are seeing Goodman Brown on your free day, so long as you inform Martin, or Agnes, or me, in advance you may come back any time before curfew.’
Josephine curtsied. ‘Thank you, sir.’ Then she gave Martin a little triumphant look.