Now he laid a hand on Chancery's side, beaming up at me. 'I have to go with this gentleman, Joseph,' I said. 'There is another urgent case I must attend to.'
'Some other poor wretch to save from injustice, eh? But you will be back soon?'
I glanced at Barak; he gave a brief nod.
'Soon, Joseph. I will contact you. Listen, now we have some time to investigate Ralph's murder there is something I would have you do for me, if you can. It will be difficult-'
'Anything, sir, anything.'
'I want you to go to your brother Edwin and ask if he will see me at his house. Say I am unsure of Elizabeth's guilt and wish to hear his side of things.'
A shadow came over his face. 'I need to meet the family, Joseph,' I told him gently. 'And see the house and garden. It is important.'
He bit his lip, then nodded slowly. 'I will do what I can.'
I patted his arm. 'Good man. And now I must go.'
'I shall tell Elizabeth!' he called after me as we rode out into the road. 'I shall tell her, thanks to you, she is spared the press!' Barak looked at me, raising an eyebrow cynically.
WE RODE DOWN Old Bailey Street. The Rolls House was not far, directly opposite Lincoln's Inn in fact. A sprawling complex of buildings, it had once been the Domus Conversorum, where Jews who wished to convert to Christianity were instructed. Since the expulsion of all Jews from England centuries before, the building had been used to house the Court of Chancery Rolls, though one or two foreign Jews, who had washed up in England somehow and agreed to convert to Christianity, were still housed there from time to time. The Six Clerks' Office, which administered the Court of Chancery, was located there too. The office of Keeper of the Domus was still combined with the Mastership of the Rolls.
'I thought Lord Cromwell had given up the mastership,' I said to Barak.
'He still keeps an office in the Rolls House. Works there sometimes when he wants to be undisturbed.'
'Can you tell me what this is about?'
He shook his head. 'My master is to tell you himself.'
We rode up Ludgate Hill. It was another hot day; the women bringing produce into town were wearing cloths over their faces to protect them from the dust thrown up by passing carts. I looked down over the red-tiled rooftops of London, and the broad shining band of the river. The tide was out and the Thames mud, stained yellow and green with the refuse that poured every day from the northern shore, lay exposed like a great stain. People said that recently will o'the wisps of flame had been seen at night dancing over the rubbish and wondered uneasily what it portended.
I made another attempt to get information. 'This must be important to your master. Forbizer's not intimidated lightly.'
'He's a care for his skin like all men of the law.' There was an edge of contempt in Barak's voice.
'This sore puzzles me.' I paused, then added, 'Am I in trouble?'
He turned. 'No, not if you do as you're told. It's as I said, my master has a commission for you. Now come: time is important.'
We entered Fleet Street. The dust hung over the Whitefriars' monastic buildings in a pall, for the great friary was in the course of demolition. The gatehouse was covered in scaffolding, men hacking away at the decoration with chisels. A workman stepped into our path, raising a dusty hand.
'Halt your horses, please, sirs,' he called out.
Barak frowned. 'We're on Lord Cromwell's business. Piss off.'
The man wiped his hand on his grubby smock. 'I'm sorry, sir. I only wished to warn you, they're about to blow up the Whiteys' chapter house, the noise could startle the horses-'
'Look-' Barak broke off suddenly. A flash of red light appeared over the wall, followed by a tremendous explosion, louder than a clap of thunder. A heavy crash of falling stone, accompanied by cheers, sounded as a surging cloud of dust rolled over us. Hot-blooded as it looked, Barak's mare only neighed and jerked aside, but Chancery let out a scream and reared up on his hind legs, nearly unseating me. Barak reached across and grabbed the reins.
'Down, matey, down,' he said firmly. Chancery calmed at once, dropping to his feet again. He stood trembling; I was shaking too.
'All right?' Barak asked.
'Yes.' I gulped. 'Yes. Thank you.'
'God's death, the dust.' The powdery cloud, filled with the acrid tang of gunpowder, swirled round us and in a moment my robe and Barak's doublet were spotted with grey. 'Come on, let's get out of this.'
'I'm sorry, sirs,' the workman called after us anxiously.
'So you should be! Arsehole!' Barak called over his shoulder.
We turned up Chancery Lane, the horses still nervous and troubled by the heat and flies. I was perspiring freely but Barak seemed quite cool. I was reluctantly grateful to him; but for his quick action I could have had a bad fall.
I looked longingly for a moment at the familiar Lincoln's Inn gatehouse as Barak led the way through the gate of the Rolls House directly opposite. At the centre of a complex of houses stood a large, solidly built church. A guard in the yellow and blue quarters of Cromwell's livery stood outside the door with a pike. Barak nodded to him and the man bowed and snapped his fingers for a boy to lead our horses away.
Barak pushed open the heavy door of the church and we stepped in. Rolls of parchment bound in red tape lay everywhere, stacked against the walls with their faded paintings of biblical scenes and piled up along the pews. Here and there a black-robed law clerk stood picking among them, seeking precedents. More clerks waited in a queue beside the door to the Six Clerks' Office, seeking writs or dates for hearings.
I had never visited the office, for on the rare occasions I did have a case on in Chancery I would send a clerk to deal with the notoriously lengthy paperwork. I stared at the endless rolls. Barak followed my gaze.
'The ghosts of the old Jews have poor reading,' he said. 'Come on, through here.' He led me towards a walled- off side chapel; another guard in bright livery stood outside the door. Did Cromwell take armed guards everywhere nowadays? I wondered. Barak knocked softly and entered. I took a deep breath as I followed him, for my heart was thumping powerfully against my ribs.
The wall paintings of the side chapel had been white-washed over, for Thomas Cromwell hated idolatrous decoration. The chapel had been converted into a large office, with cupboards against the walls and chairs drawn up before an imposing desk lit incongruously by a stained-glass window above. There was no one behind it; Cromwell was not there. In a corner, behind a smaller desk, sat a short, black-robed figure I knew: Edwin Grey, Lord Cromwell's secretary. He had been at Cromwell's side for fifteen years, since the time the earl had worked for Wolsey. When I was in favour I had had much legal business through him. Grey rose and bowed to us. His round, pink face under the thinning grey hair was anxious.
He shook my hand; the fingers of his own were black from years of ink. He nodded at Barak; I caught distaste in his look.
'Master Shardlake. How do you fare, sir? It has been a long time.'
'Well enough, Master Grey. And you?'
'Well enough, given the times. The earl had to deal with a message, he will be back in a moment.'
'How is he?' I ventured.
Grey hesitated. 'You will see.' He turned abruptly as the door was thrown open and Thomas Cromwell strode into the room. My old master's heavy features were frowning, but at the sight of me he smiled broadly. I bowed low.
'Matthew, Matthew!' Cromwell said enthusiastically. He shook my hand with his powerful grip, then went and sat behind his desk. I studied him. He was dressed soberly in a black gown, though the Order of the Garter awarded to him by the king swung from his dark blue doublet. Looking at his face, I was shocked by the change in his appearance since I last saw him three years before. His hair was far greyer, and his strong, coarse features seemed pulled tight with strain and anxiety.
