‘He was dying, there was no one else to tell.’
‘Who is this Blaybourne?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe the man who killed him.’ I shook my head.
‘But it was an accident, surely. He fell from his ladder.’
‘I’m not so sure.’ I took a deep breath. ‘I think he could have been pushed. He was a glazier, they’re not people to fall off ladders.’ I looked down the length of the church, past the cart. ‘And as I was walking down to the church I heard something, a creak. It sounded like a door closing.’
Barak’s face became sharp. ‘Someone who’d killed the glazier, and heard you coming?’
‘Possibly. And escaped into the church.’
‘Then let’s go and look.’ The old eagerness for combat was back in his eyes. I hesitated.
‘I don’t want to get involved, Barak. That’s why I said nothing about Oldroyd’s last words. No one heard them but me. No one needs to know.’
‘But if he spoke against the King and Queen, you must tell.’ His face was full of anxiety. ‘There were people this spring hanged for knowing something was afoot and saying nothing. What if there’s something else abroad here, and Oldroyd knew? The King’s due here in two days. Tell Maleverer what you heard, for Jesu’s sake!’
I nodded slowly. He was right.
‘And we can try to find that door you heard creak. See if there’s anybody in the church. Come along, if we heard something in the church Maleverer would expect us to look.’ Barak fingered the hilt of his sword, which he had buckled on as usual.
I looked at him. For more than a year I had been the one in charge, showing him the ways of the law, but suddenly he was Lord Cromwell’s man of action again, keen and alert. I nodded reluctantly and felt for my dagger. ‘Come on then.’
Barak led the way along the wall. The mist was thinning now, a pale sun showing through. Sure enough, a short way beyond the cart a little door was set in the wall. It had a big keyhole and I wondered if it was locked, but when Barak pushed the door it opened with the same rusty creak I had heard earlier. Drawing his sword, he pushed the door wide. We stepped in.
‘Look,’ he breathed. He pointed down at a fresh set of footprints. The damp smudges went from the door across the church. I strained to look, twisting my head, for a large pillar blocked our view.
‘I can’t see anything,’ I whispered.
‘Let’s just follow the footprints. They’re very recent – whoever made them was in the damp grass for a good while.’
‘So there was someone.’
Barak nodded. ‘Dodged into the church when he heard you coming, and ran. He’s probably gone out one of the main doors now.’
I shook my head. ‘If I was him, knowing there was about to be a great hue and cry, I’d have hidden in the church until the crowds were gone. Jesu knows there are enough dark spaces.’
Barak took a firm grip of his sword. ‘Let’s follow those prints.’
The marks on the tiled floor were faint but visible. They crossed the breadth of the church, intersecting with the trail of mud and dung left by those taking the shortcut along the length of the nave, then continued, fainter, on the other side to where a large internal doorway stood, its arch decorated with scenes from the life of Christ. The door was open a little, and the wet smudges ended there.
Barak smiled. ‘Got him,’ he whispered. ‘This’ll be a feather in our caps.’ He stepped back, then kicked the door wide, the crash echoing and re-echoing around the great abandoned church. We looked in. An elaborately decorated vestibule lay ahead, with a low vaulted ceiling supported by wide carved pillars. Ahead, another archway led to a large inner room, lit by a big stained-glass window that had survived and through which daylight filtered dimly; probably the chapterhouse. We stepped inside, watching the pillars carefully lest our quarry had concealed himself behind one.
‘Come on!’ Barak called out. ‘We’ve got you! Give yourself up!’
‘Stay by the door,’ I suggested. ‘I’ll go and find those soldiers.’
‘No, I fancy taking this one myself.’
‘Barak!’ I said. ‘Be sensible!’ But he was already moving round the room, sword held out before him. I pulled out my dagger, peering into the corners. The anteroom was ill-lit, it was difficult to see. Then Barak let out a sudden yell.
‘Jesu Christ!’
I ran across to where he stood in the doorway to the inner room. It was empty, all the furniture removed, but round the walls stood two tiers of men, dressed in brightly coloured robes. I saw white hair, long beards, pink faces and glinting eyes. I stood with my mouth open for a second, then laughed.
‘They’re statues, Barak. The prophets and apostles.’ They were so lifelike in the dim light that his astonishment was understandable. ‘Look, that’s Moses in the blue robe. Jesu, even his lips are painted to look real –’
We both whirled round at a patter of footsteps, just in time to glimpse the hem of a dark robe disappearing through the door before it slammed shut with a bang. As we raced up to it we heard the sound of a key turning. Barak grasped the handle frantically.
‘Shit!’ he cried. ‘He’s locked us in!’ He tugged again, but it was no good.
I set my lips. ‘Then it’s us who are trapped now, while he gets away.’
We walked back into the chapterhouse, where there was more light. Barak’s face was red with embarrassment.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘That was my fault. Charging in here without a thought like an arsehole, then crying out at those statues, pox on them. He must have been hiding in one of those corners, you’d have seen him but for my foolishness.’ There was real distress in his face.
‘Well, it’s done now,’ I said.
‘I’m not the man I was,’ he said with sudden, bitter anger.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’d never have made a mistake like that a couple of years ago. I’ve had too much soft living at Lincoln’s Inn.’ He set his teeth. ‘How are we going to get out of here?’
I looked up at the stained-glass window. ‘There’s only one way. You’ll have to climb up those statues, break the window and call for help. Use your sword-hilt.’
He set his lips. ‘They’ll be laughing at us from one end of St Mary’s to the other.’
‘I doubt Maleverer will be laughing. We need to see him as soon as possible.’
‘Better get on with it, then.’ Barak took a deep breath, then climbed up the statue of Moses. Balanced on his stone head, he shinned up the figure of St Mark above him. He had not, at any rate, lost his agility. Balanced on the stone head of the apostle, he put one arm round a decorated pillar and then, with the hilt of his sword, leaned over and dealt the nearest pane of glass a heavy blow. It shattered, the noise echoing round the chapterhouse. I winced. He smashed the one next to it, then leaned out of the window and shouted ‘Help!’ in a great bellow that echoed round the chapterhouse. I winced again. He yelled twice more, then called down to me. ‘They’ve seen us. People are coming.’
AN HOUR LATER we stood before Maleverer’s desk in his office at the King’s Manor. On the way in we had seen a crowd of people standing round Oldroyd’s horse lying still on the ground. I recoiled at the sight of a wide stream of blood running across the yard; Maleverer’s orders had been carried out. Inside the manor, there was a smell of wood shavings. The sound of sawing came from outside Maleverer’s office, for elaborate works of decoration were going on in the manor house too, making it fit for the King. I told Maleverer our story. He listened with that hard, angry expression that seemed fixed on his face. A big hairy hand toyed with an inkwell as though he would crush it in his palm. A tall thin man in a silk lawyer’s robe and the coif of a serjeant at law at his elbow; he had been called in and introduced to me as Archbold, the King’s coroner, with jurisdiction to investigate all deaths on royal property.
Maleverer was silent a moment after I finished, running a finger along the flat edge of his beard. ‘So the man spoke against the King and Queen. Well, that’s common enough up here. There should have been more hanged last spring. You should hear some of the things our informers tell us.’