‘I will leave you, sir,’ the Treasurer said.
‘Yes, yes, thank you. I am obliged.’
I turned to find Brother Gibbs holding up a packet of papers and smiling. ‘Here it is.’ He pulled out a will. ‘Martin Dakin, died the tenth of January 1540. At his request all his possessions were sold, and the proceeds, together with his savings – a goodly sum, I see -’ he scanned the will – ‘yes, he left fifty pounds to St Giles’ church in Cripplegate.’ He looked at me over his spectacles, disapproval on his face. ‘A very reforming church. Some say heretical.’
‘Yes, yes. And the rest?’
‘All to a single legatee.’
‘Who?’
‘See for yourself, sir.’
The old man handed me the will. I read the name of the legatee. My mouth fell open with shock.
‘This legatee claimed the property?’
‘Oh yes.’ The old man frowned. ‘All was done properly.’
‘I am sure it was.’
And now I knew, I knew it all. Who had knocked me out at St Mary’s, who had helped Broderick to die. And the identity of the one who now held the documents that could topple the throne.
Chapter Forty-seven
THE RAIN WAS lashing down harder than ever, and I had to bend my head to stop the water running from my cap into my eyes as I walked back up Chancery Lane. When I left the Treasurer’s office I had returned to Lincoln’s Inn and gone to the library. I had sat there for hours, thinking, puzzling, while the short November afternoon deepened to dusk and lamps were lit along the tables. In the end I believed I had worked it all out. And then there was nothing left but to go home.
It was quite dark as I walked down Chancery Lane with a heavy heart. Flickering squares of candlelight from house windows were reflected in puddles whose surfaces danced with raindrops. I pulled my coat tight about me, the wretched manacle digging into the raw wet skin of my wrist.
I stumbled through my front door, dripping onto the rush matting. Joan was crossing the hall; she turned to look at me, shading her lamp. ‘Master Shardlake! You are soaked, sir! What rain, I fear what may be happening out in that orchard. Let me find you some clean clothes -’
‘No,’ I said, pulling off my sodden cap. I leaned against the door for a moment, breathing hard. ‘I am all right. Are Jack and Mistress Reedbourne in?’
‘Not yet, sir.’ She sniffed. ‘They said they would be back before dark, but I’ll warrant she’s made him find some warm tavern to cuddle in.’
‘Oh.’ I was taken aback; I had assumed they would have returned by now, that they would be here. I had been preparing what I would say.
‘Master Wrenne came down a little while ago,’ Joan said. ‘He asked for some food. I’ve taken him a pottage in the parlour.’
I hesitated. The sensible thing to do would be to go upstairs and change. Then I shivered, suddenly and violently.
‘Are you all right?’ Joan asked, her face full of concern.
‘Just – tired.’
‘There is a good fire lit in the parlour.’
‘I can dry myself there.’ I forced a smile. ‘And I am hungry. ‘Thank you, Joan.’
She looked at me doubtfully a moment longer, then went upstairs. I locked the front door; Barak had his own key and could let himself back in. I crossed to the parlour. I paused there, overcome with a weariness that seemed to drain what little energy I had left. Then I took a deep breath and opened the door.
Giles was sitting at the table, supping Joan’s good pottage. A large bowl steamed on the table. In the candlelight his face looked tired, seamed with deeper lines as his face grew slowly thinner. He looked up at me with concern.
‘Matthew! You look half drowned. You will catch an ague.’
‘The rain has come on heavy again.’
‘I know. Will it never end?’ He gestured to the black squares of the window, against which we could hear it pattering. ‘I think Barak and young Tamasin are still out in it.’
I went and stood with my back to the roaring fire, feeling it warm my legs.
‘Did you speak to them at Lincoln’s Inn?’ he asked. ‘Will they dig the trench?’
‘Yes, it took some argument but they promised.’
‘There is steam rising from your clothes. You should change. You look exhausted, you will catch a fever.’
‘I must eat before I do anything else.’
‘Here, have some pottage.’
I took a plate from the buffet, filled it from the bowl and sat opposite him. But after all I did not feel like eating. ‘Are you feeling better?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’ He smiled, that sad heavy smile. ‘It comes and goes, just as with my father. For now I feel almost my old self, except for…’ He patted the place where his lump grew, and grimaced. I nodded. ‘Is there any more news about the Queen?’ he asked.
‘She is taken.’
He shook his big head sadly. I looked at him. I needed Barak and Tamasin back, Barak at least, before I spoke. Yet somehow I could not hold back. ‘I took it on myself to walk to Gray’s Inn, Giles. I wanted to seek out Martin Dakin.’
Giles stopped with the spoon halfway to his mouth. ‘You should not have done that,’ he said slowly. ‘Without my permission.’
‘It was to help you.’
‘Did you find him?’
‘I found he died near two years ago.’
He laid down his spoon. ‘Dead?’ he whispered. He sat back in his chair. His shoulders slumped and his face sagged. ‘Martin is dead?’
And then I said quietly, ‘I think you know he is. I think you knew before I came to York. I remember you saying once a good lawyer needs to be a good actor. I think you have been acting since the day we met.’
He frowned, then looked outraged. ‘How can you say such a thing, Matthew? How -’
‘I will tell you. I went to Dakin’s old chambers. They told me he died from an illness two winters ago. Wifeless and childless. They said I should go to the Treasurer, who dealt with his estate. So I did, and found he had left everything to you. His money was sent to you in York, and you signed a receipt for it in March of 1540, eighteen months ago. I saw it.’
‘Some imposter -’
‘No. I saw the signature. It was yours; I saw it enough times when we were dealing with the petitions. Come, Giles,’ I added impatiently. ‘I have been a lawyer near twenty years. Do you think I would not know a forged hand?’
He stared at me, a fierce look in his eyes I had never seen before. ‘Matthew,’ he said, a tremor in his voice, ‘you are my good friend but you wound me. It is the strain of your time in the Tower. This is some imposter, someone got hold of the Inns’ letter and pretended to be me. I remember, I had a clerk then I had to dismiss for dishonesty. From a distance of two hundred miles it is easy to pretend to be someone you are not.’
‘To hide your true identity. Yes, you would know.’
He did not reply then, only sat very still, looking at me intently. He started to play with the big emerald ring on his finger. A drop of water ran down my neck, making me shiver. He was right, I risked a fever. The crackling of the fire and the hissing of the rain against the window seemed unnaturally loud. I thought I heard the outside door open, but it was only a creak somewhere in the house. Where were Barak and Tamasin?
‘I went from the Treasurer’s office to the Lincoln’s Inn library,’ I continued. ‘I have been there hours. Working it out.’
Still he did not speak.
‘You invented the story of wishing to reconcile with Martin Dakin to get me to help you to London. Was there ever a quarrel between you? There must have been,’ I answered myself, ‘for old Madge knew of it, though not that Martin had died and left you his estate.’
‘We were never reconciled,’ he said quietly then. ‘What I told you about our quarrel was true. Despite it he left me everything when he died. I was his only living relative, you see. Family. How important it is.’ He sighed, a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his big frame. ‘I did not tell Madge that Martin had died and left me everything, nor anyone else in York. I was too ashamed.’ He looked at me. ‘And yet that served me well; I could tell you he was still alive, no one else knew otherwise.’