Lamentation by C J Sansom

Author:C J Sansom [Sansom, C. J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780230761292
Publisher: Pan Macmillan UK

AT NINE THE CHURCH BELL sounding through the deepening dusk signalled curfew, and the tavern emptied. We went outside. I saw the constable on the corner, his lamp lit. A large, younger man stood beside him. ‘Just about to start my patrol, sir,’ he said meaningfully to Barak, who nodded. We left them and walked down Needlepin Lane as far as the Sign of the Flag, where again patrons were dispersing for the night. They were a younger, rougher crowd, several apprentices among them. Barak nodded at a doorway just beyond. ‘I’ll wait there,’ he said. ‘Just out of sight.’

I took a deep breath. ‘Twenty minutes.’

‘I’ll count them off. Good luck.’

‘Thank you.’ I walked on, my legs trembling slightly. I passed a house where a ragged family could be seen through open shutters, eating a late supper by the light of a cheap candle; the next house was the one with the green shutters. Like Barak, I could see a light through the closed slats. Looking up at the upper storey, I glimpsed a faint light there too; someone was watching the street. But they could not have seen Barak from that angle.

I knocked at the wooden door. Immediately I heard heavy footsteps within. The door opened and a short, heavyset man in a stained shirt stared at me. He had a candle in one hand, the other held over the dagger at his waist. Elias’s descriptions of the men who had made the first attempt to break into Greening’s shop had been vague, but this could have been one of them. He was in his late twenties and under bushy black hair his face was square, craggy, with an angry expression that spoke of temper.

‘I am Master Shardlake,’ I said. ‘I received the note.’

He nodded curtly and stepped aside. I entered a room with rushes on the floor, the only furniture a trestle table bearing a large sconce of candles, with stools around. A rickety staircase led to the upper floor. On one of the stools sat Nicholas, his hands bound behind him and a gag in his mouth. He had a black eye, crusted blood on the gag and in his matted red hair. Behind him stood another young man; tall, in gentlemanly clothing – a good green doublet, with embroidery at the sleeves and neck of his shirt. He had keen, foxy features and a neatly trimmed fair beard. The outer half of his left ear was missing; at some point it had been sliced clean off, leaving only shiny scar tissue. He held a sword to Nicholas’s throat; the boy stared at me with frantic eyes.

The man who had let me in closed the door. ‘No sign of anyone else, Gower?’ his companion with the damaged ear asked in cultivated tones.

‘No, Master Stice. And he’s watching above.’ He cocked his head towards the staircase.

The other man nodded, his sword still held to Nicholas’s throat. I thought, they’ve let me know both their names; that doesn’t bode well for us.

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