Dark Fire

The chamber was large and well lit, running the whole length of the house. There was an odd, sulphurous smell in the air. I saw the ceiling's large beams were painted with Latin texts. 'Aureo hamo piscari,' I read. To fish with a golden hook.

No one would fish here again. A man in a stained alchemist's robe lay sprawled on his back over an upturned bench amid a chaos of broken glass pipes and retorts. His face had been completely smashed in; one blue eyeball glared at me from the hideous pulpy mess. I felt my stomach heave and turned quickly to study the rest of the room.

The whole workshop was in chaos, more overturned benches, broken glass everywhere. Next to a large fireplace lay the remains of a large iron-bound chest. It was little more than a heap of broken spars now, the metal bands smashed right through. Whoever had wielded the axe here – and everything pointed to an axe – must have had unusual strength.

Beside the chest Michael Gristwood lay on his back, his body half-covered by a blood-soaked chart of the astral planes that had fallen from the wall. His head was almost severed from his neck; a great spray of arterial blood had stained the floor and even the walls. I blenched again.

'That the lawyer?' Barak asked.

'Ay.' Michael's eyes and mouth were wide open in a last scream of astonished terror.

'Well, he won't be needing Lord Cromwell's bag of gold,' Barak said. I frowned. He shrugged. 'Well, he won't, will he? Come on, let's go back downstairs.'

With a last glance at the butchered remains, I followed him down to the kitchen. Susan seemed to have recovered herself somewhat and was boiling a pan of water on the filthy range. Goodwife Gristwood still sat with her hands clenched.

'Anyone else live here, Susan?' Barak asked.

'No, sir.'

'Is there anyone that could come and sit with you?' I asked Goodwife Gristwood. 'Any other relatives?' Again a momentary sharpness came into her face, then she answered, 'No.'

'Right,' Barak said bluntly. 'I'm going to the earl. He must say what's to be done here.'

'The constable should be told-'

'Pox on the constable. I'm going to the earl now.' He pointed at the women. 'Stay here with them, make sure they don't leave.'

Susan looked up anxiously. 'Do you mean Lord Cromwell, sir? But, sir – but we've done nothing.' Her voice rose in fear.

'Do not worry, Susan,' I said gently. 'He must be told. He-' I hesitated.

Goodwife Gristwood spoke, her voice cold and hard. 'My husband and Sepultus were working for him, Susan. I know that much, I told them they were fools, that he's dangerous. But Michael would never listen to me.' She fixed us with pale blue eyes that were suddenly full of anger. 'Now see what's become of him and Sepultus. The fools.'

'God's bones, woman,' Barak burst out. 'Your husband's lying slain in his gore upstairs. Is that all you have to say about him?' I looked at him in surprise, then realized that under his bravado he too was shocked by what we had seen. Goodwife Gristwood merely smiled bitterly and turned her head away.

'Stay here,' Barak told me again. 'I'll be back soon.' He turned and left the kitchen. Susan gave me a scared look; Goodwife Gristwood had retreated into herself.

'It's all right, Susan,' I said with an attempt at a smile. 'You're not in any trouble. There may be a few questions for you, that's all.' She still looked frightened: that was the effect Cromwell's name had on most people. I set my teeth. What in God's name had I got involved in? And who was Barak to give me orders?

I crossed to the window and looked out at the yard, surprised to see that both the flagstones and the high walls were stained black. 'Has there been a fire here?' I asked Susan.

'Master Sepultus did experiments out there sometimes, sir. Terrible bangs and hissings there were.' She crossed herself. 'I was glad he wouldn't let me see.'

Goodwife Gristwood spoke again. 'Yes, we were kept out of our own kitchen when he and my husband were at their foolery.'

I looked again at the scorch marks. 'Did they go out there often?'

'Only recently, sir,' Susan said. She turned to her mistress. 'I'll make an infusion, madam, it might ease us. Would you like some, sir? I have some marigolds-'

'No, thank you.'

We sat together in silence for a while. My mind was racing. It struck me that the formula might still be in the workshop, perhaps even with some samples of this Greek Fire. Now was a chance to look before the room was disturbed further, though I shrank from returning there. I bade the women stay in the kitchen and mounted the stairs again.

I stood in the doorway for a moment, steeling myself to look again at those terrible carcasses. Poor Michael had been in his mid-thirties, I recalled, younger than me. The afternoon sun was shining into the room, a sunbeam illuminating his dead face. I remembered that dinner in Lincoln's Inn Hall, how I had thought he had the questing, nosy look of an amiable rodent. I turned away from his look of terror.