Dark Fire

'Listen, Godfrey, I'll try to get into chambers when I can. Keep an eye on Skelly, try and get him to produce work that's at least presentable. I have another appointment now, but I will see you at the lunch. Thank you, my friend.'

I went out again, crossing the courtyard to Marchamount's rooms. Over by the Great Hall servants were bustling in and out, getting everything ready for the dinner. The four Inns of Court vied for the patronage of those near to the king and Norfolk's presence was something of a coup, for all that his politics would be unpopular with many members of Lincoln's Inn.

I knocked and entered Marchamount's outer office. It was impressive, books and documents lining the shelves and, even on Sunday, a clerk labouring busily over papers. He looked up enquiringly.

'Is the serjeant in?'

'He's very busy, sir. Has a big case starting in Common Pleas tomorrow.'

'Tell him it is Brother Shardlake, on Lord Cromwell's business.'

His eyes widened at that and he disappeared through a door. A moment later he was back and bowed me through.

Gabriel Marchamount, like many barristers, lived as well as worked in Lincoln's Inn. His receiving room was as opulent as any I had seen. Expensive wallpaper in bright reds and greens lined the walls. Marchamount sat in a high-backed chair that would not have shamed a bishop, behind a wide desk strewn with papers. His broad figure was encased in an expensive yellow doublet with a pea-green belly that emphasized his choleric colour; his thin reddish hair was combed carefully over his pate. A robe edged with fur lay on a cushion nearby together with his white serjeant's coif, the mark of his rank: the highest position a barrister can reach short of a judgeship. A silver goblet of wine stood at his elbow.

Marchamount was known as a man who lived and breathed the law and loved the status it brought him; since his admission to the Order of the Coif three years before his patrician manner and habits had expanded to the extent that they were the subject of mocking jokes about the Inn. It was said he hoped to rise further, to a judgeship. Though the gossips said his advancement owed much to his cultivation of contacts among the anti-reform party at the king's court, I knew his intelligence was not to be underrated.

He rose and greeted me with a smile and a small bow. I saw his dark eyes were sharp and wary.

'Brother Shardlake. Are you here for my lunch with the duke?' He smiled with false modesty. I had not realized he had arranged the meal. 'My lunch' was typical of him.

'I might look in.'

'How goes business?'

'Well enough, thank you, Serjeant.'

'Wine, Brother?'

'Thank you, it is a little early for me.'

He sat down again. 'I hear you are retained to advise in the Wentworth case. An unpleasant business. Not much unguentum auri there, I'd guess.'

I smiled tightly. 'No. A small fee. In fact, it is another killing I have called to see you about. Michael Gristwood and his brother have been brutally murdered.'

I watched carefully for his reaction, but he only nodded sadly and said, 'Yes, I know. A dreadful business.'

'How did you know, sir?' I asked sharply. 'This has been kept quiet on Lord Cromwell's orders.'

He spread his arms. 'His widow came to see me yesterday. Said you had told her the house was hers, asked for my help in getting it transferred into her name since I knew her husband.' His eyes narrowed. 'Is the Greek Fire formula gone?'

I paused; the words seemed to hang in the stuffy air for a moment. 'Yes, Serjeant. That is why Lord Cromwell wants the matter investigated quickly and secretly. She was quick off the mark,' I added. 'I wonder she didn't go to Bealknap. He was nearer her husband in station.'

'She has no money. Bealknap would turn her away in a second if she couldn't pay him, but she knew I do charitable work sometimes.' He gave a self-satisfied smile. 'I've long since stopped doing minor estate work myself, but I know a junior fellow who will help her.'

Yes, I thought, Marchamount was the sort to do charitable work in the hope it would bring him merit with God, in accordance with the old religion's tenets. He would enjoy having the old ways back, too, the rich ceremonial and sonorous Latin.

'Tell the barrister nothing about the circumstances,' I told him. 'Lord Cromwell doesn't want this news leaking.'

He bridled a little at my peremptory manner. 'I could work that out for myself. I said nothing of Greek Fire to Goodwife Gristwood. Of course, she merely said her husband and his brother had been murdered. Not that that is unusual in these times.' He paused. 'There is to be no inquest?'

'The matter is to stay in Lord Cromwell's hands. And I am instructed to talk to all who knew about Greek Fire. I have to ask you to tell me everything about your involvement, Serjeant.'