'Can you see Rich?' I asked.

'No, there's too many folk. He's likely near the front. Come on.' He began jostling his way through the crowd, ignoring murmurs of protest, and I followed in his wake. There were several hundred people come to see the great archbishop, who together with his friend Cromwell had supervised all the religious changes since the break with Rome.

We reached the front, where robed merchants and courtiers stood with their heads lifted to the speaker. Even Barak dared not barge his way in among these people. He stood on tiptoe, looking out for Rich. I studied Cranmer, for I had never seen him before. He was surprisingly unimpressive, short and stocky with a long oval face and large brown eyes that seemed fuller of sadness than authority. A copy of the English Bible lay before him on the lectern. He touched the edges lovingly as he preached.

'God's Word,' he proclaimed in a ringing voice. 'All one needs to understand it is to be able to read and write, nay, even to listen may be enough. And thus one has access to the word of God himself direct, with no priest, no Latin mummery, to stand between. As it is said in Proverbs, chapter thirty: "Every word of God is pure, he is a shield to them that trust him-

It was strong reformist stuff; if the conservative Bishop Sampson had been preaching this week as planned, the emphasis would have been on obedience and tradition. Sampson, like Cranmer, would have had a stock of quotes culled from the vastness of the Bible to back his own position; I had heard some printers were even producing indexes of quotations for use in argument. I thought of Elizabeth's patient study, which had turned into fanatic rage against God, and turned away. Where is my own faith? I thought. Where did it go? How did it slip away?

'There he is,' Barak whispered in my ear. He began weaving through the crowd again, excusing himself politely. So he can be polite when he wants, I thought, as I followed him. At the very front, a small group of retainers round them, stood two richly robed figures; Richard Rich and Thomas Audley, the lord chancellor. Rich's handsome face was composed into a bland expression; it was impossible to tell if he approved of the sermon or not. He would be hedging his bets, for if Cromwell fell Cranmer would go too, probably to the fire. I saw Audley lean close and make a comment to Rich, smiling sarcastically, but Rich only nodded expressionlessly.

Barak took the earl's seal from his pocket and handed it to me. 'Here, you take this. It'll get you past those retainers.' I nodded. My heart was beating fast and I took a moment to compose myself before going over to the two privy councillors. One of the retainers turned, alert, as I approached, his hand going to his sword hilt. I showed him the seal.

'I need to speak to Sir Richard urgently. On Lord Cromwell's business.'

Rich had seen me. A frown crossed his face for a moment, then he smiled sardonically and stepped towards me.

'Well, Brother Shardlake again. God's death, you follow me everywhere. I thought I had settled our business when I spoke to the earl.'

'This is another matter, Sir Richard. Another matter of the earl's I need to discuss with you.'

He looked at me curiously. 'Well?'

'May we go somewhere a little quieter?'

He gathered his robe around him. With a sign to his retainers to stay where they were, he waved an arm to indicate I should lead the way through the crowd. I led him across to the far wall, out of earshot of the preaching. Barak followed, keeping at a little distance.

'Well?' Rich asked again.

I took the list from my robe. 'I need to know, Sir Richard, which of these cases are the ones you persuaded my clients to take away from me.'

He eyed me sharply. Those cold grey eyes were as empty of feeling as the sea. 'What has that to do with the earl?'

'I can only tell you he has an interest in one of the matters.'

'Which?' he asked sharply.

'I may not say.'

He tightened his hard mouth. 'One day, Shardlake…' he said quietly. He snatched the list and ran his eyes down it. 'The first, second, fourth and fifth,' he said. 'Not the third, sixth or seventh.'

The third was the warehouse. I studied his face intently, but could read nothing. Surely he would have paused, or blinked, if he had recognized Salt Wharf.

He thrust the list back at me. 'Well, is that alb'

'It is. Thank you, Sir Richard.'

'God's death,' he said with a mocking laugh, 'how you stare at one. And now, if I may, I shall return to the archbishop's sermon.' He turned away without a bow, shoving his way back through the crowd. Barak appeared at my side.

'What did he say?'

'He said the warehouse wasn't one of the ones he'd had taken.'

'D'you believe him?'

'He didn't pause for a second as he read the list. But he's so clever.' I was seized by uncertainty. 'I don't know. I don't know.'

But Barak did not reply. He was looking down the hall. Then he turned slowly and said to me quietly, 'Wright's here, I saw him. He's dodged behind that pillar. I don't think he saw me looking. He's watching us.'

Instinctively I backed against the wall. 'What's he doing here?'

'I don't know. Maybe he's after us again.'

'Maybe he's here with Rich. Can you see Toky?'

'No.' Barak's face set. 'This is our chance to catch him. Have you your dagger?'

I put a hand to my belt. 'These days, always.'

'Then will you help me?'

I nodded, though my heart raced at the thought of facing that monstrous creature again. It was only hours ago that he had struck Marchamount down. I tried not to look at the pillars. 'Is he armed?'

'He's a sword at his belt. Even he wouldn't bring an axe into St Paul's.' Barak spoke quickly and quietly, a casual smile on his face. 'We'll walk down the nave as though nothing is the matter. When we reach that pillar I'll rush round to one side. You go the other way and cut him off.' He looked at me intently. 'Can you do it?'

I nodded again. Barak began to move down St Paul's Walk, his stance casual. On the far side of the cathedral Cranmer's voice could be heard still rising and falling, a distant noise.

We reached the pillar; then, fast as a cat, Barak unsheathed his sword and leaped round the side. I heard a sharp ring of metal on metal; Wright must have had his own sword drawn already. He had been waiting there to kill us.

I ran round the other side of the pillar to see him and Barak with swords raised against each other, circling, Wright moving quickly and fluidly for such a big man. All around people stopped and flattened themselves against the wall. A woman screamed.

I drew my dagger. Wright had not seen me yet. If I could stab him in the arm or leg, disable him, we should have him. I had never attacked a man in cold blood before but my brain was clear, every nerve alert, my fear gone. I stepped forward. Wright heard me and turned, even as he parried a thrust from Barak. His expression was as it had been at the priory: brutish, inhuman, though intent on escape now, not murder.

He bounded to one side and ran down the nave, his sword flashing in the light from the stained-glass windows. 'Shit!' Barak said. 'Come on.' He ran after Wright and I followed, as fast as I could, down St Paul's Walk. Wright had paused, his way was blocked by a large family party heading for the door to the roof. Even if he slashed his way through them, Barak would have time to reach him and strike him down.

Wright turned and ran for the door. An elderly couple had just reached the bottom of the stairs; the woman yelled as Wright thrust her aside and began running up, Barak at his heels. I ran after them, my robe billowing around me. By the time I neared the top of the staircase I could scarcely breathe, my throat was burning as it had after the fire and for a second I tasted smoke. I saw the open door to the roof ahead, a rectangle of sky.