'You have business with French merchants?' I asked.

'They pay well. The French are having problems with the Custom House these days.'

'Not surprising as they threaten war on us.'

'That won't happen. The king knows the dangers, as the duke was saying at lunch.' He waved the subject away. 'In God's name, Brother, what is this about Michael Gristwood?'

'He was found dead yesterday morning at his home. His brother was murdered too. The formula is gone. You know what I am talking about.'

'My poor friend. This is very shocking.' His eyes darted all over the room, avoiding mine.

'Did you tell anyone apart from Serjeant Marchamount about the formula?' I asked.

He shook his head firmly. 'No, sir, I did not. When Michael brought me the papers he found at Bart's I said he should get them to Lord Cromwell.'

'For payment, though they were the king's by right. Was that your idea, or his?'

He hesitated, then looked at me directly. 'His. But I didn't quarrel with him about that, Brother. It was an opportunity, and only a fool passes those up. I offered to go to Marchamount for him.'

'For a fee?'

'Naturally.' He raised a hand. 'But – but Lord Cromwell accepted the position, and I was only a poor intermediary-'

'You are a shameless fellow, Bealknap.' I looked at the papers again. 'You could have taken them to the French, perhaps. They might have offered more to keep this secret out of Cromwell's hands.'

He jumped up, agitated. 'God's death, that would have been treason! D'ye think I'd take the risk of being gutted alive at Tyburn? You have to believe me.'

I said nothing. He sat down again, then laughed nervously. 'Besides, I thought the whole thing was nonsense. After I took Michael to Marchamount he paid me and I heard no more till just now.' He jabbed a finger at me. 'Don't try to involve me in this, Shardlake. I'd no part in it, on my oath!'

'When did Michael first bring you the papers?'

'In March.'

'He waited six months after finding them?'

'He said he and his brother the alchemist had been experimenting with the formula, making more, building some sort of apparatus to fire the stuff at ships. It made no sense to me.'

It was a similar tale to Marchamount's. 'Ah yes,' I said, 'the apparatus. Did they build it themselves, I wonder?'

Bealknap shrugged. 'I've no idea. Michael said only that it had been made. I tell you, I know nothing.'

'They said nothing of where the apparatus, or the formula, were kept?'

'No. I didn't even study their papers. Michael showed them to me, but half of them were in Greek and what I could read sounded like nonsense. You know some of those old monks were jesters? They'd forge documents to pass the time.'

'Is that what you thought those papers were? A jest, a forgery?'

'I didn't know. I introduced Michael to Marchamount and then I was glad to be shot of the matter.'

'Back to your compurgators, eh?'

'Back to business.'

'Very well.' I rose. 'That will do for now. You will tell no one Michael is dead, Bealknap, or that we have spoken, or you will answer to Lord Cromwell.'

'I've no wish to tell anyone, I don't want to be involved at all.'

'I am afraid you are.' I gave him a tight smile. 'I will see you at Westminster Hall on Tuesday for the case. By the way,' I added with apparent casualness, 'did you resolve the problem with your corrodiary?'

'Oh, yes.'

'Strange, I did not think friaries took on pensioners living in.'

'This one did,' he said with a glare. 'Ask Sir Richard Rich if you don't believe me.'

'Ah, yes, you mentioned his name at Augmentations. I did not know you had his patronage.'

'I don't,' he answered smoothly, 'but I knew the clerk had a meeting with Sir Richard Rich. That was why I urged him to hurry.'

I smiled and left him. I was sure I was right about corrodians, I would check. I frowned. There was something about Bealknap's response to my question about the corrodian that did not ring true. He had been frightened, but had seemed suddenly confident when he mentioned Richard Rich. Somehow that worried me very much.

Chapter Thirteen

I WALKED TIREDLY DOWN Chancery Lane to my house. Barak would be back by now. I had enjoyed the respite from his company. I would have liked nothing better than to rest, but I had said I would go to Goodwife Gristwood's that day. Another trip across London. But we had only eleven days left now. The words seemed to echo in time with my footsteps; el-e-ven days, el-e-ven days.

Barak had returned and was sitting in the garden, his feet up on a shady bench and a pot of beer beside him. 'Joan is looking after you, then,' I said.

'Like a prince.'

I sat down and poured myself a mug of beer. I saw he had found time to visit the barber's, for his cheeks were smooth; I was conscious of my own dark stubble and realized I should have had a shave before such an important dinner. Marchamount would have mentioned it had I come on less serious business.

'What luck with the lawyers?' Barak asked.

'They both say they just acted as middlemen. What about you? Did you find the librarian?'

'Ay.' Barak squinted against the afternoon sun. 'Funny little fellow. I found him saying Mass in a side chapel in his church.' He smiled wryly. 'He wasn't pleased to hear what I wanted, started trembling like a rabbit, but he'll meet us outside Barry's gatehouse at eight tomorrow morning. I said if he didn't turn up the earl would be after him.'

I took off my cap and fanned myself. 'Well, I suppose we had better be off to Wolf's Lane.'

Barak laughed. 'You look hot.'

'I am hot. I've been working while you've been resting your arse on my bench.' I stood up wearily. 'Let's get it done.'

We went round to the stables. Chancery had travelled further than he was used to the day before and was unhappy at being led into the sun again. He was old; it was time to think of putting him out to pasture. I mounted, nearly catching my robe in the saddle. I had kept it on as it lent me a certain gravitas that would be useful in dealing with Goodwife Gristwood, but it was a burden in this weather.

As we rode out, I went over what I should say. I must find out if she knew anything of the apparatus for projecting Greek Fire; there had been something, I was sure, she had been keeping back yesterday.

Barak interrupted my reflections. 'You lawyers,' he said, 'what's the mystery of your craft?'

'What do you mean?' I replied wearily, scenting mockery.

'All trades have their mysteries, the secrets their apprentices learn. The carpenter knows how to make a table that won't collapse, the astrologer how to divine a man's fate, but what mysteries do lawyers know? It's always seemed to me they know only how to mangle words for a penny.' He smiled at me insolently.

'You should try working at some of the legal problems the students have at the Inns. That would stop your mouth. England's law consists of detailed rules, developed over generations, that allow men to settle their disputes in an ordered way.'

'Seems more like a great thicket of words to keep men from justice. My master says the law of property's an ungodly jumble.' He gave me a keen look and I wondered if he was watching to see whether I would contradict Cromwell.

'Have you any experience with the law then, Barak?'

He looked ahead again. 'Oh, ay, my mother married an attorney after my father died. He was a fine sophister, flowing with words. No qualifications at all, though, like friend Gristwood. Made his money by tangling people up in legal actions he'd no knowledge how to solve.'

I grunted. 'The law's practitioners aren't perfect. The Inns are trying to control unqualified solicitors. And some of us try honourably to gain each man his right.' I knew my words sounded prosy even as I spoke them, but the sardonic smile that was Barak's only reply still irked me.