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‘Which is which?’ he asked quietly.

The soldier inclined his head at me. ‘This one is Shardlake, Sir Jacob. The other is Radwinter.’

Sir Jacob nodded. ‘Bring them both.’ He turned away. The soldiers surrounded us and we followed Sir Jacob across the green to the Tower. The ravens hopped away.

We were led up the main stairs of the White Tower, through the high vaulted inner hall where the men of the garrison sat playing cards and talking. They stopped to stare as we passed. Many of them would be newly returned from the Progress, perhaps some had even seen me at Fulford.

I had visited the Tower before, on official business, and my heart sank into my belly, with a lurch that made me feel sick, as I realized we were being led to the dungeons. Down a spiral staircase lit with torches, down and down, the walls glistening with damp as we passed below river level, to a door with a barred window at the bottom. I had come this way four years previously, on a mission to get information from a gaoler. I had had a glimpse then of what went on down here, yet had given it little attention for my mind had been on my mission. Sir Jacob banged on the door. There was a chink of keys, the door opened and we were led through. The door slammed behind us. Now I felt more helpless than ever, utterly cut off from the world above.

We were in a dimly lit space, stone walls and stone flags on the floor. It was cold and very damp. Heavy barred doors were set in the stone walls. In the centre of the floor, oddly domestic, was a desk with a fat beeswax candle on it, casting its yellow light over a strew of papers. The turnkey who had let us in, a fat man with short greasy hair, came and stood beside us. Sir Jacob took up a paper, studied it and nodded. ‘Ah, he’s ready, I see. Put Radwinter in number nine,’ he said quietly. ‘Chain him, then come back. Is Caffrey up there?’

‘Yes, Sir Jacob.’

‘Bring him back with you.’ He nodded at the soldiers. ‘You can go.’

They left, boots clattering noisily as they mounted the stairs. The turnkey let them out, then returned, took Radwin-ter’s arm and led him away. He was unresisting, he seemed utterly shocked. They disappeared round a corner at the far end, the keys at the fat man’s belt jingling. The official looked at me.

‘I am Sir Jacob Rawling, deputy warden of the Tower. In charge of this side of things.’ He gave a wintry smile as he waved his hand around.

‘Yes, sir.’ I shivered. The cold was eating through my soaked clothes into my bones.

‘It is sad when someone of your rank comes to this.’ There was something oddly schoolmasterly in the way he shook his head, as though I were a pupil about to be punished for some serious misdemeanour.

‘I do not know why I am arrested, sir,’ I ventured.

He studied me, pursing his lips, then said, ‘The matter touches the Queen.’ I blinked in surprise. So it was not about Blaybourne at all. But if so, why had I been taken, not Barak or Tamasin? I thought with horror, she’s been discovered. They will say I have concealed evidence of her adultery with Culpeper. Maleverer must have known all along.

‘Had you not enough to trouble you on the Progress?’ Sir Jacob gave me another schoolmasterly smile, as though reluctantly amused by something in a pupil’s misbehaviour, perhaps his stupidity in thinking he could get away with it. He studied me with interest. ‘Your name has been heard in this place before, only a little time ago. When we racked Bernard Locke. They wanted to find out his role in attempts on your life.’

He said the word ‘racked’ not with pleasure as Radwinter would have, nor with cold determination like Maleverer, but without any emphasis at all. And suddenly I was very afraid of him.

‘I know, sir.’

‘I know you know. Sir William mentioned it in his report accusing you.’

‘Then he is my accuser?’

‘Yes. Of concealing certain matters between Francis Dereham and the Queen.’

‘Dereham?’ I stared at him in amazement.

He narrowed his eyes. ‘Master Dereham is suspected of dalliance with Queen Catherine. It is believed you knew of this, and kept quiet.’

I remembered now. Rich had seen me come from the Queen’s tent at Howlme, he had seen Dereham stop and question me in the street at Hull. Dereham must have been under suspicion, perhaps watched by Maleverer. Rich had told Maleverer and they had taken me. With all I knew, they had arrested me for something of which I knew nothing. ‘Dereham?’ I asked again.

‘It would be better if you did not dissemble, Shardlake.’ Sir Jacob spoke reasonably, the schoolmaster trying to persuade the obstinate pupil. ‘I will show you what awaits you if you do.’ But he made no move, just stood there looking at me. That unnerved me more than ever. I shivered again.

There was a jingling of keys. The fat turnkey had returned with a stocky young man in a stained leather jerkin. My eyes narrowed as I peered at it in the gloom. Were those stains blood?

Sir Jacob nodded at them. ‘Search him.’

I flinched as the men seized me, ran rough hands over my clothes. They took my dagger, purse and Cranmer’s seal, and laid them on the table. Sir Jacob picked up the seal, looked at it and grunted.

‘Bring out Bernard Locke,’ he told them. ‘He’s to be put in the execution cell.’

The pair opened the door of one of the cells and went in. I waited to see Jennet Marlin’s fiancé step out, the man who had set her on her mission of murder.

They carried him out in a chair. He was unchained, and I realized he had been racked so badly he could not walk, his legs hung uselessly down as did one arm, while the other twitched and shook as it held the seat of the chair to try and keep his balance. ‘Here we go, matey,’ the fat turnkey said pleasantly as they carried him across the central area. I tried to look at Locke’s face but his head hung down, hidden by long rat’s tails of hair. He was making little whines of pain.

Sir Jacob called out. ‘One moment!’ The sweating turnkeys stopped. The deputy warden went and lifted Locke’s head by the hair. He whimpered. I saw the weeping sore of a burn running across his forehead. And I was surprised to see that he must always have been an ugly man: his features were heavy and lumpy, and his eyes, staring wildly round him now, were large and bulbous.

‘Well, Master Locke,’ Sir Jacob said. ‘Here you are, almost at the end of your road. I thought you should see Master Shardlake. Another lawyer come to grief, the man your fiancée tried to kill. Have you aught to say to him?’

Bernard Locke looked at me for a moment. Turning his head made him wince. ‘Nothing,’ he whispered.

‘Why did you do it?’ I asked him. ‘Why did you use that wretched woman so? Get her to take an innocent life, put her in such danger her own life was lost?’

Locke did not answer, only looked at me without interest as though he was already in another world.

‘You betrayed the conspirators, you betrayed her.’

Still he did not respond.

‘If you had succeeded, would you have married Jennet?’ For some reason I had to know.

He ran a swollen tongue across cracked lips. ‘Perhaps,’ he said in a high, croaking voice. ‘What does it matter now?’

Another question came into my mind. ‘Do you know a barrister of Lincoln’s Inn named Martin Dakin?’ I knew the question could not place Dakin in danger. Anything incriminating Locke knew about anyone, he would have told his torturers already.

A flicker of interest in the hollow eyes. ‘Ay. I knew Martin.’ Already he was talking of himself in the past tense, as though he were already dead. His mouth twitched in a half-smile. ‘He was not involved. He is safe.’

‘Who is this Dakin?’ Sir Jacob asked.

I sighed. ‘Only the nephew of an old lawyer I know. A barrister of Gray’s Inn. I was trying to help the old man find him.’

Sir Jacob frowned at me. ‘You have other things to worry about now, Master Shardlake, believe me.’ He nodded to the turnkeys and they bore Locke away, the fat one grunting with the effort. He had a hard time unlocking the door while trying to hold the chair, but he managed it and they carried Locke through. ‘We’ll have a job getting up these stairs,’ the younger one said.