The clerk reappeared in the doorway. ‘Brother Philips would like a word, sir.’ He stood aside to let me enter, looking relieved to be passing me on.

Inside a room very like my own, a plump middle-aged barrister had risen from behind a desk. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes. He bowed, then looked at me with an expression of concern.

‘Brother Ralph Philips,’ he said. His accent revealed him as a man of the north.

‘Brother Matthew Shardlake, of Lincoln’s Inn.’

‘You are seeking Brother Martin Dakin?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do not think me impertinent, sir, but – might I ask your connection?’

‘I am a friend of his uncle, Brother Giles Wrenne of York. He fell out with his nephew years ago, and has come to London to put things right. I have been with the Progress in York. Brother Wrenne came back with me, he is at my house in Chancery Lane.’ I paused. ‘He is aged, and not well.’

‘Ah.’ Brother Philips sighed heavily.

‘What has happened?’ I asked, more sharply than I should. ‘Has he been taken for questioning about the northern conspiracy? I know there have been enquiries among the lawyers.’

He gave me a keen look. ‘Yes, they have been here. We have all been questioned.’ He sighed again. ‘But no one has anything to hide, and certainly not Brother Dakin.’ He smiled, a strange sad smile.

‘Then what?’

‘Martin Dakin is dead, sir. He died the winter before last, from a congestion of the lungs.’

‘Oh no,’ I breathed. ‘Oh no, that is too hard.’ All Giles’s efforts, all his hopes, the journey that had taken such a toll on him. All for nothing.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ Brother Philips came round his desk, looking concerned.

‘Yes. Forgive me. It was a shock. I had not expected…’ So that was what Locke had meant, in the Tower. Martin Dakin was safe because he was dead. And he had been using the past tense to refer to Dakin, not himself. I stifled a groan. Then a ray of hope struck me. ‘Had he a wife, any children?’

‘I fear not.’ Brother Philips shook his head. ‘He had no relatives I knew of, and I never heard mention of an uncle.’

‘They had fallen out.’ I looked at him. ‘So he had no one.’

‘Not that I know of. The Inn Treasurer took charge of his belongings when he died.’ He hesitated. ‘I should say, sir, Brother Dakin and I were not close.’

‘No.’

Brother Philips hesitated. ‘He was a very strong reformer, brother, and not many in these chambers are.’

‘But I thought he was an arch-conservative.’

‘He was once. But he was won over by the evangelical preaching at a local church.’ Brother Philips smiled sadly again. ‘Many who were hot for one side have turned and became equally hot for the other. It has happened much these last few years.’

‘Yes, it has.’

‘But Brother Dakin was a good lawyer, and an honest man.’

I nodded dumbly.

‘The Inn Treasurer would have made enquiries, seen to the disposition of his estate. If you enquire there…’

‘Yes. Yes, perhaps I should.’

‘Can I offer you some wine before you go, brother?’ He still looked concerned. ‘I see you have had a shock, perhaps you should sit down.’

‘No. No, I will go to the Treasurer. Thank you, brother, thank you for your help.’ I bowed and took my leave.

What an irony, I thought. A reformer, the last person to want any connections to the northern conspiracy.

THERE WAS A BENCH under a tree nearby. The wood was wet but I sat there nonetheless. Poor Wrenne, this would be a dreadful blow for him. I was glad, though, that I had come to Gray’s Inn; at least I could break the news gently to him, at home. I looked up as a big man in a lawyer’s robe passed by. Black beard, black hair. Surely it was Maleverer. Then the man’s features settled into those of a different, older man. He gave me a puzzled look and hurried inside.

A drop of water landing on my hand brought me back to myself. The rain again. I got up. The wretched manacle was chafing at my wrist still. I rubbed it and checked to make sure the thing was out of sight, then enquired of a passing clerk where the Treasurer’s rooms might be found. I made my way across to them, doused yet again by pelting rain.

The Treasurer was a tall, stooped man, suspicious of a barrister from another chambers come making enquiries. When I explained my mission, though, he became sympathetic and invited me into his comfortable rooms.

‘I am wary of all enquiries about members of the Inn these days,’ he told me.

‘Ah yes. The enquiries about the conspirators.’

‘Many barristers have been questioned in recent days. Robert Aske practised here, you know. God rot him and all these malcontents. Inns are for practising law, not conspiring against the King.’

He led me through into an office where an elderly man sat working through papers. ‘Brother Gibbs would have dealt with the matter. He is retired from practice, but helps me out.’

The old fellow rose and bowed, peering at me from behind thick-lensed spectacles. He looked almost as ancient as Brother Swann from Hull.

‘Brother Shardlake here is trying to trace relatives of a Brother Martin Dakin,’ the Treasurer told him. ‘He died the winter before last. He had no wife or children.’

The old man nodded sagely. ‘Ah yes, I remember. The Inn administered the estate. Yes, it is sad when a brother dies without family. But he did have a relative, as I recall.’

‘He did?’ I said eagerly. I thought, even some bastard child would be better than nothing.

The old man put a finger to his chin. ‘Yes, yes he had. I think so.’

I controlled my impatience as Brother Gibbs began ferreting through a pile of papers on a shelf.

‘I will leave you, sir,’ the Treasurer said.

‘Yes, yes, thank you. I am obliged.’

I turned to find Brother Gibbs holding up a packet of papers and smiling. ‘Here it is.’ He pulled out a will. ‘Martin Dakin, died the tenth of January 1540. At his request all his possessions were sold, and the proceeds, together with his savings – a goodly sum, I see -’ he scanned the will – ‘yes, he left fifty pounds to St Giles’ church in Cripplegate.’ He looked at me over his spectacles, disapproval on his face. ‘A very reforming church. Some say heretical.’

‘Yes, yes. And the rest?’

‘All to a single legatee.’

‘Who?’

‘See for yourself, sir.’

The old man handed me the will. I read the name of the legatee. My mouth fell open with shock.

‘This legatee claimed the property?’

‘Oh yes.’ The old man frowned. ‘All was done properly.’

‘I am sure it was.’

And now I knew, I knew it all. Who had knocked me out at St Mary’s, who had helped Broderick to die. And the identity of the one who now held the documents that could topple the throne.

Chapter Forty-seven

THE RAIN WAS lashing down harder than ever, and I had to bend my head to stop the water running from my cap into my eyes as I walked back up Chancery Lane. When I left the Treasurer’s office I had returned to Lincoln’s Inn and gone to the library. I had sat there for hours, thinking, puzzling, while the short November afternoon deepened to dusk and lamps were lit along the tables. In the end I believed I had worked it all out. And then there was nothing left but to go home.

It was quite dark as I walked down Chancery Lane with a heavy heart. Flickering squares of candlelight from house windows were reflected in puddles whose surfaces danced with raindrops. I pulled my coat tight about me, the wretched manacle digging into the raw wet skin of my wrist.

I stumbled through my front door, dripping onto the rush matting. Joan was crossing the hall; she turned to look at me, shading her lamp. ‘Master Shardlake! You are soaked, sir! What rain, I fear what may be happening out in that orchard. Let me find you some clean clothes -’