Lamentation

We said little more as we walked along St Peter’s Street and into Thames Street. To the south I could see the cranes on the wharves and the river beyond, white with sails. Over to the west the sun was setting. Barak never broke his stride; he had spent all his life in the city and knew every street and alley. Eventually he stopped. A respectable-looking tavern stood where Thames Street intersected with a lane of narrow, tumbledown houses that led down to the river, some of the buildings slanting at odd angles as they had settled, over the decades, into the Thames clay. A little way down the lane I saw a sign marking another, shabbier-looking tavern, painted with the red-and-white cross of St George. It was the Sign of the Flag mentioned in the note.

‘Needlepin Lane,’ Barak said. ‘Mostly cheap lodging houses. Let’s go in here to this tavern; sit by the window.’

The place was busy, mostly with shopkeepers and workers come for a drink at the end of the day. Barak got two mugs of beer and we took seats with a view of the lane; the shutters were wide open this hot evening, letting in the stifling dusty stink of the city. We had scarcely sat when Barak rose again. A solidly built man in a London constable’s red uniform, staff over his shoulder and lamp in hand, was walking by. Later he would patrol the streets to enforce the curfew. Barak leaned over. ‘Your purse. Quick!’

I handed it over. Barak darted outside and I saw him talking with the constable, their heads bent close. At one point the constable turned and stared at me for a moment, then he walked on down Thames Street. Barak returned to the tavern.

‘Right,’ he said, taking his stool. ‘I’ve squared him.’

‘I didn’t see money pass.’

‘He’s good at passing coins unseen. So am I. I told him we’re on official business about some stolen jewellery, and we’re meeting an informant at the house two doors down at nine. Asked him to be ready to come to the house with anyone else he can muster, if I shout.’

‘Well done.’ I knew nobody better at such tasks; Barak’s instincts were always extraordinary.

‘I asked him if he knew who lived there. He said one or two men go there occasionally, but mostly it’s empty. He thinks it might be where some gentleman takes a girl, though if so he hasn’t seen her. You’re four shillings poorer, but it’s worth it.’ He paused. ‘It could well be a house belonging to some courtier, where people meet for unauthorized business. Lord Cromwell had such places; I expect the Queen’s people are keeping that gaoler from the Tower in one.’ He fell silent as a young boy set a candle on our table; outside it was getting dark. Barak took a draught of beer, then stood again. ‘I’m going to take a quick walk up and down the street. See if there are any lights on in that house.’ He left again, returning a few minutes later. ‘The shutters are green, like the note said. They’re closed but I could see a glimmer of light between the slats on the ground floor.’ He raised his eyebrows and smiled. ‘Nothing to do now but wait till the church clocks strike curfew.’ Then he took a long gulp of beer.

‘Thank you,’ I said quietly. ‘I would not have thought of any of that.’

He nodded. ‘I quite enjoyed persuading the constable to back us up, spying out that house. And even that sword fight in the inn, if truth be told, for all it hurt my hand. Old habits die hard.’ He frowned suddenly. ‘But I’ve not the speed and energy I once had. I’ve a good wife, a good job, a child and another on the way.’ He stared into space a moment, then said, ‘Lord Cromwell pulled me out of the gutter when I was a boy. I enjoyed the work I did for him, too, the need for sharp wits and sometimes a sharp knife. But that’s a job for the young, and those with little to lose.’

I quoted a biblical verse that came to my mind: ‘When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things.’

‘Never had much chance for childish things.’ Barak took another swig of beer, and looked at me hard. ‘The old ways — I still love that excitement of having to move, think, watch, quickly, on your feet. I’ve realized that again tonight.’ He sat thinking, then looked at me and spoke quietly. ‘I passed my mother in the street, you know, a few months back.’

I stared at him. I knew that after the death of his father, Barak’s mother had quickly married another man, whom he detested; he had been out on the streets alone by the age of twelve. He said, ‘She was old, bent, carrying a pile of twigs for the fire. I don’t know what happened to him, maybe he’s dead, with luck.’

‘Did you speak to her?’