Lamentation

‘Then forget him,’ Lord Parr said resolutely. He turned to the Queen. She swallowed, gripping the arms of her chair. Her uncle put his hand on hers. ‘And now,’ he said, looking at me, ‘the Captain of the Guard, Master Mitchell, is waiting for you. With his prisoners. Question them. Alone, of course.’

Chapter Eighteen

The guardroom, I was told, was on the other side of the Presence Chamber. As I crossed the chamber, a plump middle-aged man, sweating in a furred robe, stepped into my path, doffed a feathered cap and gave me an exaggerated bow. ‘Good master lawyer,’ he said in honeyed tones, ‘I saw you come from the Queen’s Privy Chamber. I regret interrupting you, but I am an old friend of the late Lord Latimer, visiting London. My son, a goodly lad, wishes to serve at court-’

‘Such things are not my business,’ I answered curtly. I left him clutching his cap disconsolately and made my way quickly towards the door to which I had been directed. ‘Sent to Master Mitchell from Lord Parr,’ I said to the yeoman standing with his halberd outside. He opened the door and led me into a small anteroom, where two black-robed guards sat playing dice. He crossed the room to another door and knocked. A deep voice called, ‘Come in.’ The guard bowed and I entered a cramped office.

A strongly built, fair-haired man in a black robe sat behind a desk, the Queen’s badge set on his cap. My heart fell when he looked up; I could tell from his sombre expression that he had no good news.

‘Serjeant Shardlake?’ He waved a hand to a chair. ‘Please sit. I am David Mitchell, Head of the Queen’s Guard.’

‘God give you good morrow. I believe Lord Parr has explained that I wish to question Michael Leeman, who was on duty the night the Queen’s b-, I mean, ring — was stolen.’ I cursed myself. I had nearly said ‘book’. That one word, uttered to the wrong person, could bring everything crashing down.

Mitchell, for all that he was a big man, looked uncomfortable, somehow shrunken inside his uniform. He spoke quietly. ‘I have Zachary Gawger in custody here. But I am afraid we do not have Michael Leeman.’

I sat bolt upright. ‘What?’

Mitchell coughed awkwardly. ‘I checked the rotas yesterday afternoon, when Lord Parr asked me to. Gawger and Leeman were both on the evening shift on the sixth of July, and it was Leeman that was assigned to stand guard at the door of the Queen’s Privy Chamber. Yet according to Mary Odell it had actually been Gawger. Gawger was on duty last night and I had him immediately placed in custody. Leeman was supposed to be on duty at six, but he never arrived and when I sent for him, his chamber in the guards’ lodgings was empty. His possessions had gone too.’

I closed my eyes. ‘How did this happen?’

It was strange to see the Guard Captain, a military man of considerable authority, squirm in his chair. ‘Apparently one of the other soldiers had seen Gawger taken into custody. He went to spread the news, and apparently Leeman was in the wardroom, heard the gossip. I was not quick enough. The sergeant I sent to arrest him must have arrived minutes after he left.’ He looked at me. ‘Lord Parr shall have my resignation this morning.’

‘Is there any indication where Leeman may have gone?’

‘He was checked out of the palace at eight last night. He said he was going into the city for the evening; he often did, it was not remarked upon, though the guard on duty noted he was carrying a large bag. Containing the Queen’s lost ring, no doubt,’ he added bitterly.

I stared up at the ceiling. A fourth man disappeared now. I turned back to Mitchell. There was no point in being angry with him. I little doubted Lord Parr would accept his resignation.

I said, ‘I think the best thing will be for Gawger to tell me all he knows.’

‘Yes.’ He nodded at a door to the side of the office. ‘He is in there. Christ’s mother!’ he spat in sudden anger. ‘It will be his last morning at Whitehall; tonight he will be in the Fleet Prison, the rogue.’

I looked at him. ‘That is for Lord Parr to decide.’

Mitchell got up slowly, opened the door, and dragged a young man into the office. He was dressed only in undershirt and hose, his brown hair and short beard were bedraggled and there was a bruise on his cheek. He was tall and well-built, like all the guards, but he made a sorry figure now. Mitchell thrust him against the wall. Gawger sagged, looking at me fearfully.

‘Tell the Queen’s investigator all you told me,’ Mitchell said. ‘I shall be waiting outside.’ He looked at the young man with angry disgust, then turned to me. ‘I should tell you, Master Shardlake, that during the twelvemonth Gawger has worked here I have had cause to discipline him for drunkenness and gambling. He is one of those young fools from the country whose head has been turned by the court. I was already thinking of dismissing him. Would that I had.’ He glared at Gawger. ‘Spit out the whole story, churl!’