A Burnable Book by Bruce Holsinger

precincts. Seeing me here would raise uncomfortable questions in Ralph Strode’s mind, and I needed him on my side.
    Two clerks, facing each other over a double-sided desk. Neither looked up.
    “Is Symkok about?”
    The one to the left raised his jaw slightly, eyes still on his work. “He’s in there.” The back room, which I’d visited more than once. It was a dark space despite the bright day, the shutters closed nearly to. I found Nicholas Symkok, chief clerk to the subcoroner, hunched over the end of a table, a ledger opened before him. A crooked finger followed a column downward. The curve of his back seemed part of the furniture, a bony arc some carpenter hadn’t thought to trim.
    Nick Symkok was my first. It still startles me to think of how natural it all seemed when it began. Just a few years after the great dying, half of London beneath the soil, the city abuzz with news of the Oxford riots. That summer I found myself performing occasional clerical work in the Exchequer under the chancellor’s remembrancer. Though I hardly needed the money, my father had promised my temporary services to the treasurer, to whom he owed a favor.
    It was during the Michaelmas audit when one of our counters came to me with a messy sheaf of returns from Warwick’s manors near Coventry. It seemed a sheriff had been drastically undercounting the number of tenants in his hundred, with the resulting decline in revenues from that part of the earl’s demesne. I received permission from the remembrancer to take a discreet trip out to the Midlands to investigate. A careful comparison with the original returns soon showed that nothing was amiss in the earl’s record keeping. The guilty party, I realized, had to be one of our own.
    A few days of digging back in Westminster turned up Nicholas Symkok, an auditor responsible for the embezzlement of nearly twenty pounds from the king’s treasury over the last several years. Not only that, but Symkok had been using these enormous sums to purchase the flesh of the boy choristers singing for a prominent chantry attached to St. Paul’s.
    When I confronted Symkok he melted in front of me, begging me to say nothing to the chancellor or the remembrancers—asking me to save his life. I agreed, on one condition. Symkok, I told him, would hereafter provide me any and all unusual information that came across his desk: the shady business of earls, the questionable holdings of barons, the conniving of knights. He was to digest all of it, slipping me anything of possible interest. I paid him, though just enough to keep him dangling on my hook. For several years after I left the Exchequer, Symkok was my main conduit, giving me my first clear look at the private lives of the lords of the realm.
    Those years taught me much about the peculiar arts of chantage, and it was from the steady flow of copied documents in Symkok’s hand that my small reserve of knowledge gradually expanded to encompass the vast store of information it would become. The arrangement seemed to crush Symkok, though, and he was never the same man. His ambitions stifled, he had spent the last twenty years floating through a series of clerical positions in the London and Westminster bureaucracies, all of them happily useful to my own purposes, if not to his career. At present he worked for the coroner of London, counting corpses.
    I watched him until he felt my presence. He turned slowly on his bench. His eyes widened. “Gower.”
    “Hello, Nick.”
    “What brings you here?”
    “Death, of course.”
    “Whose?”
    “A girl’s.”
    “Lots of dead girls in London.”
    “Not like this one.”
    “What’s her name?”
    “Medusa? Persephone?” I said wryly.
    “Name unknown, then?”
    “To me it is.”
    “And when did she die?”
    “A week ago, perhaps more.”
    “How?”
    “Clubbed, or stabbed,” I said. “I’m not sure.”
    “Murder, then.”
    “Yes.”
    “Where did she die?”
    “The Moorfields.”
    It was as if a