Lamentation (The Shardlake Series Book 6) by C. J. Sansom

do, my Lord.’ I knew, too, that many printers and booksellers were radicals, and that several had had their premises raided in recent months.
    ‘The printer was a man called Armistead Greening,’ Lord Parr continued. ‘His shop was one of those little sheds, with only a single printing press. He had been in trouble before for publishing radical literature; he was investigated in the spring but nothing was found against him. Recently he had been printing schoolbooks. Last Saturday evening he was working in his shop. Several of the local printers were at work nearby; they toil away until the last of the light, to make the most use of their presses. Greening had an apprentice, who left at nine.’
    ‘How do you know these details?’
    ‘From the apprentice, but mainly from his neighbour, who owns a larger print-shop next door. Geoffrey Okedene. At around nine, Master Okedene was closing down his shop when he heard a great commotion, shouts and cries for help, from Greening’s shed. He was a friend of Greening’s and went to investigate. The door was locked, but it was a flimsy thing; he put his shoulder to it and broke it open. He caught a glimpse of two men running through the other door, at the side – these print-shops get so hot, and full of vile smells from the ink and other concoctions they use, that even small ones have two doors. Master Okedene did not pursue them, for an attempt had been made to set Greening’s print-shop on fire. His stock of paper had been strewn around and set light to. Okedene was able to stamp it out – you may imagine that if such a place caught it would burn like a torch.’
    ‘Yes.’ I had seen these poorly erected wooden sheds that were built against the cathedral walls or in vacant plots nearby, and heard the loud rhythmic thumping that constantly resounded from them.
    ‘Only when he had put out the fire did Okedene see poor Greening lying on the earthen floor, his head beaten in. And, clutched in Greening’s hand, this . . .’ Lord Parr reached into a pocket in his robe and carefully extracted a small strip of expensive paper covered in neat writing and dotted with the brown stains of dried blood. He passed it to me. I read:
The Lamentation of a Sinner, Made by Queen Catherine, Bewailing the Ignorance of her Blind Life.
Most gentle and Christian reader, if matters should be rather confirmed by their reporters than the reports warranted by the matters, I must justly bewail our time, wherein evil deeds be well worded, and good acts evil turned. But since truth is, that things be not good for their praises, but praised for their goodness, I do not . . .
     
    There the page ended, torn off. I looked at the Queen. ‘This is your writing?’
    She nodded. ‘That is the opening of my book. Lamentation of a Sinner .’
    Lord Parr said, ‘Okedene read it and of course grasped its import from the heading. By God’s mercy he is a good reformer. He brought it personally to the palace and arranged for it to be delivered into my hands. I interviewed him at once. Only then did he call the coroner. He has told him all he saw, except, at my instruction, about this piece of paper. Fortunately, the coroner is a sympathizer with reform, and has promised that if anything comes to light he will inform me. And he has been very well paid,’ he added bluntly. ‘With the promise of more to come.’
    The Queen spoke then, an edge of desperation in her voice, ‘But he has discovered nothing, nothing. And so I suggested we come to you, Matthew. You are the only one whom I know outside the court who could carry out such an investigation. But only if you will. I know the terrible dangers—’
    ‘He has promised,’ Lord Parr said.
    I nodded. ‘I have.’
    ‘Then I thank you, Matthew, from the bottom of my heart.’
    I looked at the torn paper. ‘The obvious conclusion is that Greening was trying to keep the manuscript from the intruders, and whoever killed him snatched it out of his hands, but