I wondered if Greening’s three friends would also make for the Continent. Lord Parr should arrange for a watch to be kept at the docks, though I reflected gloomily that it might already be too late. I read the rest of Hugh’s letter:

I was in the counting-house by the wharves yesterday, and a man was pointed out to me, standing with some others looking at the ships. He had a long grey beard and dark robe and a clever, watchful face, set in a scornful expression. I was told it was John Bale himself, the writer of plays against the Pope and much else; if King Henry got hold of him he would go to the fire. The Inquisition dare not interfere too much in Antwerp because of the trade, for all the Netherlands are under Spanish dominion, but I am told Bale does not parade himself publicly too often. Perhaps he was arranging the export of more forbidden books to England. I was glad to see him turn and leave.

I put the letter down. I thought, John Bale, Bilious Bale. Indeed he was a great thorn in the side of Gardiner and his people. As well for him that he was safe abroad.

I went into the garden, with pen, ink and paper and a flagon of wine, and sat in the shade of the pavilion. The shadows were lengthening but the air was still warm, and it would have been a pleasure to close my eyes. But I must get my thoughts in order.

I began by writing a chronology of recent events, beginning with the Queen’s writing of the Lamentation during the winter. It had been in June, she said, that she had shown the completed manuscript to Archbishop Cranmer in her Privy Chamber, and argued with him when he said she should destroy it.

Then, on the 5th of July, came the first attack on Greening’s premises, witnessed by Elias. By two roughly dressed men, one with half an ear sliced off. Then, on the 6th, the Queen discovered the manuscript was missing, stolen while she was with the King, at some time between six and ten that evening. Nobody would have known in advance that the King would call for her, which implied that someone had been waiting for their chance, with a duplicate key ready. I shuddered at the thought of someone in the Queen’s household watching and waiting for an opportunity to betray her.

I turned my mind back to the key. The Queen had kept it round her neck at all times, so surely there had to be a duplicate. And that must have been made either by her locksmith, or somebody who had got hold of the original key before it was given to the Queen. Tomorrow’s visit to Baynard’s Castle would be important.