A sardonic smile flickered briefly across Mortimus’s face. ‘Did I? Forgive me. Ye’re safe now, good Doctor, Lord Cromwell has sent an emissary, a new commissioner.’
‘Dr Goodhaps?’ I asked. ‘Commissioner Matthew Shard-lake. I have been sent in reply to your letter. I come from Lord Cromwell.’
The old man stared a moment, then opened the door, admitting us to a bedroom. It was well appointed, with a curtained four-poster bed, fat cushions on the floor and a window overlooking the busy courtyard. A pile of books lay on the floor, a tray containing a pitcher of wine and pewter cups balanced on top. A log fire burned in the grate and Mark and I made for it at once, for we were both chilled to the bone. I turned to the prior, who stood in the doorway, eyeing us watchfully.
‘Thank you, Brother. Perhaps you could inform me when the abbot returns.’ He bowed and closed the door behind him.
‘Lock the door, in Our Saviour’s name,’ the old man squeaked, wringing his hands. He made a sorry sight with his white hair disarrayed and his black cleric’s robe creased and stained. From his breath I gathered that he had already sampled the wine.
‘The letter arrived? Thank the Lord! I feared it would be intercepted. How many of you are there?’
‘Only we two. May I sit?’ I asked, lowering myself carefully onto the cushions. As they took my weight the relief to my back was wonderful. Master Goodhaps noticed my disability for the first time, then looked at Mark, who was unbuckling his heavy sword.
‘The boy, he’s a swordsman? He can protect us?’
‘If need be. Are we likely to need protecting?’
‘In this place, sir, after what happened – we are surrounded by enemies, Master Shardlake—’
I saw he was terrified, and smiled reassuringly. A nervous witness, like a nervous horse, needs to be soothed along.
‘Calm yourself, sir. Now, we are tired and would be grateful for a little of that wine while you tell us exactly what has happened here.’
‘Oh sir, by Our Lady, the blood . . .’
I raised my hand. ‘Start at the beginning, from your arrival.’
He poured us wine and sat down on the bed, running his fingers through his shock of white hair.
‘I did not want to come here,’ he sighed. ‘I have laboured hard in the vineyard at Cambridge, working for Reform since the start, and I am too old for assignments like this. But Robin Singleton was my student once, and he asked me to help him try for the surrender of this pestiferous house. He needed a canon lawyer, you see. I could not refuse a summons from the vicar general,’ he added resentfully.
‘That is difficult,’ I agreed. ‘So you arrived here what, a week ago?’
‘Yes. It was a hard ride.’
‘How did the negotiations proceed?’
‘Badly, sir, as I knew they would. Singleton went blustering in, saying this was a decayed and sinful house and they would be well advised to take the pensions he offered and surrender. But Abbot Fabian wasn’t interested; he loves his life here too much. Playing the country squire, lording it over the stewards and reeves. He’s only the local ship chandler’s son, you know.’ Goodhaps drained his cup and poured himself another. I could not blame the helpless old noddle, all alone here, for seeking succour in his pitcher.
‘He’s clever, Abbot Fabian. He knew there would be no more forced closures, not after the northern rebellion. The commissioner told me to find something in my legal books to threaten him with. I told him he was wasting his time, but Robin Singleton was never any good as a scholar; he made his way by bluster. God rest him,’ he added, though as a good reformer he did not cross himself.
‘What you say is true enough,’ I agreed, ‘unless one can find other breaches of the law. Sodomy was spoken of, I hear, and theft. Capital offences both.’
Goodhaps sighed. ‘For once Lord Cromwell has the wrong notion. The local Justice is a good reformer but his reports of land sales at undervalue don’t hold water. There is no evidence of anything improper in the accounts.’
‘And the talk of vice?’
‘Nothing. The abbot insists they have all reformed since the visitation. The last prior encouraged those vile practices, but he was removed together with a couple of the worst offenders, and that Scots brute put in.’
I emptied my cup, but forbore to ask for more. I was bone-tired, and the wine and the warmth from the fire made me want to lie down and sleep, but I needed a clear head for some hours yet.
‘How do you find the brothers?’
He shrugged. ‘Like them all. Lazy and content. They play cards and hunt – you’ll have seen the place is crawling with dogs – and skimp the services, but they observe the injunctions, have sermons in English, and don’t have bawdy women walking around the place. That red-faced prior’s a disciplinarian. He makes himself out a supporter of Lord Cromwell’s injunctions, but I trust none of them. The senior monks are a smooth, clever lot but under the surface they’re all full of the old heresies. They keep that to themselves, though. Except that Carthusian cripple, of course, and he’s not part of the community.’
‘Ah yes, Brother Jerome. We encountered him.’
‘Do you not know who he is?’
‘No.’
‘A relative of Queen Jane, God rest her. He refused the oath, but to have him executed like the other Carthusians would have been an embarrassment. They tortured him into swearing, and then hid him away down here as a pensioner – another relative is a big landowner hereabouts. I would have thought Lord Cromwell’s office would have known he was here.’
I inclined my head. ‘Papers get lost, I suppose, even in his office.’
‘The other monks don’t like him because he insults them, calls them soft and lazy. He’s not allowed to leave the precincts.’
‘No doubt Commissioner Singleton spoke to many of the monks to see what he could uncover. Some of those involved in the sodomy scandal would still be here?’
‘The tall one with wild fair hair perhaps?’ Mark interjected.
Goodhaps shrugged. ‘Oh, him. Brother Gabriel, the sacrist. Yes, he was one. Looks quite normal, doesn’t he? Big and tall. He has a wild look about him sometimes, though. Commissioner Singleton pressed them, but they all say they are as pure as angels nowadays. He got me to do some interviews, question some of them about the detail of their lives – though I’m a scholar, I’m not trained for that sort of thing.’
‘I gather Commissioner Singleton did not make himself popular? I knew him, by the way. He had a fierce manner.’
‘Yes, his brusque ways never made him friends, not that he cared.’
‘Tell me how he died.’
The old man hunched his shoulders and seemed to shrink into himself.
‘He had given up trying to pressurize the monks. He set me to listing all the ways a monastery may break the canon law – scraping the bottom of the barrel. He spent most of his time looking through the accounts and the archives. He was getting anxious, he needed something for Lord Cromwell. I didn’t see him much the last couple of days, he was busy going through the bursar’s accounts.’
‘What was he looking for?’
‘Any trouble he could find. As I said, he was scraping the bottom of the barrel. But he has some experience of these new Italian accounts, where everything goes in twice.’
‘Yes, double-entry. He knew his accounts then, if not much law?’
‘Yes.’ He sighed. ‘That last night we had supper on our own as usual. Singleton appeared in a more cheerful mood. He said he was going to his room to look at some new book he’d prised out of the bursar. The bursar himself was away that night – the night it happened.’
‘Would the bursar be a fat little man with black eyes? We saw someone like that in the courtyard, arguing about money.’
‘That’s him. Brother Edwig. Arguing with the sacrist about his building schemes, I daresay. I like Brother Edwig, he’s a practical man. Doesn’t like spending money. We could do with someone like him in my college. Wh
en it comes to the day-to-day running of the monastery, Prior Mortimus and Brother Edwig have control between them and they run tight ships. ’ He took another draught of wine.
‘What happened next?’
‘I worked for an hour, then said my prayers and went to bed.’
‘And slept?’
‘Yes. I woke suddenly at about five. There was a commotion outside, then a great bang on the door – just like the prior made just now.’ He shuddered. ‘The abbot and a dozen monks were outside. The abbot looked shocked, startled out of his wits. He told me the commissioner was dead, someone had killed him, I must come at once.
‘I dressed and went down with them. It was all so confused, everyone was babbling about locked doors and blood, and I heard someone say it was God’s vengeance. They found torches and we went through the monks’ quarters to the kitchens. It was so cold, all those endless dark passageways, monks and servants standing around in little huddles looking scared. And then they opened the door to the kitchen. Dear God.’ To my surprise, he quickly crossed himself.
‘There was this smell of –’ he gave a fractured laugh – ‘a butcher’s shop. The room was full of candles, they’d put them on the long tables, the food cupboards, everywhere. I stood in something, and the prior pulled me to one side. When I lifted my foot it was sticky. There was a great pool of dark liquid on the floor, I didn’t know what it was.
‘Then I saw Robin Singleton lying in the middle of it on his stomach, his robe all smeared. I knew there was something wrong, but my eyes could make no sense of it at first. Then I realized he had no head. I stared round and then I saw it, his head, lying under the butter churn glaring up at me. It was only then I realized the pool was blood.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Dear God, I was so frightened.’ He opened them again, emptied his cup and reached once more for the bottle, but I covered it with my hand.
‘Enough for now, Dr Goodhaps,’ I said gently. ‘Go on.’
Tears came into his eyes. ‘I thought they’d killed him, I thought it was an execution and I was next. I looked at their faces, looked to see which one was carrying an axe. They all looked so grim. That Carthusian was there, smiling horribly, and he called out “Vengeance is mine, saieth the Lord.” ’
‘He said that, did he?’
‘Yes. The abbot snapped, “Be quiet,” at him, and came over to me. “Master Goodhaps,” he said, “you must tell us what to do,” and then I realized they were all as frightened as I.’
‘Might I say something?’ Mark ventured. I nodded.
‘That Carthusian couldn’t have struck someone’s head off. It would take strength and balance.’
‘Yes, it would,’ I nodded. ‘You’re quite right.’ I returned to the old man. ‘What did you say to the abbot?’
‘He said we should consult the civil authorities, but I knew Master Cromwell should be told first. I knew there would be political implications. The abbot said that the gatekeeper, old Bugge, had reported meeting Singleton on his night rounds not an hour before. He told Bugge he was on his way to meet one of the monks.’
‘At that time? Did he say whom?’
‘No. Singleton sent him away with a flea in his ear apparently.’
‘I see. What then?’
‘I ordered all the monks to strict silence. I said no letters should leave this place without my approval, and sent my letter out via the village postboy.’
‘You did well, Master Goodhaps, your thinking was quite right.’
‘Thank you.’ He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. ‘I was sore afraid, sir. I came back here and here I have stayed. I am sorry, Master Shardlake, this has unmanned me. I should have made enquiries, but – I am only a scholar.’
‘Well, we are here now. Tell me, who found the body?’
‘The infirmarian, Brother Guy. That dark monk.’ He shuddered. ‘He said there was an old brother sick in the infirmary and he came to get some milk from the kitchen. He has a key. He unlocked the outer door then went up the little hall to the kitchen. When he opened the door and stepped into the pool of blood he raised the alarm.’
‘So the kitchen is normally locked at night?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, to stop the monks and servants helping themselves. The monks think of nothing but stuffing their bellies, you’ll see how fat most of them are.’
‘So the murderer had a key. Like the meeting the gatekeeper reported, that points to someone from inside the monastery. But you said in your letter that the church was desecrated, a relic stolen?’
‘Yes. We were all still standing in the kitchen when one of the monks brought news that—’ he swallowed, ‘that a cock had been sacrificed on the church altar. Later they found the relic of the Penitent Thief stolen too. The monks are saying some outsider came in to desecrate the church and steal the relic, encountered the commissioner on one of his late wanderings, and killed him.’
‘But how would an outsider have entered the kitchen?’
He shrugged. ‘Bribed a servant to make a copy of the key perhaps? That’s what the abbot thinks, though the cook is the only servant with a key.’
‘What about the relic? Was it valuable?’
‘That horrible thing! A hand nailed to a piece of wood. It was in a big gold casket set with stones: they were real emeralds, I believe. It is believed to cure broken or twisted bones, but it’s just another fake to gull the foolish.’ For a moment his voice rose with a reformer’s ardour. ‘The monks are more upset about the relic than about Singleton’s murder.’
‘What do you think?’ I asked. ‘Who do you think could have done this?’
‘I don’t know what to think. The monks talk of Devil-worshippers breaking in to steal the relic. But they hate us, you can feel it in the very air. Sir, now you are here, may I go home?’
‘Not just yet. Soon, perhaps.’
‘At least I will have you and the boy here.’
There was a knock at the door, and the servant poked his head in.
‘The abbot has returned, sir.’
‘Very well. Mark, help me up. I am stiff.’ He aided me to my feet and I brushed myself down.
‘Thank you, Dr Goodhaps, we may talk again later. By the way, what happened to the account books the commissioner was studying?’
‘The bursar took them back.’ The old man shook his white poll. ‘How did it come to this? All I wanted to see was reform of the Church; how has it come to a world where these things happen? Rebellion, treason, murder. Sometimes I wonder if there is a way through it all.’
‘There is a way at least through the mysteries men make,’ I said firmly. ‘That I believe. Come on, Mark. Let us go and meet the good lord abbot.’
Chapter Six
THE SERVANT LED US down the staircase again and showed us into a wide room whose walls were hung with colourful Flemish tapestries, old but very fine. The windows looked over a large cemetery dotted with trees, where a couple of servants were raking away the last of the leaves.
‘My lord abbot is changing out of his riding clothes. He will be with you shortly.’ He bowed himself out, and we stood warming our rears at the fire.
The room was dominated by a large desk covered with a clutter of papers and parchments, a cushioned chair behind it and stools in front. The great seal of the abbey lay on a block of sealing wax in a brass tray, next to a flagon of wine and some silver cups. Behind the desk, bookshelves lined the wall.
‘I didn’t realize abbots lived so well,’ Mark observed.
‘Oh yes, they have their own separate households. Originally the abbot lived among the brethren, but when the Crown started to tax their households centuries ago they hit on the device of giving the abbot his own revenues, legally separate. Now they all live in fine state, leaving most of the daily supervision to the priors.’
‘Why doesn’t the king change the law, so the abbots can be taxed?’
I shrugged. ‘In the past kings needed the abbots’ support in the House of Lords. Now – well, it won’t matter for much longe
r.’
‘So that Scottish brute actually runs the place from day to day?’
I went behind the desk and examined the bookshelves, noting a printed set of English statutes. ‘One of nature’s bullies, isn’t he? He seemed to enjoy mistreating that novice.’
‘The boy looked ill.’
‘Yes. I am curious to know why a novice has been set to menial servants’ work.’
‘I thought monks were supposed to spend part of their time in manual labour.’
‘That is part of St Benedict’s rule. But no monk in a Benedictine house has done honest toil for hundreds of years. Servants do the work. Not only cooking and stabling, but tending the fires, making the monks’ beds, sometimes helping them dress and who knows what else.’
I picked up the seal and studied it by the light from the fire. It was of tempered steel. I showed Mark the engraving of St Donatus, in Roman clothing, bending over another man lying on a pannier whose arm was stretched up to him in appeal. It was beautifully done, the folds of the robes rendered in detail.
‘St Donatus bringing the dead man back to life. I looked it up in my Saints’ Lives before we left.’
‘He could raise the dead? Like Christ with Lazarus?’
‘Donatus, we are told, came upon a dead man being carried to his grave. Another man was berating the widow, saying the deceased owed him money. The blessed Donatus told the dead man to get up and settle his accounts. He sat up and convinced everyone that he had paid his debt. Then he lay down dead again. Money, money, it’s always money with these people.’
There were footsteps outside and the door opened to admit a tall, broad man in his fifties. Beneath his black Benedictine habit could be seen hose of wool velvet and silver-buckled shoes. His face was ruddy, with a Roman beak of a nose set in square features. His thick brown hair was long and his tonsure, a little shaven circle, the barest concession to the Rule. He came forward with a smile.
‘I am Abbot Fabian.’ The manner was patrician, the voice richly aristocratic, but I caught a note of anxiety underneath. ‘Welcome to Scarnsea. Pax vobiscum.’