So that was it. And Piers, I knew, would use that. 'What do you think?' I asked gently.
He shook his head sadly. 'I am not sure. When I first met him, when his old master was dying - and that old fraud did not treat Piers well, by the way — it was his intelligence that struck me, intelligence that was being wasted. But I noted his fair form and face, and when he came to my home I found I had feelings that were new and strange to me.'
I could think of nothing to say. Selfishly, I thought, Guy is my rock. Do not let him crumble now.
'Oh, I have pondered on it deeply,' he said, 'and prayed too. And you know what I think: I think what I want, perhaps have always wanted, is a son. To educate, to exchange ideas with, to come and visit me when I am past working. In the cloister there was always company, but in the outside world I am so often alone. That is why many ex-monks suffer so.'
Guy looked at me, his face full of sadness. 'Have you ever felt that, Matthew: The need for a child, or some substitute for a child:'
'Oh, I collect waifs and strays,' I answered. 'I suppose I always have. The children Timothy and Peter, young Cantrell. Barak and Tamasin are my waifs and strays in a way. And there was old Master Wrenne.' I sighed. 'And my assistant Mark, that you knew at Scarnsea.' I looked at him. 'Even if one's motives are honourable, one can choose the wrong people to be one's — I do not know — substitute children.'
'Yes.' He hesitated and took a deep breath. 'Piers — he — he flirts with me.' Guy bit his lip. 'The way he smiles, the way he touches me gently sometimes, he is inviting me to something. And part of me, I fear, would follow. He knows that, knows how to use it if I am angry with him. I fear he has raised something in me I did not know was there, something more than this urge to be a father to him.'
'Guy, in a way it does not matter what your feelings are. It matters more what Piers is. He is cold, calculating, exploitative. I have seen how he listens at doors, seen his wheedling and his arrogance when he is with you.'
Guy put his head in his hands. 'Something else has happened now,' he said. 'I have noticed that money has been going missing. Small amounts from my purse, here and there, but it adds up to several pounds now.'
'You must get rid of him,' I said quietly.
'Cast him out, I that took him in:'
'You took a viper to your bosom.'
'Did I: Or is Piers disturbed, not well in his mind, that he takes my money: He has no need to steal, I give him enough.'
'Get rid of him.'
'Do you think Piers is one of those who prefers men to women?' he asked suddenly.
'I do not know. But I think he is one who would use any trick to gain advantage.'
Joan came in then with the next course, and we fell silent. Not until he was about to leave did he say, 'I will pray about this, Matthew. I will not talk to Piers yet.' He shook his head. 'I cannot believe he is as bad as you think. He has a good mind.'
'And a bad heart.'
When Guy left I returned to the parlour and sat thinking of the loneliness so many men carry in this divisive, fractured age, and the ruthless people who would exploit it.
And then another thought took shape, one that sent a chill down my spine. We had been talking of Piers as cold and intelligent and ruthless. He knew about our hunt for the killer. He listened at doors, and he had seen the bodies of the slain. But I shook my head. It was impossible; he worked for Guy, and the killer had freedom to come and go as he pleased. And it could not be Piers who followed us. No, Piers was no killer. In an odd way, he was too selfish, too coldly sane. My mind was in a fever. I would be suspecting Joan or Tamasin next. Was it truly Goddard? And if not him, who? Who?
Chapter Thirty-five
ANOTHER DISTURBED NIGHT; a ghastly dream in which I found myself back on that dark icy morning when I entered Lincoln's Inn to find the two students standing by the ice-covered fountain. But in my dream, when they turned to face me, one slipped away into the darkness. The other was Piers. He reached in and turned the body over, and it was Guy lying there with his throat slashed. I woke with a gasp to the sound of heavy rain lashing at the window, and then my heart jumped with horror, for footsteps were ascending the stairs. I exhaled with relief as I recognized Barak's steps. He must have been out late again.
IN THE MORNING it was still raining, and I saw that large puddles were spreading on my lawn. As I dressed I looked across to the wall that divided my land from the old Lincoln's Inn orchard. Water would be coming in from there as it had two years before. The ground was becoming saturated.
In the parlour Barak was sitting at the table, looking dubiously at a plate of bread and cheese.
'I heard you come in late last night,' I said.
'Went out drinking with some friends.'
'Again?' I reached for some bread. 'Could you not take Tamasin out one night?'
He fixed me with a blear-eyed look. 'I needed to get out for a drink. I'm fed up of hanging around waiting for some new horror to happen.'
'Where is Tamasin;'
'Still in bed, snoring. She woke up when I came in last night and went on at me, so she's catching up on sleep.' I realized their reconciliation was not working out. His expression made it quite clear he was not going to talk about it.
'Guy was here to dinner last night,' I said.
'Tell him all about us, did you?' Barak needled.
'He told me about some troubles of his own. Money has been going missing. He thinks it is Piers, but cannot quite bring himself to believe it.'
Barak gave me a penetrating look. 'When I saw the old Moor with Piers, he seemed to think the sun shone out of his arse.'
'He wanted someone to care for, to teach. But he is beginning to see what Piers is really like.'
'Are you sure?' I wondered whether he had read between the lines, guessed Guy's feelings were not so simple as that.
'Yes. But he will not accuse him yet. And Piers can be persuasive.'
'How about if we were to pay a visit to young Piers, put a bit of pressure on him? We could see how he reacts and take it from there.' He smiled briefly. A hard smile.
'You mean when Guy is not there?'
'He's not going to let us do it when he is there, is he?'
I hesitated, then said, 'I know Guy will be out this evening, he is going to see Bealknap again. Knowing his habits he will go after supper, probably around seven.'
'We go to Bucklersbury then?'
I nodded agreement. 'We only talk to him, though. Nothing rough.'
'Even if he's not a thief, he's an eavesdropper and a nasty bit of work. Won't do any harm if we put some salt on his tail.'
'All right.' I finished my bread and cheese, and got up. 'We must go,' I said. 'I had word last night. Harsnet has called a meeting to discuss the latest development. At Whitehall this time, not Lambeth Palace.'
Barak got up quickly. 'Yes. I need something to do, or I will end up as mad as Adam Kite.'
WHEN WE REACHED WHITEHALL, it was to learn that Lord Hertford and Sir Thomas Seymour were both with the coroner. Barak was forbidden to attend the meeting, told to wait on a bench outside Harsnet's room again. 'I am sorry,' I whispered to him as the guard knocked on the door.
'I'm getting used to it, common fellow that I am.' Barak gave one of his sardonic grins, stretching out his legs, his boots muddy from riding through the streets. The guard frowned; a respectful demeanour was expected within the royal palace. From within, Harsnet's voice called me to enter. I took a deep breath and opened the door.
Harsnet was sitting behind his desk. Lord Hertford stood by the wall. Both looked grave. Sir Thomas Seymour lounged against the wall beside his brother, an angry look on his louche, handsome face. As always he was dressed like a peacock, a doublet in bright blue today, a cap with a huge feather in the band.
'Close the door, Matthew,' Harsnet said. 'And come over here. I do not want anyone overhearing us.'
'Barak is sitting outside, but he is safe.'
'No one is safe at Whitehall just no
w,' Hertford said. 'The very walls have ears.' He turned his penetrating gaze on me. 'We were to meet at the Lambeth Palace, but His Grace the Archbishop has other concerns today.'
'Not more bad news, my lord?'
'Not from the courtiers that were arrested. They are going to have to let them go. But Bonner is tightening the screw further on the London radicals. Early this morning the bishop's men and the Lon-don constables arrested eight men for possession of unlawful books, together with three printers and a bunch of apprentices for acting unlawful plays. By Jesu, they're keeping the London constables busy. The Archbishop is trying to find whether any of those arrested have associations with him.'
'Is there any danger of that:' Thomas Seymour asked.
'He thinks not.'
'The King has always loved him,' Harsnet said quietly.
'The King was close to Anne Boleyn, and Cromwell, and Wolsey,' Thomas Seymour said bitterly. 'Yet he destroyed them all. He has never truly trusted anybody, nor ever will.'
'Quiet, Thomas,' his brother said severely. 'Things are not so bad as that.' He looked at Harsnet, then me. 'Yet if this were to come out now — that the Archbishop has launched a secret hunt for a madman who is killing lapsed radicals because the Book of Revelation told him to — it would be very dangerous. And the longer it goes on, the harder it becomes to conceal. Have you learned nothing more, Gregory:' he asked Harsnet with sudden passion.
'I wish I had. I have been working day and night. None of the radical groups know about Goddard. There is no trace of him in London or the neighbouring counties. It is as though when he left his lodgings he vanished into the air.'
Lord Hertford turned to me. 'And you found the killer had been using a lawyer as his agent, but now he has killed the lawyer too.'
'He has.' I told him the story of Bealknap and Felday. When I had finished he stood pulling at his long beard anxiously, almost tugging it. Outside, rain slashed against the window.
'So there have been five murders linked to the vials of wrath. Two more to go. And this man Felday killed along the way. We must catch him.' Hertford turned to his brother. 'Judging by your news, the King is determined to marry Catherine Parr, however long she keeps him waiting.'
'What news, my lord:' Harsnet's head jerked up.
'My brother has been appointed Ambassador to the Regent of the Netherlands.'
'Because the King fears Lady Catherine may still have a mind to marry me,' Sir Thomas said. Angry as he had looked, he shifted his stance, swaggered lightly.
'We cannot be sure that is why you were chosen,' his brother said. 'And if it is, think yourself lucky the King is sending you on an ambassadorship, not to the Tower.'
'Perhaps.' Sir Thomas looked at me curiously. 'You, sir. Someone said the King made mock of your bent back, when he was at York two years ago.'
I took a deep breath. 'He did, sir.' Who had told him that story, I wondered.
'He would not get to York now,' Seymour said. 'He is so fat he can hardly walk. He has ulcers on both legs now. When they are bad he has to be taken around the palace in a wheeled chair. They say when the ulcers leak the smell as you enter the Privy Quarters would stun a bull. When you leave here, Master Shardlake, if you hear the squeaking of wheels in the corridors, I should run as fast as you can in the opposite direction.' He laughed bitterly.
Harsnet shifted uneasily in his chair. Lord Hertford shook his head. 'Your indiscretions will be the death of you one day, Thomas. But it is true the King's health worsens every month. He cannot live many years longer. And then, if a queen sympathetic to reform were in place, ready to assume the regency for young Prince Edward . . .' He spread his hands.
I thought, they have planned for this marriage, looking years ahead. How deeply my hunt for Roger's killer had become entangled in court politics.
'When do you go abroad, Sir Thomas?' Harsnet asked.
'I do not know. A few weeks, perhaps.'
Harsnet nodded, his face expressionless, though I guessed that, like me, he would rather Sir Thomas and his careless tongue were gone tomorrow. But we badly needed the support his household could give.
I jumped at the sound of a loud knock. After Sir Thomas' words, a shiver of fear seemed to pass through the room, but Lord Hertford called out in a firm voice, 'Come in.'
Barak entered. He knew when to be humble, and bowed his head under Hertford's glare. 'I am sorry to interrupt you, my lord, but the guard from Lockley's tavern is here. Janley. They have found him.'
'Alive?' Hope came into Harsnet's face.
'No, sir. Dead.' Barak looked around the company, took a deep breath. 'In the old Charterhouse. The manner of his death shows he is the sixth victim.'
Lord Hertford seemed to slump. He put a hand to his brow.
'Who knows?'
'Nobody who matters, my lord. Yet.' 'Shardlake, Harsnet, go there now.' 'I wish to go too,' Sir Thomas said.
'Very well,' Lord Hertford agreed. He looked between us. 'He has made us all dance, has he not? And now again. Will we ever have him dancing as he should, at the end of a rope?'
Chapter Thirty-six
THE RAIN CONTINUED during our long ride to the Charterhouse. I was constantly blinking water out of my eyes as Sir Thomas, Barak, the guard Janley and I rode together; the others listening as I shouted questions to Janley about what had happened there. We rode as fast as we could along roads that were turning to quagmires, mud spattering our horses and our boots.
'The Charterhouse watchman came running over to the Green Man this morning,' Janley told us. 'The place is empty but for him and the Bassano family, the King's Italian musicians; they've turned some of the old monks' cells into accommodation for them.' 'No one else lives there?' Sir Thomas asked. 'No, sir. The place is used to store the King's hunting equipment and tents and costumes for the masques. The watchman's known as a hopeless drunkard. Apparently he used to spend most evenings in the Green Man getting sow-drunk; Lockley and Mistress Bunce often had to put him outside at closing time. One of his duties is to open and close the lock gates in the old conduit-house, keep the water flowing on through the cellars of the houses in the square. He would forget and the locals had to go over and remind him.' 'Do the locals know about this?' Harsnet asked. 'No, sir. The watchman came running over an hour ago, babbling about floods and a dead man in the conduit. He knew I was some sort of official guard. He said it was Lockley. I sent him back and rode to the coroner's office, which I'd been told to do if anything happened.'
'You've managed to keep the truth of what happened to Mrs Bunce a secret?' I glanced at Janley, noticing the man looked tired and strained.
'Ay. I've told everyone who called it looks like Lockley came back, murdered her and fled. I've hinted it was about money. A lot of neighbours and old customers have called round.'
'Good. Well done.'
'I'll be glad to be gone, back with my family. I keep thinking of that poor woman lying there. Especially at night.'
'She was only a tavern keeper,' Sir Thomas grunted. 'Be thankful it wasn't someone more important, it would be harder to cover up what happened.'
WE ARRIVED AT Charterhouse Square and followed the path between the trees covering the ancient plague pit. We rode past the deserted old chapel. The door was closed; the beggars would be out seeking alms in the town. We drew up at the small gatehouse set in the long brick wall of the dissolved monastery. There was a rail for horses there and we tied our animals up. Sir Thomas frowned at the mud on his fine netherhose.
Janley knocked loudly at the door. Shuffling footsteps sounded and a thin middle-aged man with a red face and a bulbous, pock- marked nose opened it and peered at us with frightened eyes.
'I've brought some people to see the body, Padge,' Janley said gently.
The watchman looked at us uncertainly. 'They'll have to climb down to the sewer. I don't know how you'll get him out. He's fixed to the lock gates somehow, blocking them. He's naked. It's horrible. Why has someone done this? Why?' His voice rose.
r /> 'Leave it to us, matey,' Barak said soothingly.
We followed the watchman through the gates, past the ruins of the old monastic church with the windows out and the roof off, and found ourselves in a large, square, grassed courtyard. In the centre stood an octagonal, copper-roofed building, with taps on the sides.
That had to be the old monastic conduit, fed by the streams from Islington, where the monks had drawn their water and which then went on to drain the sewers under the houses in the square. Round the sides of the yard stood the old monks' cells, little square two- roomed houses, each with a small patch of garden behind, water dripping from the eaves. This would have been a peaceful place once. The monks of the Charterhouse had lived secluded lives in their cells round the central square, an architectural pattern unique among monastic buildings. The cells had stout wooden doors secured with padlocks. To our left was a larger building, the doors open. I saw figures within.
'I've put the Bassano family in there,' the watchman said. 'They came into the gatehouse earlier, gabbling away about being flooded out.' He pointed to the conduit and I saw that water was seeping and bubbling up between the flagstones surrounding it. A section of the grassy square between the conduit and the cells on one side was waterlogged. Still the rain pelted down on us. The watchman wiped his face with a trembling hand. 'I went to look at the conduit-house where the lock gates are, and saw a body jammed in front of them. I leaned over the rail and saw his face, saw it was poor Francis.'
'Stopping the waters of the Euphrates,' I said quietly. 'Master Padge, did you hear anything last night?'