by C. J. Sansom
‘You must forgive Brother Septimus,’ he said. ‘He is a poor silly creature.’
‘No wonder his leg gives trouble,’ Mark observed. ‘Carrying all that weight.’
‘The monks stand for hours at a time in a cold church every day, Master Mark, a good covering of fat is not unhealthy. But the standing brings on varicose ulcers. It is not so easy a life. And poor Septimus has not the wit to cease from gorging.’
I shivered. ‘This is not the weather to stand talking.’
Holding his lamp high, Brother Guy led us between the headstones. I asked him whether, when he came to the kitchen that morning, the door had been locked.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I went in through the door from the cloister yard, which is always locked at night, then up the short passage leading to the kitchen. The kitchen itself is not locked because the only way is via the passage. I opened the door and at once I slipped in something and almost went over. I put my lamp down, then saw that headless body.’
‘Dr Goodhaps said he slipped too. So the blood was liquid?’
The infirmarian considered. ‘Yes, it had not started to congeal.’
‘So the deed had not been done long?’
‘No, it cannot have been.’
‘And you saw no one on your way to the kitchen?’
‘No.’
I was pleased to find my brain working again, my mind racing along. ‘Whoever killed Singleton would himself have been covered in blood. He would have had bloody clothes, left bloody footsteps.’
‘I saw none. But I confess it was not in my mind to look, I was shocked. Later, of course, when the house was roused, there were bloody footprints everywhere from those who had entered the kitchen.’
I thought a moment. ‘And the killer may then have gone to the church, desecrated the altar and stolen the relic. Did you, did anyone, notice any traces of blood on the way across the cloister to the church, or inside the church?’
Brother Guy gave me a sombre look. ‘There was blood spilt about the church. We assumed it came from that sacrificed cock. As for the cloister, it started to rain before dawn and went on all day. It would have washed away any traces.’
‘And after you found the body, what did you do?’
‘I went straight to the abbot, of course. Now, here we are.’
He had led us to the largest of the crypts, a one-storey building in the ubiquitous yellow limestone, set on a little rise. It had a stout wooden door, wide enough for a coffin to be carried in.
I blinked a snowflake from my eyelashes. ‘Well, let us get this over with.’ He produced a key and I took a deep breath, breathing a silent prayer that God might strengthen my weak stomach.
WE HAD TO STOOP to enter the low, whitewashed chamber. The ossuary was bitterly cold, the wind slicing in through a small barred window. The air held the faint, sickly tang all tombs possess. In the dim light of Brother Guy’s lamp I saw the walls were lined with stone sarcophagi, figures representing the dead carved atop the lids, hands clasped in poses of supplication. Most of the men wore the full armour of past centuries.
Brother Guy put his lamp down and folded his arms, tucking his hands inside the long sleeves of his habit for warmth. ‘The Fitzhugh crypt,’ he said. ‘The family were the original founders of the monastery and were buried here till the last of them died in the civil wars of the last century.’
The silence was suddenly broken by a jangling metallic crash. I jumped involuntarily and so did Brother Guy, his eyes wide in his dark face. I turned to see Mark bent over, picking the abbot’s bunch of keys from the flagstones.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he muttered. ‘I thought they were securely tied.’
‘God’s death!’ I snapped. ‘Oaf!’ My legs were shaking.
There was a large metal sconce filled with fat candles in the centre of the room. Brother Guy lit them from his lamp and a yellow glow filled the chamber as he led us across to a sarcophagus with a bare stone lid, without inscription.
‘ “This tomb is the only one without a permanent occupant and will never have one now. The last male heir perished at Bosworth with King Richard III.” ’ He smiled sadly. ‘ “Sic transit gloria mundi.” ’
‘And Singleton is laid there?’ I asked.
He nodded. ‘He’s been there four days, but the cold should have kept him fresh.’
I took another deep breath. ‘Then let us have the lid off. Mark, help him.’
Mark and Brother Guy strained to slide the heavy stone lid onto the neighbouring tomb. It resisted their efforts at first, then slid off in a rush. At once the chamber was filled with a sickening smell. Mark stepped back a pace, his nose wrinkling with distaste. ‘Not so fresh,’ he murmured.
Brother Guy peered in, crossing himself. I stepped forward, gripping the edge of the sarcophagus.
The body was wrapped in a white woollen cloth; only the calves and feet were visible, alabaster white, the toe-nails long and yellow. At the other end of the blanket a little watery blood had run out from the neck, and there was a pool of darker blood under the head, which had been set upright beside the body. I looked into the face of Robin Singleton, whom once I had outstared across the courtroom.
He had been a thin man in his thirties, with black hair and a long nose. I saw there was a dark stubble on the white cheeks and felt my stomach turn at the sight of this head set upon a bloody piece of stone instead of a neck. The mouth was almost closed, the tips of the teeth showing under the lips. The dark-blue eyes were wide open, filmy in death. I saw a tiny black insect walk from under one eyelid across the orb and under the opposite lid. Swallowing, I turned and stepped over to the little barred window, taking a deep breath of cold night air. As I fought down bile, I forced another part of my mind to order what I had seen. I heard Mark come to my side.
‘Are you all right, sir?’
‘Of course.’ Turning, I saw Brother Guy standing with arms folded, quite composed, looking at me thoughtfully. Mark himself was a little pale, but crossed back to look again at that dreadful head.
‘Well, Mark, what would you say about the manner of that man’s death?’ I called.
He shook his head. ‘It is as we knew, his head was struck from his shoulders.’
‘I didn’t think he died from an ague. But can we tell anything more from what is there? I would take a guess that the assailant was of at least medium height, to start with.’
Brother Guy looked at me curiously. ‘How can you say that?’
‘Well, firstly, Singleton was quite a tall man.’
‘It’s hard to tell without a head,’ Mark said.
‘I met him in court. I remember I had the disadvantage of having to twist my neck to look up at him.’ I made myself go over and look at the head again. ‘And see how the neck is cut straight across. It sits perfectly upright on the stone. If he and his attacker were both standing when he was attacked, which seems most likely, a shorter man would have had to strike upwards at an angle, and the neck would not have been cut straight through.’
Brother Guy nodded. ‘That is true. By Our Lady, sir, you have the eye of a physician.’
‘Thank you. Though I would not wish to spend my days looking on such sights. But I have seen a head severed before. I remember the –’ I sought a word – ‘the mechanics.’ I met the infirmarian’s curious gaze, digging my fingernails into my palms as I remembered a day I wished dearly to forget. ‘And, talking of such matters, observe how clean the blow is, the head sheared off with one strike. That is difficult to achieve even if someone is lying down with his neck on a block.’
Mark looked again at the head lying on its side, and nodded once more. ‘Aye. Axes are difficult to handle. I was told they had to hack away at Thomas More’s neck. But what if he was bending down? To pick something up from the floor? Or perhaps he was made to bend down?’
I thought a moment. ‘Yes. Good point. But if he was bent over as he died the body would have been bent when it was found. Brother Guy will remember.’ I l
ooked at him enquiringly.
‘He lay straight,’ the infirmarian said thoughtfully. ‘The difficulty of striking off someone’s head like that has been in all our minds. You couldn’t do it with a kitchen implement, even the biggest knife. That is why some of the brothers fear witchcraft.’
‘But what weapon could slice the head off a man standing upright?’ I asked. ‘I’d guess not an axe, the blade is too thick. You’d need a very sharp cutting edge, like a sword. In fact I can’t think of anything that would do it but a sword. What do you say, Mark? You’re the swordsman here.’
‘I think you are right.’ He gave a nervous laugh. ‘Only royalty and the nobility have the right to be executed with a sword.’
‘Precisely because a sharp sword blade ensures a swift end.’
‘Like Anne Boleyn,’ Mark said.
Brother Guy crossed himself. ‘The witch queen,’ he said quietly.
‘That is what brought it to mind,’ I said softly. ‘The one beheading I have seen. Just like Anne Boleyn.’
Chapter Eight
WE WAITED OUTSIDE while Brother Guy locked the crypt. The snow was heavier now, thick flakes swirling down. Already the ground was white.
‘We were lucky to miss this on the road,’ Mark said.
‘We’ll have problems getting back if this goes on. We may have to return by sea.’
Brother Guy joined us. He gave me a serious look. ‘Sir, we would like to bury poor Commissioner Singleton tomorrow. It would make the community easier – and allow his soul to find rest.’
‘Where will you bury him? Here? He had no family.’
‘In the lay cemetery. If you permit.’
I nodded. ‘Very well. I have seen enough, the sight is etched in my mind all too clearly.’
‘You deduced much, sir.’
‘Educated guesswork only.’ Standing close to Brother Guy I noticed a faint odour, like sandalwood. He certainly smelt better than his brethren.
‘I will tell the abbot arrangements can be made for the funeral,’ he said with relief.
The church bell boomed out, making me start. ‘I have never heard such a loud peal. I noticed it earlier.’
‘The bells are really too large for the tower. But they have an interesting history. They originally hung in the ancient cathedral of Toulouse.’
‘Why move them here?’
‘They came a roundabout way. The cathedral was destroyed in an Arab raid eight hundred years ago and the bells taken as a trophy. They were found at Salamanca in Spain when that city was reconquered for Christ, and donated to Scarnsea when the monastery was founded.’
‘I still think you would be better served with smaller bells.’
‘We have become used to them.’
‘I doubt I will.’
He smiled, a quick sad flicker. ‘You must blame my Arab ancestors.’
We reached the cloister just as the monks were leaving the church in procession. The sight made an impression that comes clearly to mind all these years later: almost thirty black-robed Benedictines walking in double file across the old stone cloister, cowls raised and arms folded in their wide sleeves to give protection against the snow, which fell in a silent curtain, coating them as they walked, the whole scene illuminated from the church windows. It was a beautiful scene and despite myself I was moved.
BROTHER GUY took us back to our room, promising to collect us shortly and take us to the refectory. We shook the snow from our coats, then Mark wheeled out his little bed and lowered himself onto it.
‘How do you think a swordsman could have killed Singleton, sir? Waited for him and struck him from behind?’
I began unpacking my pannier, sorting papers and books. ‘Possibly. But what was Singleton doing in the kitchen at four in the morning?’
‘Perhaps he had arranged to meet the monk there, the one he told the gatekeeper about?’
‘Yes, that is the most likely explanation. Someone arranged to meet Singleton in the kitchen, perhaps with a promise of information, and killed him. Executed him, more like. The whole thing has the flavour of an execution. Surely it would have been far easier just to knife him in the back.’
‘He looked a hard man,’ Mark said. ‘Though it was difficult to tell, his head stuck on the floor of that tomb.’ He laughed, a touch shrilly, and I realized he too had been affected by the sight.
‘Robin Singleton was a type of lawyer I detest. He had little law and that ill-digested. He made his way by bullying and bluff, supplemented with gold slipped into the right hand at the right time. But he did not deserve to be killed in that terrible way.’
‘I had forgotten you were at the execution of Queen Anne Boleyn last year, sir,’ Mark said.
‘I wish I could.’
‘At least it served to give you some ideas.’
I nodded sadly, then gave him a wry smile. ‘I remember a teacher we had when I first went to the Inns of Court, Serjeant Hampton. He taught us evidence. He had a saying. “In any investigation, what are the most relevant circumstances? None,” he would bark in reply. “All the circumstances are relevant, everything must be examined from every angle!” ’
‘Don’t say that, sir. We could be here for ever.’ He stretched himself out with a groan. ‘I could sleep for twelve hours, even on this old board.’
‘Well, we can’t sleep, not yet. I want to meet the community at supper. If we’re to get anywhere, we must know these people. Come, there’s no rest for those called to Lord Cromwell’s service.’ I kicked at the wheeled extension, sending him sliding back under my bed with a yell.
BROTHER GUY led us to the refectory, along dark corridors and up a staircase. It was an impressive chamber, a high ceiling supported by thick pillars with wide vaulting arches. Despite its size, it was lent a comfortable air by the tapestries lining the walls and the thick rattan matting on the floor. A large, beautifully carved lectern stood in one corner. Sconces filled with fat candles cast a warm glow over two tables set with fine plate and cutlery. One, with half a dozen places, stood before the fire and the other, much longer, table was further off. Kitchen servants bustled about, setting out jugs of wine and silver tureens, rich odours escaping from under their lids. I studied the cutlery at the table nearest the fire.
‘Silver,’ I remarked to Brother Guy. ‘And the plates too.’
‘That is the obedentiaries’ table, where the monastery office holders sit. The ordinary monks have pewter.’
‘The common people have wood,’ I observed, as Abbot Fabian came bustling in. The servants stopped their work to bow, receiving benevolent nods in return. ‘And the abbot dines off gold plate, no doubt,’ I muttered to Mark.
The abbot came over to us, smiling tightly.
‘I had not been told you wished to dine in the refectory. I have had roast beef prepared in my kitchens.’
‘Thank you, but we will take supper here.’
‘As you wish.’ The abbot sighed. ‘I suggested Dr Goodhaps might join you, but he adamantly refuses to leave my house.’
‘Did Brother Guy tell you I have given authority for Commissioner Singleton to be buried?’
‘He did. I will make the announcement before dinner. It is my turn to give the reading. In English, in accordance with the injunctions,’ he added solemnly.
‘Good.’
There was a bustle at the door, and the monks began filing in. The two officials we had seen earlier, the fair-haired sacrist Brother Gabriel and Edwig, the dark-haired bursar, walked side by side to the obedentiaries’ table, not speaking. They made an odd pair; one tall and fair, his head slightly bowed, the other striding confidently along. They were joined by the prior, the two officials I had met at the chapter house and Brother Guy. The other monks stood at the long table. I noticed the old Carthusian among them; he gave me a venomous look. The abbot leaned across.
‘I hear Brother Jerome caused offence earlier. I apologize. But his vows mean he takes his meals in silence.’
‘I understand he is
lodged here at the request of a member of the Seymour family.’
‘Our neighbour, Sir Edward Wentworth. But the request originally came from Lord Cromwell’s office.’ He gave me a sidelong look. ‘He wanted Jerome kept somewhere quiet, out of the way. As a distant relative of Queen Jane he was something of an embarrassment.’
I nodded. ‘How long has he been here?’
The abbot looked at Jerome’s frowning face. ‘Eighteen long months.’
I cast my eye over the assembled monks, who gave me uneasy glances as though I were a strange beast set among them. I noticed they were mainly middle-aged or elderly, few young faces and only three in novices’ habits. One old monk, his head trembling with palsy, crossed himself quickly as he studied me.
My eye was drawn to a figure standing uncertainly by the door. I recognized the novice who had taken our horses earlier; he stood shifting uneasily from foot to foot, holding something behind his back. Prior Mortimus looked up from his table.
‘Simon Whelplay!’ he snapped. ‘Your penance is not over, you will have no dinner tonight. Take your place in that corner.’
The boy bowed his head and crossed to a corner of the room, furthest from the fire. He brought his hands round and I saw he held a fool’s pointed cap, with the letter ‘M’ stencilled on it. Reddening, he put it on. The other monks barely glanced at him.
‘M?’ I asked.
‘For maleficium,’ the abbot said. ‘He has broken the rules, I am afraid. Please, sit.’
Mark and I took places beside Brother Guy, while the abbot went to the lectern. I saw a bible was placed there and was pleased to see it was the English Bible, not the Latin Vulgate with its mistranslations and invented gospels.
‘Brethren,’ Abbot Fabian announced sonorously, ‘we have all been greatly shocked by recent events. I am pleased to welcome the vicar general’s representative, Commissioner Shardlake, who has come to investigate the matter. He will be speaking to many of you, and you are to afford him all the help Lord Cromwell’s representative deserves.’ I eyed him sharply; those words carried a double meaning.