by C. J. Sansom
‘Printed books may be less beautiful, but now God’s word can be brought to all.’
‘But can it be understood by all?’ he replied with animation. ‘And without illustration and art to stimulate our awe and reverence?’ He took an old volume from the shelves and opened it, coughing amidst the dust it raised. Little painted creatures danced impishly among lines of Greek text.
‘Reputedly a copy of Aristotle’s lost work On Comedy,’ he said. ‘A fake, of course, thirteenth-century Italian, but beautiful nonetheless.’ He closed it, turning to an enormous volume that shared a shelf with a number of rolled-up plans. He pulled them out and I took one to assist him. I was surprised when he grabbed it back.
‘No! Don’t take it!’
I raised my eyebrows. His face reddened.
‘I am sorry – I – I would not have you get dust on your clothes, sir.’
‘What are those?’
‘Old plans of the monastery. The mason consults them sometimes.’ He withdrew the volume beneath. It was so large he had difficulty in heaving it over to a desk. He turned the pages carefully.
‘This is an illustrated history of the monastery’s treasures, set down two hundred years ago.’ I saw coloured pictures of the statues I had seen in the church, and other items like the lectern in the refectory, each drawing annotated with measurements and a Latin commentary. The centre pages were taken up with a coloured illustration of a large square casket set with jewels. Inside a glass panel, on a purple cushion, lay a piece of dark wood. A human hand was fixed there by a broad-headed nail driven through the palm; withered and ancient, every sinew and tendon visible. From the measurements the box was two feet square and a foot deep.
‘So those are the emeralds,’ I said. ‘They are large. The casket could have been stolen for its precious jewels and gold?’
‘Yes. Though any Christian doing such a thing would lose their immortal soul.’
‘I always thought the thieves crucified with Christ had their hands tied to the cross rather than being nailed to it, so that their suffering should be prolonged. So it is shown in religious paintings.’
He sighed. ‘No one really knows. The gospels say Our Lord died first, but he had been tortured beforehand.’
‘The misleading power of paintings and statues,’ I said. ‘And there is a paradox here, is there not?’
‘What do you mean, sir?’
‘That hand belonged to a thief. Now his relic, which people paid to view until that was forbidden as usury, is itself stolen.’
‘It may be a paradox,’ Brother Gabriel replied quietly, ‘but to us it is a tragedy.’
‘Could one man carry it?’
‘Two men bear it in the Easter procession. A strong man could carry it, perhaps, but not far.’
‘To the marsh, perhaps?’
He nodded. ‘Perhaps.’
‘Then I think it is time I had a look out there, if you would show me the way.’
‘Certainly. There is a gate in the rear wall.’
‘Thank you, Brother Gabriel. Your library is fascinating.’
He led me back outside and pointed to the cemetery. ‘Follow the path through there, past the orchard and the fish pond, and you will see the gate. The snow will be thick.’
‘I have my overshoes. Well, no doubt we shall meet again at supper. You will be able to meet my young assistant again then.’ I smiled disingenuously. The sacrist blushed and lowered his head.
‘Ah – yes, indeed—’
‘Well, Brother, I thank you for your help and your frankness. Good day.’ I nodded and left him. When I glanced back he was walking slowly back towards the church, head bowed.
Chapter Twelve
I PASSED THE WORKSHOPS and turned through a little gate into the lay cemetery. In daylight it seemed smaller. The headstones of locals who had paid for a place here, or visitors who had died within the walls, lay half-buried in the snow. There were three other large stone family tombs similar to the Fitzhugh crypt we had visited the night before. At the far end rows of fruit trees raised bare arms to the sky.
These crypts, I reflected, would make good hiding places. I ploughed my way towards the nearest, unhitching the abbot’s key ring from my belt. I fumbled among the keys with cold, stiff fingers until I found one of the right size that fitted.
I tried each crypt in turn, but there was nothing hidden among the white marble tombs. The stone floors were dusty and there was no sign any of them had been visited for years. One belonged to a prominent Hastings family whose name I remembered as another ancient line wiped out in the civil wars. And yet those buried here would be remembered, I reflected, recalling the monks reciting their private Masses; remembered as names memorized and chanted to the empty air every day. I shook my head and turned back towards the orchard, where starveling crows cawed in the skeleton trees; I was glad of my staff as I stumbled among the gravestones.
A wicket gate led me into the orchard and I picked my way between the snow-laden trees. Everything was still and silent. Out here in the open, I felt that at last I had space to think.
It was strange to be inside a monastery again after so many years. When I was a pupil at Lichfield I had been a mere cripple-boy, of no account. Here I had the powers of a commissioner of Lord Cromwell, greater powers than any outsider had ever had over a religious house. Yet now as then I felt isolated, alone, disliked. The different element here was their fear of me, but I had to handle my authority carefully, for when men are frightened they close up like clams.
My talk with Brother Gabriel had depressed me. He lived in the past, a world of painted books, ancient chants, plaster statues. I guessed it was a world in which he sought refuge from continuing temptations. I recalled his anguished expression when I confronted him with his history. There were many I encountered in my career, blustering liars and deceitful rogues, whom I confess it was a pleasure to question, watching their faces fall and their eyes swivel as I unpicked some edifice of lies. But to harry unsavoury sins from a man like Brother Gabriel, who had a certain fragile dignity it was all too easy to undermine, that was no thing to enjoy. After all, I knew only too well what it was like to be a despised outsider.
I remembered how sometimes the taunts of the other children when I could not play their games had led me to plead with my father to take me away from the cathedral school and educate me at home. He had replied that if I was allowed to retreat from the world I would never rejoin it. He was a stern man, not given to sympathy and less so after my mother died when I was ten. Perhaps he was right, yet that morning I wondered whether I was better off if worldly success had led me to such a place as this. It seemed to do nothing but bring back bad memories.
I passed a row of dovecotes, beyond which a large pond surrounded by reeds could be seen. It was a stewpond, dug out for the keeping and breeding of fish. The little stream flowed into it before running through a small culvert under the rear wall a little way off. There was a heavy wooden gate nearby. Monasteries, I recalled, were always built by a stream to carry away waste. The early monks were clever plumbers; there was probably some arrangement to divert the waste to prevent it befouling the fish pond. I stood looking out over the scene, leaning on my staff, chiding myself for my gloomy thoughts. I was here to investigate a murder, not mewl over past sorrows.
I had made some progress, though not much. It seemed unlikely to me that this crime had been committed by an outsider. But although the five senior officials all had knowledge of Singleton’s purpose, I could not see any of them becoming so overcome with wild hatred that they would kill him and place St Donatus’s future in even greater danger. Yet they were all hard men to read, and about Gabriel at least there was something tormented and desperate.
I turned over the idea that Singleton had been killed because he had found something out about one of the monks. That seemed more likely, yet I could not square it with the dramatic manner of his murder. I sighed. I wondered if I would end by having to interview every monk
and servant in the monastery, and my heart sank at the thought of how long that might take. The sooner I was away from this wretched pile and its dangers the happier I would be; and Lord Cromwell needed a solution. But as Mark had said, I could only do what was possible. I must plod on, as lawyers do. And next I must check whether outsiders could gain access from this marsh. ‘All the circumstances,’ I muttered as I ploughed on through the snow. ‘All the circumstances.’
I reached the pond and looked in. It was covered with a thin skin of ice, but the sun was almost overhead now and I made out the dim shapes of large carp flickering through the reedy water.
As I straightened up something else caught my eye, a faint yellowish glint at the bottom. Puzzled, I leaned forward again. At first I could not locate what I had seen among the reeds and wondered whether it had been a trick of the light, but then I saw it again. I knelt down, my hands smarting at the touch of the snow, and peered in. There was something, a patch of yellow at the bottom. The casket was gold, and many expensive swords have gilt handles. It was worth investigating. I shivered. I did not fancy confronting those icy depths now, but I would come back later with Mark. I rose, brushed the snow from my clothes, then gathered my coat around me and headed for the gate.
I saw that in a couple of places the wall had crumbled and been patched up, crudely and unevenly. Unhooking the bunch of keys from my belt, I found one that fitted the heavy, ancient lock. The gate creaked open and I stepped out onto a narrow path. It ran alongside the wall, the land dropping away at the edge a final few inches to the marsh. I had not realized it came so close. In places the path was broken where the mire had advanced right up to the wall, undermining it so it had had to be rebuilt. It was even more crudely patched outside. In places an agile man could climb that uneven surface. ‘Damn it to hell,’ I muttered, for now I could not eliminate even that possibility.
I looked out over the marsh. Covered with snow, broken by thick clusters of reeds and frozen stagnant pools, it stretched for half a mile to the broad band of the river, the blue sky reflected in its unfrozen waters. Beyond the river the ground rose slowly again to a woodland horizon. Everything was still, a pair of seabirds on the river the only sign of life. As I watched they rose into the air, calling their sad cries to the cold heavens.
Halfway between the river and where I stood was a large knoll, an island in the marsh. It was topped with a jumble of low ruins. That must be the place Brother Gabriel had mentioned, where the monks had first settled. Curious, and holding my staff carefully, I set one foot down from the path. To my surprise, the ground under the snow was firm. I let down my other leg and took a step forward. Again I felt firm ground. But it was only a skin of frozen, matted grass, and suddenly my foot crunched through, squelching into miry softness. I let out a cry, dropping my staff. My leg was being sucked slowly into what felt like thick mud; I felt slime and icy water come over the top of my overshoe and trickle down my shin.
I flailed my arms wildly to keep my balance; I had a horror of tipping over and landing face down in the mud. My left leg was still on firm ground and I pulled back with all my strength, terrified that leg too would crunch through a skin of solid ground into some nameless depth. But the ground there held and, sweating with exertion and fear, I was able, painfully slowly, to pull out the other leg, black with mud. A sucking, gurgling sound and a cesspit odour came from the mire. I stepped back and sat with a thump on the path, my heart pounding. My staff lay where it had fallen on the marsh, but I did not think of trying to rescue it. Looking down at my leg encased in stinking mud, I cursed myself for a fool. Lord Cromwell’s face would have been worth seeing had he learned that his carefully chosen commissioner had braved the mysteries and dangers of Scarnsea only to fall in a bog and drown.
‘You are a noddle,’ I said aloud.
I heard a sound behind me, and turned sharply. The gate in the wall was open and Brother Edwig was standing there, a warm coat over his habit, staring at me in amazement.
‘Master Sh-Shardlake, are you all right?’ He gazed around the bare landscape, and I realized he had heard me talking to myself.
‘Yes, Brother Edwig.’ I climbed to my feet, realizing I did not cut an impressive figure, bespattered with mud as I was. ‘I have had a slight accident. I nearly fell in.’
He shook his head. ‘You should not go in there, sir. It is very dangerous.’
‘So I see. But what are you doing out here, Brother? Is there no work in the counting house?’
‘I have been v-v-visiting the sick novice with the abbot. I wanted to c-clear my head. Sometimes I come out here for a walk.’
I looked at him curiously. He was not someone I could easily imagine tramping through snowy orchards for exercise.
‘I like to come out here and l-look out towards the r-r-river. It is c-calming.’
‘So long as one minds one’s footing?’
‘Er – yes. C-can I help you back, sir? You are c-covered with mud.’
I was starting to shiver. ‘I can manage. But yes, I should go back.’
We returned through the gate and plodded back to the monastery. I went as fast as I could, my sodden leg like a block of ice.
‘How is the novice?’
He shook his head. ‘He appears to be r-recovering, but one can never tell with these chesty agues. I had one m-myself last winter; it kept me out of the c-counting house two weeks.’ He shook his head.
‘And what is your opinion of Simon Whelplay’s treatment by the prior?’
He shook his head again, impatiently. ‘It is d-difficult. We must have discipline.’
‘But should one not temper the wind to the shorn lamb?’
‘P-people need certainty, they n-need to know that if they do wrong they will be p-punished.’ He looked at me. ‘Do you not th-think so, sir?’
‘Some people find it harder to learn than others. I was told not to go in that bog, but I did.’
‘But that was a mistake, sir, not a sin. And if one finds it hard to learn, all the more reason to give a firm lesson, surely. And that boy is weakly, he could have taken an ague in any case.’ His tone was stern.
I raised my eyebrows. ‘You appear to view the world in black and white, Brother.’
He looked puzzled. ‘Of course, sir. Black and white. Sin and virtue. God and the Devil. The rules are laid down and we must follow them.’
‘Now the rules are laid down by the king, not the pope.’
He looked at me seriously. ‘Yes, sir, and we must follow those.’
I reflected that that was not what Brother Athelstan had reported him and the others as saying. ‘I understand, Brother Bursar, that you were away on the night Commissioner Singleton was killed?’
‘Y-yes. We have some estates over at W-Winchelsea. I was not happy with the steward’s accounts, I rode over to make a spot check. I was away three nights.’
‘What did you uncover?’
‘I thought he’d b-been cheating us. But it was just a matter of errors. I’ve sacked him, though. If people can’t keep proper ac-c-counts they’re no good to me.’
‘Did you go alone?’
‘I took one of my assistants, old Brother William, whom you saw in the counting house.’ He looked at me shrewdly. ‘And I was at the steward’s house the night Commissioner S-Singleton was killed. G-God rest him,’ he added piously.
‘You have many duties then,’ I said. ‘But at least you have assistants to help you. The old man and the boy.’
He gave me a sharp look. ‘Yes, though the boy’s more trouble than he’s worth.’
‘Is he?’
‘No head for figures, n-none at all. I have s-set him to looking out the books you requested, they should b-be with you soon.’ He almost slipped, and I caught his arm.
‘Thank you, sir. By Our Lady, this snow!’
FOR THE REST of the journey he concentrated on where he was putting his feet, and we said little more till we reached the monastery precinct. We parted in the courtyard; Broth
er Edwig returned to his counting house and I turned my steps back towards the infirmary. I needed some dinner. I thought about the bursar; a jack-in-office, obsessed with his financial responsibilities probably to the exclusion of all else. But devoted to the monastery too. Would he be prepared to countenance dishonesty to protect it, or would that mean crossing the line between white and black? He was an unsympathetic man, but as I had said to Mark the night before, that did not make him a murderer any more than the sympathy I felt for Brother Gabriel made him innocent. I sighed. It was hard to be objective among these people.
As I opened the infirmary door, all seemed quiet. The hall was deserted. The sick old man lay quietly in his bed, the blind monk was asleep in his chair and the fat monk’s bed was empty; perhaps Brother Guy had persuaded him it was time to leave. A fire crackled welcomingly in the grate and I went to warm myself for a moment.
As I stood watching steam rise from my wet hose, I heard sounds from within; confused, fractured noises, cries and shouts and the crash of pottery breaking. The sounds came closer. I stared in astonishment as the door to the sick rooms burst open and a tangle of struggling figures fell into the hall: Alice, Mark, Brother Guy, and at the centre a thin figure in a white nightshift, who as I watched threw the others off and staggered away. I recognized Simon Whelplay, but he was a very different figure now from the half-dead wraith I had seen the night before. His face was puce, his eyes wide and staring and there was a froth of spittle at the corner of his mouth. He seemed to be trying to speak but could only gasp and retch.
‘God’s blood, what’s happening?’ I called out to Mark.
‘He’s gone stark mad, sir!’
‘Spread out! Catch him!’ Brother Guy shouted. His face was grim as he nodded to Alice, who moved to one side, spreading her arms. Mark and Brother Guy followed her example and they closed in on the novice, who had come to a halt and stood staring wildly around. The blind monk had woken and sat twisting his head anxiously around, his mouth agape. ‘What is it?’ he asked tremulously. ‘Brother Guy?’