Dissolution (Matthew Shardlake Mysteries)

by C. J. Sansom

  ‘He will have to wait, I am not finished yet. And this morning I am going into town to see the Justice.’

  He nodded portentously. ‘Good. I am positive, Commissioner, that poor Commissioner Singleton’s murderer is to be found in the town, among the smugglers and ill-doers there.’

  ‘When I return I would like to interview Brother Jerome. Where is he? I have not seen his smiling face.’

  ‘In solitude, as a penance for his behaviour. I must warn you, Commissioner, if you talk to him you will only have fresh insults. He is beyond control.’

  ‘I can make allowance for the mad. I will see him when I return from Scarnsea.’

  ‘Your horses may have difficulty getting there. Last night’s wind has blown the snow into great drifts. One of our carts has had to turn back, the horses could not manage.’

  ‘Then we will walk.’

  ‘That too may be difficult. I have been trying to tell Dr Goodhaps—’

  The old man spoke up. ‘Sir, I have come to ask, may I not go home tomorrow, after the funeral? Surely I can be of no more use? If I were to get to the town I could find a place in a coach, or I wouldn’t mind staying at an inn till the snow melts.’

  I nodded. ‘Very well, Master Goodhaps. Though I fear you may have a wait in Scarnsea before this weather changes.’

  ‘I don’t mind, sir, thank you!’ The old man beamed, nodding his head so that the dewdrop fell on his chin.

  ‘Go back to Cambridge. Say nothing of what has happened here.’

  ‘I want only to forget about it.’

  ‘And now, Mark, we must go. My lord Abbot, while we are in town I would like you to sort out more papers for me. The deeds of conveyance on all land sales for the last five years.’

  ‘All of them? They will have to be fetched—’

  ‘Yes, all of them. I want you to be able to swear you have given me the deeds of every sale—’

  ‘I will arrange it, of course, if you wish.’

  ‘Good.’ I got up. ‘And now we must be on our way.’

  The abbot bowed and left, old Goodhaps scuttling after him.

  ‘That worried him,’ I said.

  ‘The land sales?’

  ‘Yes. It strikes me that if there is any fraudulent accounting going on, it would most likely be the concealment of income from land sales. That is the only way they could raise large amounts of capital. Let’s see what he comes up with.’

  We left the kitchen. As we passed Brother Guy’s dispensary we glanced in, and Mark suddenly grasped my arm.

  ‘Look! What’s happened to him?’

  Brother Guy lay face down on the floor under the big crucifix, arms extended in front of him. Sunlight glinted on his shaven brown pate. For a moment I was alarmed, then I heard the murmur of Latin prayer, soft but fervent. As we went on I reflected again that I must be careful how far I took the Spanish Moor into my confidence. He had confided in me, and was the most agreeable of those I had met here. But the sight of him lying prone, making fervid entreaties of a piece of wood, reminded me that as much as the others he was muzzled in the old heresies and superstitions, enemy of all I stood for.

  Chapter Fifteen

  OUTSIDE, THE MORNING WAS bitterly cold again under a clear blue sky. During the night the wind had blown big drifts against the walls, leaving parts of the courtyard almost bare of snow. It made a strange sight. We passed once again through the gate. Turning, I saw Bugge the gatekeeper peering out, withdrawing his head when he caught my glance. I blew out my cheeks.

  ‘God’s wounds, it’s a relief to be away from all those eyes.’ I looked up the road, which like the courtyard was a sea of drifts. The whole landscape, even the marsh, was white, broken only by skeletal black trees, clumps of reeds in the marsh and, in the distance, the grey sea. I had obtained another staff from Brother Guy, and took a firm grip on it.

  ‘Thank Heaven for these overshoes,’ Mark ventured.

  ‘Yes. The whole country will be a sea of mud when this snow melts.’

  ‘If it ever does.’

  We had a long trudge through the drear landscape, and it was an hour before we reached the first streets of Scarnsea. We said little, for we were both still in sombre mood. There was hardly anyone about that day and in the bright sunlight I noticed anew how dilapidated most of the buildings were.

  ‘We need Westgate Street,’ I said as we arrived again in the square. At the wharf a small boat was pulled up, an official in a black coat inspecting bales of cloth while a couple of townsmen stood by, stamping their feet against the cold. Out at sea, at the mouth of the channel through the marsh, stood a large ship.

  ‘The customs man,’ Mark observed.

  ‘They must be taking cloth over to France.’

  We turned into a street of new, well-built houses. On the door of the largest the town’s arms were engraved. I knocked, and the well-dressed servant who answered confirmed it was Justice Copynger’s house. We were led to wait in a fine drawing room with cushioned wooden chairs and a buffet displaying a great richness of gold plate.

  ‘He does himself well,’ Mark observed.

  ‘Indeed.’ I crossed to where the portrait of a stern-looking man with fair hair and a spade-shaped beard hung on the wall. ‘That’s very good. And painted in this room, by the background.’

  ‘He’s rich then—’ Mark broke off as the door opened to admit the original of the painting, a tall, strongly built man in his forties. He was swathed in a brown robe trimmed with sable fur and had a severe, serious air. He shook my hand firmly.

  ‘Master Shardlake, this is an honour. I am Gilbert Copynger, Justice of the town and Lord Cromwell’s most loyal servant. I knew poor Master Singleton; I thank Christ you have been sent. That monastery is a cesspit of corruption and heresy.’

  ‘Nothing is straightforward there, certainly.’ I indicated Mark. ‘My assistant.’

  He nodded briefly. ‘Come through to my study. You will take some refreshment? I think the Devil himself has sent this weather. Are you kept warm at the monastery?’

  ‘The monks have fires in every chamber.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t doubt that, sir. I don’t doubt it at all.’

  He led us down the hall to a cosy room with a view of the street, and cleared papers from stools before the fire. ‘Let me pour you both some wine. Forgive the disorder, but the paperwork I have from London . . . the minimum wage, the poor laws . . .’ he sighed. ‘And I am required to provide reports of any treasonable mutterings. Fortunately there are few of those in Scarnsea, but sometimes my informers make them up and I have to investigate words that were never said. At least it means people realize they have to be careful.’

  ‘I know Lord Cromwell sleeps easier knowing there are true men such as yourself in the shires.’ Copynger nodded gravely at the compliment. I sipped the wine. ‘This is excellent, sir, thank you. Now, time presses. There are matters on which I would welcome information.’

  ‘Anything I can do. Master Singleton’s murder was an insult to the king. It cries out for vengeance.’

  It should have been a relief to have the company of a fellow reformer, but I confess I did not take to Copynger. Although the Justices were indeed burdened with an ever-greater workload from London on top of their judicial duties, they did well from it. It has ever been the custom for Justices to profit from their functions, and more duties meant more profit even in a poor town, as Copynger’s wealth bore witness. To me his ostentation sat ill with his humourless, pious air. But that was the new type of man we were breeding in England then.

  ‘Tell me,’ I asked, ‘how are the monks regarded in the town?’

  ‘They are loathed for the leeches they are. They do nothing for Scarnsea, they don’t come into the town unless they have to and then they are haughty as the Devil. The charity they give is tiny and the poor have to walk to the monastery on dole days to get even that. It leaves the main burden of maintaining the indigent on the ratepayers.’

  ‘They have a beer monopoly
, I believe.’

  ‘And charge an extortionate price. Their beer is filthy stuff, hens roost in their brewhouse and drop dung in the brew.’

  ‘Yes, I saw that. It must be vile indeed.’

  ‘And no one else may sell beer.’ He spread his arms wide. ‘They milk their lands too, for all they can get. Don’t let anyone say monks are easy landlords. Things are worse since Brother Edwig took over as bursar; he would skin a flea for the fat on its arse.’

  ‘Yes, I believe he would. Speaking of the monastery’s finances, you reported to Lord Cromwell there had been land sales at undervalue.’

  He looked crestfallen. ‘I fear I have no details. I’d heard rumours, but word got out I’d been making enquiries, and now the big landowners keep their doings from my ears.’

  I nodded. ‘And who are they?’

  ‘Sir Edward Wentworth is the biggest hereabouts. He’s in close with the abbot, for all he’s related to the Seymours. They go hunting together. There have been rumours among the tenantry that monastery lands have been sold to him secretly and the abbot’s steward now collects rents on Sir Edward’s behalf, but I’ve no way of finding out for certain, it’s beyond my authority.’ He frowned crossly. ‘And the monastery owns land far and wide, even out of the county. I am sorry, Commissioner. If I had more authority . . .’

  I thought a moment. ‘It may be stretching my brief, but as I have power to investigate all matters involving the monastery I think I could extend that to enquiring about land sales they have made. What if you were to renew your enquiries on that basis? Invoke Lord Cromwell’s name?’

  He smiled. ‘A request in that name would bring them running. I will do what I can.’

  ‘Thank you. It could be important. By the way, I believe Sir Edward is cousin to Brother Jerome, the old Carthusian at the monastery?’

  ‘Yes, Wentworth’s an old papist. I hear that the Carthusian speaks open treason. I’d have him hanged from the cloth-hall steeple.’

  I thought a moment. ‘Tell me, if you did hang Brother Jerome from the steeple, how would the townsfolk react?’

  ‘They’d have a feast day. As I said, the monks are hated. This is a poor town now and the monks make it poorer. The port is so silted up you can hardly get a rowboat through.’

  ‘So I have seen. I hear some have turned to smuggling. According to the monks, they use the marshes behind the monastery to get to the river. Abbot Fabian tells me he has complained, but the town authorities wink at it.’

  At once Copynger’s face was watchful. ‘The abbot will say anything to make trouble. It’s a matter of resources, sir. There is but one revenue man and he cannot be out watching the ways through those marshes every night.’

  ‘According to one of the monks there has been activity out there recently. The abbot suggested it may have been smugglers who broke in and killed Singleton.’

  ‘He’s trying to divert attention, sir. There is a long history of smuggling here, finished cloth carried through the marsh and shipped to France in fishing boats. But why would one of those people want to kill the king’s commissioner? He had no brief to investigate smuggling. Did he?’ I noticed a sudden worried look in his eyes.

  ‘No indeed. And neither have I, unless those activities should be relevant to Master Singleton’s death. My feeling is the killer came from inside the monastery.’

  He looked relieved. ‘If landlords were allowed to enclose more land for sheep, that would bring more profit to the town and people would not turn to smuggling. There are too many small farmers doubling as weavers.’

  ‘Apart from any smuggling there may be, is the town loyal? No trouble with extreme sectarians, for example, no witchcraft hereabouts? You know the monastery was desecrated?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nothing. I’d know, I’ve five paid informers. A lot of people don’t like the new ways, but they keep their heads down. The biggest complaints have been about the abolition of saints’ days, but that’s only because they were holidays. And I’ve never heard of practitioners of the black arts hereabouts.’

  ‘No hot gospellers? No one who has read the Bible and seen some mysterious prophecy only he can fulfil?’

  ‘Like those German Anabaptists who would kill the rich and hold all goods in common? They should be burned. But there’s none of that here. There was a moonstruck forgemaster’s apprentice last year, preaching the Day of Judgement was come, but we set him in the stocks then cleared him out. He’s in gaol now, where he belongs. Preaching in English is one thing, but allowing the Bible to blockish servants and peasants will fill England with makebates.’

  I raised an eyebrow. ‘You are among those who consider only heads of households should be allowed to read the Bible?’

  ‘There is much to be said for that view, sir.’

  ‘Well, the papists would allow it to nobody. But to return to the subject of the monastery, I read there has been a history of ill-doings there. Sinful acts between the monks.’

  Copynger snorted with disgust. ‘That still goes on, I’m sure. The sacrist, Brother Gabriel, he was one of them and he’s still there.’

  ‘Was anyone from the town involved?’

  ‘No. But there are fornicators at that place as well as sodomites. Women servants from Scarnsea have suffered at their filthy hands. No woman under thirty would work there, not since one young girl went missing altogether.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘An orphan from the poorhouse who went to work for the infirmarian. Two years ago. She used to come back and visit the town, then suddenly she stopped coming. When enquiries were made Prior Mortimus said she’d stolen some gold cups and run away. Joan Stumpe, the poorhouse keeper, was convinced something had happened to her. But she’s an old busybody, and there was no proof.’

  ‘She worked for the infirmarian?’ Mark spoke up, a note of anxiety in his voice.

  ‘Yes. The black goblin we call him. You’d think all Englishmen had work, giving a post to a man like that.’

  I reflected a moment. ‘Might I talk to this Mistress Stumpe?’

  ‘You have to take what she says with a peck of salt. But she should be at the poorhouse now. There’s a dole day at the monastery tomorrow, she’ll be getting ready for it.’

  ‘Then let us seize the hour,’ I said, rising. Copynger called for a servant to fetch our coats.

  ‘Sir,’ Mark said to the magistrate as we were waiting. ‘There is a young girl working for the infirmarian now, one Alice Fewterer.’

  ‘Oh yes, I remember.’

  ‘I understand she had to get work because the family’s land was enclosed for sheep. I know the Justices have oversight of the enclosure laws; I wondered if it was all done legally? Whether something might be done for her?’

  Copynger raised his eyebrows. ‘I know it was done legally, young man, because the land is mine and it was I that enclosed it. The family had an old copyhold that expired on her mother’s death. I needed to take down that cottage and put the land to sheep if I was to make any profit at all.’

  I gave Mark a warning look. ‘I’m sure you did everything properly, sir,’ I said soothingly.

  ‘The thing that would profit the people of this town,’ Copynger said, a cold eye on Mark, ‘would be to close the monastery, throw out the lot of them and pull down those idol-filled buildings. And if the town has an extra burden of poor relief in the shape of a load of unemployed abbey-lubbers, I’m sure Master Cromwell would agree it was right for some monastery lands to be granted to prominent citizens.’

  ‘Speaking of Lord Cromwell, he has stressed the importance of keeping what has happened quiet for now.’

  ‘I’ve told no one, sir, and none of the monks has been to town.’

  ‘Good. The abbot has been told not to talk of it too. But some of the monastery servants will have contacts in Scarnsea.’

  He shook his head. ‘Very few. They keep apart, the townspeople like the abbey-lubbers no more than the monks.’

  ‘It will get out eventually though
. It’s in the nature of things.’

  ‘I am sure you will resolve this soon,’ he said. He smiled, his cheeks reddening. ‘May I say what an honour it is to meet one who has spoken personally with Lord Cromwell. Tell me, sir, what is he like, in person? They say he is a man of strong manner, for all his humble origins.’

  ‘He is indeed, Justice, a man of strong words and deeds. Ah, here is your servant with our coats.’ I cut him off; I was tired of his unctuous fawning.

  THE POORHOUSE lay on the fringe of the town, a long low building in much need of repair. On the way we passed a little group of men sweeping snow from the streets under the eye of an overseer. They wore grey smocks with the town’s arms sewn on, far too thin for such weather. They bowed to Copynger as we passed.