Dissolution (Matthew Shardlake Mysteries)

by C. J. Sansom

  The nag was showing signs of anxiety again and I turned and headed slowly back towards the City, through a street of store-houses. Then I paused. An extraordinary babel of noise was coming from one of the wooden buildings; screeches and yells and a host of voices in strange tongues. It was bizarre, hearing those unearthly sounds in the misty air. Overcome with curiosity, I tied the nag to a post and went across to the warehouse, from which a sharp smell issued.

  The open door showed a dreadful sight. The warehouse was full of birds, in three great iron cages each as tall as a man. They were birds such as the old woman had had, which Pepper had reminded me of. There were hundreds of them, of all sizes and innumerable colours: red and green, golden and blue and yellow. They were in the most miserable state: all had had their wings cut, some right to the bone and badly done too, so that the mutilated ends were covered with raw sores; many were diseased, with half their feathers gone, scabs on their bodies and eyes surrounded with pus. For every one that clung with its claws to the sides of the cages another lay dead on the floor among great heaps of powdery droppings. The worst thing was their shrieking; some of the poor birds simply made harsh piteous cries as though appealing for an end to their suffering, but others cried out over and again in a variety of tongues; I heard words in Latin, in English, in languages I did not understand. Two of them, clinging upside down to the bars, shrieked at each other, one calling out ‘A fair wind’, over and again, while the other answered ‘Maria, mater dolorosa’ in the accent of a Devon man.

  I stood, transfixed by the horrible scene, until I was interrupted by a rough hand on my shoulder. I turned to find a sailor dressed in a greasy jerkin eyeing me suspiciously.

  ‘What business have you here?’ he asked sharply. ‘If ye’ve come to trade ye should go to Master Fold’s rooms.’

  ‘No - no, I was passing, I heard the noise and wondered what it was.’

  He grinned. ‘The Tower of Babel, eh, sir? Voices possessed by the spirit and speaking in tongues? Nay, just more of these birds the gentry all want now for playthings.’

  ‘They are in a most pitiful state.’

  ‘There’s plenty more where they came from. Some always die on the voyage. More will die from the cold, they’re weak brutes. Pretty though, ain’t they?’

  ‘Where did you get them?’

  ‘The isle of Madeira. There’s a Portuguese merchant there, he’s realized there’s a market in Europe for them. You should see some of the things he buys and sells, sir; why he ships boatloads of black Negroes from Africa as slaves for the Brazil colonists.’ He laughed, showing gold-capped teeth.

  I felt a desperate urge to escape from the chill, fetid air of the warehouse. I excused myself and rode away. The harsh cries of the birds, their unearthly simulacra of human speech, followed me down the muddy street.

  I RODE BACK under the City wall into a London suddenly grey and foggy, full of the sound of water dripping from melting icicles on the house eaves. I halted the nag outside a church. I normally attended church at least once a week, but had not been to a service for over ten days. I was in need of spiritual comfort; I dismounted and went inside.

  It was one of those rich City churches attended by merchants. Many London merchants were reformers now and there were no candles. The figures of saints on the rood screen had been painted over and replaced by a biblical verse:

  The Lord knoweth how to deliver the godly out of temptations, and to reserve the unjust unto the day of judgement to be punished.

  The church was empty. I stepped behind the rood screen. The altar had been stripped of its decorations, the paten and chalice standing on an unadorned table. A copy of the new Bible was chained to the lectern. I sat down in a pew, reassured by these familiar surroundings, a total contrast to Scarnsea.

  But not all the accoutrements of the old ways had gone. From where I sat I could see a cadaver tomb of the last century. There were two stone biers, one above the other. On the top one was the effigy of a rich merchant in his fine robes, plump and bearded. On the lower tier lay the effigy of a desiccated cadaver in the rags of the same clothes, and the motto: ‘So I am now; so I once was: as I am now; so shall ye be.’

  Looking at the stone cadaver I had a sudden vision of Orphan’s decomposed body rising from the water, then of the diseased rickety children at Smeaton’s house. I had a sudden sick feeling that our revolution would do no more than change starveling children’s names from those of the saints to Fear-God and Zealous. I thought of Cromwell’s casual mention of creating faked evidence to hound innocent people to death, and of Mark’s talk of the greedy suitors come to Augmentations for grants of monastic lands. This new world was no Christian commonwealth; it never would be. It was in truth no better than the old, no less ruled by power and vanity. I remembered the gaudy, hobbled birds shrieking mindlessly at each other and it seemed to me like an image of the king’s court itself, where papists and reformers fluttered and gabbled, struggling for power. And in my wilful blindness I had refused to see what was before my eyes. How men fear the chaos of the world, I thought, and the yawning eternity hereafter. So we build patterns to explain its terrible mysteries and reassure ourselves we are safe in this world and beyond.

  And then I realized that blinkered thinking of another sort had blinded me to the truth of what had happened at Scarnsea. I had bound myself to a web of assumptions about how the world worked, but remove one of those and it was as though a mirror of clear glass were substituted for a distorting one. My jaw dropped open. I realized who had killed Singleton and why and, that step taken, all fell into place. And I realized I had little time. For a few moments more I sat with my mouth open, breathing heavily. Then I roused myself and rode as fast as the nag would go, back to the place where, if I was right, the last piece of the puzzle lay: the Tower.

  IT WAS DARK by the time I rode over the moat again, and Tower Green was lit by flaming torches. I almost ran into the Great Hall and made my way again to Master Oldknoll’s office. He was still there, carefully transferring information from one paper to another.

  ‘Master Shardlake! I trust you’ve had a profitable day. More than mine, at least.’

  ‘I must speak urgently to the gaoler in charge of the dungeons. Can you take me straight there? I’ve no time to wander round trying to find him.’

  He read the importance of the matter from my face. ‘I’ll take you now.’ He picked up a great bunch of keys and led me off, taking a torch from a passing soldier. As we passed through the Great Hall he asked if I had ever been to the dungeons before.

  ‘Never, I’m glad to say.’

  ‘They are grim places. And I’ve never known them busier.’

  ‘Yes. I wonder what we are coming to.’

  ‘A country full of godless crime, that’s what. Papists and mad gospellers. We should hang them all.’

  He led me down a narrow spiral staircase. The air became sharp with damp. There was green slime on the walls, fat beads of water running down it like sweat. We were below the level of the river now.

  At the bottom was an iron gate, through which I saw a torchlit underground chamber where a little group of men stood round a paper-strewn table. A guard in Tower livery came over to us and Oldknoll addressed him through the bars.

  ‘I have one of the vicar general’s commissioners here, he needs to see Chief Gaoler Hodges at once.’

  The guard opened the gate. ‘Over there, sir. He’s very busy; we’ve taken in a load of Anabaptist suspects today.’ He led us over to the table, where a tall thin man stood checking papers with another guard. On both sides of the chamber there were heavy wooden doors with barred windows, from one of which a loud voice issued, calling out verses from the Bible.

  ‘Behold I am against them saith the Lord of Hosts, and I will burn the chariots and the sword shall devour thy young lions . . .’

  The gaoler raised his head. ‘Shut your mouth! Do you want a whipping?’ The voice subsided and he turned to me, bowing. ‘Your pardon, sir, I am t
rying to sort the delations for all these new prisoners. Some of them are to go before Lord Cromwell for interrogation tomorrow, I don’t want to send him the wrong ones.’

  ‘I need information about a prisoner who was here eighteen months ago,’ I said. ‘Do you remember Mark Smeaton?’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m not likely to forget that time, sir. The queen of England in the Tower.’ He paused, remembering. ‘Yes, Smeaton was down here the night before his execution. We had instructions to separate him from the other prisoners, he was to have some visitors.’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, Robin Singleton came to make sure he was keeping to his confession. And there were other visitors. Would they be recorded?’

  The gaoler exchanged a look with Oldknoll and laughed. ‘Oh yes, sir. Everything’s recorded nowadays, isn’t it, Thomas?’

  ‘At least twice.’

  The gaoler sent one of his men off, and a few minutes later he returned with a heavy log book. The gaoler opened it.

  ‘May 1536, the sixteenth.’ He ran his finger down the page. ‘Yes, Smeaton was in the cell that mayhemmer’s in.’ He nodded at the door from which the declamations had issued; silent now, only darkness visible through the bars.

  ‘His visitors?’ I asked impatiently, coming to peer over his shoulder. He shrank away a little as he bent once more to his book. Perhaps a hunchback had once brought him bad luck.

  ‘See, there’s Singleton, brought in at six. Another, marked “relative” at seven and then “priest” at eight. That’s the Tower priest, Brother Martin, come to confess him before his execution. A pox on that Fletcher, I’ve told him always to put in the names.’

  I ran my finger down the page, looking at the other prisoners’ names. ‘Jerome Wentworth called Jerome of London, monk of the London Charterhouse. Yes, he’s here too. But I need to know about that relative, Master Hodges, most urgently. Who is this Fletcher, one of your guards?’

  ‘Aye, and he doesn’t like the paperwork. His writing’s not good.’

  ‘Is he on duty?’

  ‘No, sir, he’s had leave for his father’s funeral up in Essex. He won’t be back till tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘He comes on duty then?’

  ‘At one.’

  I bit my finger. ‘I will be at sea by then. Give me paper and a pen.’

  I quickly scribbled two notes and handed them to Hodges.

  ‘This one asks Fletcher to tell me all he remembers of that visitor, everything. You will impress on him that the information is vital, and if he can’t write the answer get someone else to. When he’s done, I want the answer taken at once to Lord Cromwell’s office with this other letter. It asks him to provide his fastest rider, to bring Fletcher’s answer to me down at Scarnsea. The roads will be hell itself if this snow’s melting, but a good man might be able to reach me by the time my boat gets in.’

  ‘I’ll take it to Lord Cromwell myself, Master Shardlake,’ Oldknoll said. ‘I’ll be glad to get out in the air.’

  ‘I’m sorry about Fletcher,’ Hodges said. ‘Only there’s so much paperwork now, sometimes it doesn’t get done properly.’

  ‘Just make sure I have that answer, Master Hodges.’

  I turned away, and Oldknoll led me out of the dungeons. As we mounted the stairs we heard the man in Smeaton’s cell shouting again: a litany of garbled quotations from the Bible, cut off with a sharp crack and a yell.

  Chapter Thirty

  I WAS LUCKY WITH THE winds on the return journey; once out at sea the mist faded and the boat was driven down the Channel by a light south-east wind. The temperature had risen several degrees; after the biting cold of the last week it felt almost warm. The boatman had a cargo of finished cloth and iron tools to bring back, and was in a more cheerful mood.

  As we approached land on the evening of the second day, I saw the coastline, wreathed in light mist. My heart quickened; we were nearly there. I had spent much time on the voyage thinking; what I did next depended on whether the messenger from London had arrived. And it was time for another talk with Jerome. Now a thought I had tried to suppress these last couple of days came to the front of my mind: were Mark and Alice still safe?

  The mist made it hard to see as we navigated the channel through the marsh to Scarnsea wharf. The boatman asked diffidently if I could take a pole and push the boat from the banks if we came too close and I agreed. Once or twice it almost stuck in the thick, glutinous mud through which little rivulets of melting snow were running. I was glad when at last we reached the wharf. The boatman helped me onto dry land with thanks for my help, and perhaps ended by thinking less badly of at least one reforming heretic.

  I MADE MY WAY at once to Copynger’s house. He was just sitting down to supper with his wife and children and invited me to join his board, but I said I must get back. He led me to his comfortable study.

  ‘Have there been any more happenings out at the monastery?’ I asked as soon as the door was shut.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Everyone is safe?’

  ‘So far as I know. I have news of those land sales, though.’ He reached into his desk, producing a parchment deed of conveyance. I studied the ornate calligraphy, the clear impression of the monastery seal in red wax at the foot. The deed conveyed a large parcel of arable land on the other side of the Downs to Sir Edward Wentworth for a hundred pounds.

  ‘That’s a cheap price,’ Copynger said. ‘It’s a goodly parcel.’

  ‘None of this was entered in the official books I saw.’

  ‘Then you have the rogues, sir.’ He smiled happily. ‘In the end I went to Sir Edward’s house myself, and took the constable with me. That scared him, it reminded him I’ve powers of arrest, for all his haughtiness. He gave up the deed in half an hour, started whining he’d bought it all in good faith.’

  ‘Who did he negotiate with at the monastery?’

  ‘His steward dealt with the bursar, I believe. You know Edwig has control of everything to do with money there.’

  ‘But the abbot would have had to seal the deed. Or someone would.’

  ‘Yes. And, sir, it was part of the arrangement that the sale be kept secret for a while, the tenants would remit the rents to the monastery’s steward as usual and he’d pass them on to Sir Edward.’

  ‘Secret conveyances are not illegal in themselves. Hiding the transaction from the king’s auditors is, though.’ I rolled up the parchment and put it in my satchel. ‘You have done well. I am grateful. Keep on with your enquiries and say nothing for now.’

  ‘I ordered Wentworth to keep my visit secret, on pain of trouble from Lord Cromwell’s office. He’ll say nothing.’

  ‘Good. I will act soon, I await some information from London first.’

  He coughed. ‘While you are here, sir, Goodwife Stumpe has been asking for you. I told her you should be back this afternoon and she parked herself in my kitchen after lunch. She won’t move till she’s seen you.’

  ‘Very well, I can give her a few minutes. By the way, what forces have you at your command here?’

  ‘My constable and his assistant, and my three informers. But there are good reformist men in the town I could muster if needed.’ He eyed me narrowly. ‘Are you expecting trouble?’

  ‘I hope not. But I expect to make arrests very soon. Perhaps you could make sure your men are available. And that the town gaol is ready.’

  He nodded, smiling. ‘I’ll be happy to see some monkish prisoners there. And, sir,’ he gave me a meaningful look, ‘when this business is over, will you commend me to Lord Cromwell for my assistance? I have a son who is almost old enough to go up to London.’

  I smiled wryly. ‘I fear a recommendation from me would carry little weight just now.’

  ‘Oh.’ He looked disappointed.

  ‘And now, if I could see the goodwife?’

  ‘You don’t mind seeing her in the kitchen? I don’t want her dirty shoes on this matting.’

  He led me to the kitchen, where the overseer sat
nursing a jug of ale. Copynger shooed out a couple of curious kitchenmaids, and left me with her.

  The old woman came straight to the point. ‘I am sorry to take your time, sir, but I had a favour to ask. We buried Orphan two days ago in the churchyard.’

  ‘I am glad her poor body is at rest.’

  ‘I paid the mortuary fee myself, but I’ve no money for a headstone. I could see, sir, you felt for what was done to her, and I wondered - it is a shilling, sir, for a cheap gravestone.’

  ‘And for an expensive one?’

  ‘Two, sir. I can arrange for you to be sent a receipt.’

  I counted out two shillings. ‘This mission is setting me up as a dole-giver,’ I said ruefully, ‘but she should have a good headstone. I won’t pay for Masses, though.’