by C. J. Sansom
'Yes. I cope, Guy. I always cope.' I took a deep breath. 'And I will try to have the stomach for whatever you have to tell me of your investigation of Roger's body. But the less detail the better, please.'
'I visited the place where the body is stored this morning. I took Piers—'
I frowned. The idea of Guy opening Roger, examining his innards, was horrible enough. But a stranger, a mere boy . . .
'I am training him, Matthew. The licence I have to open bodies offers a unique chance to study human anatomy. He may be able to use it to help others in the future.'
I still did not like the notion. 'What did you find?' I asked.
'So far as I could see, Master Elliard's health at the time of his death was good.'
'It always was. Till someone knocked him out and cut his throat.'
'I don't think he was knocked out,' Guy said in the same grave, even tones. 'Not as we understand that phrase.'
I looked at him, appalled. 'You mean he was conscious when he went in there?'
'Not that either. Have you ever heard of dwale?' I shook my head.
'There is no reason you should. It is a liquid compound of opium and certain other elements, such as vinegar and pig's bile, which induces unconsciousness. Depending on how much is used it can bring relaxation, unconsciousness — or death. It has been used on and off for hundreds of years to render people unconscious before surgery.'
'Then why have I never heard of it? That would save terrible pain.'
He shook his head. 'There is a severe problem with it. The correct dose is very hard to determine, very hard indeed. It depends on many factors: the age of the ingredients, the size and age and health of the patient. It is very easy to give the patient too much and then the physician is left with a corpse. For that reason very few use it now. But I think Master Elliard's killer did.'
'Why?'
'Let me show you something.' He left the room, returning a moment later. I feared what dreadful thing he might return with, but it was only one of Roger's boots. He laid it across his knee and brought the candle to it, illuminating a large dark stain.
'This boot was dry, it must have been on the leg that was sticking out of the water. When I saw that stain I smelt it, then put my finger to it and tasted. The taste of dwale is quite distinctive.' He looked at me. 'The first stage after it is taken is nearly always a sense of euphoria, then unconsciousness. That explains your poor friend's peaceful look.'
'You said it is out of use now. So who would use it?'
'Very few physicians or surgeons, because of the risks. Some of the unlicensed healers.' He hesitated. 'And there was a tradition of its use in certain monasteries.'
There was a moment's silence. Then I said, 'You used it, didn't you?'
He nodded slowly. 'Only when I thought the shock of severe surgery might kill a patient. And I have a long skill in determining dosages. But though it is not used now, the formula is well known among practitioners. It is no secret.'
'But needs great skill to administer.'
He nodded. 'The killer would not have wanted to give Roger a fatal dose. He meant to make that terrible display in the fountain. Drugged him so he would not wake even when his throat was cut.'
'Did the body tell you anything else?'
'No. The organs were otherwise all healthy. They might have been those of a younger man.'
'You make it sound very impersonal, Guy.'
'I have to be impersonal, Matthew. How else would I cope with the things I see?'
'I cannot be impersonal. Not with this.'
'Then perhaps it should be left to others to investigate.'
'I have given Dorothy a promise. I am committed.'
'Very well.' For a moment Guy's face took on that tired, strained look I had seen when I brought Roger to see him. 'There was one thing, a lump on the back of his head. I think whoever your friend went to meet that night knocked him out. When he came round he was forced — somehow — to drink dwale. He passed out, and the killer brought him to Lincoln's Inn.'
'Across the fields and through the orchard door.' I told him about the footprints Barak had followed. 'Roger was a small man, but this brute must still be very strong.'
'And determined. And vicious.'
I shook my head. 'And an educated man. From what you say he has knowledge of the medical profession and perhaps the legal world too, if he could fake a letter from a solicitor well enough to take Roger in, which it seems likely he did. But why? Why kill a man who has harmed no one, and leave that terrible spectacle?'
'He had no enemies?'
'None.' I looked at Roger's boot again, and suddenly it was all too much. My stomach lurched violently. 'Your privy, Guy—' I gasped. 'You know the way.'
I went to the privy at the rear of the house, the usual wooden shack over a cesspit, yet less noisome than most, something scented in the air to minimize the stinks. There I was violently sick. As I walked back to the house I felt weak, my legs shaking.
Low voices came from the consulting room. The door was open and I saw Guy and the boy Piers sitting close together at the table. They had brought the candle over and were looking, rapt, at an open book. I recognized Vesalius' horribly illustrated anatomy book. Piers brushed a lick of dark hair from his face and pointed to the drawing. 'See,' he said eagerly. 'That illustration is just like Elliard's heart.' Piers broke off suddenly, his face reddening, as he saw me. 'Master Shardlake! I - I did not know you were still here. I brought in the book—'
'I saw,' I said curtly. 'Poor Roger. I wonder what he would have thought if he knew the intimate details of his body would become chatter for apprentices. Well, perhaps he would have been amused, though I cannot say I am.' I looked with distaste at the picture, a human abdomen torn open, all the organs exposed.
"Tis only to gain better knowledge, sir,' Piers mumbled. I gave him a cold look, thinking Guy gave him far too much latitude.
'No, Piers, it was my fault.' Guy for once looked discomfited.
'You will be giving evidence at the inquest tomorrow morning?' I asked him.
'Yes. Of course.'
'And Adam: Do you know when you may be able to visit him: I ought to come too. The court is not sitting on Friday morning, if that would be convenient for you.'
He brought a little leather-bound notebook from his pocket and studied it. 'Yes, Friday at noon?'
'Then I will leave you,' I said, with an angry glance at the book, which still lay open on the desk, and at Piers, who still stood quietly at his master's side. Guy raised a hand.
'No, Matthew, stay, please.' I hesitated. Guy closed the Vesalius book and handed it up to Piers. 'Take it out, my boy, and bring some wine. Then continue studying the book if you wish.'
'Yes, sir.'
Guy patted Piers' shoulder in an affectionate gesture, and he left the room. 'I am so sorry, Matthew,' he said. 'We meant no disrespect to Roger Elliard. It is just — the implications of Vesalius for the practice of medicine are so great — but Matthew, even as I investigated how your friend died, as you asked me to do, I prayed for his departed soul.'
I smiled. I knew Guy too well, knew his goodness, to be angry for long. 'Is Vesalius so very remarkable, then?' I asked.
'Oh yes, yes. It is a change of approach that is much needed, study based on observation, not merely acceptance of blind doc trine.'
'It will not be popular among physicians, then.'
'No. It challenges their monopoly of arcane knowledge. And who knows where it may end?' He looked at the chart on his wall. 'The very doctrine of the humours itself could be challenged and tested.'
I followed his gaze to the chart, with its complex equations and symbols. The notion that the human body was composed of four humours, black bile, yellow bile, phlegm and blood, corresponding to the four elements of earth, fire, water and air that made up everything in the world, was so universally accepted I could not imagine it ever being challenged: nor the doctrine that every human ailment was caused by imbalances betw
een the four elements in the individual body. I remembered discussing our respective humours with Roger, on the last evening I saw him.
'Then I will not be recommended to eat salad when I am low in spirits,' I said. 'To moisten the dryness of black bile. That would be a relief.'
Guy smiled sadly. 'I would rather recommend attending a musical evening, or a long walk over Lincoln's Inn Fields.'
'Not Lincoln's Inn Fields, Guy. It seems that was probably where Roger met his assailant.'
Piers knocked at the door and brought in a large jug of wine and two glasses. When he had gone I said, 'I have promised Dorothy to find the killer, but I do not know how he can be caught.'
'You have resolved such matters before, as I know better than anyone. You underestimate yourself. I know that too.'
'I would be a fool to underestimate the difficulties of this case. And because of Easter and the wretched politics of the coroner's offices, the inquest will be four days after the murder. Four days with no official investigation. I thought the royal coroner might hurry things up, but he has not. Ten to one the murderer is out of London now; though for all the chance we have of finding him he could still be in the city, laughing at the coroners and the constables and their stupidity.' I shook my head.
'If he is an educated man, that must limit the numbers. You know as well as I that both the law and medicine are closed worlds, their practitioners seeking to keep their secrets to themselves.'
'Perhaps. But many of our class have some knowledge of both. Though the knowledge of dwale is unusual.'
'And how to administer it. Wait until the inquest tomorrow, see if anything more is revealed.'
I nodded, took a drink of wine from my cup. I saw that Guy had finished his already, which surprised me for he was a believer in moderation in all things.
'Thank you for taking on Adam Kite,' I said.
He nodded slowly. 'Salvation panic. A strange obsession. How prone people are to become fixated on ideas, or religion, or people. And of course fanatic religion is everywhere. Perhaps the surprise is there are not more people like Adam.' He turned his cup in his hand pensively.
A wherryman told me today that those huge fish they found in the river are the Leviathans, and foretell the second coming of Christ, the end of the world.'
Guy shook his head. 'There was only one Leviathan.'
'So I thought.'
'It has become a world of black and white, Matthew, a Manichean world where preachers encourage everyone to rush towards a conflict between good and evil. Each knowing, of course, that their own side is entirely in the right.'
I smiled, inclined my head. 'Protestants and Catholics alike?'
'Yes. Do not forget my parents were moriscos, Moorish Spaniards made to leave Spain by the Inquisition. I too have seen the wildness that follows when fanatics without self-doubt gain power.' He looked at me gravely. 'But mark this. Whatever wrongs it has done, the Catholic Church has always believed in free will, that men by their actions as well as their faith may choose to come to God. This new Protestant radicalism will not allow for that, everyone is either saved or damned through God's will, not free will. They may pray to be saved once and for all, may feel they are saved once and for all, but for them it is God's decision, not man's. And so we have Adam Kite, who thinks that God will not have him.'
'And his wretched vicar, because he cannot cure him, believes he is possessed.'
'It is a way of explaining failure.'
'I never supported Luther on predestination, Guy. I was on Erasmus' side in their debate on free will.' I looked at him seriously. 'I saw a non-licensed preacher taken to St Paul's in sackcloth and ashes this morning. Bonner is going to crack down on the Protestants, and they will not take it quietly. It is not going to be a good time for outsiders.'
'Yes, you are right. With my dark face and monkish past, I am best to keep quiet and stay indoors when I can. And not talk too widely about the discoveries of Vesalius, still less this Polish scholar who says the earth goes round the sun. But what peace of mind is there even at home?' he added, so quietly I barely heard him. His face was suddenly full of pain and sadness.
'Are you all right, Guy?' I asked quietly. 'Have you some trouble of your own?'
'No.' He smiled. 'Only the aches and pains of old age. And I have had enough of wine and should go to bed.' He rose. 'Good- night.'
'I shall tell Adam Kite's parents you will see them. They will be relieved.'
We shook hands and I left. I was glad we had parted on good terms after all. But I did not believe him when he said nothing was wrong.
Chapter Eight
NEXT MORNING I went to fetch Dorothy to accompany her to the inquest. She had not been out of doors since Roger's death, and I was worried about how she would cope. Crossing Gatehouse Court I saw that as at Westminster the fountain's underground valve had been turned and the water had come on; it splashed merrily into the huge bowl. The weather was still mild, the birds chirking in the trees. The world of nature was being reborn, though I could take no pleasure in it.
Dorothy sat in her chair by the fire, the faithful Margaret beside her. Both were dressed in deepest black and wore coifs with long black wings behind, the pale oval of Dorothy's face staring out starkly. I was reminded of that other mourner I had recently seen, Catherine Parr. Dorothy gave me a brave smile.
'Is it time? Yes. I see from your expression that it is.' She sighed, looking at the frieze above the fireplace. I followed her gaze. A weasel looked out at me from between thick wooden vines. 'How lifelike that is,' I said.
'Ay, Roger was so fond of it. He was displeased with the repair of that corner after it was damaged.'
'Are you sure you can bear this?' I asked, looking at her white face and sunken cheeks.
'Yes,' she said with a touch of her old firmness. 'I must see Roger's killer caught.'
'I will do the identification of the body, if you wish.'
'Thank you. That — that might be too much.'
'We shall take the boat to the Guildhall.'
'Good.' She hesitated, then asked suddenly, 'What are they saying, in the streets?'
'Just that there was a nasty murder here.'
'If I hear anyone speak badly of Roger I shall fly at them.'
'That's the way, mistress,' Margaret said approvingly. She helped Dorothy rise to her feet.
THE GREAT PILLARED vestibule of the London Guildhall was as busy as usual. Unusually, a pair of constables in city livery were posted by the door. Within, council and guild officials scuttled to and fro. Some glanced curiously at a large group of black-robed lawyers gathered in a corner. I recognized the stern face of Treasurer Rowland; the others were all Lincoln's Inn barristers - the jury. I was surprised that apart from Treasurer Rowland they were all very young; there was no one else there of any seniority. Some looked distinctly uneasy, as did the two students who had found the body and who stood on the fringe of the group. Guy stood a little apart, talking to Barak.
Dorothy looked at the crowd, hesitated, then moved to a bench by the wall. She sat, signalling Margaret to join her. 'We will wait here until the court opens,' she told me. 'I cannot face talking to anyone.'
'Very well.'
I crossed to Barak and Guy. 'Good day, Matthew,' Guy said. He looked across at Dorothy. 'Is that the poor widow? She is very pale.'
'It has cost her much to come today. But she is brave.'
'Yes, one senses strength beneath her suffering.' He nodded at Barak. 'Jack here has noticed something strange.'
'What?'
Barak looked red-eyed, a little bilious. Had he had yet another night in the taverns? He leaned close; his breath was sour.
'A spectacular death like this,' he said, 'you'd think there'd be a crowd here to fill the public gallery. But those constables are turning folk away.'
'Really?' That would be good for Dorothy, but it was unheard of; the coroner's court, like all jury courts, was supposed to be public.
'Brother Shard
lake, a word.' Treasurer Rowland appeared at my elbow. I followed him away from the group.
'My clerk tells me no spectators have been allowed in,' I said.
'The usher says the coroners have decided the hearing is to be private, to prevent idle babble. I have never heard of such a thing.'
We were interrupted by a black<-robed usher calling from a doorway. I went back to Dorothy. She rose to her feet; lips set, a spot of red in each cheek. 'Take my hand, Margaret,' she said quietly. The jurors parted to let her enter the courtroom.
WE HAD BEEN GIVEN one of the meeting rooms. Rows of benches faced the table where the two coroners already sat. The usher guided me, along with the other witnesses, to the front row and the jurors took the two rows behind. The rows where the public would have sat were empty. I studied the two coroners sitting at the table facing us. Browne slouched with his plump hands folded across his ample stomach. Next to him sat a very different man: in his early forties, short but strongly made, with a square face. Thick brown hair curled beneath his black cap and he had a short, neat beard just starting to go grey. He met my look; the gaze from his bright blue eyes was sharp, appraising.
'That's Sir Gregory Harsnet,' Barak whispered. 'The King's assistant coroner. He used to be in Lord Cromwell's camp, he's one of the few reformers who's kept his place.'
Browne let out a little belch; Harsnet frowned at him and he turned another belch into a cough and sat up straight. No doubt who was master here. The doors were closed.
'We will come to order, please.' Harsnet spoke in a clear, quiet voice with a west country accent, his eyes roving round the room. 'We are here today to adjudicate on the sudden and dreadful death of Roger Elliard, barrister of Lincoln's Inn. As the jurors are all lawyers
I do not need to tell you that today we shall view the body, hear the evidence and decide whether we can come to a verdict.'
The jury was sworn in, the young barristers stepping up to take the Testament from the usher. Then Harsnet addressed us again.
'Before we view the body I would call Dr Guy Malton, who has been charged with examining it, to tell us what he found.'