Revelation ms-4

by C. J. Sansom

  'The women must be protected. And if the rogue does try to gain entry we have a chance to catch him. Orr is a good man. I hope your wife is not too badly hurt, Goodman Barak.' His face softened with genuine concern.

  'A bit of rest and she'll be all right.'

  'But what exactly happened:'

  I told Harsnet about the attack on Tamasin. He set his lips. 'How can that have happened; We must talk further after we have seen the dean.'

  'And you, sir?' I asked him. 'Have the neighbouring coroners reported any — any horrific murders like our three?'

  'None. And we are still in the dark as to how our killer got to know those men, why he chose them.' He sighed, then essayed a tired smile. 'Well, let us see what Dean Benson has to say. I told him to expect us. He will be at the former prior's house, which he has taken over.' Harsnet frowned; a reformer would disapprove of an ex-monk benefiting from the Dissolution.

  'One thing,' I said. 'Have you thought, this last week, that someone might be following you?'

  The coroner shook his head. 'No.'

  'I fear I have. I think you should take care, sir.'

  'I will. Thank you.' He drew a deep breath as he led the way under the gate into the old monastic precinct.

  THE OUTER COURTS of most Benedictine monasteries had long been places of commerce, but Westminster had been in a class of its own, partly because of its enormous size but also because of its ancient privilege of sanctuary. Those who were wanted by the law could move there and set themselves up beyond the reach of justice. Thus the house of God had been surrounded by villains evading retribution. The precinct was ringed with a mixture of fine houses and poor tenements, home to criminals of all sorts, all paying profitable rents to the monks. Most of the old privileges of sanctuary had been abolished by King Henry — one of his better initiatives — but the Sanctuary itself had survived the Dissolution, and debtors and petty thieves could still find refuge there. Some fugitives had spent a lifetime in Westminster Sanctuary, often living a comfortable life, doing business in London using lawyers like Bealknap as intermediaries, and going each Sunday to St Margaret's church, a fine, recently rebuilt building that dominated the northern part of the precinct.

  As we passed the church, I noticed a little group standing outside, two of them clerics in white robes. 'Bonner.' Harsnet spat out the name. I recognized the feared Bishop of London, a squat, thickset, round-faced figure. He was laughing with the other cleric, perhaps the St Margaret's vicar. I studied the bishop who wanted to purge London of radicals.

  'He seems cheery enough,' I observed.

  'Vicar Brown is cut from the same cloth,' Harsnet said grimly. 'St Margaret's is still full of gold and candles and images; it was enough trouble to prise their relic of St Margaret's finger out of them. That porkling of the Pope would have us all back to Rome.'

  'Yet Bonner was once Cromwell's man,' I said.

  'Now Cromwell is dead the wolves cast off the sheep's clothing they adopted to keep in favour.' He glared at the bishop. 'God forgive me, I wish our killer would aim at Bonner, not good reformers. But the devil looks after his own.'

  I looked at Barak. He shrugged. We walked past the huge old bell-tower, now converted into ramshackle tenements, then turned east, under the looming shadow of the abbey church, into the southern precinct, bordered by the great monastery walls.

  Chapter Eighteen

  AROUND THE SOUTH PRECINCT there were more houses, mainly poor tenements for pedlars and jobbing workers. Men were outside their houses loading carts with produce and otherwise preparing for the day. There was a smell of resin in the air, for there were many carpenters' yards at Westminster servicing the abbey and Westminster Palace. To our left a high wall separated off the inner precinct containing the monastic buildings; the gates that had once sheltered the monks' comfortable lives from the world stood open, though a guard with a pike stood outside. Harsnet told him who he was and we were allowed through the gateway, into a yard full of monastic buildings in the course of demolition or conversion. All around, workmen were sorting hammers and picks from their carts before starting their day's work. We walked to a large attractive house that stood amid the ruination in a little crocus-filled garden of its own. Harsnet knocked at the door.

  A servant answered and bade us enter. Like Cranmer's secretary he asked Barak to wait in an anteroom, ushering Harsnet and me into an office furnished with rich hangings and dominated by an enormous oak table strewn with papers. I wondered if these things had come from the monastic buildings. The choir stalls covered with cushions standing against one wall certainly had. Outside the sound of hammering began.

  The door opened, and a short man in white cleric's robes entered. We exchanged brief bows, and he walked to take a seat behind the table. 'Please, gentlemen, be seated,' he said in mellifluous tones, waving us over to the choir stalls.

  I studied William Benson. The last abbot of the monastery, a monk who went over to Cromwell and had been put in the abbot's place to hasten the Dissolution. The deanery of the new cathedral was part of his reward. A stocky man nearing fifty, he had a plump, deceptively sleepy face, an air of contentment, ambition achieved.

  'What can I do to aid the Archbishop?' he asked.

  Harsnet spoke first. 'It is a most secret matter, sir. The Archbishop charges that nothing be said outside these walls.'

  'Nor will it be. My duty is to obey my superior.' Benson smiled, looking between us with his sleepy eyes. 'You intrigue me.'

  'I fear it is a very disturbing story,' I added, feeling I should stake some claim to authority.

  Benson gave a throaty chuckle. 'I have laboured in God's English vineyard for many years. Nothing disturbs me now. Except that hammering,' he added with a frown. 'They are taking for ever to pull the frater down.'

  Part of the house you ran for several years, I thought. I watched to see whether his detached expression would change as Harsnet briefly told the story of the murders and the prophecies in Revelation, but it did not, though Benson began toying with a gold ring on his plump hand, twisting it round and round.

  'And you think the man may be a former monk?' Benson shook his head. 'I do not think that can be. Most of the brethren accepted the Dissolution quite happily. Six have become prebendaries here, under me.'

  'How many monks were there at the Dissolution;' I asked.

  'Twenty-four. Not all the older brethren were happy with what happened. But they were realists, mostly. All signed the surrender happily, except old Brother Elfryd who made it a condition that he should be buried in the old procession way when he died. His wish was granted,' he added with a little smile. 'He died soon after he left, and lies there now. Half a dozen of the brethren died soon after they left the monastery.'

  'What of the infirmarian, Lancelot Goddard;' Harsnet asked. 'And his assistants? There were two listed at Augmentations.'

  'And do you know if Dr Goddard used dwale;' I added.

  'Used what?' I thought he answered a little too quickly, something sparked for a moment in his sleepy eyes. I explained what the drug was. 'This is very disturbing,' he said quietly. He sat thinking, busily working his ring. At length he raised his eyes to meet our faces.

  'I do not know whether Dr Goddard used this dwale. I left the infirmary to him. He was very competent, I recall no complaints.' He paused. 'I will give you what help I can, gentlemen. But I think you are wrong. Whoever this — abomination is, I do not believe he is from here.'

  'How well did you know Dr Goddard;' I asked.

  'Not well.' He allowed himself a cynical smile. 'It is no secret I was appointed abbot with orders to bring Westminster to a peaceful dissolution. Which I did. The monks I noticed most were those who needed persuading, or pressing. Dr Goddard was not one of those. He was responsible for the monks' infirmary — looking after everyday illnesses, and caring for the old monks — and he also attended to those from the locality who came to the small infirmary we ran.'

  'With his helpers?'

 
'Yes. Charles Cantrell in the monks' infirmary. Francis Lockley in the lay infirmary, for poor men of Westminster.'

  'Was either qualified;' I asked.

  'No. Cantrell was a monk, Lockley a lay brother who worked for us and lived here. Goddard trained them both.'

  'What was Goddard like;'

  Benson inclined his head. 'Not a companionable man. People thought him cold. He came from a well-off background and tended to look down on those of inferior origin. He accepted the Dissolution quietly, like the others. He spoke little in chapter.'

  'He has disappeared from his lodgings,' Harsnet told him. 'Have you any idea where he might have gone;'

  Benson shook his head. 'I am afraid not. He had been here a long time, I do not remember who his family were. And most of our records were destroyed.'

  'Yes.' I knew that was true, most of the monastic records had been burned along with their illustrated books during the Dissolution.

  'Anything you might know, sir . . .'

  'He was infirmarian when I came. I remember hearing he became a novice when he was very young. He was around forty when the monastery closed.'

  'He was a snob,' I said thoughtfully. 'They said that at his old lodgings. So he never really abandoned the standards of the outside world.'

  Benson laughed. 'That was hardly uncommon among the monks. Their worldliness was one reason the monasteries had to go.'

  'Do you know where he trained as a doctor?' I asked.

  'He didn't. He would have learned on the job under the old infirmarian, as most did. I am afraid "Doctor" was a courtesy title. But he would have had a good training, lasting many years. Know- ledge passed down through generations of iniirmarians.'

  'Like the dwale.'

  Dean Benson inclined his head. 'Perhaps.'

  'Was there a herb garden?'

  'Yes. It is gone to waste now.'

  'I wonder if he grew poppies.'

  Benson spread his hands. His silk robe rustled. 'I do not know, sir. He may have done.'

  'What sort of man was Dr Goddard to deal with?'

  'Not difficult. Correct, self-contained.' He smiled. 'He had a disfigurement, a very large mole on the side of his nose. I think he was conscious of it, knew it detracted from his dignity. He would seem angry if people looked at it. Perhaps that warped his character. Some said he had no warmth towards the sick. But perhaps a doctor has to be detached.'

  As you are, I thought. But yours is a politician's detachment. He hadn't cared about any of the monks, they were pawns in the game of Dissolution. Benson was hiding something, I felt sure.

  He gave his thin smile again. 'I remember his assistant in the lay infirmary, Brother Lockley, used to mock Goddard, imitate his cold precise speech. Lockley often got into trouble for levity, though he performed his duties in the lay infirmary well enough.'

  'And the other assistant?' I asked. 'Cantrell.'

  'Ah, yes, young Brother Cantrell. Goddard trained him up, but he never seemed satisfied with him, I recall.'

  'Goddard's old neighbours said that he had come into an inhere itance,' Harsnet said.

  Benson pursed his lips. 'I have an idea his family had money, and lived near London. Somewhere to the north I think. You may be able to find out somehow.'

  I doubted it. They said there were sixty thousand souls in and around London now. 'Are there no records at all left?' I asked.

  'All gone,' Benson said, shaking his head. 'When the abbey closed, the Augmentations men told us to burn all our papers, our records and songsheets, even our books. Lord Cromwell wanted monasticism utterly exterminated, sir.'

  'And you lost touch with your charges?'

  'All except those who work under me now.'

  'Those three men?' I asked. 'How were they built, how strong were they? Our man is strong, and clever too.'

  The dean laughed. 'Then I think you may discount both the assistants. Neither showed any great brains and muscle still less. Lockley is a small round man in his fifties with a taste for the bottle. Young Cantrell was a tall and stringy fellow. I recall he had a huge Adam's apple in his thin neck, it was hard not to look at it. He had trouble with his eyes, I remember. He took to dropping things in the infirmary. Goddard found he was short-sighted and got him some glasses so he could do his work.' He raised a finger. 'I remember now, Cantrell lives in the precinct outside here, his father was a carpenter. I saw him some time ago in the street, with his thick glasses, and remember thinking he would have trouble carrying on his father's trade. Cut his fingers off likely as not.' He laughed. And you said the doctor was cold, I thought.

  Harsnet looked at me. 'We should see those two men, Master Shardlake. Barak has the addresses?'

  'He does.'

  'Good. Then we will leave you, dean. But we may call on you again.'

  'Of course,' Benson shook his head, gave a puzzled smile. 'You believe this man will commit seven murders? To fulfil the prophecy of the seven vials in Revelation?'

  'Yes, sir,' I answered seriously. 'He has only reached the third vial. I fear the fourth must come soon.'

  Benson shook his head again, then rose. 'Then I pray you soon catch him.'

  WE COLLECTED Barak and went outside. The hammering was louder. I turned to Harsnet.

  'He was hiding something,' I said.

  The coroner nodded. 'That was my thought too. But what?'

  'He's watching,' Barak said quietly. Harsnet and I turned. The dean was at his window, staring out at us. He turned away, dis- appearing into the shadows of his room.

  'It might be interesting to take a look around,' I suggested. 'At the chapterhouse, the infirmary buildings and garden.'

  Harsnet nodded. 'Very well.'

  We picked our way carefully over rubble and building materials, heading for the cloister. We passed a great pile of mattresses, perhaps from the dormitory.

  'What did you think of Benson?' I asked Harsnet.

  'A greedy careerist.' Harsnet frowned. 'It is sad Lord Cromwell had to use such people in the cause of reform.' He looked at me. 'It disillusioned many people.'

  I wondered if Cranmer had told him that it had disillusioned

  me.

  The three of us walked on, past where the old monks' dormitory was being demolished, men on the roof pulling off slates and casting them into the gutted interior of the fine old building. To our right, neglected and full of weeds, was what must once have been the abbot's formal garden. Next to it was an area where herbs had grown wild, neglected for three years. I recognized the distinctive stems and seed heads of poppies.

  'So,' Harsnet said. 'Goddard did grow poppies.'

  I looked at the desolation. 'Yes. And heaven knows what else.'

  We walked back, through the din of demolition work, and entered the old cloister between the monastic buildings and the church. All at once it was quiet. Then another shower began, pattering on the roof of the walkway and hissing on the flagstones of the cloister yard within. Harsnet looked out over the cloister where the monks once walked, stroking his short greying beard. I wondered what he was thinking. Then he turned to me with an unexpected smile. 'There is a bench over there,' he said. 'Perhaps now would be a good chance to have a talk, in peace and quiet, before we go to visit the chapterhouse.'

  'Yes. My head is fairly buzzing with all that has happened.' The three of us went and sat down.

  'I think Dean Benson knows more than he allowed,' I said.

  Harsnet nodded. 'I agree. We will question him again, and soon. But I do not think he knows Goddard's whereabouts. He would realize it would not be wise to conceal that.' He shook his head, sighing deeply. 'And what is Goddard; Is he the man we seek, or another victim, or neither;' His west country accent was stronger, as it seemed to become whenever he spoke with emphasis.

  'It is over two months since he disappeared. I think if he had been a victim he would have been found by now.'

  'But where has he gone;' Harsnet frowned. 'The dean should have known. Had he no care for the monks he led;
'

  'He was just a political appointment,' Barak ventured. 'My old master made a lot of those.'

  Harsnet looked at him and nodded. I was glad he seemed to respect Barak, did not try snobbishly to exclude him from our councils. 'Yes,' he agreed. 'That is true. But we must find him somehow.'

  'And whoever the killer is, he has found us,' Barak added grimly. 'Found my wife.' He looked down and clenched his hands.

  'I think he marked us that day out at the marshes,' I said. 'Somehow afterwards he found out who we are, me and Barak at least, and he has been following us ever since.'

  'If he's been following me without me noticing he's a lot sharper than I am,' Barak said grimly. 'But that's not impossible.' He rubbed his face fiercely with both hands.

  'I think that he knew Dr Gurney's body had been found and the matter was being kept secret,' I said. 'So he killed Roger in a way absolutely no one could miss. And then he spent his days waiting on the marshes for investigators to visit the scene of Dr Gurney's murder, with which Roger's would surely be connected, lying on that rush matting we found. To mark the men who would be pursuing him.'

  Harsnet shook his head. 'But what sort of man could lie out on there for days on end? And then he lay for hours in the very depths of the marsh, lay there until it grew dark and we had to leave him. Such patience, such endurance, it seems — not human.'

  I knew he was thinking of possession. I hesitated for a long moment, then told them both of Guy's theory about obsessive madness, about the cases he had mentioned and about Strodyr. Harsnet listened carefully, staring at me with those keen, sharp blue eyes. At the end he shook his head firmly.

  'Those people, the Frenchman and that Strodyr, they sound to me as though they were possessed. As this man does. I am sorry, Serjeant Shardlake, but I do not trust Dr Malton. I feel he still cleaves to his old loyalties. And with Bishop Bonner showing as much mercy to Protestants as a butcher shows to the poor lambs at Eastcheap, you must forgive me if I am still dubious about his involvement.'