Revelation: A Matthew Shardlake Mystery (Matthew Shardlake Mysteries)

by C. J. Sansom

  ‘Well, sir, we must get back to work. I am sorry I could not help you more.’

  I hesitated, then rose too. ‘Thank you, sir. If you think of anything else, please contact me. Master Shardlake, at Lincoln’s Inn.’

  ‘I will.’ He looked relieved the interview was over.

  ‘We may well call again,’ I added lightly. His face fell. He was hiding something, I was sure.

  ‘I’ll see you out.’ Mistress Bunce rose and accompanied us to the door. In the doorway she looked round to make sure Lockley could not hear, then lowered her voice.

  ‘I’m sorry for his words about religion, sir,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Francis has had a hard time. He was used to life at the abbey. He found life outside hard, especially with that gospel-leaning barber-surgeon pestering him to join their faith. He started drinking, would come here and get drunk every night. That was when I took him in. I know drunks, I knew that love and care and something to do could help Francis.’ She looked at me, her bossy manner gone, a tired and vulnerable woman. ‘He doesn’t drink now, but he says bitter things.’

  ‘Do not worry, goodwife,’ I said gently. ‘I have no interest in Goodman Lockley’s beliefs.’ ‘He’s bitter he’s ended up a potman, like his father was.’ She looked at me, utterly weary. ‘Strange how the world turns, isn’t it, sir?’

  WE RODE AWAY from the tavern deep in thought. Barak broke the silence.

  ‘He was hiding something, wasn’t he?’

  ‘I think he was. Something about Goddard.’

  ‘I might have forced it out of him.’

  ‘No. That’s Harsnet’s job. I’ll tell him tonight.’

  ‘I don’t think the woman knows anything.’

  ‘No. Poor creature. I don’t think she gets much thanks for her care of him.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll order him in for some stiff questioning.’

  ‘Yes.’ I did not like the idea of the bitter, disappointed little man being treated roughly. But if he was hiding something we had to find out what it was.

  We returned to my house. I was tired, my arm sore whenever I moved it. I could have done with an evening at home resting, but I was due at the chapel for the funeral. I wondered what Samuel would be like; I had not seen him since he was a toddler.

  Tamasin was lying on a pile of cushions in the parlour when we came in. Her eyes were less puffy, but her features were still a mass of brightly coloured bruises and her mouth was swollen. She looked utterly exhausted.

  ‘How are you, chick?’ Barak asked with what sounded to me like forced cheerfulness.

  ‘Sore. My mouth hurts.’ Her voice was a mumble, and when she opened her mouth I saw her cheeks were padded with bloodstained cotton. I shuddered, and my tongue went to the gap in my own mouth, where two years before I had had a tooth snapped off by a torturer in the Tower.

  ‘By Mary, it hurts,’ she said. Barak went over and put an arm around her.

  ‘Could have been worse,’ he said. ‘The tooth was at the side. You’ll still have your pretty smile.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right then,’ she said sarcastically.

  ‘I didn’t mean—’

  Tamasin looked at me. ‘Do you know what the wretch said, the tooth-drawer? When he told me his fee would be five shillings, I told him it was too much. He said he’d waive the fee and give me ten shillings if I’d let him take out all my teeth. Said I had a good set and they’d make a good false set for rich folk.’ She looked at me. ‘He brought out these wooden blocks shaped like people’s jaws, wanted to measure them against the size of my mouth. He said my mouth was a good standard size. I told him to forget it and get on with his work, that he was heartless to show me such things when I was in pain. I was surprised that Dr Malton recommended him.’

  ‘He’s lucky I wasn’t there,’ Barak said. ‘The arsehole.’

  ‘Though I suppose he did the job quickly enough, and with less pain than I expected.’ Tamasin shuddered. ‘Ugh. He was a vile man, his apron stained with blood, a necklace of teeth hanging over his shop-sign.’

  ‘You should go to bed, Tamasin,’ I said. ‘Rest.’

  ‘Are you going to Master Elliard’s funeral, sir?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. I must change. I am going to Dorothy’s. I am accompanying her household. When I come back, Barak, we will have a quick supper then go to meet Harsnet.’

  ‘I was thinking,’ he said. ‘This church. St Agatha’s, Irish Lane. Isn’t it the one where the steeple fell down a couple of years ago?’

  ‘Yes. It’s one of the reformers’ churches. There is no need for you to come,’ I added. I glanced meaningfully at Tamasin.

  Barak shrugged. ‘Harsnet said both of us in his letter. He might have things for me to do.’

  I opened my mouth to protest, then closed it again. If I remonstrated with him in front of Tamasin that would only infuriate him.

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ she said pointedly.

  ‘That’s good,’ Barak said. ‘You rest.’

  I met Tamasin’s eye. She looked furious.

  FOR THE FIRST TIME since Roger’s death, Dorothy was dressed in her best. Beside her stood a slim dark lad of eighteen, handsome in his black doublet, whose resemblance to his father was so close it almost took my breath away. It was as though Roger had returned.

  ‘Samuel,’ Dorothy said. ‘You will not remember Master Shardlake. You were but a child when we moved to Bristol.’

  The boy bowed to me. ‘I remember you, sir. You brought me a spinning-top for my birthday. It was very brightly coloured. I thought it a marvel.’ His voice was like Roger’s, clear and a little sharp; though Samuel spoke with the flat vowels of the west country.

  ‘Yes,’ I said with a laugh. ‘I remember now. You were five. You have a good memory.’

  ‘I do for kindnesses, yes. I must thank you, for all you have done for my mother.’ He laid a hand on Dorothy’s.

  ‘She has been very brave.’

  ‘Is Samuel not the very image of Roger?’ There were tears in Dorothy’s eyes.

  ‘He is.’

  ‘It comforts me. Roger lives on in my son. But, Matthew, you hold your arm strangely. Have you done something to it?’

  How observant she was. ‘A careless accident. It is not serious. Will you stay in London long, Samuel?’

  He shook his head. ‘I must go back to Bristol next week, there is a cloth fair I must attend. I am hoping that when matters are - settled - my mother may come and join me there.’

  ‘Oh.’ I had not thought she might go so soon. The news disconcerted me.

  ‘Time enough to think of that later,’ Dorothy said. ‘There are things to arrange. And I cannot leave everything to Matthew. Though he looks after me, he has been my rod and staff.’ She smiled at me warmly.

  ‘I do what I can,’ I said, embarrassed.

  ‘My son is engaged, Matthew,’ she said quietly. ‘What do you think of that? To a Bristol merchant’s daughter.’

  Samuel blushed.

  ‘Congratulations,’ I said.

  ‘Thank you, sir. We hope to marry next year.’

  There was a knock at the door. Margaret came in. ‘The coffin is here,’ she said quietly.

  Dorothy shuddered, looked utterly bereft again. ‘I will see them,’ she said.

  ‘Let me,’ Samuel said.

  ‘No. No. Let me go alone.’ She squeezed his arm, then left the room, leaving Samuel and me alone. There was an awkward silence for a moment. The clock ticked. I looked at the wooden frieze, the botched repair in the corner catching my eye, then smiled at Samuel.

  ‘Is there any more news, sir? Of the investigation?’ he asked hesitantly. I realized it must be hard for him, suddenly thrust into a man’s role by this tragedy. ‘It eats away at Mother,’ he continued, ‘not knowing why my father was killed in that awful way. If he had been attacked in a robbery it would have been bad enough, but that terrible - display.’ He looked at me anxiously. ‘And you said she may be in danger.’

&nb
sp; I thought, she has kept her word to me about not telling anyone about the other killings. She has not even told her son. ‘It is only a precautionary measure,’ I said. ‘We are making progress, Samuel. I cannot say much now, but if it helps I may tell you that we believe your father was not killed from malice against him. I think he attracted the attention of - let us say, of a madman. I think you can tell your mother that much.’

  ‘But why is it so secret?’ the boy burst out. ‘It worries Mother, though she will not say so.’

  I hesitated, then spoke cautiously. ‘There are politics involved. There was another murder like your father’s. The victim was a man of some importance. Though that was not why he was killed, it was just this madman chose him too.’

  ‘A lunatic.’ Samuel frowned. ‘Yes, anyone who killed a man as good as my father would have to be mad.’

  ‘Roger was a good man, and a good friend. But do not press me now, Samuel, I have told you more than I should have already.’

  He nodded slowly. ‘Poor Mother. How they loved each other.’ He laughed nervously. ‘I used to feel left out sometimes, that was why I stayed in Bristol to make my own life. Yet I loved Father, he did so much for me.’ Suddenly Samuel was a boy again, blushing and with tears in his eyes. ‘Take care of Mother, sir. She says you and Margaret are her only true friends.’

  ‘I will,’ I said. ‘I will.’

  ‘I wish she would come back to Bristol with me, but she is stubborn.’

  Dorothy reappeared in the doorway; pale, holding herself tightly. ‘The other mourners are gathering outside. His friends, the servants. We must go.’

  I took a deep breath and followed Samuel from the room.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  ROGER WAS BURIED; laid to earth in a peaceful corner of old St Bride’s churchyard. All through the burial service, as the priest spoke of Roger being gathered to the Lord, all I could think was that he should not have been laid here for another twenty, thirty years. Afterwards I left Dorothy and Samuel to have some time alone together. I picked up Barak from my house and we rode south to our meeting with Harsnet.

  ST AGATHA’S CHURCH stood in a lane leading down from Thames Street to the waterfront. It was a mixed area, ancient crumbling wood-framed tenements gradually being displaced by newer, modern houses of stone. The church itself was small and very old, though looking up I saw it had a new lead roof and a pointed steeple. I remembered now hearing the story of the steeple’s collapse in a storm two years before; two families in neighbouring houses had been killed. It was nearly dusk when we arrived, the sun slanting at a low angle, long shadows in the lane. At the bottom of the lane the grey river flowed; the wherries on the river just lighting their lamps. It was low tide and a stink of rot came from the rubbish-strewn banks.

  A number of horses were tied to a rail outside the old wooden lychgate, where a little group of men in sober black stood. They turned as we approached, and one stepped out in front of us. ‘Can I help you, gentlemen?’ He was small, with a grizzled beard, in sober but well-cut clothes. He looked like a merchant or tradesman.

  ‘We have been asked to meet Coroner Harsnet here,’ I told him. At once his expression changed and became friendly, almost servile. ‘Ah, yes. He is here. With Sir Thomas Seymour. And Lord Hertford too, he has honoured us with his presence.’ The churchwarden swelled with pride. ‘They do us a great honour by attending the reopening of our church. I am Walter Finch, at your service, churchwarden.’

  Finch led us to the lychgate. ‘Friends of the coroner,’ he murmured to the others, who at once bowed low. We followed him through the churchyard to where more people, men and women, stood round a fire that had been lit against the far wall. A spit had been placed over the fire, and a small boar was roasting on it. The handle was being turned by two boys at each end, white aprons over their good clothes. Pig fat dripped into a large tray set underneath. The smell of roasting meat filled the air. ‘Burn, Pope, burn,’ one of the boys said, and the other laughed. I looked at the church. Only one of the three large windows was of stained glass; the glass in the others was clear.

  Finch smiled at us. ‘When the steeple collapsed two years ago it was a tragedy, it ruined the interior as well as the roof. We had to redecorate entirely. But sometimes the Lord brings opportunity through misfortune. We got rid of all the statues and other idols, emptied the side-chapels, replaced two broken windows with plain glass.’ He smiled happily. ‘This is how God means his house of worship to be, not stuffed with gold and incense. I would like to take the rood screen down, though that would get us into trouble. I would show you inside, but Reverend Yarington has the key. He isn’t here yet.’

  ‘I see.’ I thought of the families killed in the collapse.

  Finch winked at me. ‘And if Bonner’s men say it is too like a Lutheran church we may always say that we could not raise enough money to redecorate. The servants of the Lord must be as wise as serpents, as the book says.’

  I looked around at the people in the churchyard. I guessed this had been a reformers’ church for some time. These were the sort of folk who attended Meaphon’s church, where the Kites went. There were merchants and guildsmen, and a smattering of people from the labouring classes who stood against the wall, looking uncomfortable. There were several clerics there; I saw Meaphon himself, talking earnestly to another merchant. He caught my eye, nodded briefly and looked away. I guessed he was uncomfortable at the way he had backed down before Bishop Bonner the day before. I wondered if the serpent’s wisdom of these people would save them from Bonner when he moved against them. I recalled his squat, powerful form confronting me under London Wall, and suppressed a shudder.

  Sir Thomas Seymour and Lord Hertford were standing with Harsnet, near the roasting boar, Harsnet talking earnestly to Lord Hertford. Sir Thomas was studying the company with a bored look. He raised his eyebrows when he saw us, and nudged his brother. ‘Here’s the crookback,’ he said, not bothering to lower his voice.

  ‘Master Shardlake.’ Lord Hertford nodded to us as we approached. ‘And this must be Jack Barak.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ Barak bowed.

  ‘I remember my poor friend Thomas Cromwell speaking highly of you,’ he said, a sad note in his voice. Hertford and his brother were dressed in their best, Lord Hertford in a crimson doublet under a dark cloak with a gold chain round his neck, Thomas in a yellow doublet with slashed sleeves showing a green lining, and a black cap with a bright emerald brooch pinned to it.

  ‘Any news, Shardlake?’ Harsnet asked.

  I told him of my interviews with Cantrell and Lockley, my feeling Lockley was hiding something. He nodded.

  ‘We’ll talk to him again. And Dean Benson.’ He gave me one of his stares. ‘It looks like Goddard is our man, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It is too early to say, I think.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps. I have been unable to find any trace of Goddard’s family as yet. I am making enquiries among the guilds, and those who own land around the city.’

  ‘But he was a monk for years,’ Sir Thomas said. ‘If his family are from near London they should be easy to find.’

  ‘His family may have come here from somewhere else while he was a monk,’ Lord Hertford said. ‘Many people of wealth gravitate here, especially if they have a relative in London already, to increase their fortune. Or lose it,’ he added. ‘How is your arm, Serjeant Shardlake? Coroner Harsnet told me you were attacked.’ He looked at Barak. ‘And your wife, too?’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ Barak answered. ‘She got away with some bruises and a broken tooth.’

  Sir Thomas clapped Barak on the shoulder. ‘I would not have taken you as a married man, I thought you another young roisterer.’

  ‘Not any more, Sir Thomas.’

  ‘This affair could not have come at a worse time,’ Lord Hertford said. ‘Those butchers are still being questioned about Lent breaches. But they won’t give Bishop Bonner any names, brave men.’

  ‘I think this man is possessed,’ H
arsnet said.

  ‘Whatever he is,’ Hertford said, ‘we must catch him.’

  A serving man appeared at our side, offering us platters of roast pig. I looked over to the cooking fire. The pig was cooked through now and the serving men, wiping their brows, stepped away from the fire which still burned merrily, throwing up bright yellow sparks as the boar fat sizzled. Dusk was falling rapidly; beyond the houses to the south, the Thames shone a white colour now as the sun fell to the horizon.

  ‘I can smell bad fish somewhere,’ Barak said.

  ‘So can I. It must be coming from the river.’ And indeed the smell of roast meat was now unpleasantly mingled with a salty, fishy smell.

  ‘Where is Reverend Yarington?’ someone asked. ‘He should be here by now.’

  I winced as Sir Thomas grasped me by my bad arm. ‘Harsnet says one of those ex-monks you saw lives on Charterhouse Square.’

  ‘The lay brother, Lockley, yes. In a tavern there.’

  He frowned. ‘I know those houses and taverns built round the sides of the old precinct. The largest house there is where Lady Catherine Parr lives. I have visited her there.’

  ‘Easy, Thomas,’ his brother said. ‘It is surely clear now there is no connection between her and the murders.’

  ‘I would not have her near any danger.’ Sir Thomas’ expression was anxious. I wondered, is that because you love the lady, or because she is a wealthy widow who may still turn the King down?

  ‘Is there any more news of the projected marriage?’ I asked Lord Hertford in quiet tones. That was, after all, what had first brought the involvement of these people in all this.

  He speared a piece of boar and transferred it to his mouth. He glanced at his brother, then said, ‘The lady still refuses to give the King an answer, she says she needs more time.’

  Harsnet grunted. ‘That was the tactic Anne Boleyn and Jane Seymour used. Keep him dangling, it only makes the King more determined to get what he wants.’

  ‘No.’ Sir Thomas smiled, a flash of white teeth against his dark beard. ‘Lady Catherine refuses because she does not want to marry him. As who would?’