C.J. Sansom - Revelation

I RAN BACK to my house to fetch Genesis, then rode faster than I had for years, down Fleet Street and past the Charing Cross to Whitehall. My burned back throbbed and jolted with pain, but I ignored it. People stopped and stared and once or twice had to jump out of my way. I would have brought Barak, but Joan said he was still searching the streets for Tamasin. She looked upset; I knew she was fond of them both.

I managed to convince the guards at Whitehall Palace that my business was urgent. Harsnet had been in his office that morning but had gone over to the Charterhouse. Someone was sent to fetch him while I waited in his office. A servant lit a fire for me, giving me curious looks as I paced up and down.

It felt as if I waited an age. All the time I thought of what fresh horrors Cantrell might wreak. My first thought had been to go to his house myself with Barak, but even had Barak been at home he was still suffering from his injuries. I thought briefly of taking Philip Orr, but I did not wish to leave Joan and the boys unprotected. And this needed more than one man.

At last, in the early afternoon, Harsnet arrived. He looked utterly worn out. I had sat in the chair behind his desk but rose painfully to my feet as he entered.

'What has happened, Matthew?' he asked wearily. 'Not another killing?'

'No.' He looked relieved.

'I am sorry to fetch you back—'

'There are problems at the Charterhouse,' he said. 'The engineer has repaired the mechanism of the wheel that opens the lock gates; it jammed when the watchman tried to open them with Lockley down there. But there is so much water backed up now he fears if he opens the gates its force could knock the doors off their hinges and set a flood running round the cellars of Charterhouse Square, all the way to Catherine Parr's house.' He looked out of the window; it was a sunny day again; I had hardly noticed. 'At least the water level hasn't risen any more in the Charterhouse quadrangle.' He sighed.

'I think I know who the killer is,' I said.

He stared at me. I told him about the work Cantrell and his father had done at Roger's house and Yarington's. His eyes widened, he leaned forward. When I had finished he stood in thought.

'We should act now, coroner,' I said.

'But Cantrell's eyes?' he said. 'He is half blind. We have seen him. And according to the guard there he never goes out.'

'What if his eyes weren't as bad as he pretended? One may have difficulty in reading what is written on a jar yet see well enough to murder. And what better disguise than near-blindness? Where better to hide than behind those great thick lenses? And he never lets the guard into the house. He could get out without his knowledge.'

'And he knew Lockley,' Harsnet said. And Goddard. And now, we know, Roger Elliard's and Reverend Yarington's houses. And he could have learned of people who had left the radical reformers' circles when he was with his father's group.'

'Westminster is only a step away,' I said.

'I know where the constables live,' he said, decisive now. 'I could get two or three of them and we could go round there now.'

'Before he strikes again.'

'You think he will?'

'I have always thought so, Master Harsnet.'

'I agree. He is too tight in the devil's grip for him to let him go.'

WE WALKED QUICKLY down to Westminster. I chafed with impatience as I stood under the great belfry in the busy square, waiting while Harsnet went to find the constables. At length he reappeared, with three sturdy young men carrying staffs and wearing swords. Westminster was a rough place and the constables there tended to be young and strong.

We gathered in a circle. Harsnet told the constables we were hunting a suspected murderer, and he was dangerous. Then we walked down to Dean's Yard. A little group of prostitutes standing talking in a doorway faded away at the constables' approach. Harsnet lifted a hand to knock at Cantrell's door. I stopped him.

'No, leave two men here and we will go round the back and talk to the guard.'

'Very well.'

Taking one of the constables, we stepped into the noisome little lane running alongside the house, our footsteps echoing against the narrow walls. The constable pushed open the gate to Cantrell's yard.

It was empty, the door to the little shed shut. I went with Harsnet to the grubby rear window of the house and looked in. The tumbledown parlour inside was empty. The constable, meanwhile, opened the door of the shed. Then he laughed. We joined him and looked in at the sight of Cantrell's guard sprawled on a heap of dirty sacks. He was fast asleep, and the smell from him told that he was drunk. The constable kicked him. 'Wakey wakey,' he said cheerfully. The man stirred, groaned and opened his eyes to find Harsnet glaring furiously down at him.

'Is this how you guard your ward?' he snapped. 'The Archbishop shall hear of this.'

The guard struggled to sit up. A dripping tap caught my eye, set in the side of a large barrel. I lifted the lid and saw it was half full of beer. 'He's made sure there was temptation in his way,' I said.

'Where is he?' Harsnet asked the wretched guard. 'Cantrell? Is he

in?'

'I don't know,' the man mumbled. 'He makes me stay out here.

He won't let me in, sir. That's the problem. He's not normal,' he added sulkily.

'You speak truer than you know, churl.' Harsnet turned away. 'Come on, let's get in the house.'

We wasted no ceremony. At a gesture from Harsnet the constable smashed the recently repaired window to smithereens, and one after the other we stepped through. The drunken guard had staggered out into the yard and stood watching us, his face crumpling as he realized he was probably out of a job.

Inside, nothing but silence. 'It's like Goddard's house again,' Harsnet whispered. I noticed the bloodied piece of wood, which Cantrell said he had used to see off his assailant, propped against one wall. I wondered which of his victims he had struck with that.

'Let's get those men in from the front and search it,' I said.

The constables were sent to look through the house. I told them to disturb nothing. They returned minutes later to confirm the place was empty.

'Let's see what we can find,' I said to Harsnet.

There was nothing in the parlour, nor in the miserable-looking kitchen next to it, only dirt and pieces of bad food in a cupboard. We turned to the door that led off the parlour, which Cantrell had said had led to his father's workshop. It was a stout oak door and it was firmly locked. It took two of the constables to break it down. Inside it was dark, the shutters drawn over the windows. In the lights from the parlour I saw stone flags, some sort of cart against one wall. We all hesitated for a moment on the threshold, then I stepped in and walked across to the window. I removed the bar across the shutters and opened them, light and noise from the street spilling in.

There were three large wooden chests against the wall. And I recognized that pedlar's cart. I went over and touched the handle. Here he had carried his trinkets in his guise as a pedlar, and bodies too, unconscious or dead. I was suddenly full of anger, anger at what Cantrell had done and at myself too. 'I was a fool,' I said quietly.

'Why?' Harsnet asked. 'He made fools of us all.'

'For allowing myself to be so easily deceived, to see Cantrell as he wanted to be seen, as another of life's victims.'

'We must look in these chests,' Harsnet said quietly.

'I'll take this one. You take that.' I lifted the lid of the nearest chest, dreading what might be within. It was a pile of disguising clothes, tattered robes, fake beards and wigs too — a whole ward- robe.

'Those must have cost money,' Harsnet said, glancing over.

'Some of them look old and well worn.' I pulled out a colourful patchwork coat. 'This is Joseph's coat of many colours. I've seen others like it at disguisings. He wouldn't need all of these.'