C.J. Sansom - Revelation

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.

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 church- warden 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 Hars- net, 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.'