C.J. Sansom - Revelation

'We come on Archbishop Cranmer's business,' Harsnet answered. There was the sound of bolts being drawn back, and the door opened to reveal a small, elderly fellow, his scant grey hair disordered and his nightshirt tucked hastily into his breeches. His eyes widened with fear at the sight of the guards.

'Is it the master?' he asked. 'Oh, God, he hasn't been arrested?'

'It's not that. You men, stay outside,' Harsnet told the guards, then walked past the old man into a little hallway, doors and a staircase leading off. I followed. 'Are you his servant?'

'His steward, sir. Toby White. What has—'

'Why should he be arrested?' Harsnet asked sharply.

'They say Bonner will arrest all godly men,' he answered, a little too quickly I thought. I did not like the steward; he had a mean look.

'Who else lives here?'

The servant hesitated then, eyes darting rapidly between me and Harsnet. 'Only the boy, and he's abed in the stable.'

'I am afraid I have bad news, Goodman White,' Harsnet said. 'Your master died this evening.'

The old man's eyes widened. 'Died? I didn't know where he was, I was starting to worry, but — dead?' He stared at us incredulously.

'He was murdered,' Harsnet said. The steward's eyes widened. 'When did you last see him?'

'He had a message late yesterday afternoon. A letter. He said he had to go and see a fellow cleric. He didn't say where. I thought he must have stayed overnight.'

'What happened to the letter?'

'Master took it with him.'

Harsnet looked at me. 'Like Dr Gurney and your friend.' He turned back to the trembling servant. 'You knew he was going to the reopening of the church tonight?'

'Yes, sir. I thought perhaps he'd gone straight there.'

Harsnet stood silent a moment, thinking. I saw the servant glance quickly at the staircase, then away again.

'Perhaps we should look over the house,' I said.

'There's nobody here,' the servant said, too quickly. 'Just me.'

'If your master had forbidden books,' I said, 'we do not care about that.'

'No, but—'

Harsnet looked at him suspiciously. 'Give me that candle,' he said firmly. The old man hesitated, then handed it over. 'Stay here,' Harsnet told him. 'Barak, keep an eye on him.' The coroner inclined his head to me, and I followed him up the stairs.

THE FIRST ROOM we looked into was a study, well-thumbed books lying among papers and quills on a big desk. I picked one up, peering at it to try to make out the title. Institutes of the Christian Religion, by John Calvin. I had heard of him: one of the most radical and uncompromising of the new generation of continental reformers.

Harsnet held up a hand. 'I heard something,' he whispered. He pointed across the corridor to another door, then marched across and threw it open. A shrill scream came from within.

It was a bedroom, dominated by a comfortable feather bed. A woman lay there, naked; a girl, rather, for she was still in her teens, smooth-skinned and blonde-haired. She grabbed the blankets and pulled them up to her neck. 'Help!' she shouted. 'Robbers!'

'Quiet!' Harsnet snapped. 'I am the King's assistant coroner. Who are you?'

She stared at us with wide eyes, but did not reply.

'Are you Yarington's whore?' There was anger in his voice.

'What is your name, girl,' I asked quietly.

'Abigail, sir, Abigail Day.'

'And are you the minister's woman? There is no point in lying.'

She reddened and nodded. Harsnet's face twisted in disgust. 'You seduced a man of God.'

A look of defiance came into the girl's face. 'It wasn't me did the seducing.'

'Don't you bandy words with me! A creature like you in a minister's bed. Do you not fear for your soul? And his?' Harsnet was shouting now, his face filled with anger. I had grown to respect and almost like the coroner these last few days but the terrible events of the evening were bringing out another side of him: the hard, implacable man of faith.

The girl made a spirited reply, her own fear turning to anger. 'Keeping body and soul together's been all I've worried about since my father was hanged,' she answered fiercely. 'For stealing a gentleman 's purse.' There was bitter contempt in her voice. 'It killed my mother.'

Harsnet was unaffected. 'How long have you been here?' he snapped.

'Four months.'

'Where did Yarington pick you up?'

She hesitated before answering. 'I was in a house down in Southwark where he used to come. We get many ministers down there,' she added boldly.

'They are weak men, and you tempt them to fall.' Harsnet's voice shook with anger and contempt.

This was wasting time. 'Did you ever hear of a whore called Welsh Elizabeth?' I asked her.

'No, sir.' She looked from one to the other of us, frightened again. 'Why, sir, why?'

'Your master is dead,' Harsnet said bluntly. 'He was murdered, earlier tonight.'

Abigail's mouth opened wide. 'Murdered?'

He nodded. 'Get some clothes on. I'm taking you to the Archbishop's prison. There'll be some more questions. Nobody will miss you,' he added brutally. 'And after this you'll find yourself whipped at the cart's tail as a whore, if I have anything to do with it.'

'It's only some questions about your master,' I said as the wretched girl began to cry. 'Come, pull yourself together and get dressed. We shall be downstairs.' I took Harsnet's arm and led him out.

Outside, he shook his head sorrowfully. 'The snares the devil sets to pull us down,' he said.

'Men are men,' I answered impatiently. 'And always will be.'

'You are a cynic, Master Shardlake. A man of weak faith. A Laodicean.'

I raised my eyebrows. 'That phrase comes from Revelation.'

Harsnet blinked, frowned, then raised a hand. 'I am sorry. I am — affected by what we saw tonight. But do you realize, if Yarington hadn't been keeping that whore he wouldn't have died tonight? He was killed for his hypocrisy, wasn't he?'

'Yes. I think he was.'

Harsnet closed his eyes wearily, then looked at me. 'Why did you ask about Welsh Elizabeth?'

'That was what the cottar Tupholme's woman was called. I wondered if the killer might have got his information through a whorehouse. About the two carnal sinners punished with death,' I added. 'It's clear now that Yarington did fit the pattern.'

'Yes he did.' Harsnet's face set hard. 'I'll find out what house she was at.'

'Be gentle with her, please. Nothing will be served by harshness here.'

He grunted. 'We'll see.'

THE STEWARD TOBY was sitting in the kitchen, together with a scared-looking boy of around ten, ragged and smelling of the stables, with dirty brown feet. He stared at us, wide-eyed, from under a mop of brown hair.

'Who is this?' Harsnet asked.

'Timothy, sir, the stable boy,' Toby said. 'Stand up for your betters, you silly little shit.' The boy stood, his legs trembling.

'Leave us, boy,' Harsnet said. The child turned and scurried out.

'Well,' Harsnet said sarcastically. 'So much for there being nobody at home.'

'He paid me well for keeping her presence quiet,' Toby said, his voice surly.

'You connived at sin.'

'Everyone sins.'

'Who else knew?' I asked.

'No one.'

'People must have seen the girl coming in and out,' I said.

Toby shook his head. 'He only let her go abroad after dark. It was easy enough in the winter, she didn't want to go out anyway in the snow and ice. I wondered how he'd keep her secret now the days were getting longer, and spring coming. He'd probably have kicked her out soon.' He smiled sardonically, showing yellow stumps of teeth. 'He had a good excuse to keep folk away, his precious copies of Luther and that new one, Calvin.'

'How long were you with your master?' Barak asked.

'Five years.' His eyes narrowed. 'I was paid to be a loyal servant, not question my master's deeds. That's what I did.' He paused. 'How did he die? Was he robbed? You can't move in London for sturdy beggars these days.'