C.J. Sansom - Revelation

There was a brief pause, then the bolt was drawn back and the door opened a few inches. Cantrell's thin face looked out; he peered closely at us from behind those thick spectacles that magnified his eyes. 'Oh, sir,' he said with relief. 'It is you.' He opened the door wider. I stared at a long piece of wood he held in his hand. On the end was a large smear of what looked like dried blood.

'Someone attacked me,' he said.

'May we enter?' I asked gently. He hesitated, then opened the door wide to allow us in. The sour, unwashed smell hit us again.

He led us into the bare parlour. A wooden plate with the remains of a greasy meal lay on the table, a pewter spoon black with dirt beside it. I saw the dirty window giving on to the yard was broken. There was glass on the floor.

Cantrell sat down on one of the hard chairs, facing us. We sat at the table. I avoided looking at the filthy plate. I saw rat-droppings in a corner. Cantrell's face looked strained and miserable, several spots coming out on his forehead beneath the greasy blond hair. He placed the stick on the floor.

'What did you want, sir?' he asked wearily. 'Have you found Infirmarian Goddard;'

'Not yet.'

‘I told you all I know.'

'Only a few more questions. But what happened here; Is that blood on your piece of wood;'

'It was two nights ago. I couldn't sleep. I heard breaking glass downstairs. I always keep a piece of wood by the bed in case of burglars.'

'What would they steal;' Barak asked.

'Burglars wouldn't know there is nothing here. I went downstairs. It was dark but I saw the window was open wide. A figure was there, a man. When I came into the room, he just stood there. I don't think he saw the piece of wood. He said something and that let me know where his head was and I hit out.'

'The edge of that piece of wood is sharp,' Barak said. 'You seem to have done some damage.'

'Ay, I got him on the head. He groaned and staggered and I hit him again. Then he got out of the window again, stumbled away.'

'What did he say to you;'

'It was a strange thing for a burglar.' Cantrell frowned. 'What;'

'He said, "It is your time now." Why would he say that;' I looked at him, appalled. Had Charles Cantrell escaped becoming the killer's fifth victim?

'Did you tell the constable?' I asked.

He shrugged his thin shoulders. 'What's the point? There are always burglaries in Dean's Yard. He won't try here again, though. I hope I hurt him hard, I hope he dropped in the gutter somewhere,' Cantrell added with gloomy viciousness.

I chose my words carefully. 'Was there anything you recognized about the man? Anything familiar about his voice?'

He stared at me with those half-blind, fishlike eyes. 'He was just a figure in the dark, a shape. I cannot see anything unless it is close to. Your face is just a blur from here even with my glasses.'

'Was he tall or short?'

'He must have been quite tall. I aimed high.' He thought a moment. 'There was something familiar about that voice. A sharp voice.'

'Could it have been your old master?' I asked quietly. 'Infirmarian Goddard;'

He stared at me in silence for a long moment. 'I — I suppose it could have been. But why — why would that old bastard attack me in my house: I haven't seen him in three years.'

'He would have known your father's house was near the abbey.'

'But why — what has he done, sir: You never told me last time.' There was an edge of shrill panic in Cantrell's voice now.

I hesitated. 'Could I see that piece of wood:'

'I won't get into trouble for this, sir: I was only defending myself

'I know. I just want to see it.'

Reluctantly he passed it over. I had noticed a few hairs among the blood. They were black. Like Goddard's; like the whore Abigail's unknown visitor.

'You dealt him a couple of good blows, by the look of it. But scalp wounds bleed a lot. He may have been more shocked and hurt than damaged.' I passed the stick back to Cantrell. His wrists were skinny, lumps of bone. I thought of Adam.

'You did not answer my question, sir,' Cantrell said.

I sighed. 'Infirmarian Goddard may be - deranged.'

'But why attack me:'

I looked at the broken glass on the floor. Yes, someone had broken in there from outside. Cantrell had not picked up the glass. I wondered whether with his poor vision he was afraid of cutting himself.

'Have you ever had anything to do with the radical religious reformers? The godly men.'

He was silent for a moment. Then he bowed his head.

'It is important,' I said. 'It may explain why you were attacked.'

'When I was a monk,' he said in a quiet voice, bowing his head as though ashamed, 'my father became a reformist. He joined a group that used to meet together at an unlicensed preacher's house, in the Sanctuary. When I left the abbey and came home it was all "You monks got what you deserve, you will go to hell unless you follow the true path of the Word.'" I could sense anger in Cantrell's voice as he imitated his father's harsh, rough tones. 'I was losing belief in the old faith then. I let him drag me to some of these house meetings. There were only half a dozen in the group, they believed they had to prepare for the end-time, had a mission from God to find those he had elected to save and convert them. They were stupid, they only knew a few bits of the Bible that suited their arguments and didn't even understand those. Some couldn't even read. I had read the Bible for years, I could tell they knew nothing.'

'There are many such,' I said.

'Theirs was all idle talk and frantic babble.' Cantrell's voice was louder now, full of bitter anger. 'I only went to keep Father quiet. They kept saying they could save me, they would baptize me in the true faith.' He shook his head. 'My father was already ill when I came home, after he passed away I stopped going.' Cantrell looked up again, staring around the room. 'He had a growth.'

Cantrell's voice was quiet again. 'When he died I feared he might somehow still come back, to chide and rail at me. But he has not, there has been only silence in this house since.' He gave an exhausted sigh then and fell silent himself, lost in a world of his own. I looked around the room, at the filthy table and the broken window. Cantrell might be just about surviving from his monk's pension, but he needed help, someone to take care of him.

'How will you get the window repaired?' I asked. He shrugged. 'Perhaps the neighbours might help,' I suggested.

He shook his head fiercely. 'They're a nosy lot. The old shrew up the street used to come in. Tidying up, interfering with my things, telling me I needed to get married.' He laughed angrily. 'Perhaps I could find a blind woman and we could stumble around the house together. I hardly dare go out for victuals in case a cart runs me down.'

'What happened to this little religious group? Are they still active round Westminster?'

He shook his head. 'The vicar of St Margaret's heard there was some radical preaching going on. He got their leader arrested and the others fled. Last year.' A bitter laugh again. 'So much for their cleaving fast to the True Word. They ran like rats.'

So the fate of the group had become public. What had happened to them, I wondered. The members had probably become involved with other groups, other churches. Perhaps, somewhere among them, the murderer had mixed with them, where he heard Cantrell's name spoken of as a backslider. If the killer was Goddard, he would have recognized the name.

'Can you remember the names of the people in the group?' I asked. He gave me half a dozen. They meant nothing to me, but they might to Harsnet.

'But, sir,' Cantrell asked. 'What is all this to do with Master Goddard?' He blinked at me helplessly. I dared not tell him the whole story.