C.J. Sansom - Revelation

'I left the lock gates slightly open last night,' Padge said. After all the rain there is a lot of water coming through and it needs to drain. When I came this morning I thought to open them fully with the wheel but they were stuck fast. I looked down the shaft and — you will see.' The hand that held his lamp began to shake.

We all went to the rail and looked down, holding our lamps out over the shaft. It went down twenty feet. At the bottom, on one side, a pair of heavy wooden gates about eight feet high was set into the brick wall. They were slightly open, enough to let a trickle of water through. My eyes widened as I made out the body of a naked man at the bottom of the gate. His posture was strange, he was spreadeagled against the wooden gates, limbs outstretched. His face looked upwards, merely a white shape in the gloom, but I could make out that it was Lockley.

'The body's fixed to those gates somehow,' Padge said. 'Did you go down to look?' Sir Thomas asked. Padge shook his head vigorously.

'We'd better see. Barak, Harsnet, come with me. You too, Shardlake - if you can climb down ladders,' he added with a nasty smile, a flash of white teeth in the gloom.

'Of course I can,' I replied sharply, though I did not relish the prospect.

Sir Thomas swung easily over the railing and began his descent. Barak and Harsnet followed. I made up the rear, grasping the slippery rungs hard.

At the bottom we found ourselves standing on wet brickwork that sloped down to a central channel where the water ran off down an archway into darkness. We looked at the lock gates, rendered speechless by what we saw there. The naked body of Francis Lockley had been laid out at the bottom of the gates and then nailed to them, like some terrible mockery of the Crucifixion, his hands nailed to one gate and his feet to the other. Big, broad-headed nails, driven in to the hilt. The gates could not be opened without ripping them out, and that would require more force than the weight of the water and turning of the wheel above could provide. I saw there was a mass of dried blood on the back of his head, but little sign of blood flowing from the terrible wounds. Lockley had at least died quickly. I guessed if he had been drugged with dwale and left to wake in the darkness there was the risk that he might live long enough to talk to a rescuer. The killer had put his safety before his sadistic cruelty. Nonetheless the savagery was unspeakable.

A loud creak from the gate made us start back.

'There's a lot of water backing up there,' Barak said anxiously.

'How in hell did the killer get him down here?' Sir Thomas asked.

'Dropped him down, I'd guess,' Barak said. 'Then climbed down the ladder.'

The gates creaked again. 'I think we should get out,' Barak said with sudden urgency. 'With the rain there's more water building up behind there all the time. Those nails are driven in fast, but at some point they'll give way.'

'You're right,' Sir Thomas agreed. 'Let's leave.'

We climbed the ladder again. Janley and Padge were sitting on stools on either side of the gloomy little room. We just stood there for a moment, shocked and overwhelmed by the latest murder. Then Harsnet said, 'I have to get out of here.' We followed him out into the courtyard. The rain seemed to be easing off.

'It will be a hard job getting Lockley out,' Harsnet said quietly. 'And as you said, Barak, a risky one. We will have to block the gates in some way while we remove the body, bring it up on ropes.'

'I will go and arrange that now,' Sir Thomas said. Even he appeared subdued. 'With some men of my household I can trust to keep their mouths shut. We cannot wait.'

'No.' Harsnet agreed. 'Not just the musicians' instruments but all the King's possessions that are stored here will be flooded out. But I do not understand how he got Lockley into the precinct, how he knew where the conduit-house was.'

I looked around. 'If he was hanging about the vicinity he could pick up that the watchman was a drunk,' I said quietly. 'Easy enough to get in here at night and explore the buildings to see if they would suit his purpose, which I guess he had already worked out.'

'If he talked to the watchman, the drunken old sot may remember him,' Sir Thomas said, his eyes lighting up with excitement. 'I doubt he did.'

'Why?'

'Because Padge is still alive. He should be questioned, certainly, but remember the killer has already murdered one man who could have led us to his identity.'

Harsnet nodded. 'Then we must question the tavern customers again. Ask them if a stranger has been asking about the Charter- house.'

I nodded to the chapel. 'The beggars too, perhaps.'

'Ay. Someone may have asked one of them for information in return for a groat. It's possible.'

Sir Thomas looked at me. 'Do you think there is any significance in the last two murders being round the Charterhouse?' he asked. 'Because do not forget, Lady Catherine Parr lives across that green. And the killer may know something of the layout. Dr Gurney was staying there when he was killed. That's three out of six murders now with a connection to Charterhouse Square.'

'I do not think so. I think he deliberately chose Lockley and his wife because he knew of their past somehow. Dr Gurney's presence on the other side of the square is surely a coincidence.'

'He must be strong to have got the body in here from outside,' Barak said.

'He brought my friend Roger Elliard's body across Lincoln's Inn Fields and into the Inn. Assuming he killed Lockley before he got here, I imagine he did the same. Lockley was a small man, like Roger, but fat. Yes, he must be very strong.'

'Shall we look around;' Barak asked. 'See if we can find where he got in;'

'Yes. We cannot get any wetter.'

We turned to go, but just then three figures walked under the gatehouse arch, like us muddy from riding. Barak's hand went to his sword-hilt, but I recognized the leading figure as Dean Benson, swathed in a heavy coat. He indicated to the two retainers who accompanied him to stay where they were. They stood in the yard, rain dripping off their caps. Benson came up to us. His plump face was anxious.

Harsnet stepped forward. 'What are you doing here, sir?' he asked.

The dean wiped his face with his sleeve. 'I have ridden halfway across London in the rain looking for you, sir. Your servant at Whitehall wouldn't tell me where you were at first, I had the devil's job to get it out of him. Can we please go inside, I am covered in mud—'

'Pox on the mud!' Sir Thomas Seymour said brutally. 'Who are you and what do you want;'

Benson thrust his chest forward. 'I am William Benson, Dean of Westminster Abbey. And who are you;'

'Sir Thomas Seymour, brother of Lord Hertford.'

'Seymour;' The dean frowned, and I could see his mind making connections. So the Seymour family were involved in this—

'What do you want, sir;' Harsnet asked again.

'We should go inside. What I have brought here should not get wet.'

Harsnet hesitated a moment, then led the way back into the conduit-house. Janley and Padge bowed as the gentleman of the church entered. The dean looked round him, puzzled. 'What is going on in here?'

'Never mind that for now,' Harsnet said. 'Please, tell us why you have come.'

Benson delved in his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. 'This was pushed under the front door of my house just before dawn. My steward brought it to me.' He handed the paper to Harsnet. We gathered round the coroner. The paper was folded, Dean Benson's name and the words MOST URGENT written on it. Harsnet opened it. Inside was written, again in block capitals:

LANCELOT GODDARD KINESWORTH VILLAGE BY TOTTERIDGE HERTFORDSHIRE

We stared at the simple, stark message, the address. 'Hertfordshire,' Harsnet said quietly. 'I did not think to make enquiry so far.'